Han Ong

"'It's more than an hour's walk back,' Zvistunov said.

"'Wolves had been spotted in Troitsky that week, "'and he didn't want to run into any.

"'So he didn't spend too much time at the old woman's house.

"'He had gone there on his own initiative, "'checked everyone's documents, "'verified that they were all people he knew "'and that there were no strangers around.'

However, just for propriety's sake, he asked, Nikolai Mikhailovich, have you seen any strangers around here?

Strangers, the artist asked.

No, no strangers, only our own.

And so Fistunov stomped back down the narrow forest trail, running into neither stranger nor wolf.

Boris Ivanovich came out from behind the stove, where Numero was still sleeping.

The man finished a second bottle of vodka and then had some tea.

Boris cleared the table, wiped it off, and placed three stacks of his drawings on it.

in one the old women were talking at the table the second one had still lifes with potatoes and pickles alongside nameless objects of unknown utility some kind of little tongs wooden pincers miniature shovels clay knick-knacks that were either for drinking or simply toys

The third stack, the largest, had the naked old women, the joints of their legs, their leathery pouches and sacks, their folds and creases.

The drawings weren't of an inferno.

The women were grinning and chortling.

Nikolai Mikhailovich looked at the drawings for a long time, grumbling and sniffling, before finally saying, ''Boris, I didn't even know what a good draftsman you are.

You can't stay here.

I don't know how you're planning to survive, but I'm taking these pictures back to Moscow.

I'll keep them safe for you until you get back.''

He smiled.