A short-story series
for the Trick-or-Trick exhibition
for the Trick-or-Trick exhibition
RELOCANT ARTEFACTS
Author and artist: Angelika Biurni
Editor: Evelina Kravchenko
Editor: Evelina Kravchenko
Emigrants’ Tears
“Strange day. Everything seems fine, but there’s this nagging anxiety in the background. There it is again. I know I need to go back to the psychiatrist, but I really don’t want to.” Andrey finished typing the note and put his phone away.
Things really did look pretty good overall: new projects at work, his favourite season outside the window, freshly brewed coffee on the table. A trip to the mountains with friends planned for the weekend. Thinking about it, Andrey suddenly realised how much he missed them, but there was something dark about that sadness.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Andrey began to have a panic attack. Vlad’s wife tried to help, explaining that nothing terrible had happened, that it was “just the air defences kicking in”, that they were safe. Andrey struggled to breathe, but kept trying to tell his friends he shouldn’t be here.
— “I need to go home.”
— “What are you talking about?!” She was frightened.
— All Andrey could do was repeat that he wanted to go back.
— “Go back where? You’re the one who talked us all into this mountain trip!” Vlad protested.
— “I don’t remember coming back here. Was it really so bad that I forgot everything?”
— “Coming back where? You never left…”
— “I can’t afford to stay here. What do you mean, I never left? You’re saying that on purpose, aren’t you? So you can make me look insane and leave me here in a psych ward?”
— “What nonsense is that?”
— “Let me out of the car!”
— “We’re not letting you go anywhere!”
Andrey messaged his brother, found out that no one had been hurt, and told him he was leaving the country.“Where do you think you’re going? What’s wrong with your life? Plenty of people dream of a life like yours!” His brother’s messages only made him more determined. But it felt as though everything was against him: traffic was keeping him from reaching the airport on time. “Why can’t I just leave? This isn’t my home any more. Let me go,” he kept repeating, without realising it.
At passport control, Andrey barely slowed down as he handed over his passport, expecting the officer to give it straight back. Instead, the man stopped him and began asking questions. One, then another, then another… At some point Andrey said he was tired and just wanted to go home, that boarding closed in five minutes, and if this went on much longer, he’d miss his flight.
The officer replied: “You won’t be flying anywhere ever again. Take him away.”
“Strange day. Everything seems fine, but there’s this nagging anxiety in the background. There it is again. I know I need to go back to the psychiatrist, but I really don’t want to.” Andrey finished typing the note and put his phone away.
Things really did look pretty good overall: new projects at work, his favourite season outside the window, freshly brewed coffee on the table. A trip to the mountains with friends planned for the weekend. Thinking about it, Andrey suddenly realised how much he missed them, but there was something dark about that sadness.
***
One undeniable perk of living in southern Russia: you can get to the mountains or the sea in no time. Andrey appreciated that very much. The week slipped by almost unnoticed. They were in his best friend Vlad’s minivan, listening to their usual road-trip playlist, when Andrey remembered. It happened suddenly. Just as suddenly as the boom that cut through the loud music.He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Andrey began to have a panic attack. Vlad’s wife tried to help, explaining that nothing terrible had happened, that it was “just the air defences kicking in”, that they were safe. Andrey struggled to breathe, but kept trying to tell his friends he shouldn’t be here.
— “I need to go home.”
— “What are you talking about?!” She was frightened.
— All Andrey could do was repeat that he wanted to go back.
— “Go back where? You’re the one who talked us all into this mountain trip!” Vlad protested.
— “I don’t remember coming back here. Was it really so bad that I forgot everything?”
— “Coming back where? You never left…”
— “I can’t afford to stay here. What do you mean, I never left? You’re saying that on purpose, aren’t you? So you can make me look insane and leave me here in a psych ward?”
— “What nonsense is that?”
— “Let me out of the car!”
— “We’re not letting you go anywhere!”
***
A taxi. His head was buzzing. Andrey looked at his bandaged arm and remembered the crash. God, I hope they’re all right. What if… This is all my fault. Guilt paralysed him. He stared blankly out of the window, with no idea what to do. Then he saw a dog by the roadside and remembered Jessie. What’s happened to her? Where is she? Did I really come back here without her? Thinking about Jessie helped Andrey pull himself together and check the route: they were heading to Sheremetyevo, already outside the city. He checked the app. Yes, he’d booked the taxi himself and paid quite a lot for the ride, but that wasn’t important. What mattered was that he couldn’t remember doing it. He glanced at his open backpack, hastily stuffed with belongings. Fragments of his escape from the hospital surfaced in his mind.Andrey messaged his brother, found out that no one had been hurt, and told him he was leaving the country.“Where do you think you’re going? What’s wrong with your life? Plenty of people dream of a life like yours!” His brother’s messages only made him more determined. But it felt as though everything was against him: traffic was keeping him from reaching the airport on time. “Why can’t I just leave? This isn’t my home any more. Let me go,” he kept repeating, without realising it.
***
The car stopped. Andrey came to. Apparently he’d blacked out again. But there was still hope of making it. He rushed up to the check-in desk two minutes before it closed. Privately, he laughed: one minute would have been more epic. With his ticket in hand, he calmed down a little. What mattered was that he’d made it. Right?At passport control, Andrey barely slowed down as he handed over his passport, expecting the officer to give it straight back. Instead, the man stopped him and began asking questions. One, then another, then another… At some point Andrey said he was tired and just wanted to go home, that boarding closed in five minutes, and if this went on much longer, he’d miss his flight.
The officer replied: “You won’t be flying anywhere ever again. Take him away.”
***
Andrey woke up and quietly began to cry. It was the third year of his nightmares.
Grey Hairs
Vasya was utterly exhausted after the day she’d had, and then there were all these evening rituals, all this beauty stuff. She’d never understood why so many women enjoyed ten-step skincare routines and other activities that ate up so much time and energy. She put up with it, talking herself into at least taking her make-up off properly and putting some cream on. Especially with a million tasks going round her head, from Serbian homework to finding tvorog.
Brushing her hair, though, had never felt like a chore. She’d loved it since childhood. Probably thanks to her mother, who’d loved playing with Vasilisa’s hair from an early age, inventing hairstyles and never failing to compliment her thick, dark mane. Vasya was proud of her hair, which made finding a grey strand in her brush that evening all the more horrifying. She was stunned. As a child, she’d decided she wouldn’t dye her beautiful hair until it started going grey.
