The whole situation was surreal. It was like in a Hollywood movie, but not only sound and vision. The smell as well, the feel, the mood.

Not even an hour later Otabek found himself in a very dirty small diner, Boris to his left, Iosif and Egor on the opposite side of the sticky table. Maksim had left earlier, he had to wake up his children and take them to school. It was half past 5 already, the morning news playing on the radio behind the counter. The girl on duty had brought them coffee earlier, although the sludge she had poured did only resemble coffee that late at night or that early in the morning. It was hot and it was bitter, but it tasted more like someone had grinded and roasted shoe soles and dead cockroaches and accidentally some coffee beans had fallen into the grinder. It suited the too yellow light and stained wallpaper of the run down shop perfectly, making up to an environment like from a Quentin Tarantino flick.

Otabek sipped on his mug, tried not to grimace and watched as the three bouncers devoured their fried eggs with kolbasa sausage. The look of the greasy dish alone made Otabek's stomach turn. The thought of what had happened earlier that night gave him a really hard time not throwing up.

He thought that after he was shocked he would be glad. Happy even. Relieved that he had found out about Yuri and that he was alive, that he was well, that he was healthy. And in a way he really was. Of course he had thought about what could have had happened in the three and a half years that he had missed: Yuri could have died in the meantime, fallen ill, moved to another country making it impossible for Otabek to track him down. But here he was, in Moscow, grown up and fine and beautiful. And still Otabek almost wished that everything was different. Because it was true that Yuri was doing fine, but what was also true was the face that he had sat in the lap of the very person who led the clan that had ruined everything. It was a terrible irony and Otabek thought it through again and again how something like that could have happened: On the day of Otabek's 20th birthday a guy of the Orlov bratva had held Yuri by his throat. And on the day of Yuri's 20th birthday Orlov himself held Yuri, more figuratively of course, by his throat. What sounded like a very, very bad soap opera script turned out to be Otabek's life. The realization would have made him laugh if it wasn't so fucking painful.

He sat and pondered, silently, explaining to Boris who asked if he was alright that he was only tired and needed more coffee, and in the end he was sure that Yuri had never known who had attacked them back then. It was the only way this whole situation made sense. Yuri would never knowingly be on friendly terms with someone who had something to do with whoever had almost killed Otabek. Not that Otabek had witnessed it in person, but the letters and the stories he had heard had told him of Yuri's pain that was too much for the boy to just get over with and accept the attention of not just someone, but Orlov himself, the man who wore on his chest the symbol of all the suffering Otabek had gone through. Yuri could never be so cold to bear this. So the only explanation was that he had simply not known who he was affiliating with and that it was the same kind of evil that had separated them from each other. And it made sense from a technical point of view, too. The way that guy back then had grasped Yuri's neck (a memory that caused despair and anger in Otabek like nothing else) had made it easy for Otabek to spot the tattoo, but had made it impossible for Yuri to see it. So it seemed natural that Yuri - other than Otabek - up to this point was not at all aware of who had attacked them more than three years ago. For Yuri it must have been some random gang. So it didn't even bother him to start interacting with the Orlov bratva; for whatever reason he had done that at some point. Truth be told, it was a mere coincidence that Otabek had been able to made a connection. A coincidence that was as lucky as it was hideous.

And now here he was, with a mug of something that was not more than an excuse for coffee in a run-down, nidorous diner with three of Orlov's men while Yuri was probably having champagne, coke and sex with an Ukrainian musician and one of the most powerful mafia bosses of all Russia.

"You really should try the kolbasa", Boris said, mouth full. "Best thing to eat after a long night."

Iosif nodded on the other side of the table.

Otabek looked up from his fingers. He hadn't even noticed that he had lit another cigarette. "I don't eat pork", he replied and Boris shrugged.

"There's beef in it, too", he explained (or guessed? The texture of the sausage didn't give away if there was any kind of real meat in it), like it made a difference.

"Maybe next time", Otabek said.

