The man’s expression changed from one of indignation to one of anger. His cheeks empurpled.

“That’s a donation to the American economy,” Yuri said. He then pressed on the accelerator and sped away. In his rear-view mirror he saw the businessman bending down and retrieving the money from the gutter. The image gave Yuri a modicum of satisfaction. It was heartening to see the man stoop for such a paltry sum. He couldn’t believe how cheap some Americans were despite their ostentatious wealth.

Yuri’s day had improved dramatically following the vain attempt to see Curt Rogers and Steve Henderson at the fire-house on Duane Street. As a treat and mini-celebration of his imminent return to rodina, he’d gone to a small Russian restaurant for a sit-down lunch with hot borscht and a glass of vodka. A conversation in Russian with the owner added to the experience even though speaking in his native tongue also made him feel a touch melancholy.

After lunch the fares had been okay and steady. They’d generally kept to themselves except for the last guy on the run in from La Guardia Airport.

Yuri stopped at a light on Park Avenue. He was intending to head over to Fifth in hopes of getting some of the upscale hotel work. Instead, an older woman in a babushka stepped between parked cars and raised her hand. When the light changed Yuri pulled alongside and the woman climbed in.

“Where to?” Yuri asked while eyeing his new fare in the rearview mirror. Her clothes were functional and, although not threadbare, at least well worn. She looked like someone who should have been using the subway.

“One-oh-seven West Tenth Street,” the woman said with an accent heavier than Yuri’s. He recognized it immediately. It was Estonian, which brought mixed memories.

They drove in silence for a while. For the first time all day Yuri was the one tempted to speak. He glanced frequently at his passenger. There was something about her that was familiar. She had settled herself comfortably with her large hands folded in her lap. Her relaxed, peasantlike features coupled with tiny, twinkling eyes and faintly smiling lips radiated an inner tranquillity.

“Are you Estonian?” Yuri finally asked.

“I am,” the woman said. “Are you Russian?”

Yuri nodded and watched the woman’s reaction. After years of occupation, there was a strong anti-Russian sentiment in Estonia. Yuri’s feelings about Estonia weren’t as negative as he feared this woman’s might be about Russia. Although he’d had difficulties there during his odyssey to America, he’d also met some friendly, generous, and helpful people.

“How long have you been here?” the woman asked. Her voice was devoid of malice.

“Since 1994,” Yuri said.

“Did you leave your motherland with your whole family?”

“No,” Yuri managed. His throat had gone dry. “I came by myself.”

“That must have been very difficult,” the woman said em-pathetically. “And very lonely.”

The woman’s simple question and her reaction to Yuri’s answer unleashed a flood of emotion in Yuri, including a strong sense of shame at having abandoned his family, although there’d been very little to leave behind. The toska he’d struggled with earlier returned with a vengeance. At the same time he realized why the woman looked familiar. She reminded Yuri of his own mother, even though their features were not at all similar. It was less the woman’s appearance than her bearing, particularly her powerful serenity, that made Yuri think of his mother.