That had seemed so far away. She’d imagined she’d be a little old granny by then. And here she was, with no children yet, but grey hairs already. Vasya added this to her imaginary list of life’s injustices and began searching for more. She found none, which surprised her, but pleased her too, of course.
While Vasilisa was thinking all this over, she caught a silvery glint in her reflection out of the corner of her eye. Of course she’d heard stories about people going completely grey after a terrible shock, but she’d assumed they were just that: stories. For a minute she stared at her reflection, barely holding back tears. Then she decided to brush the grey hair anyway. But looking down at the ends of the strands in her hand, she realised they were as dark as ever. She looked back at the mirror, where she was brushing an old woman’s white hair.
And it wasn’t just the hair. Blue eyes gleamed in the mirror instead of her brown ones. The face began to change and move towards her. Vasya froze in horror. The ghost flew out of the mirror, saying, “Listen to me!” Vasilisa ran screaming from the bathroom. But everything went quiet. No ghost. No voice.
Brushing her hair, though, had never felt like a chore. She’d loved it since childhood. Probably thanks to her mother, who’d loved playing with Vasilisa’s hair from an early age, inventing hairstyles and never failing to compliment her thick, dark mane. Vasya was proud of her hair, which made finding a grey strand in her brush that evening all the more horrifying. She was stunned. As a child, she’d decided she wouldn’t dye her beautiful hair until it started going grey.
That had seemed so far away. She’d imagined she’d be a little old granny by then. And here she was, with no children yet, but grey hairs already. Vasya added this to her imaginary list of life’s injustices and began searching for more. She found none, which surprised her, but pleased her too, of course.
***
The next day it happened again, except this time it wasn’t one hair, but a whole clump. Now, on top of going grey, she had going bald to worry about. Which wasn’t particularly surprising, really. With the amount of stress that came with emigrating, the opposite would have been more of a surprise.While Vasilisa was thinking all this over, she caught a silvery glint in her reflection out of the corner of her eye. Of course she’d heard stories about people going completely grey after a terrible shock, but she’d assumed they were just that: stories. For a minute she stared at her reflection, barely holding back tears. Then she decided to brush the grey hair anyway. But looking down at the ends of the strands in her hand, she realised they were as dark as ever. She looked back at the mirror, where she was brushing an old woman’s white hair.
And it wasn’t just the hair. Blue eyes gleamed in the mirror instead of her brown ones. The face began to change and move towards her. Vasya froze in horror. The ghost flew out of the mirror, saying, “Listen to me!” Vasilisa ran screaming from the bathroom. But everything went quiet. No ghost. No voice.
***
Vasya decided to write off her terrifying encounter as a stress-induced illusion. And she managed to keep believing that right up until the morning she decided to make pancakes for breakfast. She’d have preferred syrniki, of course, but she still hadn’t found any tvorog, so she was making do with what she had.As she stirred the batter in a large metal bowl, the reflection reminded Vasilisa of the ghost. With good reason. A figure began climbing out of it. “Vasilisa, hear me out!”
The bowl fell off the counter with a loud clang, although Vasya’s scream drowned it out. Oddly enough, she thought the woman’s ghost looked upset at having frightened her, and retreated in dismay.
Vasilisa spent the whole day wondering whether she’d hurt the ghost’s feelings. And giving herself a hard time over everything: for possibly having upset someone, even if that someone was dead, presumably; and for worrying about something so stupid when there was actual paranormal activity going on in her home.
***
The next day Vasya worked late. She was sitting in the dark, so she’d turned down her screen brightness. Even so, when she switched to the desktop after spending ages on a document, she couldn’t make anything out in the darkness at first. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw her. Again.Terror gripped Vasya. Forgetting all the embarrassment and guilt she’d tormented herself with the day before, she was about to snap the laptop shut when a voice came out of it: “Tvorog!”
It was hard to imagine a less expected word from a ghost. Curiosity won. Vasya opened the laptop. It was very strange to see an elderly woman in there, as though she’d got on a Zoom call with her dead granny.
The ghost went on: “Well, finally! My dear girl, you could do with a little more respect for your elders! Here I am, with nothing but kindness in my heart, and you! A fellow emigrant, too. A comrade, you might say!”
“Sorry, a comrade?”
“Well, yes. I left Russia just like you, for political reasons, coming up on a hundred years ago now. An anniversary, then!”
“But I don’t understand.”
“‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand.’ Nothing to understand. Get a pen. Write this down.”
“Write what down?”
“The recipe for tvorog, of course! I’m hardly going to leave you here suffering without syrniki, you silly thing!”
Coffee
It began when some Russian emigrants opened a café right beneath Madame Sofia’s windows. She’d been retired for years and spent a great deal of time on her veranda, doing yoga or reading. Another of her favourite pastimes was watching people go by and wondering what was in their hearts. So she was pleased about the café. She couldn’t have wished for so many interesting new subjects to observe.
She was certain something strange was happening in the café, but before going to the police, she wanted to gather more information. To be sure.
Of course, there was another reason. A little weakness of Madame Sofia’s: she absolutely loved feeling like a detective from one of her favourite mysteries. Her notes confirmed that her suspicions were not unfounded. What were those suspicions, exactly? First, we should explain what had prompted them.
Every customer, regardless of their mood when ordering, invariably left the café in excellent spirits! Could ordinary coffee really make people that happy? Madame Sofia certainly didn’t think so, even though she loved coffee herself and drank at least two cups a day. Naturally, her suspicions settled on some sort of illegal substance, which the owners were clearly slipping into their customers’ coffee to get them hooked.
“Well, why not?!” she said with a sigh, getting out of bed and heading to her dressing room. From her yoga clothes, she selected an outfit appropriate to the occasion. All black. Then she set off for the café opposite.
Thanks to her observations, Madame Sofia knew the staff kept a spare key for delivery people beneath a large flowerpot by the entrance.
They must have it all very well hidden in there, if they’re not worried about some delivery boy finding them out.
This logical thought crossed her mind. She decided to consider it later.
Once inside, she saw nothing suspicious at first glance. Just in case, she searched the cupboards in the seating area—where better to hide something illegal than in plain sight?—but found nothing. Then she spotted the stairs down to the storeroom. There was no lock, and a moment later she was inside.
“Finally!” she exclaimed, switching on the light. Boxes stood around her in neat rows. Every one bore a label announcing that it contained coffee and nothing else.
