Bicicletta Ercolo, groaned at the news they were going to attempt to resurrect the bike themselves. He sent instructions and washed his hands of the operation. Arkady went ahead. It mainly demanded patience and a steady stream of obscenities. And rags. He and Zhenya and everything they touched were covered in grease.
Zhenya had asked one question: “Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
Zhenya was impressed.
They washed sand from the crank and the bearings of the derailleurs, adjusted the tension of the cables and wiped every surface with solvent and oil. Arkady tightened the gear screws until the derailleurs shifted smoothly. He thought that perhaps when they were done, the result would look more like a tricycle, but whatever money Arkady could get for it, he intended to give to Vova and his sisters. The bicycle’s provenance and pedigree were issues; who ever heard of a Pantera in Kaliningrad? In any case, if he had left the bike it would most likely have been claimed by the police.
Tatiana was in Belgium receiving another prize for journalism. Then to Rome for more honors while Arkady took care of her dog. He considered retiring from the prosecutor’s office and taking up golf. The game looked pretty simple.
Zhenya adjusted the brakes, tightening and twisting a holding bolt so the pads made full contact with the rim of the bike, testing the bolt to be sure it wouldn’t slip or break.
Lotte was in a women’s chess tournament in Cairo. She called Zhenya twice a day. There was no more talk about the army.
Anya covered fashion.
Maxim finally had a poem published.
Svetlana and Snowflake had disappeared.
Zhenya corrected bent spokes, squeezing them like harp strings. He and Arkady cleaned the shifters and brake levers. Pumped the tires, polished the bike’s frame until it had the sheen of black satin and the logo of a red panther seemed to leap off the frame. When Arkady spun the wheels, they sang.
