As they walked out of the side exit of GUM Department Store, the outdoor cold air rushed to meet them impatiently.
From the twenty-degree indoor environment to the minus fifteen-degree street, the temperature difference stung the mucous membranes of their noses.
Outside the arcade was a covered walkway.
Wind blew through the gaps between the stone pillars, and the ground was covered with a thin layer of ice that was slippery to step on.
Kozlov was called away by another staff member.
The person whispered a few sentences in Russian into his ear, speaking very quickly.
Kozlov nodded twice, then turned back.
"Your Excellency Saionji, please wait a moment. There are some check-in procedures that need to be confirmed."
He walked quickly towards the exit.
The arcade was quiet for a while.
The two in dark gray coats also followed Kozlov, leaving only the occasional echo of footsteps from deep within the walkway.
Satsuki stopped in front of a counter selling old books.
The spines were facing outward, and they were old-fashioned hardback bindings.
She reached out to flip through them, but did not open them.
Fujita stood two steps behind her to the left, and Chizuru was one and a half steps to the right.
Emi followed behind, clutching her tool bag, still whispering to herself as she calculated something.
It was during this interval.
A figure shuffled over from behind the stone pillar on the left.
He was around sixty-five years old.
His dark gray cotton coat was very old; the shoulder lines had collapsed, and the hem was worn and frayed.
On his head, he wore a black felt hat with a slightly deformed brim.
His pace was not fast, and he was not coming straight towards them.
Instead, he approached slowly along the edge of the walkway, as if he were just taking a stroll.
The security personnel on the perimeter had already spotted this gray figure and were about to step forward to stop him.
"Гражданин, прошу вас покинуть помещение. (Citizen, please leave.)"
The old man's footsteps faltered.
His shoulders hunched, as if he had been pushed from behind.
His right hand, which had been reaching out of his pocket, reflexively pulled back halfway before stopping in mid-air.
In his palm, he held two things: a metal medal and a brass-colored compass.
He did not run.
Perhaps he was too old to run, or perhaps it was for some other reason.
He just stood there, his lips beginning to quiver rapidly.
"Нет, нет—я только— (No, no—I only—)"
His Russian was fast, accompanied by gasps, and his voice was kept very low.
He held his palm open towards the security personnel, as if trying to prove something.
The items in his hand glinted in the gray daylight.
The edges of the medal were worn, and the red of the ribbon had faded to a dark pink, but it had been polished very clean, without a single speck of rust.
"Я только хочу—Dollar, cigarette—только это— (I only want—Dollar, cigarette—just that—)"
The security officer's hand had already rested on his shoulder.
It was not a rough shove, but the force was enough to make a sixty-five-year-old man understand "do not come any further."
The old man's body retreated half a step.
His gray-blue eyes swept past the security officer's face, crossed over his shoulder, and landed on the group of people further away.
His gaze paused for a moment between Shuichi and Satsuki.
Then he lowered his head.
The medal and compass in his palm were slowly tucked back into his pocket.
His movements were very light, as if the medal were something fragile.
Satsuki stopped walking.
She saw it.
Through the gap in the security officer's arm, she saw that hand retract—the nails were trimmed very short, and old, unwashable stains were embedded in the chapped joints.
And that last flash of the dark pink ribbon before the medal disappeared.
"Let him come over."
The voice was not loud.
But the security officer's hand immediately moved away from the old man's shoulder.
He stepped back and turned to the side, clearing the path.
The old man was stunned.
He looked up, his gaze passing over the figure that had stepped back, and landing on the small figure ten steps away, wearing a long dark gray cashmere coat and a camel-colored scarf.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Satsuki did not walk over.
She just tilted her head slightly, looking at him with a calm gaze.
The old man hesitated for three seconds.
Then, his feet began to move again.
Even slower than before, every step carried a certain cautious probing.
He stopped two meters away from Satsuki.
Fujita's body had already turned half a step to the side, his right shoulder naturally angled towards Satsuki, maintaining a standby state ready to intervene at any moment.
The old man's right hand reached out from his pocket again.
His movements were very slow.
As if afraid of scaring someone, he unfolded his five fingers one by one.
In his palm, he was still holding those two things—the medal and the compass.
The surface of the compass had fine scratches, and the luster of the brass had dimmed.
His lips moved, and the English he produced carried a heavy Slavic accent.
"Dollar?"
The voice was very low, audible only to those closest.
Then he added another word.
"Cigarette?"
Satsuki looked down at the old man's open palm.
The front of the medal was a red enamel five-pointed star, with a hammer and sickle embossed in the center.
Behind the star was the embossed outline of a crossed short sword and a rifle, with a ring of silver plating on the edge that had worn dull.
On the back was a serial number—the first three digits were still faintly distinguishable, but the subsequent numbers had been worn smooth by the years.