But Madame Sofia wasn’t that easily fooled. She decided to check. Inside were beautifully packaged bags, neatly arranged. Their contents disappointed her too. She’d been so sure they couldn’t possibly contain coffee!
A noise came from upstairs. She quickly switched off the light and listened. Someone had arrived. She’d lost track of time during her search, forgetting that the barista came in early, before opening. She would have to sneak out. Determined, she made her way towards the exit. But once she’d climbed out of the storeroom, she found herself trapped: she had to cross the entire empty café without the young barista seeing her. Madame Sofia decided her best option was to wait behind a large sideboard for the right moment.
Then something truly strange began to happen. The barista started to glow and shimmer. Tiny sparks appeared around her, and little wings unfolded behind her shoulders. Madame Sofia was stunned. She felt as though she’d stepped into her favourite childhood cartoon, Peter Pan, and there, right in front of her, stood Tinker Bell herself.
Time seemed to stop. In her astonishment, she peered out from behind the sideboard. The barista looked at her and said gently:
“Madame Sofia, it’s all right. You don’t have to hide.”
“How did you…? What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“That’s putting it mildly! Is this some kind of hallucinogen? This can’t be real.”
“I understand. It’s a lot to take in. But we all want to believe in fairy tales, don’t we? You’ve always wanted to. Haven’t you?”
Madame Sofia nodded timidly.
“I’m one of the fairies who quietly help people. My part isn’t all that big, but I soothe their sadness and sorrow. You’ve probably guessed how. Every day, I add fairy dust to the coffee.”
Madame Sofia raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“It has no side effects. But I doubt the local health inspectors would be pleased. So I’m going to ask you to keep this a secret.”
Madame Sofia turned an imaginary key against her lips.
“Wonderful! Now, how about a cup of coffee?”
It began when some Russian emigrants opened a café right beneath Madame Sofia’s windows. She’d been retired for years and spent a great deal of time on her veranda, doing yoga or reading. Another of her favourite pastimes was watching people go by and wondering what was in their hearts. So she was pleased about the café. She couldn’t have wished for so many interesting new subjects to observe.
***
A few weeks passed before Madame Sofia acknowledged that something suspicious was going on in the café. She’d noticed it on day three. Later, she began keeping notes. In a large hardback notebook, she recorded every customer: when they arrived, what mood they were in, what they drank, when they left and in what mood. To an outsider, this might have seemed silly, but Madame Sofia was a cultured, educated woman. She did not waste her time on nonsense.She was certain something strange was happening in the café, but before going to the police, she wanted to gather more information. To be sure.
Of course, there was another reason. A little weakness of Madame Sofia’s: she absolutely loved feeling like a detective from one of her favourite mysteries. Her notes confirmed that her suspicions were not unfounded. What were those suspicions, exactly? First, we should explain what had prompted them.
Every customer, regardless of their mood when ordering, invariably left the café in excellent spirits! Could ordinary coffee really make people that happy? Madame Sofia certainly didn’t think so, even though she loved coffee herself and drank at least two cups a day. Naturally, her suspicions settled on some sort of illegal substance, which the owners were clearly slipping into their customers’ coffee to get them hooked.
***
Madame Sofia threw herself into the case. One night she lay awake for hours, thinking over her plan. Towards dawn, she made up her mind.“Well, why not?!” she said with a sigh, getting out of bed and heading to her dressing room. From her yoga clothes, she selected an outfit appropriate to the occasion. All black. Then she set off for the café opposite.
Thanks to her observations, Madame Sofia knew the staff kept a spare key for delivery people beneath a large flowerpot by the entrance.
They must have it all very well hidden in there, if they’re not worried about some delivery boy finding them out.
This logical thought crossed her mind. She decided to consider it later.
Once inside, she saw nothing suspicious at first glance. Just in case, she searched the cupboards in the seating area—where better to hide something illegal than in plain sight?—but found nothing. Then she spotted the stairs down to the storeroom. There was no lock, and a moment later she was inside.
“Finally!” she exclaimed, switching on the light. Boxes stood around her in neat rows. Every one bore a label announcing that it contained coffee and nothing else.
But Madame Sofia wasn’t that easily fooled. She decided to check. Inside were beautifully packaged bags, neatly arranged. Their contents disappointed her too. She’d been so sure they couldn’t possibly contain coffee!
A noise came from upstairs. She quickly switched off the light and listened. Someone had arrived. She’d lost track of time during her search, forgetting that the barista came in early, before opening. She would have to sneak out. Determined, she made her way towards the exit. But once she’d climbed out of the storeroom, she found herself trapped: she had to cross the entire empty café without the young barista seeing her. Madame Sofia decided her best option was to wait behind a large sideboard for the right moment.
Then something truly strange began to happen. The barista started to glow and shimmer. Tiny sparks appeared around her, and little wings unfolded behind her shoulders. Madame Sofia was stunned. She felt as though she’d stepped into her favourite childhood cartoon, Peter Pan, and there, right in front of her, stood Tinker Bell herself.
Time seemed to stop. In her astonishment, she peered out from behind the sideboard. The barista looked at her and said gently:
“Madame Sofia, it’s all right. You don’t have to hide.”
“How did you…? What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“That’s putting it mildly! Is this some kind of hallucinogen? This can’t be real.”
“I understand. It’s a lot to take in. But we all want to believe in fairy tales, don’t we? You’ve always wanted to. Haven’t you?”
Madame Sofia nodded timidly.
“I’m one of the fairies who quietly help people. My part isn’t all that big, but I soothe their sadness and sorrow. You’ve probably guessed how. Every day, I add fairy dust to the coffee.”
Madame Sofia raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“It has no side effects. But I doubt the local health inspectors would be pleased. So I’m going to ask you to keep this a secret.”
Madame Sofia turned an imaginary key against her lips.
“Wonderful! Now, how about a cup of coffee?”
Buckwheat
Going on dates with strangers from Tinder had always scared Bella. But Zhenya was so persistent that she’d had to give in. Her friend was forever telling her off for being a recluse and predicting she’d end up a mad old woman running a cat shelter. To be fair, she did actually like this guy. His looks, at least. And getting to know him better was the whole point of going on the date.
