style="font-size:15px;"> The Volga was shining through the trees: I could always leave this island, throw my rubber boat in the water, let the current carry me along. I thought of Stockis. Not cursing him, simply thinking he was the only person who could make sense of the mosquito bites and sweat running down my spine. To me they were just butterflies: I had no idea how to exchange them for holidays on Niza, books or oil paintings. The design on their wings held no interest for me—unless it earned some real interest. I needed an expert in the field, an experienced hunter, but then I’d have to split the profit.
I saw one right next to me, exploring a flower with its delicate feet. Not a yazikus, but I hoped that focusing on a single specimen might save me from despair. I followed it all over the field, past lots of other butterflies that I could easily have had, ignoring them because if I lost sight of it, if I wandered for a moment, I’d be doomed to chaos, the dozens of colias flying over the grass sipping nectar from the flowers. I took my time, trailing it like a hunter after a hare, matching its zigzags step-for-step in an attempt to wear it out. I saw only the shifting backdrops that framed the desperate beating of its wings, small squares of sky, grass, trees. Sweat dripped from my eyelashes, but I didn’t raise a hand to wipe it away, obsessively wielding my net, moving forward. I caught a glimpse of the steel belt of the river. Refreshed by the breeze, I cut through the trees, the flashing point of its flight leading me on.
I had seen too many movies to not see myself, running forward exhausted, sawed-off Colt in hand, ignoring the small-time crooks, pursuing the arch-villain, who’d given me a deadly look before the chase, before fleeing the scene of the crime, police cars closing in, sirens wailing. The sand slowed my pace, the breeze checked its flight: a gust of wind forced it to fold itself against a tree trunk. I pounced with the butterfly net, pulled tweezers from my pocket, and seized it: the glint of the steel, the enormous hand, gigantic, it threw me one last terrified look and hid its head between its wings, its fear reflected in the thousand octahedrons of its eyes. Glazed over.
I raised the flask and held it to the light. The breeze blowing off the river finally dried me off and I called it quits, staring at the silhouette of the other island covered with pines, which seemed to be floating past, carried along by the current.
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