With a hum Boris kept eating. "By the way", he said after a moment, "do you have a job already? You said that you just returned to Moscow, right? If you didn't take something you could go collecting with me later. Maksim can really use a day off with his children, but it's the beginning of the month and we need to keep the revenues coming for the krusha services." He grinned and Otabek couldn't help but think it looked a little dumb. "Your appearance seems trustworthy, but not in a harmless way. That's what the customers need, you know? Someone who's easy to get along with but who they know they can't fuck with. Maksim's a little rough, you know. People cooperate better when they're not so intimidated. That and he's not the brightest here…" He tapped the tip of his index finger against his forehead. Egor and Iosif both laughed.

Otabek shrugged. "Yeah, why not." He had a feeling it was going too smoothly. But he couldn't hesitate to sneak into the bratva. Maybe this was the only chance he'd get.

"I'm glad, bro", Boris said with a wide smile and turned to his plate again.

Otabek felt dizzy when he took another sip of his "coffee".

ч

His head hurt when he woke up around noon again. The room was cold and dim from the closed curtains, the sound of the busy street down there humming lowly in his ears. From next door he heard a vacuum cleaner going off and he got out of bed to shower.

The hot water helped him clear his mind and relax his muscles. It felt like he got reset like a machine, shut down and restarted so he was able to boot anew and run on his usual performance level from then on. He had to act steadily if he wanted to achieve something, a feeling he had always known since he had started competing in figure skating on more than regional level back when he had been an 11 year old boy.

It had been serious business then already, although he had not known what serious business meant really. It had been important for his parents and so it had been important for him as well. "Behave, Otabiy, my good boy." Not that he had had much of a choice. He had learned to act on auto-pilot the way he was expected to act.

No one asked if he wanted to do that. Not only when it came to skating actually. No one asked if he liked the sport. No one asked if he liked the music. No one asked if he liked doing ballet. Of course he didn't. He liked drinking strawberry soda and reading dog-eared comic books all night under his blanket with the flickering flashlight until the batteries died. He wasn't allowed to though. He liked climbing trees with Belek to see who made it higher up and he liked picking flowers with Khaligaz on the huge fields right outside Almaty where they used to go with their bicycles in the summer holidays and make up poems about candy and clouds and cougars together.

He wasn't allowed to, not after his mother had talked to the coach and that one summer she sent Khaligaz and Belek away when they came to pick him up, saying that he was busy with his training. He was sad seeing them leave, but he didn't let it show and he behaved like he was supposed to do. "Behave, Otabiy, my dear boy." He learned to not act on what he felt like, but on how he was supposed to act. "Behave, Otabiy, won't you." He shut his emotions out and made sure not to make his feelings show outwardly. He became reticent and shy, but his skating eloquent. (Eloquent and lacking expression.) He learned to do what he was expected to do. It was much like pressing a button on a machine. And before he knew it didn't even make him sad anymore to see Belek and Khaligaz return home from the field or the lake or the woods, dirt-stained and smiling brightly, daisies and primroses sitting in Khaligaz' braid.

So, in the end, cooling his innermost down and shutting out his feelings was nothing but recycling this old pattern of behaviour that had brought him so far already in his life,

(before he abandons it, his heart beating heavily in his chest as he watches Yuri on the ballet bar, his cheeks rosy and his hair spun sunlight and his eyes, his eyes! Everything is hot in Otabek's chest and he doesn't understand what's happening, but he immediately knows that he wants to be close to this boy, that he wants to be like him, that he wants to earn his respect and for the first time in two years he feels something. You can go only so far stoically, he realizes later on, but feeling takes you to another level and Yuri is nothing but feelings, feelings that wash over Otabek and carry him away, anger and dissatisfaction and rage and whatever it is that makes him want to watch Yuri forever.)

He stepped out of the shower, his hair dripping wet and headed over to the desk where he had left his cellphone behind when he had returned to the hotel. He had saved Boris' number, but not contacted him yet. The contract of the phone still ran on his real name and he couldn't use it when it had to do with the bratva. He would go and get another sim card, but first there was something he needed to do.

