His eyes watered from the indirect sunlight. His skin puckered as he kept vigil.I want to loveyou, he thought.I want to hunt you down and kill you.
“Alyosha,” a voice said, using his real nickname, “how long have you been out here?”
Alexei stirred. Then his eyes flew open as he realized Dmitri was squatting on his haunches and leaning over him. He could barely see him. There was so muchlight.
“Out here?” Alexei repeated, muzzy. “What time is it?” Hetried to sit up fast, but Dmitri put a hand on his chest. The sky glowed blue, yellow.
“Easy. It’s three in the afternoon. I thought you were in your room.”
Of all the brothers, Dmitri looked the most Slavic. A man blessed by the motherland, a country that tried and tried again to be just, and to be good, and sinned and failed and yet believed in hope. In the old days, in the old country, Dmitri had been closest with Alexei. With their father so often drunk or off chasing women, Dmitri had practically raised Alexei, the youngest brother. But once Alexei had joined the Church, Dmitri had wandered off, his job done. When Papa had refused to give Dmitri his birthright and allow him to set up his own household, he had rebelled in all the worst ways, drinking, brawling, whoring... and bashing their father’s head in with a fireplace stanchion.
“It’s dangerous out here,” Dmitri said.
As if Alexei didn’t know that. He had no idea why he had fallen asleep on the balcony in broad daylight. He slowly got to his feet and smoothed back his damp hair. He was sweating.
“Back home, when I studied with Father Zosima, do you remember?” Alexei said. “Everyone believed he was a saint. But when he died, he rotted, and everyone was stunned. They thought his body would stay pure.”
“I remember,” Dmitri said. He grinned. “It caused quite a scene. And a stench. Speaking of which, you could use a shower.”
“Will our bodies rot, if we die?” Alexei ran a hand along the railing. “I wanted to serve and glorify God. And now... I have no idea if God wants anything to do with me. Or if I should leap off this balcony so as not to cause further offense.”
“Alexei Fyodorovich, don’t torment yourself. You’re not like Papa,” Dmitri said. “You’re your own man.”
“I’m not a man anymore.” Alexei began to sob. He’d had no warning that he was going to, but he wept with every cell of his monstrous body. Every shred of his possibly nonexistent soul. “Don’t look at me, Dmitri. I beg of you. Please, go inside and don’t witness this.”
“Never be ashamed of longing,” Dmitri replied. His voice was gentle, as when Alexei had been a little boy.
“I long for oblivion,” he said.
“No. I think you long for heaven.”
“I don’t think we can ever go there.”
Dmitri shook his head. “You can’t know that. And if your faith sustains you...” He frowned. “I had no idea you wrestled with such misery. We used to be so close. I thought once the Church got hold of you...”
Alexei swallowed hard. “If I had one moment where I could forget what we—what I am, that I am not an accursed monster—”
“No, no, notyou, little cherub. I—”
The balcony door slid open. “There you are!” their father cried, sticking out his head. He had a bottle of vodka in his grip and he reeked of alcohol. “I was afraid you’d run away from home, Alyosha! What the hell are you doing out here? You’ll go blind! He’s out here, boys!” he slurred over his shoulder. He drank straight from the bottle, swaying, grabbing hold of one of the nylon poles that supported the awning. Alexei darted forward and took his arm, steadying him.
“Easy, Papa,” he said, surveying the awning. Intact. Safe.
“Look at all those people.” Papa made a show of smacking his lips. “Too bad we can’t fly. We can’t turn into bats.”
“Or wolves,” Dmitri said archly.
“Wearewolves,” their father retorted. He puffed out his chest. He had stopped aging at around sixty. No one knew exactly how old he had been.
After about a minute, Pavel and Ivan shuffled out in sunglasses and sun hats. They should all be wearing them. Alexei had to squint. The skin on his face was taut and itchy. Pavel and Ivan stood together awkwardly, as if wondering why they were all risking a fiery death instead of going back inside.
“Oh, look at that,” Papa said.
A woman with dark brown skin and a bouncy black ponytail was jogging down the center of the alley. She looked like a runner in her pink T-shirt and gray leggings, and she had the body for it. She moved as if life was good and no one would jump her or murder her.
“Look at that ass,” Papa crooned.
Something passed between Pavel and Ivan. Something decisive and solid. In unison, they moved closer to their father, Pavel ambling around to flank his father on his left side. Ivan was on his right. He stood between them now, leering at the woman, calling to her, trying to get her to look at him. His bottle of vodka sloshed in his hand as he wobbled on rubbery legs.