Later, she would say she’d sensed something was wrong straight away. Not in the usual first-date sense: she couldn’t have named any obvious red flags, but something was telling her to get out of there. Eduard was good company, clearly intelligent, genuinely interested in her. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
At the end of the evening, he offered to walk Bella home. She gave in to his charm and agreed. With every passing minute, he seemed sweeter. Almost at her door, Bella surrendered: he kissed her neck so tenderly that she decided to kiss him back. But as she turned towards him, fangs flashed in the dark. A split second later, they touched her neck. Bella had no idea how she managed to break free, but she did, and ran for home as fast as she could, pressing a hand to the scratch on her neck. She screamed for her friend, who flung open the door.
Bella burst inside and collapsed onto the floor.
“What happened? Did someone attack you?”
“Shut the door! He’s some kind of psycho! Call the police!”
“Are you hurt? Let me see what’s on your… hoooly shit.” Zhenya stared, bewildered, at the tooth marks on her friend’s neck.
“What are you standing there for? He was chasing me. Call the police, now!”
“Oh, you’re not going to like this, but the police won’t be much help here.”
“What nonsense is that?”
Later, she would say she’d sensed something was wrong straight away. Not in the usual first-date sense: she couldn’t have named any obvious red flags, but something was telling her to get out of there. Eduard was good company, clearly intelligent, genuinely interested in her. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
At the end of the evening, he offered to walk Bella home. She gave in to his charm and agreed. With every passing minute, he seemed sweeter. Almost at her door, Bella surrendered: he kissed her neck so tenderly that she decided to kiss him back. But as she turned towards him, fangs flashed in the dark. A split second later, they touched her neck. Bella had no idea how she managed to break free, but she did, and ran for home as fast as she could, pressing a hand to the scratch on her neck. She screamed for her friend, who flung open the door.
Bella burst inside and collapsed onto the floor.
“What happened? Did someone attack you?”
“Shut the door! He’s some kind of psycho! Call the police!”
“Are you hurt? Let me see what’s on your… hoooly shit.” Zhenya stared, bewildered, at the tooth marks on her friend’s neck.
“What are you standing there for? He was chasing me. Call the police, now!”
“Oh, you’re not going to like this, but the police won’t be much help here.”
“What nonsense is that?”
A crash came from the front door. Someone was trying to break in. Before Bella had even finished speaking, Zhenya ran to the kitchen. She rummaged through the cupboards, emptying them out and muttering, “We had some. I know we had some left!”
Bella ran after her, shouting, “Have you lost it, Zhenya? Is this really the moment you’ve picked to completely lose your shit?”
“You ungrateful thing. I’m saving your life, actually,” Zhenya declared proudly, clutching a packet of buckwheat, and ran back into the hall. Bella followed close behind.
“We’re going to put Granny’s wisdom to the test. Remember how I used to visit her in the village every summer? Looks like that’s about to pay off. She told me all sorts of stories. Baba Yaga, forest spirits, vampires too.” Zhenya kept talking as she scattered buckwheat over the floor by the front door. “They spread those rumours themselves, you know. Vampires being scared of garlic, aspen for some reason. What they’re really afraid of is grain!”
Bella could only stare at her in stunned disbelief.
“Yes, sorry. We’ll have to sacrifice our delicacy so we don’t end up being one ourselves. According to the old stories, the undead can’t walk past scattered grain. They have to count every single grain before they can move on! Get ready to run!”
Zhenya flung the front door open and showered the vampire with the rest of the buckwheat. Eduard tried to step inside but couldn’t. The grains drew him down. The girls bolted for the window in the back room. By the time the buckwheat released the vampire, they were far away.
He was a vampire hunter.
Bella ran after her, shouting, “Have you lost it, Zhenya? Is this really the moment you’ve picked to completely lose your shit?”
“You ungrateful thing. I’m saving your life, actually,” Zhenya declared proudly, clutching a packet of buckwheat, and ran back into the hall. Bella followed close behind.
“We’re going to put Granny’s wisdom to the test. Remember how I used to visit her in the village every summer? Looks like that’s about to pay off. She told me all sorts of stories. Baba Yaga, forest spirits, vampires too.” Zhenya kept talking as she scattered buckwheat over the floor by the front door. “They spread those rumours themselves, you know. Vampires being scared of garlic, aspen for some reason. What they’re really afraid of is grain!”
Bella could only stare at her in stunned disbelief.
“Yes, sorry. We’ll have to sacrifice our delicacy so we don’t end up being one ourselves. According to the old stories, the undead can’t walk past scattered grain. They have to count every single grain before they can move on! Get ready to run!”
Zhenya flung the front door open and showered the vampire with the rest of the buckwheat. Eduard tried to step inside but couldn’t. The grains drew him down. The girls bolted for the window in the back room. By the time the buckwheat released the vampire, they were far away.
***
The next day, an elderly Serbian man opened his front door to go out for coffee and found two young women on his doorstep.He was a vampire hunter.
Screams
“Who is screaming their head off out there?” Denis muttered through gritted teeth and slammed the window shut. The screams didn’t get any quieter, which came as no surprise. When he’d bought this shabby old house, he’d been warned about the soundproofing problem. The problem was that there wasn’t any. It seemed the very concept of soundproofing hadn’t existed when the house was built. But its advanced age was precisely what Denis liked about it.
Here, he felt closer to the history of Serbia, his new home.
With the window having failed him, Denis put on his headphones, switched on noise cancellation and went back to working with music on. Occasionally, he wondered why parents let their children run riot in the yard at that volume.
Denis couldn’t even think. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts, only the screaming. As he fell and curled up on the ground, his palms pressed tightly over his ears, he was thrown back into reality. After waking, he lay in bed in that same position for a long time.
The day passed in a flurry of chores. There was still the attic to deal with, but no rush, so Denis decided it was time to put his feet up. His usual way of relaxing was to watch horror films. And with Halloween approaching, it was the perfect time to put on something sinister. He opened the first list of “the scariest films” he found. Rather than spend ages choosing, he decided to leave it to chance. He landed on 1408, about a man trapped in a hotel room. Pleased with his choice, Denis fetched the popcorn he’d ordered in advance and started the film.
After yet another scream from the main character, Denis thought he heard someone else screaming too. As though he had a serious surround-sound system, making him feel he was right there. Except Denis didn’t have a system like that. He didn’t think much of it. It was windy outside; surely it was just branches knocking against the windowpanes. Still, he pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself.
The next screaming scene came with extra sounds too. The frightening part was that they didn’t stop. Denis paused the film.
“Oh, come on, get a grip. It’s just the wind! There’s probably something wrong with the roof up in the attic.”
