Nine Layers of Sky - Brossura

"Williams does a wonderful job of describing the character of a place through the people who inhabit it and through the manifestations of their dreams."
--Publishers Weekly

One
KAZAKHSTAN/UZBEKISTAN BORDER, 21ST CENTURY
They had reached the border early that morning, leapfrogging the grim skein of industrial towns that strung from Almaty to Chimkent. The early part of the journey now seemed remote: a grimy memory that made Elena's skin crawl with remembered pollution. It had taken almost four hours to reach the Uzbek border, crawling all the way, with the powerful wipers of the Sherpa grinding the snow into a grey slush that accumulated at the bottom of the windscreen, periodically slewing down the hood and turning to packed ice beneath the wheels.

Atyrom's sister, Gulnara, had gone to sleep on the backseat. Atyrom drove without speaking, occasionally groping on the dashboard for cigarettes. He smoked Marlboros, which Elena could not afford. Acrid smoke filled the van like the ghost of an American dream.

He offered Elena one, but pride made her say, "Thanks, I'll stick to the Polyot." She reached for her packet of rougher local cigarettes and lit up. Atyrom said nothing, but the lack of conversation was compulsory, since he insisted on playing Uzbek rock at a level that could have woken the dead. It veered from maudlin ballads to aggressive nationalistic anthems that made Atyrom pound the steering column in erratic accompaniment.

Bleary with lack of sleep, Elena stared out across the pale and endless expanse of the steppe. In summer, the land was constantly changing under the light: alternately subtle and harsh, depending on the time of day. Sometimes in summer, she and her sister would borrow her cousin's car and drive out to Lake Kapchugai, to sit by the quiet water and watch the shadows lengthen across the steppe, the afternoon sun striping the land with colors that had not changed since prehistoric times: ochre and mauve and red. Now, in late February, the steppe remained featureless beneath the snow; they could have been driving over the moon. Shortly before seven in the morning, they reached the border and the queue of traffic.

It was still snowing, and Elena could not see very far ahead. The rear lights of the truck in front of them glowed crimson, then died as the truck stopped. Atyrom gave a snort of irritation and switched off the engine. There was a sudden, shattering silence.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" Elena asked. Atyrom glanced at her with manifest contempt.

"How should I know?"

"You've done the trip before," Elena said reasonably.

"It's different every time," Atyrom answered, dismissing the issue. He settled back against the seat rest and closed his eyes. Elena decided not to argue. Atyrom was doing her a favor, after all. If it had not been for his offer, she would have had to take the train down to Tashkent, lugging the heavy bag of black-market clothes with her.

She turned to look at her friend. Gulnara was still sleeping, curled on the backseat with her face squashed uncomfortably against the doorframe. Elena watched her for a moment before fishing in the glove compartment for diversion. There was nothing but a week-old copy of Karavan. Gloomily, she perused the For Sale advertisements and the lonely hearts, but there was nothing of interest to buy and she was not interested in romance with anyone. Not after Yuri. The cosmodrome seemed suddenly very far away: another Elena, another life entirely.

It was growing cold in the cabin of the van. It had been fifteen below when they left Chimkent. She chafed her hands in the thick leather gloves and opened the door of the Sherpa. Atyrom muttered a brief protest as she stepped down. The cold hit her like a hammer, slamming its way into her lungs. Her eyes prickled and her cheeks started to burn. Squinting, Elena wound her scarf more securely around her face and trudged slowly up the line.

After a seemingly unending procession of trucks and vans, she turned the corner and saw the ramshackle customs post ahead. Blue lights sparkled eerily through the falling snow, and unease settled in an icy lump in Elena's throat. She walked up the line toward a little knot of people who were talking to someone in a Lada through the open door of the car. Elena made her way to the edge of the gathering. These were presumably the customs officials, but as everyone was bundled up under several layers of clothing, it was difficult to tell. One man had the insignia of the Kazakhstan militzia. What were the police doing here? A pink-nosed face peered at her like a rabbit from a burrow. Elena glanced past him, to where the driver of the vehicle sat in silence.

"Won't he get cold like that?" Elena asked inanely. The customs officer's face twitched with something that could have been a smile.

"He's not likely to get any colder." And then Elena realized that the man was dead. He seemed to stare at her. There was a hazy bloom across his eyes, like dark frost. It made her shiver even more than the cold.

