The Wolves of Bilaya Forest

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The distant howls could be heard over the water boiling in the saucepan. Vera had sold her kettle three weeks earlier, along with a set of dull knives and all of her daughter’s clothes. She tilted the pan over two cups and hummed as the tea bags inflated and rose in the steaming water. Yelena, her friend from childhood, asked for three scoops of sugar, which Vera thought quite excessive. But she needed Yelena’s help, so she measured three half teaspoons into Yelena’s cup and took no sugar herself.

“This tea is bitter,” Yelena said, in the living room. Her eyebrows were plucked, thin sickles of hair that gave her the appearance of constant incredulity. She went to the salon once a month and flew first-class to Moscow twice a year to trawl the Arbat for the latest styles from Paris and New York.

“Yes,” Vera agreed. “Perhaps I let it steep too long.”

“So, you were telling me about the gas bill, Vera?” Yelena smiled, her lips curving as deliberately as her eyebrows. She felt satisfied witnessing her friend face poverty. For many years, she had been the one in need of Vera’s charity.

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