Having reassured himself, he headed upstairs to get rid of the irritating noise. The higher he climbed, the louder and clearer the scream became. He tried very hard to fool himself, picturing a gap between the roof tiles with the wind howling through it, but he no longer believed it.
By the time Denis reached the attic door, the terrible sound had wound him into a spring, barely held in check by his outward calm. But the moment he opened the door, the noise vanished. He felt that oppressive silence from his nightmare again. It soothed him and filled him with an even worse sense of dread at the same time.
Denis stepped inside and looked around. A dressing table caught his eye, its surface crowded with perfume bottles, just like his mother’s. As a child, he’d loved folding the side mirrors inwards to create an endless labyrinth of reflections. He moved closer and looked at himself. But his reflection and the room around it began to change. Denis turned round. The attic was just as it had been. He looked back into the mirror. His friends were gathering there. It seemed to be someone’s birthday. Everyone looked so happy, taking their seats around a table in the garden.
They were far away. Denis called to them. No one noticed. He called each of them, again and again. The figures drew closer, but they didn’t see him. Looking into their happy faces, Denis realised this was only a memory. Yes, there he was among his friends. Only this was no longer possible. Not like that. Not with all of them there. A scream of despair tore through the silence, a wild howl that seemed to take physical shape as a cloud. Denis didn’t see one edge of the cloud begin to be sucked into a perfume bottle.
Soon the whole cloud had disappeared, pulling Denis’s face after it, then his head, shoulders, torso and legs. When he was gone, oppressive silence settled over the attic once more.
In its midst, a perfume bottle rocked gently on the dressing table.
“Who is screaming their head off out there?” Denis muttered through gritted teeth and slammed the window shut. The screams didn’t get any quieter, which came as no surprise. When he’d bought this shabby old house, he’d been warned about the soundproofing problem. The problem was that there wasn’t any. It seemed the very concept of soundproofing hadn’t existed when the house was built. But its advanced age was precisely what Denis liked about it.
Here, he felt closer to the history of Serbia, his new home.
With the window having failed him, Denis put on his headphones, switched on noise cancellation and went back to working with music on. Occasionally, he wondered why parents let their children run riot in the yard at that volume.
***
He was at the bottom of a well. At least, it looked like a well. Except there was no light above him. Denis couldn’t tell whether it was that dark outside or whether something was covering the opening. The ominous silence made his panic worse. It seemed to grow deeper and denser. When the first scream came, he could not have been less prepared. There were many screams, merging into one terrible howl, then breaking apart into a multitude of separate sounds.Denis couldn’t even think. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts, only the screaming. As he fell and curled up on the ground, his palms pressed tightly over his ears, he was thrown back into reality. After waking, he lay in bed in that same position for a long time.
***
Despite the nightmares, Denis was in an excellent mood. Today he planned to carry on making the house his own. Comfort and cosiness mattered to him, and he hoped to get the new place sorted out soon.The day passed in a flurry of chores. There was still the attic to deal with, but no rush, so Denis decided it was time to put his feet up. His usual way of relaxing was to watch horror films. And with Halloween approaching, it was the perfect time to put on something sinister. He opened the first list of “the scariest films” he found. Rather than spend ages choosing, he decided to leave it to chance. He landed on 1408, about a man trapped in a hotel room. Pleased with his choice, Denis fetched the popcorn he’d ordered in advance and started the film.
After yet another scream from the main character, Denis thought he heard someone else screaming too. As though he had a serious surround-sound system, making him feel he was right there. Except Denis didn’t have a system like that. He didn’t think much of it. It was windy outside; surely it was just branches knocking against the windowpanes. Still, he pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself.
The next screaming scene came with extra sounds too. The frightening part was that they didn’t stop. Denis paused the film.
“Oh, come on, get a grip. It’s just the wind! There’s probably something wrong with the roof up in the attic.”
Having reassured himself, he headed upstairs to get rid of the irritating noise. The higher he climbed, the louder and clearer the scream became. He tried very hard to fool himself, picturing a gap between the roof tiles with the wind howling through it, but he no longer believed it.
By the time Denis reached the attic door, the terrible sound had wound him into a spring, barely held in check by his outward calm. But the moment he opened the door, the noise vanished. He felt that oppressive silence from his nightmare again. It soothed him and filled him with an even worse sense of dread at the same time.
Denis stepped inside and looked around. A dressing table caught his eye, its surface crowded with perfume bottles, just like his mother’s. As a child, he’d loved folding the side mirrors inwards to create an endless labyrinth of reflections. He moved closer and looked at himself. But his reflection and the room around it began to change. Denis turned round. The attic was just as it had been. He looked back into the mirror. His friends were gathering there. It seemed to be someone’s birthday. Everyone looked so happy, taking their seats around a table in the garden.
They were far away. Denis called to them. No one noticed. He called each of them, again and again. The figures drew closer, but they didn’t see him. Looking into their happy faces, Denis realised this was only a memory. Yes, there he was among his friends. Only this was no longer possible. Not like that. Not with all of them there. A scream of despair tore through the silence, a wild howl that seemed to take physical shape as a cloud. Denis didn’t see one edge of the cloud begin to be sucked into a perfume bottle.
Soon the whole cloud had disappeared, pulling Denis’s face after it, then his head, shoulders, torso and legs. When he was gone, oppressive silence settled over the attic once more.
In its midst, a perfume bottle rocked gently on the dressing table.
Smoky Luck
As children, many of us are prone to magical thinking. If I can walk all the way to school without stepping on the cracks, there won’t be a test. Or: if I can get dressed without my bare feet touching the floor, our football team will win. Most of us forget these “agreements” with the universe as soon as we step into the classroom and get caught up in the school-day bustle, or run out onto the pitch. Others keep building their systems of rules and conditions.
For them, it becomes more than a game or a habit. Gradually, it turns into an inseparable part of life, so important that even a small departure from an obsession can bring about the end of the world. At least, that’s how it feels.
Pavel was one of those “others”. His obsessive-compulsive disorder followed him everywhere. Naturally, they emigrated together too. They’d grown used to each other: Pavel kept the disorder at a steady level, stopping it from getting worse, while it kept Pavel from getting better.
Just leaving the house could be an ordeal. Endless checks of every electrical appliance, every window and every sensor accompanied each attempt to go out, never mind all the other aspects of everyday life. Despite this, Pavel had even managed to apply for a local residence permit. You’d think that would make him happy, but the possibility of being turned down made his already severe anxiety worse.
