"Da," Taras said, quietly. "You should be comrades again."

It was not exactly what Lasha had affirmed, but Taras thought one thing would probably follow the other.

A truce, to a reconciliation.

He glanced away. After a second, he took in a long breath, and let it out, his broad chest working like a bellows.

Coming to Tselinoyarsk had changed more than one thing, irrevocably. Taras thought other things might be different in ways he didn't even know yet.

Maybe that was all right. Taras didn't know.

He savored his cognac, falling silent for a few moments.

"What are we going to do when we get back to Leningrad, Lasha?" he murmured, finally.

Taras leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs in front of him.

His gaze lowered, almost drowsily.

"I want to go somewhere when we get back. I don't like the lack of cultural shit here. We should go to the opera. Or the theatre. Or go to a museum or a gallery, or to one of your fancy restaurants. I want to do something good."

He snorted, lightly.

"It's almost too bad I don't really feel like fucking whores anymore."