Rolling to his front the scraping blue sky hammers thirty-five tons of celsius into Pyotr. A decree from Peter the Great cracking all this heat against him - no building on Nevsky Prospekt should be taller than the avenue's width. What a fucking decree. Derek's shadow - a floating slab of black hovers into his view. His eyes begin to work again - colours appear in noiseless, pulpy masses. Only one sound comes - the frenzied braying of car horns.
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'Get his legs. Let's drag him in.'
Derek jabs his finger towards Pyotr's feet. Him and the driver lunge him in. The vicious blue becomes the murky, plastic beige of the taxi's ceiling. A fresh sound shoots in - the soothing, metal clunk of the car door closing. Derek brushes sweat off Pyotr's brow. He has to wipe his palm on his shirt - it leaves a hand-shaped patch on his chest.
'Pyotr - are you okay? Can you hear me?'
Pyotr blinks a little. There's a dog's affection in his eyes - his eyelids make slow, grateful signals, but he doesn't answer.
'Talk to me - you're looking at me, but please talk to me. Should we go to a hospital?'
The taxi turns into a new avenue, more populated by concrete. A certain relief - extra shade flickers across him between generously and less generously leafed tress. A delicate, carefully measured smile accompanies another slow-mo blink.
'You're smiling, but please speak. Do we need a hospital Pyotr?'
'No, we don't - we have to see my mother.'
'That was so awful back there - are you really sure?'
'Yes, I am. I really need you to meet my dear mother. We'll be there in ten minutes.'
'Only if you're sure. I'll do whatever you say Pyotr. You know I will.'
The same stepping smile and languid opening and shutting of the eyes revive Pyotr further. Derek strokes his brow again, wipes the other side of his chest - a slighter hand of sweat appears there.
'Derek.'
'Yes - Pyotr?'
'I'm feeling much better now, but…'
'But what?'
'I've shit myself Derek - and it's very wet.'
A millisecond of panic hits Derek's face, but Pyotr's instant, rapid giggles slap it back off.
'You're an insane little man Pyotr. Come here.'
Derek tastes the summer salt of Pyotr's skin on his forehead with a swift, plump kiss. His head immediately knocks the back of the driver's seat. The taxi hurls a skid to the curb.
'Pashol von! Pashol von!'
'What? What's he saying Pyotr?'
'It's alright - he wants us out.'
'My god, but you're ill. Can't he see that?'
'It's alright. I can get up now and we're almost there. You first.'
'Pashol von!'
Pyotr leans up, urging his body up between the two front seats. He sticks his head to the driver, drags his forearm across his chin - bristly flakes of dry vomit crumble off it.
'Here you go. We're all the same until we're different, eh?'
Closer to the driver, licks his lips - plants a complete, damp kiss on the driver's mouth.
'UUAAGGGHHH! PASHOL VON - SHAS!'
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'Well - here we are Derek. In a Soviet giant's maze of concrete. Good job I know the way, yeah?'
'It is Pyotr - I've not the slightest idea. Which one is yours? I hope it's not far - you need cleaning up.'
Pyotr points and it helps as much as spitting on his shoes would.
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Derek takes a three-sixty, side-stepping turn around. Not a single curve in sight. Not a building any other colour than broken grey. As far as the eye can see - gorgeously relentless.
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Click here for Living and dying in Pete's - part 11.
