Nine Layers of Sky

by Liz Williams

  At last, the pawnbroker passed over a handful of greasy dollars with a great show of reluctance, and they were shown out into the fierce white light of the afternoon. The apartment blocks of modern Tashkent were rendered into inoffensive minimalism by the snow: raw angles softened, grey concrete dimmed to the colors of a pigeon’s wing. Through the bare branches of the park, the bronze figure of Tamerlane was partially visible astride a prancing horse, his mouth open in a cry of defiance against the centuries. Snow capped his pointed helmet; he resembled a savage Saint Nicholas. Elena looked up at the statue with something approaching dread, remembering old childhood threats.

  Tamerlane will come for you if you don’t behave.

  The greatest khan of Central Asia: a ruthless, relentless fourteenth-century killing machine, riding at the head of his hordes. He had scourged the land from Baghdad to Moscow. If anyone summed up the nature of the region—its harshness, its power—that person would be Tamerlane, Elena thought. He was buried now in Samarkand, not so far from Tashkent. She turned away.

  “Come on,” Atyrom said. “Let’s celebrate, eh?” The money had restored his brutal good humor; he hugged Elena and his sister around the shoulders. Elena’s diatribe at the border had, it seemed, been forgotten or forgiven. “I’ll call my cousin.”

  Elena and Gulnara shivered outside a nearby chaikhana while Atyrom phoned. He seemed to be having trouble getting through. At one point, Elena could see him banging the receiver against the wall. The telephone system was a mess. Even on a good day, half of Tashkent couldn’t talk to the other half.

  Elena gazed around her. At a cursory glance, Tashkent looked exactly like her hometown of Almaty: the same wide streets, the same monolithically identical apartment blocks. But Tashkent, too, was changing, rising out of the ashes of the Soviet legacy as an Islamic republic. Not quite a phoenix, more like some ravaged old vulture. Elena gave a sudden shiver. The madrasas were reopening; Tamerlane replaced Lenin on pedestals throughout the city. The Russians had been leaving these southern capitals in droves during the last years of the twentieth century. Perhaps they were right, Elena thought. Perhaps we don’t belong here anymore.

  Her own sister had been talking about going back to Russia, staring theatrically out of the window like a Chekhovian heroine. “What do you mean, back?” Elena had asked, bewildered. “You were born here. Your grandmother was born here. This is where we’re from. ”

  Now she watched as a bearded seminary student, a Koran tucked beneath his arm, picked his way carefully through the snow. Maybe we had no right to be here in the first place. But Elena didn’t feel like a colonist, somehow. She’d only been to Moscow twice, and then only for university conferences. Russia itself was even more of a mess, and there would still be snow all winter. Canada, that was the answer. Just as cold, but thirty times as wealthy. She sighed, wondering whether Atyrom was ever going to stop talking. At last he came away from the phone.

  “That’s that, then. I’ve called my cousin; we’ll go round now.”

  They made their slow progress back to the Sherpa. Atyrom’s face grew sour as they approached; the dent made by the ambulance was very large, and very obvious.

  “Never mind,” Elena echoed wearily, with just a hint of irony. “The money you made from the teeth will pay for it.”

  “Yes, that was lucky, wasn’t it?” Atyrom said, brightening. Gulnara snorted. The engine coughed in the cold air. Atyrom drove erratically, avoiding the potholes that occasionally gaped through the slush. Elena gazed out at the passing vista of Tashkent. They drove through the jumble of buildings that constituted the old town, then out past the blue plastic dome of the market. Clearly, the market was supposed to harken back to the glorious Uzbek heritage and the azure domes of Samarkand, but it looked more as though a flying saucer had landed. She thought again of Tamerlane, buried in Samarkand beneath his black jade tomb at the fabled heart of Central Asia, and felt strangely cold. Some distance past the market, Atyrom turned into a narrow side street and parked outside a corrugated iron wall.

  “Our cousin’s place.”