Dialing the number he sat down on the wrinkled sheets and lit a cigarette from the pack he had bought on the way home. Water dripped on his naked skin and he was freezing, but he endured it.

Khaligaz picked up after the fourth ring.

"Hey", she said, her voice low and soft and Otabek felt like crying.

"Hey", he replied, just as lowly.

"It's good to hear your voice", she went on. In the background Otabek could hear Zarina making bubbling noises.

"I am sorry for not calling earlier", he said, drew on his cigarette. "I am even more sorry because I will not be able to call you for some time." He exhaled the smoke and she hummed, like she didn't approve of what she had heard, but knew that she couldn't do anything about it, so he continued: "The number will not work after today. I can not tell you the reasons, but please don't worry about me. I have… business and it's hard to explain, but I wanted you to know that I am fine and that there's no need to worry."

She chuckled. "The more often you say it, the more I worry, Erasyl, you are aware of that, right?"

"Yes", he sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Whatever you are doing, I know that there is an important reason for it. I trust you, my friend."

Otabek nodded, biting his lower lip. "If something happens, I will let you know. Can you tell my parents, please? I had a fight with mother, but I don't want them to worry. If something happens, would you let them know?"

"Of course." There was a second of silence, then she added: "Nothing will happen that I will have to tell them, Erasyl. I know it. Nothing bad will happen. Believe it yourself."

His voice became a whisper when he answered: "Yes. Thank you."

"I'm looking forward to your return", she said and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Me too."

е

He sent Nad Khaligaz' contact information along with a plea to let her know if something happened to him, then he burned Otabek Altin's sim card in the ashtray. The new one was made out to bearer Erasyl Ten and he used it to drop Boris a line on the way back to the hotel, asking when they would leave to collect the protection money (because that was without a doubt what he had been talking about this morning) and where they would meet. The answer came in a minute later, informing him that they would pick him up in front of a certain cafe in Savyolovsky district in 90 minutes. That gave Otabek time to have lunch at an Italian place halfway down the street between the phone shop and his hotel, before returning to his room to change from jeans and black sweater into a suit.

When he stepped into the hotel after spaghetti carbonara he tried hard not to roll his eyes when he saw the girl from the first day at the counter. She had been around before frequently, but she had never smiled so brightly at him and by far not so obvious.

"Good day, Mr Altin", she smiled brightly, which reminded him that he needed to find another place to stay. "Someone left something for you."

Frowning he walked over to the counter where he was handed a white envelope with the name of the Hotel on it. He turned it skeptically.

"Ah, yeah, I put it in the envelope, we are taught to do that because of privacy issues", she explained.

With a brief "Thank you", he turned to the elevator, not noticing the slight disappointment in her smile when he gave her the could shoulder. Waiting for the elevator and on the way up he tried to imagine who had left something for him. No one knew exactly where he was. Of the people he had informed that he was in Moscow, no one knew the hotel he stayed. The only person who could have found out about it was Nad, probably using her mysterious contact persons who could undoubtedly find out where he stayed. Maybe after he had dent her the message and burnt the phone card she had needed to reach out for him and left a message for him at the hotel while he had been having lunch. Retrospective it might have been a little careless to not wait and hear back from her about what he had asked for her before destroying the sim card. He had left her no choice but to leave a note for him at his hotel after all.

He entered his room, shrugged off his jacket and shoes and sat down on the chair, before opening the envelope. It wasn't even glued shut and he frowned about it, especially after the girl from the reception desk hat rambled about privacy issues.

He turned the envelope around. A small sheet of lined paper fell out, folded twice, carelessly, like Nad had been in a hurry. He picked it up to find his name written on one side. Otabek Altin it read, scrawly and strangely familiar. When he unfolded the sheet it hit him like a punch in the guts. It wasn't Nad's handwriting.

In hasty, scrawly letters in black pen and Yuri's unmistakable handwriting it read:

GO AWAY !

NEVER TRY TO

APPROACH ME AGAIN

You WOuLD HAVE

BETTER STAYED

DEAD

YOU DON'T BELONG

HERE