He started smoking again, though he’d thought he’d quit for good a year earlier.
For them, it becomes more than a game or a habit. Gradually, it turns into an inseparable part of life, so important that even a small departure from an obsession can bring about the end of the world. At least, that’s how it feels.
Pavel was one of those “others”. His obsessive-compulsive disorder followed him everywhere. Naturally, they emigrated together too. They’d grown used to each other: Pavel kept the disorder at a steady level, stopping it from getting worse, while it kept Pavel from getting better.
***
Like every emigrant, he had plenty of difficult things to deal with: finding somewhere to live, learning the language, meeting people, sorting out his legal status in an unfamiliar country. And yes, as it turned out, he wasn’t on this journey alone. Except that, unlike other people whose partners helped them, Pavel’s partner only made everything harder.Just leaving the house could be an ordeal. Endless checks of every electrical appliance, every window and every sensor accompanied each attempt to go out, never mind all the other aspects of everyday life. Despite this, Pavel had even managed to apply for a local residence permit. You’d think that would make him happy, but the possibility of being turned down made his already severe anxiety worse.
He started smoking again, though he’d thought he’d quit for good a year earlier.
***
When the vape returned to his life, so did the rituals that went with it. Pavel tried to adjust them so they wouldn’t affect his health too much, although he knew he was starting to resemble Sisyphus. There was no cancelling out the harm from nicotine.Time passed, and the day came when he was due to find out: would he get his residence permit, or would he have to find somewhere else to live and go through another move? Even imagining it was hard for Pavel. His mounting anxiety made him recall all his childhood rituals and repeat them with particular devotion, hoping to prevent a bad outcome.
As a teenager, for instance, he’d invented a rule: if he could sing the chorus of his favourite song, “A Pack of Cigarettes”, three times in his head before the pedestrian light turned green, the whole day would pass without incident. Walking along the waterfront now, he remembered this teenage ritual. Only he realised he couldn’t remember the words. It was so stupid. They’d got jumbled up in his head and refused to arrange themselves into one coherent chorus. Soon he’d have to turn and cross the road.
At a pedestrian crossing. With traffic lights.
Panicking, Pavel decided to come up with an alternative. What if he had to take three puffs on his vape in the same amount of time? This condition felt made up.
“Oh, as if the old one wasn’t?!”
Pavel swore, but kept working on the idea. What he really wished he had was Felix Felicis, like in Harry Potter.
Yeees, a little Liquid Luck wouldn’t hurt. Although who cares what state of matter it comes in? My luck will be smoky.
The idea completed Pavel’s fantasy. Now it made perfect sense to him.
“If I manage it, everything will be fine,” he said quietly as he approached the crossing.
The light turned red. He took one long drag. Breathed all the smoke out. Immediately took another. His head spun a little; he exhaled. As he took the third, Pavel repeated to himself:
“It’s Smoky Luck. I’ll be lucky…”
“Of course. Felix. That’s poisonous in large doses too. How could I forget…”
His residence permit was waiting for him. Only Pavel would never come to collect it.
As a teenager, for instance, he’d invented a rule: if he could sing the chorus of his favourite song, “A Pack of Cigarettes”, three times in his head before the pedestrian light turned green, the whole day would pass without incident. Walking along the waterfront now, he remembered this teenage ritual. Only he realised he couldn’t remember the words. It was so stupid. They’d got jumbled up in his head and refused to arrange themselves into one coherent chorus. Soon he’d have to turn and cross the road.
At a pedestrian crossing. With traffic lights.
Panicking, Pavel decided to come up with an alternative. What if he had to take three puffs on his vape in the same amount of time? This condition felt made up.
“Oh, as if the old one wasn’t?!”
Pavel swore, but kept working on the idea. What he really wished he had was Felix Felicis, like in Harry Potter.
Yeees, a little Liquid Luck wouldn’t hurt. Although who cares what state of matter it comes in? My luck will be smoky.
The idea completed Pavel’s fantasy. Now it made perfect sense to him.
“If I manage it, everything will be fine,” he said quietly as he approached the crossing.
The light turned red. He took one long drag. Breathed all the smoke out. Immediately took another. His head spun a little; he exhaled. As he took the third, Pavel repeated to himself:
“It’s Smoky Luck. I’ll be lucky…”
***
The café owner called an ambulance after seeing a young man collapse by the roadside. As the doctors tried to save Pavel, he kept repeating:“Of course. Felix. That’s poisonous in large doses too. How could I forget…”
His residence permit was waiting for him. Only Pavel would never come to collect it.
Nastya had stayed at the bar too long. She knew she should have gone home ages ago, but the bottle of gin on the counter wouldn’t let her. She’d been on antidepressants for years, but had no intention of giving up alcohol. She’d tried that at the start of treatment and noticed no difference, except that she was always the designated driver. So she’d lifted the restriction.
The alcohol had relaxed her. Singing along to the loud music, she absent-mindedly traced the raised lettering on the Hendrick’s bottle with her finger. She stopped when the bottle began to shake. The cap unscrewed itself and flew off. A strangely familiar figure was squeezing its way out through the neck.
Nastya was horrified. Frantically, she tried to remember what her psychiatrist had said about mixing antidepressants and alcohol. Hallucinations hadn’t been on the list. Had they?
Meanwhile, the figure emerged from the bottle and stood before Nastya at its full height. All she could do was blink rapidly, squeezing her eyes shut each time. The apparition didn’t disappear. What’s more, it spoke.
“Oh, my mistress! I am a mighty djinn, and the slave of this vessel… although you, it seems, are something of a slave to it yourself. Believe thine eyes!”
Nastya opened her mouth, trying to say something. No sound came out. The djinn gestured encouragingly.
“How did the D-Disney artists know what d-djinns look like?” was the first thing she managed to stammer.
“Ha ha. Your foolish artists. Yes, well, we’re not thrilled with the look, but we have to work with what we’ve got. We djinns take a form familiar to our master. You, I see, are a millennial. Watched a lot of Aladdin as a child. Yes, yes, I’m well informed on a variety of subjects, and I keep up with culture. If you can call it that.
“There was a time when I appeared as an enormous demon, with burning eyes and a powerful body. And now…” He glanced at his reflection in the mirrors behind the bar. “This pathetic excuse for a magical being. Why blue?”
“I d-don’t know. To contrast with the orange desert, probably.”