"Oh, my God," she said, stepping back and slipping a little on the icy surface of the road.

"Not the only one," the customs officer said with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. He pointed to the customs post, where figures were loading stretchers into an ambulance. "Frozen stiff. Happens a lot this time of year."

"Look," Elena said. "I don't want to sound callous, but how long is this going to take?" She had no intention of emulating the driver of the Lada.

The customs officer shrugged. "We're moving as fast as we can, but the road's blocked just beyond the customs. They're trying to clear it now. I suggest you go back to your vehicle."

Elena rubbed her face indecisively, but there was nothing that could be done now for the driver, and the ambulance was there, anyway. Her cheeks felt red and raw, and her lips were already chapped. Ice crackled in her hair; she could see a frosty blonde fringe just above her eyes.

"All right," she said at last, and walked back along the line. She did not dare look through the icy windscreens of the other cars; she was afraid of what she might see. Atyrom stared at her as she climbed back into the Sherpa.

"Where have you been?"

Tersely, Elena explained, haunted by the memory of the frozen man's silent face and strange dead gaze.

"Well, too bad, but never mind," Atyrom said, with something that almost approached cheerfulness. "As long as it's not us, eh?"

Elena couldn't help agreeing with the general sentiment, but not with the way in which it was expressed. She mumbled something. Through the frosty windscreen, she could see the lights of the ambulance as it came back down the road. Presently, it was level with the truck in front and it was at this point that the truck driver chose to open his door and leap out. The ambulance veered clear of the door as the driver slammed on the brakes. The wheels of the ambulance spun, hammering it against the door of the Sherpa. There was a thunderous bang. The van shook and rattled, and Atyrom was flung sideways across Elena's lap. Gulnara screamed. Atyrom shouted with fury. Scrambling up, he wrestled with the door, punching and kicking until the damaged lock gave way and the door shot open.

Atyrom fell out of the van, still shouting. Elena hastily levered herself into the driver's seat and followed. The ambulance was trundling slowly down the road, the azure lights wobbling on top. Atyrom stumbled after it, bawling insults and curses.

"Are you drunk, asshole? Look what you've done to my van!"

As quickly as she could, Elena caught up with him. Atyrom was panting with rage. He shook off Elena's restraining hand and bounded through the snow, taking long, floundering leaps like a hunting dog. Elena struggled after him. Catching up with the ambulance, Atyrom pulled open the door and dragged the driver out. Both men fell heavily into the snow.

"Hey!" Elena shouted. "Atyrom, stop! It was an accident. Leave him alone!"

Atyrom was not listening. He hauled the ambulance driver to his feet and shoved him against the side of the nearest vehicle. All down the line, men were coming out of their cars to join in the argument, and, to her dismay, Elena saw the dark-coated figure of the militzia man, heading purposefully toward them from the direction of the customs post.

"Atyrom, for God's sake!" she called. "You'll get us arrested."

Atyrom was shaking the driver, pushing him against the tarpaulin side of the truck.

"What about my van, you fucking bastard?"

Something fell out of the driver's pocket: something long and bright that Elena could not see clearly. Atyrom stared down at it for a startled moment, then gave a roar of rage and head-butted the driver. A thin spray of blood spattered out across the snow; the driver emitted a wail of pain.

"Grave robber!" Atyrom shouted.

Elena reached the irate Uzbek and hauled him back by the arms. The ambulance driver slumped back against the side of the truck as the policeman panted up. Elena caught a glimpse of a young, bony face beneath the militzia hat: one of those Ukrainian countenances, with cold eyes set too far apart. She pulled Atyrom aside as the policeman swung the butt of an ancient Kalashnikov at the Uzbek's head.

"Don't touch me!" Atyrom shouted, ducking. "Don't you fucking touch me! Look! Look!"

Wrestling out of Elena's restraining grip, he pounced into the snow and thrust out a handful of dirty, glittering slush. The policeman stared.

"Look what this bastard's stolen! Watches! Money! Teeth!"

Appalled, Elena saw that Atyrom was right. A single golden tooth rested in the snow in his gloved palm, its root still stained pink.

"Stealing out of the mouths of the dead!" Atyrom roared.

The ambulance driver, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve, began to protest, but the policeman snarled, &q...