She recognized this item.
Order of the Patriotic War.
Established in 1942, it was specifically awarded to Soviet soldiers who demonstrated exceptional bravery and firm will during the Great Patriotic War.
Recipients had to have accomplished specific combat feats in actual battle—destroying enemy tanks, commanding an assault platoon to capture a stronghold, or continuing to fight after being wounded until the position was secured.
Unlike the commemorative medals routinely issued in peacetime, this was something exchanged for blood.
Forty-five years ago, this medal was pinned to the chest of a young soldier, representing his motherland's recognition of the blood he had shed.
It meant that the country remembered him, it meant his sacrifice was meaningful, and it meant an invisible contract—you shed blood for this country, and this country will never forget you.
Now, it was held in a palm covered with age spots, priced at a pack of foreign cigarettes.
Although the satin surface of the ribbon had faded from bright red to dark pink, the edges were not frayed; it must have been carefully pressed flat by someone.
Perhaps with an iron, or perhaps just by smoothing it over and over again with a thumb every night.
She looked up.
The old man's eyes were gray-blue.
The eye sockets were deep, and in the gray sky, the color of the iris almost blended with the pupil.
His gaze flickered away, landing on Satsuki's scarf and gloves.
Was this still the heroic soldier from back then?
Perhaps yes, perhaps no.
But one thing was certain: this soldier's motherland was no longer that motherland.
Satsuki turned her head.
"Fujita."
Fujita had already taken out the flat wallet from his inner pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
Satsuki took it.
She placed the lightweight banknote into the old man's palm.
The old man looked down at the denomination.
His fingers closed for a moment, then relaxed.
His lips parted, and his gaze darted back and forth between the banknote and Satsuki's face twice.
He began rummaging through his pockets.
He checked the left side, then the right, but found nothing.
His movements became somewhat hurried.
The denomination of this banknote clearly exceeded the price that those two items should have—at least, that was what he believed.
Time passed minute by minute, and Satsuki just watched him fumbling about himself.
Slowly, his movements stopped, and he stood where he was.
He found nothing.
Yes, what else did he have left?
The silence lasted a long time.
Long enough that Fujita thought he intended to just stand there and leave without saying anything.
Then he spoke.
His voice was very low, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat.
He seemed unaccustomed to asking others for help, nor was he used to showing goodwill to others.
"Я знаю, что это ничего не стоит. (I know, these things are not worth much.)"
He looked down at his own palm.
The medal's ribbon had faded to a grayish-yellow whose original color was indistinguishable, and there was a diagonal scratch on the copper surface.
The compass's glass cover was cracked at one corner, but the needle could still move—it still pointed north.
"Но это всё, что у меня осталось. (But this is all I have left.)"
He did not look up, his lips pressed tightly, as if trying to crush something that should not be seen by others.
Finally, he shoved the medal and compass towards Fujita.
The movement was quick; his fingers retracted as soon as they touched the back of Fujita's hand, as if afraid of being burned.
"Передайте той девочке. (Pass this on to that little girl.)"
His voice had returned to that dry, hard tone, as if that moment of softening had never existed.
Then he turned and left.
His pace was fast, his back held very straight—as if he were still in some formation, he walked with his head held high, towards some post that no longer existed.
A few seconds later, his retreating figure disappeared among the birch trees and pedestrians.
Emi stood where she was.
She clutched her tool bag, looking in that direction, her mouth half-open.
"Satsuki-chan," her voice sounded a bit strained. "Why did he want to sell this?"
Satsuki took the medal from Fujita's hand.
"Because their country can no longer afford the interest on honor."
Emi did not respond; she did not seem to quite understand.
Satsuki handed the medal back to Fujita.
"Keep it safe."
She resumed walking.
"When a country begins to sell its own medals, the next step will be selling land."
"The next step after that is mines, and then the fleet."
Her leather boots stepped on the thin ice of the arcade, making a faint cracking sound.
"Finally, it will be the scientists."
"Until they have sold everything they have."
The car door closed.
The warmth wrapped around them again.
Kozlov returned to the passenger seat.
When he turned around, the smile on his face was still that standard curve.
"Regarding material supplies, please do not worry, distinguished guests. The country and the people have the confidence to face any setbacks."
"Our country has a vast territory, and transportation and allocation require some time."
"Currently, there are only some temporary difficulties in the circulation process, and the Party and the government are already taking effective measures."
His Japanese was still fluent, the emphasis still dragging a beat on certain long vowels.
But this passage was spoken half a beat faster than before—perhaps because he had been asked too many times.
Outside the window, they passed another shop window.
In the window were three pairs of black leather shoes.
One pair facing left, one pair facing right, and one pair facing forward.
The soles were clean, presumably having never been worn.