“Bzz, bzz.” Zhenya pushes past me and heads to the window, making mosquito noises. He stares out the window, at the pepper flakes of people on the promenade thirty stories below.
“The stress of encountering elements of his old life—like you—can occasionally revert a participant to their previous state,” the doctor says hastily, as if he knows my brother’s behavior better than I do. “I assure you, he’s made substantial progress—”
“Spare me.” The doctor falls back, blinking rapidly. I move to Zhenya’s side. “Please, Zhenya. What’s happening with Mama?”
“She’s working hard. Bzz, bzz. Says we can’t go outside. It’s too cold. It isn’t safe. Bad things.” He swipes his fingers on the window pane, sketching out a musical phrase. “Said to tell you, but I think it’s better not to say it in words. Music is better. Music is math, just like codes.”
Bzz, bzz. Like a fan belt whining. Like a swarm of bees.
Like a scrubber, purging his mind.
“I’d like to hear your music.” I hold my hand out to Zhenya for inspection. “Is it all right if I touch you?”
He regards my hand, studies all the angles, scrunches up his face. Finally, he nods. “But only because you’re my sister.”
I laugh bitterly to myself. He does remember me. “I promise this won’t hurt. But will you let me see what you’re thinking?”
My heart shatters in my chest when he answers. “I wish you always would.”
Oh, Zhenya. I wish I only knew how to decipher your thoughts. I twist my fingers in his, and with a jolt, a fractured landscape unfolds. His thoughts are alive and vibrant, like a Kandinsky painting, with great slashes of color and heavy strokes of disparate thoughts. I find myself wanting to reach out and reorder the jumbled-up brush strokes, make sense from the chaos.
But I am not Rostov. I am not a scrubber, out to change his mind. Look, I tell myself, but don’t touch.
“Mama,” I whisper to Zhenya. “Think about Mama.”
Mama dashes between the windswept brushstroke trees. The buzzing chases her, cutting through her, soaking her up when it catches her. It looks like how it feels to be near the scrubbers; Rostov must have done this, desperate to stay in control even when he’s granted me this small concession. But if Zhenya knew how to lock away his memories of Mama in his music, there must be some way to bring it back—
“I think that’s enough exertion for one day,” the doctor says. “We don’t want to undo all his progress.”
I wave him off and plunge back in. Zhenya’s thoughts shift to accommodate the hunt for Mama, and dark colors cut through the bright. He’s leading me into the heart of his brushstroke thoughts as his symphony fills the space around us. Trumpets bursting like the rays of dawn as a dart of red paint jags the sky. We spiral deep into the color and noise where Rostov couldn’t have possibly seen. Oh, Zhenya. For once, I’m grateful your mind isn’t structured like anyone else’s.
I remember now what Sergei said: Rostov can’t see what he isn’t looking for.
A memory of Mama, lurking between two walls of knotted-up color. Even as she flickers, she seizes me by the shoulders and refuses to let go. “Tell Yulia,” she pleads. “Tell her I was wrong.”
“Come on, Yevgenni, it’s time for class.” They’re prying my hand off of him. Please, one more second. I fight to keep contact, to keep Mama’s disintegrating face looming in front of mine.
But she lets go, enveloped in a fresh jolt of color and a whirlwind melody as Zhenya’s mind covers her up once more. “Tell her,” Mama whispers, “to run.”
CHAPTER 27
“WE KNOW THE AMERICANS are desperate to best us in the cosmos,” Major Kruzenko says to the dining hall at large. “We have a satellite. A man in space. And soon, the Veter 1 will pave the way for a moon landing! Surely they have not given up their attempts to steal the design. But they have all but vanished from us. Why? Where are they going?”
We’ve spent a long day beating our heads against various walls: Sergei and Masha attempted to remotely view various suspected safe houses of the CIA team, I wandered the neighborhoods of the two remaining wildlings, Ivan and Misha scanned the thoughts of their neighbors, and Larissa scrounged up a report on the CIA team’s plans that was vaguer than a horoscope. To Kruzenko’s credit, she didn’t berate us, yell at us, or say anything harsh. She masked her disappointment with a grimace and is now drowning it with an extra helping of vodka. Her gypsy music grows louder, more cacophonous as she drinks.