The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa”. Michael Ouzikov

He had a crooked walk and was dressed in a ridiculous loin skirt, coarse, but bright. This black-tanned man with a big, lumping head asked Diego something in a guttural and completely incomprehensible language. Seeing that the boy did not understand, the old man smiled broadly and made a hand gesture inviting Diego to follow him. What could Diego do? The sun was setting, and he could not find his way back without assistance in any case. And, of course, spending such a long day under the sun, the last few hours of which the boy was without food and water, was taking its toll on Diego’s body. Not to mention, the stranger did not look evil at all.

      The small village to which the stranger brought the young traveller had already plunged into darkness and sleep. All that Diego heard were hens clucking, babies crying, and the crackling embers of a smoldering campfire. The stranger led Diego into a small hut and gave him a drink of fresh water, although warm and stale, and offered a couple of tortillas from a small table. Then, Diego’s saviour fished out a pile of hard, striped blankets, spread them out on the floor of the hut, and folded one of the blankets into a pillow. Diego fell on all of this benevolence and quickly fell asleep.

      The saviour waited until Diego’s breathing levelled off and then covered the boy with a light blanket, quietly closed the simple door, and exited to the clearing in the centre of the village. Beside a smoldering campfire in a clearing sat a motionless figure of a dried-up old man, who was silently staring either at the embers or at a myriad of stars on the black and blue horizon. He had the jaw of a power-seeker and the forehead of a philosopher. This forehead was cut up by numerous wrinkles and one deep, vertical scar that must have stopped healing a long time ago. He sat on the ground, legs crossed and covered by a round, dark object the size of a coconut. Diego’s saviour approached the old man, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. The old man subtly nodded and again was left alone without even turning his head towards the tribesman.

      CHAPTER 13

      45° 27» 57» N

      9° 11» 21» E

      Milan, Italy

      May 14, 1991

      Rodion Karlovich Teichrib had a long way to travel. Multi-storey buildings of the renaissance and neoclassical periods gave way to brick and mortar buildings of the Milanese suburbia, complete with graffiti, broken and dried up paint, and sometimes empty windows. But Rodion Karlovich did not pay much attention to the surroundings that were flying by in the last rays of the sun. The pain in his temples was becoming simply unbearable. The bus slowed down sharply, pulling up dust from a nearby construction site, and stopped at a crumpled metal frame that had once been a bus stop.

      With a flick of his sun-burnt hand, the little man commanded Rodion Karlovich to exit. The professor obeyed silently and without question. Stepping onto the dusty pavement of Via Privata Ofanto, he looked around in search of a pharmacy or a sign with a green cross. His head continued to crack. It was either the heat or the tedious morning lecture on the contemporary and historical place of the Soviet Union in the global political system, featuring a bunch of useless questions from the audience about the possible construction of a «new democracy» in the USSR.

      Meanwhile, the Italian, quickly shuffling his slightly bowed legs and constantly looking around and oddly waving his hand at the hip, called for Teichrib to follow him down the little road. Obedient as if in hypnosis, Rodion Karlovich silently trudged after the old man. He did not have far to go. The old Italian led him to a desolate but noisy place – right at the exit of the Tangenziale Est motorway. He could hear how the nervous drivers of cars and trucks were honking on the bridge above him. But here, at the bottom, neither dust nor noise could prevent vines from growing an intricate green web on the white wicker porch. Tomato bushes held by thin smooth stakes stood at the perimeters of properties, separating neighbours with their low hedges. It smelled of sweet wine and fresh bread. This was not Milan – it was Lazio.

      The old man took Rodion Karlovich to a house and with a gentle hand gesture invited him inside. Noticing a faded «Vecchie-Nuove» sign and a lot of old utensils and unknown junk, Rodion Karlovich concluded that he was in an antique pawn shop. Everything that happened afterwards played out like a strange little comedy, complete with black humour. The professor was standing in the middle of a small room cluttered with trash, surveying all this with increasing interest despite his severe migraine. The old Italian disappeared behind a partition. He quickly returned, holding a glass of water with a large bubbled tablet fizzing inside in one hand, and clutching a large piece of boiled corn like a golden sword in the other hand. And under his arm, he was holding a small black object that looked like tree fungus or a good-sized turnip.

      The old man pushed the glass to Teichrib, who took it without delay. Then, the Italian thumped his finger on Teichrib’s temple and said, «Si prega di bere, da un mal di testa.» Rodion Karlovich’s modest knowledge of Italian prompted him to understand his companion’s words as «Drink please, it’s for the headache.» The professor promptly drank the bubbling liquid with an aftertaste of aspirin, closed his eyes for a moment, and then nearly fell, receiving a severe blow to the head.

      Recoiling and dropping the glass that shattered on the stone slabs, Rodion opened his eyes and saw how lumps of succulent masses were flying across the little room – yellow corn peas. This mess also crawled down from his forehead and hair. Before he knew it, the old man turned Teichrib over his shoulders, kicked open the door, and pushed him out almost right under the wheels of a bus, which barely had time to decelerate. A piece of corn cob flew after Rodion Karlovich. Surprisingly, this spectacle was not followed by any swearing or long explanations in rich Italian gestures and hoarse cries like «idiotto!» The bus driver opened the door to the empty bus. Giuseppe «Blue Nose» went out after Rodion Karlovich and placed a black object into the professor’s hands. With an apologetic tone to his voice, he said, «Ton guha, Rodion! Grazie.» He turned the professor around by his shoulders once again and gently pushed him into the bus.

      Rodion Karlovich flopped on the first seat and sat there for about five minutes, looking blankly out the window. Then, he thoughtfully ran his hand through his hair, still wet from corncob, and felt a light, bruised pain over his left eyebrow. A small streak of blood remained on these fingers. So that’s how what a corn fight for freedom and independence feels like, he chuckled to himself. A black, rubber ball was on his knees, pushing hard on the hip. Rodion Karlovich put his bloodied hand on the object and the pain that was festering him for several hours vanished in an instant. Just like that. The professor spread out on the plastic seat with a satisfied smile.

      The driver’s shout brought Rodion Karlovich back from the void. The bus was at the same bus stop on Piazza Lima, and even on the same side of Via Plinio. When Rodion stepped out past the driver, he stopped him. Politely but firmly, the driver tapped on a scratched metal box with a cracked glass window.

      «Dieci lire, signore, per favore,» he rasped.

      «Si, signore,» responded Teichrib in the same tone and threw in a well-worn coin of ten lire, with ears on one side and a plow on the other side. A minute later, he again sat on the bench at the bus stop, as if asleep for a few minutes. Instead of a headache on his hands, he now had a warm, black rubber ball.

      CHAPTER 14

      55° 46» 12» N

      36° 39» 10» E

      Odintsovo District, Moscow Region, Russian Federation

      September 8, 1994

      He woke up from the voices behind the door, finding himself lying on a hard mattress in a small, unfurnished room in the attic under the roof of a house. The mattress was not laid out, but at the head of the bed he found carefully laid sheets, blankets, pillows, pillowcases, a pair of clean but ragged jeans, a Dynamo Moscow t-shirt (how did they know it was his favorite team?), towels, and soap. He immediately sensed the smell of his own clothes and became ashamed of himself.

      Outside