  Elena quickly lost track of the number of people who seemed to be living in the house, and she never quite managed to grasp who was married to whom. There seemed to be an inordinate number of children. She drank tea, sitting on cushions around the low table, then thick syrupy brandy from the Caucasus, then more tea. The room filled with cigarette smoke. Someone stoked up the stove. Bottles of wine appeared, then food. A phrase coined by a visiting American astronomer swam into Elena’s mind: trial by hospitality.

  Rising with difficulty, she excused herself and went out into the backyard, where she stood taking deep breaths of arctic air until she started to cough. At the end of the yard stood an outhouse, and she took refuge in it, crouching by the drain in the chilly dark and listening to the sudden, unnerving silence.

  The black ball was still weighing down the pocket of her coat. Elena opened the door a crack so that she could see, then examined the ball. It seemed quite solid. Experimentally, she let it drop. It did not bounce, but dropped to the concrete floor of the outhouse with a resounding thud and lay still. Elena picked it up and saw with alarm that a crack had appeared in the concrete. The delicate, curved surface of the sphere was unmarked, but the thing felt warmer, as if energized by its momentary flight. Elena could make no sense of it. She hoped the warmth and the heaviness were not indicators of something sinister, something radioactive. But the sphere was too smooth to be a fragment of waste, too much as though it had been made, and she could think of no analogous component of a nuclear system.

  Returning it to her pocket, she went back into the chaos of the house.

  The next morning, Elena awoke with a head like a block of wood and a mouth that tasted as though mice had been nesting in it. She blinked, trying to work out where she was. A damp-mottled square of ceiling was illuminated by the brightness of snowlight, but the room was stiflingly hot. She could smell woodsmoke, the burnt, meaty odor of mutton shashlik, and stale wine. Craning her head, she looked down. A half-empty glass rested on the floor, inches from her face. Elena closed her eyes in fleeting pain. Across the room, two bodies stretched like beached whales beneath faded counterpanes: Gulnara and someone else, probably a cousin.

  Cautiously, Elena sat up. Her head pounded with the rhythmic tempo of a thunderstorm. She winced as someone pulled aside the curtain that hid the entrance and light flooded in. One of Atyrom’s relations entered: a girl, wearing a long shalwar kameez and carrying a tea tray. Elena greeted her with relief. She cupped the glass that the girl handed her and took a sip of strong, sweet tea.

  “You’ve saved my life.”

  The girl smiled and bobbed her head. “There’s more if you want it. From the look of you, you’ll need it,” she added tartly.

  Half an hour later, fueled by tea and bread, Elena had reached a state that almost approached normality; only a nagging headache remained. Passing the open door of the adjoining room, she saw that Atyrom had also woken up, and now sat on the edge of the bed in his thermals, rubbing his head with his hands. He was back to his usual grumpy self, Elena was pleased to see. Atyrom drunk and cheerful (and singing) was a spectacle that she preferred to forget.

  “Morning,” Elena said. “Someone phoned for you, apparently. Left a message. I think it’s about the clothes and the videos.”

  Atyrom grunted. “About time. I tried calling my friend for half of last night, but he wasn’t in, the bastard. Never mind. Did he say when he was coming?”

  “He said something about ten o’clock,” Elena said, adding with a piousness not her own, “Imsh’Allah.”

  “Imsh’Allah,” Atyrom echoed. He scratched moodily at one ankle, then began pulling on his socks. “Let me do the talking, all right? I know you brought the clothes, but I’ve done this before. I know about this sort of thing; I know what my friend’s like. He won’t want a woman butting in.”

  “All right,” Elena said patiently, knowing better than to argu
e. This was Atyrom’s home territory, after all. Anyway, she needed to buy cigarettes. “I’m going to find a kiosk,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later.”

  Elena retrieved her coat from the back of the door and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day. The high, pale heavens reflected the snow, shimmering into a fierce blue at the summit of the sky. A starling rocketed across the street and into a tree, sending a shower of icicles from the branches. The day after tomorrow would be March first, Elena remembered—almost spring. She stuck her hands into her pockets and her gloved fingers met something hard. She pulled out the little ball, turning it over in her fingers. After a moment she wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it into her handbag, then went in search of a kiosk.

