I see on the clock that it’s twelve. A whole night lies ahead.

Better not to sleep so as not to endure these nightmares. But I can’t help it.

Why, professor? You’ve known me long enough.

And you still can’t say.

F.

Kyiv

Romodanov Neurosurgery Institute

Lost in thought, Maria twirled her hair. She’d cut it too short. Too bad. Maybe she’d lighten it next time. She looked at the clock. Midnight.

She sat in the empty kitchen and drank coffee, shuddering each time she laid the cup down too hard. She kept her eye on the time. The boys were asleep. One with a cat in his bed, small and sweet. The other in their shared bed, dependable and large. Unloved. Finally, she was free to do and think what she wanted. At night, the truth is not so mortifying. And the coffee tastes better. It was time for her to go to bed, but a pretty, brown semicircle was drying into a young moon on one of the letters. She wanted to wait until it dried so she could put it in her handbag and take it to work.

And she wanted a smoke, but there were no cigarettes in the house. She read the letters again. The hands of the clock crept across the face and froze at the number three. Four.

She brushed her teeth and went to bed. Feeling her heart pounding, she cursed herself for that last cup of coffee, realising she would not get to sleep until the birds began chirping in the predawn twilight—that irritating morning reprimand to the sleepless inhabitants of a metropolis.

Chapter 12

To begin with, I made fun of him. But within a couple of months the structure of the novel began surprisingly to take shape. Comments, details of characters’ lives, traits and goals: the words were so tightly packed and so many lines crisscrossed that on parts of the wall there was no longer room to write anything new. Once all four walls were covered, he hauled a stepladder from the neighbours and his scribblings rose to the ceiling. The windowpanes, floor and other rooms were left untouched.

“Everything is connected,” he murmured, showing me the new arrows that had materialised overnight. “See? Everything in the world is connected.”

He spoke so passionately that it sometimes seemed like he really would finish his work on this occasion. But time progressed and all he did was draw squares and circles.

Was I a part of his scheme? Often, when I entered his sanctuary and looked around, I would furtively try to find my name. I explored and examined, but it was a hopeless task. It was almost impossible to decipher the abbreviations and crooked handwriting. And it was foolish to think I could inspire his interest. I was too ordinary to be a hero in his book. I was preoccupied with tedious affairs: his state of health, whether he was getting enough to eat, whether he was getting plastered; I wanted my presence at least to be of some help. During those months the country was gripped by a fever. Everybody was in a state of expectation, brimming with scepticism or hope, and waiting with bated breath for the outcome of this cruel revolution. Then there was the annexation of Crimea. It was awful, sad, and yet somehow distant.