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Ashraf took a deep breath. If only tomorrow went well.
    IN THE DEATH CAR

    It was the lawyer who’d said “please don’t tell me you’re leaving” to the secretary. He had leaned over the cloakroom counter while he said that, smiling at her. “I wore a suit especially for you, when I much, much rather would have worn a dress, so it would be very impolite of you to go without even talking to me.”
    They had been the last ones to leave the office party, after eleven. The lawyer had talked to many people and told her everybody’s name. Sometimes he’d stopped talking to wink at her. He had shown her his office, how he arranged his files, and he had grabbed her breasts from behind. He had stayed by her side all evening, not once leaving her to stand alone.
    Now it was late and the secretary was sitting in the lawyer’s car. There were stars in the sky and the car was parked by a gas station that was lit up against the dark blue. There was a song on the radio that was called “In the Death Car.” The secretary watched the lawyer through the window of the gas station. He was very handsome, the lawyer; everybody in the office said so. He was ordering things and made a pistol with his fingers at the man behind the counter. The man behind the counter put his hands in the air. They both laughed.
    Social skills, the secretary thought.
    The lawyer got back in the car. He’d gotten her a Diet Coke. “I don’t like it when women drink regular Coke,” he said while he turned the ignition. “By the way, do you smoke?”
    â€œI never really got around to it,” the secretary said. “But who knows.”
    The lawyer laughed out loud. He brushed her cheek. “I can’t stand women who smoke, you see.”
    AN ANGEL

    The name of the man in the fluffy coat was Francisco. “I was just passing by the bridge in my car on my way to a meeting,” he told Rus, “and then I saw you sitting there, with your pile of money, looking so miserable, and I was overcome by a need to help.”
    Francisco had immediately parked his expensive car around the corner and went over to him. He was a businessman and a humanitarian.
    â€œI felt connected to you,” Francisco told Rus, “and it felt like a sting in my chest.” He pointed at his chest.
    Rus looked up at his new friend. Francisco had the face of an angel. His eyes and eyebrows were like they were painted on with black charcoal. Yellow clouds were passing over above them, giving his hair a golden glow.
    COMRADES

    â€œCan you believe them?” Francisco called out, shaking his head. “Do you ever even use the roads?”
    Francisco had taken Rus to Café Valentines on the corner of the canal so he could read Rus’s letter with the dedicated attention it deserved. He whistled between his teeth when he read the amount of taxes they were charging him.
    Rus took a small sip of his drink. It was vodka. He’d never had that before, but it warmed his throat. He kept his eyes fixed on Francisco as he read the letter, his facial expression, his hands. He was also a kind of a tax expert, he’d told Rus: you have to be, when you are rich. There were many interesting similarities betweenRus and Francisco: Francisco also despised debt collectors, and he also didn’t have any close friends in the city, until now. “We are comrades,” Francisco had said, and when Rus said his father was Russian Francisco had almost cried and kissed Rus on the forehead, because he too was Russian by origin.
    â€œYou don’t have to pay this.” Francisco folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. He downed his drink in one go.
    â€œI don’t?”
    â€œNo,” Francisco said, slamming the glass on the table. “God, I needed that. And something to eat maybe.”
    â€œI don’t have to pay it?” Rus stood up from the table. “Shouldn’t we call them?