“To contrast. With the orange. I see. Yes. Right. You are my mistress, and you are entitled to one wish! Ask for whatever you desire!”
“One? Why one? Isn’t it usually three?” Nastya asked uncertainly.
“Oh, gods! Pop culture will be the death of you, madam. Stop believing everything you see at the cinema. The number of wishes depends on the djinn and his personal obligations. That is all. I have no intention of explaining myself any further! Oh, my mistress!” He delivered the last words with exaggerated servility.
“You know, Djinnie… Can I call you that?”
“As you wish, my mistress,” the djinn growled.
“You know, I’ve had depression for a long time. I’ve tried everything I could. Therapists, pills. I’m so tired. Help me get rid of it.”
“Is that all you want? Your greatest wish?”
“Yes. I can deal with the rest myself. Just not the depression.”
“So be it.” The djinn snapped his fingers.
Nastya swayed, caught hold of the bar and sat down. The apathy receded. That terrible feeling that had been draining her strength vanished without a trace. She wanted to live. But at that exact same moment came anxiety. Anxiety about how she was supposed to live. And fear. Fear that none of it would work out. Nastya stared at the djinn in confusion.
“I’m sorry, my dear. You don’t know yourself at all. If you’d been just a little more attuned to yourself, you’d have noticed that besides depression, you also have anxiety, fears and deep trauma. You could have wished to be well in every way. Instead, you gained experience.
“Again.”
The alcohol had relaxed her. Singing along to the loud music, she absent-mindedly traced the raised lettering on the Hendrick’s bottle with her finger. She stopped when the bottle began to shake. The cap unscrewed itself and flew off. A strangely familiar figure was squeezing its way out through the neck.
Nastya was horrified. Frantically, she tried to remember what her psychiatrist had said about mixing antidepressants and alcohol. Hallucinations hadn’t been on the list. Had they?
Meanwhile, the figure emerged from the bottle and stood before Nastya at its full height. All she could do was blink rapidly, squeezing her eyes shut each time. The apparition didn’t disappear. What’s more, it spoke.
“Oh, my mistress! I am a mighty djinn, and the slave of this vessel… although you, it seems, are something of a slave to it yourself. Believe thine eyes!”
Nastya opened her mouth, trying to say something. No sound came out. The djinn gestured encouragingly.
“How did the D-Disney artists know what d-djinns look like?” was the first thing she managed to stammer.
“Ha ha. Your foolish artists. Yes, well, we’re not thrilled with the look, but we have to work with what we’ve got. We djinns take a form familiar to our master. You, I see, are a millennial. Watched a lot of Aladdin as a child. Yes, yes, I’m well informed on a variety of subjects, and I keep up with culture. If you can call it that.
“There was a time when I appeared as an enormous demon, with burning eyes and a powerful body. And now…” He glanced at his reflection in the mirrors behind the bar. “This pathetic excuse for a magical being. Why blue?”
“I d-don’t know. To contrast with the orange desert, probably.”
“To contrast. With the orange. I see. Yes. Right. You are my mistress, and you are entitled to one wish! Ask for whatever you desire!”
“One? Why one? Isn’t it usually three?” Nastya asked uncertainly.
“Oh, gods! Pop culture will be the death of you, madam. Stop believing everything you see at the cinema. The number of wishes depends on the djinn and his personal obligations. That is all. I have no intention of explaining myself any further! Oh, my mistress!” He delivered the last words with exaggerated servility.
“You know, Djinnie… Can I call you that?”
“As you wish, my mistress,” the djinn growled.
“You know, I’ve had depression for a long time. I’ve tried everything I could. Therapists, pills. I’m so tired. Help me get rid of it.”
“Is that all you want? Your greatest wish?”
“Yes. I can deal with the rest myself. Just not the depression.”
“So be it.” The djinn snapped his fingers.
Nastya swayed, caught hold of the bar and sat down. The apathy receded. That terrible feeling that had been draining her strength vanished without a trace. She wanted to live. But at that exact same moment came anxiety. Anxiety about how she was supposed to live. And fear. Fear that none of it would work out. Nastya stared at the djinn in confusion.
“I’m sorry, my dear. You don’t know yourself at all. If you’d been just a little more attuned to yourself, you’d have noticed that besides depression, you also have anxiety, fears and deep trauma. You could have wished to be well in every way. Instead, you gained experience.
“Again.”
The Jar
“Gran! Tell us the scary story about your granny!”
“Yes, yes, tell us!”
“Aren’t you tired of it yet?”
“No way, Gran! Pleeease.” The grandchildren looked so sweet when they wanted something.
“Well, how could I say no to you?”
“You can’t! You can’t!” the boys shouted happily.
Lidia was glad her grandchildren were interested in family stories. She settled more comfortably into her armchair and began.
Your great-great-grandmother Veronika was a journalist by calling, and she liked to say that journalism was the fourth estate. She believed in what she did and fought for freedom of speech and against censorship. But in ’22, she had to leave Russia for Serbia, like so many other people who opposed the war against Ukraine.
She and your great-great-grandfather rented an old flat in the centre of Novi Sad. One night, Granny had a strange dream: someone was putting a large green jar in the overhead cupboard in the kitchen. They’d already cleared that cupboard out, and there hadn’t been any jars in it. Still, the next day, as Granny was leaving the kitchen with a cup of coffee, her eye fell on the cupboard, and she decided to look inside.
On the shelf stood a large jar with a lid. A beautiful emerald green. Granny thought she must have forgotten about it while cleaning, then remembered it in her sleep. Deciding to use it for flowers, she put it on a shelving unit in the room and promptly forgot all about it.
“Yes, yes, tell us!”
“Aren’t you tired of it yet?”
“No way, Gran! Pleeease.” The grandchildren looked so sweet when they wanted something.
“Well, how could I say no to you?”
“You can’t! You can’t!” the boys shouted happily.
Lidia was glad her grandchildren were interested in family stories. She settled more comfortably into her armchair and began.
***
This is a story about an object you know very well. As you know, you must look after it, and when you grow up, pass it on to your own children. When Granny told me this story as a child, I thought it was frightening. Now I think it’s more a story about justice. But listen and see for yourselves.Your great-great-grandmother Veronika was a journalist by calling, and she liked to say that journalism was the fourth estate. She believed in what she did and fought for freedom of speech and against censorship. But in ’22, she had to leave Russia for Serbia, like so many other people who opposed the war against Ukraine.