  The place opposite the house was shut. Elena walked along the street, passing rows of faceless apartments, but it was good to get out into the fresh air after the stuffiness of the house. At last, she came to an entrance to the Tashkent subway. Down in the underpass, she knew, there would be all manner of makeshift stalls. She walked past a woman selling flowers, then a Tajik family with a pitiful array of objects: radio parts, a single shoe. They stared at her with hopeless faces. She slipped a muddle of notes into the wife’s hand. They bowed their heads, blessed her over and over again. She felt momentarily as hopeless as they.

  Farther down the underpass, a youth in a leather jacket was off-loading packets of black-market cigarettes. Elena bought enough Polyot for the journey home, wishing she could afford a better brand. Everyone seemed to be smoking black-market Marlboros now. With U.S. troops still stationed throughout the region, there were plenty to go round. Still, black market or not, they cost too much.

  As she was handing over the money, she glanced up and noticed the name of the metro station. With no small irony, she had chosen Kosmonavtov in which to buy her cigarettes. Tucking the packets into her pocket, Elena went into the station for a look. She had been here once before.

  There they all were: row upon row of cosmonauts, their faces ceramically delineated along the gleaming, indigo length of the platform, beaming from the depths of their helmets. Elena made her way to the end of the platform and stood, staring up at the image of her heroine. Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman to fly in space, gazed down the tunnel in the direction of disappearing trains. Her round face was smiling, as though she had glimpsed secrets, and the artist had painted a row of daisies around the lower edge of her helmet in a whimsically feminine touch.

  Elena found herself smiling back at Tereshkova. She looked at the image for a long time, imagining that the immaculate marble confines of the metro were really part of some glowing future; that she would step outside to find Tashkent transformed, monorails sweeping across the streets, silver towers striking toward the heavens, and herself heading off for an assignment on the moon.

  Yet that dream of a glorious future was already old-fashioned, she realized, more suited to the society of fifty years ago than that of today. Now, all Russians seemed to dream about was getting out, of getting rich. Without ever leaving home, she was no longer living in the same world. Reluctantly, she walked back along the platform and up into the snowy street. It had clouded over; an anvil mass threatened more snow. Elena hastened to the house.

  Four hours later, with the Sherpa unloaded and two hundred dollars in their pockets, Elena, Gulnara, and Atyrom headed out of Tashkent. Elena was relieved, and not just because of the money. They were heading home. It was now four in the afternoon, nearly dark. Atyrom had taken a different route— north through Dzhambyl—and the heavy traffic had worn the snow away to a glaze over the uneven surface of the road. Mountains fell away on either side, snowcapped crags reaching up into a darkening sky. Elena watched a thin rind of sun sink down behind the line of the mountains, and then they began to descend toward the border and yet another traffic jam. This time, it was even longer. The traffic crawled forward.

  “What’s going on this time?” Atyrom muttered to himself. He wound down the window and peered out. “Looks like they’re searching the vehicles.”

  “Who are? The customs people?”

  “I don’t think so,” Atyrom said with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Men in coats.”

  “What?” Elena craned past him, trying to see. The security forces almost invariably wore black, which was helpful if you wanted to know who was beating you up.

  “Not KGB, then,” Atyrom added. “They’re not in uniform.”

  “Maybe they’ve changed their clothes along with their name,” Elena murmured. “After all, they’re supposed to be the good guys now.” Which was true enough, she reflected, if you compared them with the Mafiya or Islamic fundamentalists.

  Atyrom shifted uneasily in his seat. “Good thing this wasn’t on the way to Tashkent.”

  Elena looked at him. “And why not?”

  “Well … those spare parts I got hold of, the ones I sold along with the videos …”

  “What about them?”

  “I’m not sure where some of them came from, that’s all.”

  “You told me they were all seconds from the factory.”

  “Well, yes. Most of them were.”

  Elena sighed. She couldn’t bring herself to feign surprise.

  “Good thing this didn’t happen on the way to Tashkent, then,” she echoed. She wondered uneasily about the penalty for handling stolen goods, and also about other possibilities. She remembered the ambulance driver, robbing the pockets of the dead: It was by no means an unusual situation among the authorities. She slipped the envelope containing her share of the money out of her handbag and tucked it deep under the seat. After a moment’s thought, she slid the ball after it.

