![]() Since he was a boy, living on the banks of the Terek, he had dreamed of owning his own tour boat. The poor driver swayed from side to side. They ordered the passengers off the bus and demanded each open his or her luggage in a field twenty meters from the road, while they, the waiting soldiers, crouched with their arms wrapped around their legs and their eyes clamped tight, as if jumping into a lake. The soldiers were all fear and peach fuzz. The sharp pitch of brakes, followed by the bullhorn- amplified instructions of a Russian border guard, brought her back to sudden consciousness. Every bump in the road was transferred through the glass and recorded by her temple. She dozed for an hour with her head resting against the window. And no, we will be making no bathroom breaks, and yes, it is because I know the pain a pothole causes a full bladder." I wouldn't have to drive this bus to that country if you hadn't purchased these tickets, and for that I will drive over every pothole and divot to make the ride as miserable for you as it will be for me. "If given the opportunity, I will sell you all to the first bandit, kidnapper, or slave trader we come across. He leaned back as though balancing an invisible shot glass on his round stomach. "I am driving you all to your graves," the bus driver announced as he walked down the aisle to collect tickets at a quarter past six in the morning. She sat through the night on a wooden bench with one of her shoelaces tied around the suitcase handle to discourage gypsy children from rolling off with it. Though tired from travel, she knew she wouldn't sleep. The next departure wasn't until the following morning. The nationalized bus line no longer ran routes into Chechnya, but after she had waited for an hour in a three-person line, a clerk directed her to a kiosk that sold lesbian porn, Ukrainian cigarettes, Air Supply cassettes, and tickets on a privately owned bus that made a weekly journey from North Ossetia to Chechnya. ![]() The Samsonite, a final gift from Brendan, might as well have been a neon-lit billboard advertising her foreignness as she rolled it past the imperial-era steamer trunks of other travelers. When they reached the bus terminal, she waited until her roller suitcase was safely on the ground before paying the driver. Fuck me, she thought, what am I doing back here?ĭark plumes drifted from distant smokestacks, a chain of wind-rounded mountains, the taste of post-Soviet air like a dirty rag in her mouth. The backseat of the gypsy cab she took from the airport had been removed to allow room for luggage, and her single suitcase slid with the curvature of the road, thudding again and again against the back of her seat, as if to reiterate the lesson that despite the illusions she'd entertained while Brendan's chest rose and receded against hers, her life was small enough to fit inside a piece of luggage. Within days after the proposal of the Khasavyurt Peace Accord, Sonja broke up with her Scottish fiancé, resigned from her residency at the University College Hospital, and sat through connecting flights from London to Warsaw to Moscow to Vladikavkaz. A Constellation of Vital Phenomena will be published May 7. In this excerpt, Sonja has just returned from London to Chechnya, where she hopes she will find her missing sister. It's a war story like you've never read before. Humans can do terrible things to one another, but in this book they are capable of shocking devotion as well. The action takes place over only a couple days, but the stories span lifetimes. Do you inform on your neighbors to save your father? Do you expend your energies protecting your dying wife? In both places the people living in this war-torn land are faced with terrible decisions. The novel moves back and forth from the village to the hospital. ![]() There is only one doctor left at the hospital, the tough but overworked Sonja Rabina. ![]() They know his young daughter, Havaa, is hiding in the yard, and once the police are gone, a kind neighbor takes Havaa into the city, hoping the hospital will take her in. His neighbors watch as the police grab him from his house and burn it to the ground. The story begins with the disappearance of a man named Dokka. In short, it's not an obvious place for Anthony Marra to set his stunning new novel, but it works. It might not even be the country you're picturing as you read this. Until last week, when the suspects in the Boston Marathon bombings were revealed to be Chechen, you might not have spent much time thinking about Chechnya. Your purchase helps support NPR programming. Close overlay Buy Featured Book Title A Constellation Of Vital Phenomena Author Anthony Marra ![]()
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