She and your great-great-grandfather rented an old flat in the centre of Novi Sad. One night, Granny had a strange dream: someone was putting a large green jar in the overhead cupboard in the kitchen. They’d already cleared that cupboard out, and there hadn’t been any jars in it. Still, the next day, as Granny was leaving the kitchen with a cup of coffee, her eye fell on the cupboard, and she decided to look inside.
On the shelf stood a large jar with a lid. A beautiful emerald green. Granny thought she must have forgotten about it while cleaning, then remembered it in her sleep. Deciding to use it for flowers, she put it on a shelving unit in the room and promptly forgot all about it.
***
A couple of days later, she noticed something inside the jar. Something unpleasant-looking. Assuming she simply hadn’t noticed the jar wasn’t empty, she decided to wash it out one of these days, before putting flowers in it.That evening, as on the previous one, she and her friends had a video call. They discussed their emigrant troubles and, as had become their habit, watched clips from the propagandists’ news broadcasts. All their anger at the injustice of what was happening poured out in biting comments and gruesome suggestions about what they’d do to those lying people.
***
A day later, the jar caught Granny’s eye again. There was more inside it. This time, she was sure it hadn’t been there before. She tried to work out what was in it without opening the lid, but couldn’t. Granny took it to the bathroom, ready to pour the contents down the toilet.She opened the jar and stared inside for about five seconds, unable to understand what she was looking at. Voices broke into her thoughts. They seemed to be coming from the jar, and its contents were moving. That was when Granny realised they were tongues. They talked and talked, spouting the same rubbish as in the videos the night before, saying all the things she’d torn to shreds.
They were the tongues of the very propagandists Granny hated so much.
***
That day, she neither emptied the jar nor got rid of it. She discovered that, for various supposed reasons, many propagandists had stopped working. But she knew the real reason. Granny used that jar until she’d got rid of every lying journalist in the country. She believed that as long as she kept it safe, there would be no more of them.“And that’s the end of the story! I’d like to tell you that, yes, it was that easy for your great-great-grandmother to shut all the propagandists up. But it’s only a story. And she worked very hard to make it come true.”
“So we can throw the jar away?”
“No!”
Matryoshka
Sveta vividly remembered the scene in Night Watch where Gorodetsky visits an old witch to get his ex-wife back. The matryoshka in the film, with its little spider legs, seemed permanently lodged in her memory. She’d always thought it was a wonderful combination: the bright, familiar image of a matryoshka, surrounded by something dark and just as familiar—spider legs, gloom, a witch’s incantations in an old flat.
And now, seeing a matryoshka that had appeared out of nowhere on the dining table, she returned to these reflections instead of wondering where it had actually come from.
“Right, right. Obviously another prank. I’ll open this thing and spiders will come pouring out. Or worse,” she muttered to herself.
Deep down, Sveta hoped it was a sweet surprise from her family, that she’d find her favourite toffees inside, or a little note saying something lovely. Though of course a prank had been her first thought. She even felt guilty about that.
She could have done with something to cheer her up, really. Emigration hadn’t been easy on her, as it hadn’t been on so many others. Each new wave of problems hit harder than the last. It felt as though she were fighting Medusa, except that instead of snakes, tasks from her to-do list writhed on her head.
Glancing at the matryoshka once more, Sveta decided she’d come back to it after washing the dishes.
Telling herself it was only a toy, and that nothing all that terrible could fit inside such a small matryoshka, she pulled herself together. Just in case, Sveta held it well away from her face and slowly opened it.
There was nothing inside. Nothing she could touch. And at the same time, everything was there. The smell of comfort and happiness, homemade pies and washing dried outdoors, Dad’s hugs and Mum’s perfume, freshly cut grass and bicycle-chain oil, cigar smoke and her favourite bar, Christmas and New Year.
It was the smell of home. Breathing it in, Sveta felt a peace she hadn’t known in a long time. For the first time in years, she cried with happiness. When her husband and son came into the flat, they felt it too, though through different smells. Their own. The family spent the whole evening together, holding one another for a long time. It felt as though they’d woken from a long, troubled sleep, and now things would finally be all right.
That day, matryoshkas like this appeared in many emigrants’ homes.
Sveta vividly remembered the scene in Night Watch where Gorodetsky visits an old witch to get his ex-wife back. The matryoshka in the film, with its little spider legs, seemed permanently lodged in her memory. She’d always thought it was a wonderful combination: the bright, familiar image of a matryoshka, surrounded by something dark and just as familiar—spider legs, gloom, a witch’s incantations in an old flat.
And now, seeing a matryoshka that had appeared out of nowhere on the dining table, she returned to these reflections instead of wondering where it had actually come from.
***
Sveta messaged the group chat with her husband and son. Neither knew anything about the toy.“Right, right. Obviously another prank. I’ll open this thing and spiders will come pouring out. Or worse,” she muttered to herself.
Deep down, Sveta hoped it was a sweet surprise from her family, that she’d find her favourite toffees inside, or a little note saying something lovely. Though of course a prank had been her first thought. She even felt guilty about that.
She could have done with something to cheer her up, really. Emigration hadn’t been easy on her, as it hadn’t been on so many others. Each new wave of problems hit harder than the last. It felt as though she were fighting Medusa, except that instead of snakes, tasks from her to-do list writhed on her head.
Glancing at the matryoshka once more, Sveta decided she’d come back to it after washing the dishes.
***
Once she’d finished all the cleaning, Sveta realised she still couldn’t bring herself to open the doll. It was so stupid: she was curious and afraid at the same time. It took her a while to realise that what she feared was disappointment. Opening it to find another family joke.Telling herself it was only a toy, and that nothing all that terrible could fit inside such a small matryoshka, she pulled herself together. Just in case, Sveta held it well away from her face and slowly opened it.
There was nothing inside. Nothing she could touch. And at the same time, everything was there. The smell of comfort and happiness, homemade pies and washing dried outdoors, Dad’s hugs and Mum’s perfume, freshly cut grass and bicycle-chain oil, cigar smoke and her favourite bar, Christmas and New Year.
It was the smell of home. Breathing it in, Sveta felt a peace she hadn’t known in a long time. For the first time in years, she cried with happiness. When her husband and son came into the flat, they felt it too, though through different smells. Their own. The family spent the whole evening together, holding one another for a long time. It felt as though they’d woken from a long, troubled sleep, and now things would finally be all right.
That day, matryoshkas like this appeared in many emigrants’ homes.