  One of the men was beckoning them forward. Atyrom started up the Sherpa and they rolled along the road. When they were level with the little crew, a man leaned in through the window and said, “Open the back, please.” It was a clipped, official voice, the kind that didn’t even expect nyet for an answer, and she could not place the accent.

  “What are you looking for?” Elena asked, smiling as charmingly as she could.

  “Just open the back of the van, please.”

  Atyrom shrugged. “It’s empty,” he told the man, but he got out of the Sherpa and complied. Elena squinted into the driving mirror, trying to see what they were doing. The search took some time, and seemed exhaustive. They had some kind of device. She heard one of the men say, “Are you sure the scanner’s working properly? We’re on the other side of the border… .”

  His companion answered, “I told you. The thing will be difficult to detect if it hasn’t been activated. But we have to try.”

  Elena frowned. The man came back.

  “Get out of the van.”

  “Why? It’s freezing out there.”

  The man jerked his head. “Just get out of the van.”

  Sighing, Elena got down and found herself spreadeagled against the side of the Sherpa, beside Atyrom and Gulnara. She braced herself. Her pockets were swiftly rifled. The men were looking in the front of the van; she saw one of them run a hand beneath the seats and held her breath. A voice in her ear said, “All right. You can go.”

  Atyrom was already impatiently holding open the door of the van. “Come on. Hurry up.”

  “What in the world was that all about?” Gulnara asked as they climbed into the cabin.

  “I’ve no idea. Who cares? Militzia. They had some sort of scanner. They’re probably looking for drugs.”

  “I don’t think they’re the police,” Elena said doubtfully. She put her hand under the seat, but to her relief, the money and the object were still there.

  Atyrom shrugged and pulled away. They came level with the customs post. Elena groped in her bag for her passport, waved it at the official, and they were once more back in Kazakhstan.

  “We’ll press on, yes?” Atyrom said. “We can make Almaty by midnight. I’ll stop in Dzhambyl and pick up some food.”

  “Fin
e with me,” Elena said. She leaned back against the headrest. She felt tired and hot, though the cabin was only just beginning to warm up again. She could see her breath steaming against the glass, forming patterns as it faded. It was an effort to keep her eyes open and eventually she gave up the struggle. She began to doze, waking fitfully as Atyrom flicked through the radio stations. A white mushroom dome appeared out of the sleety darkness. Other yurts lay beyond it. Atyrom pulled off the road.

  “Shashlik?”

  “Please.”

  She watched as Atyrom stumped through the snow toward the yurts and conducted a transaction beneath the hazy lights. Soon he was back, and handed round kebabs with chili sauce. The portions were generous, but the mutton was as tough as leather. She only managed a few mouthfuls, then gave up.

  “What’s the matter?” Atyrom asked, frowning. “It’s not good?”

  “It’s like eating an old boot.”

  “You’ve been eating like a bird,” Atyrom scolded. “Soon you’ll forget how, and then where will you be? You’re already as thin as a crack. You ought to get married, have a husband to cook for. Doesn’t your mama feed you and that little sister of yours?”

  Her mother and Anna. Suddenly, Elena was very glad to be almost home, even though she’d only been away for three days. She smiled and said, “Yes. Yes, she does. She’s a great cook.”

  They reached the outskirts of Almaty shortly after midnight, passing the quiet little dachas and the railway station, then the maze of dark streets. Despite promises that were now over two decades old, the Soviet luxury of street lighting had never been restored. Atyrom dropped Elena off at the corner of Ablai Khan and Mamedova Street, and with a wave was gone. Elena turned and walked slowly down Mamedova, past the huge vent of the metro that had still never been built, past the cafe at its foot and the silent Korean nightclub, and into the courtyard of the apartment block that had been her home for over two years now. Snow covered the scrubby trees and the rusty children’s swings; a single light shone out across the courtyard. Elena looked up. It was coming from her mother’s flat, where the box was waiting beneath the bed.