II

Larva

If Nami had to describe the city, he wouldn’t know where to begin. With the buildings so tall here he finds himself instinctively crouching, and his eyes constantly search for the sky in between them. The air is filled with honking horns, backfiring exhausts, and shouting. A woman in a high voice chides her child for crying. There’s an odour of faeces, sweet perfume, and frying fat. Grease-stained bits of paper and dust float through the air. The people here look a little different, too; their eyes are brighter and shinier, and they move faster. Even the street dogs are in more of a hurry. Colourful posters are plastered all over the walls in multiple layers. The ones underneath come unglued and trap the dust from the air.

Someone honks from behind him and Nami gives a startled jump. A girl with sunglasses on sits behind the wheel of an abnormally clean and shiny off-road vehicle. Her hair and teeth are as dazzling as the collection of bracelets on her hand with which she’s gesturing. Nami just stands staring as the girl shouts and waves at him to clear the way. She has a picture of a seahorse on her rhinestone-studded T-shirt, and two large round, three-dimensional breasts underneath. Nami has a painful erection. Somebody shoves him out of the road and the girl in the white car honks and moves on. Nami stands staring after her for a long time, stroking his sternum. A middle-aged blonde with black roots snorts derisively. She has a spare tyre around her waist and a moustache over her upper lip.

‘Could you tell me the time, Auntie?’ Nami asks. He has no idea what time of day it is. The sun is fairly low, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, but the gusting wind has wound a cookie wrapper around his ankle.

‘Auntie?’ She gives him a look over the rims of her glasses, then bursts out laughing so hard it makes her belly jiggle. The golden teeth click in her mouth. Nami tilts his head to the side and watches until she stops laughing. Finally the woman sets her shopping bag down on the ground, takes off her glasses, and wipes the tears from her face.

‘It’s half past eight,’ she says. She picks up her bag and turns to leave. ‘Eight thirty, boy.’

‘Thank you,’ says Nami.

The woman turns her head and smiles. ‘Would you like a pirogi?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Yes, please? Some man you are. Get a grip on yourself!’

‘It’s just that I’m really hungry.’

‘Follow me.’

The woman crosses the street. The wind blows cold now. Even in his grampa’s sheepskin coat, Nami is shivering. The woman enters a glass door with a red neon sign on it. Most of the letters are missing, so Nami can’t put together what it said originally: C – – – – K – – – – ER – – – M. K – – K – – H.

Stepping up to the dingy counter, the woman orders two meat pirogi for Nami and a black coffee for herself. She then watches without a word, smoking and nodding her head as the foo