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metal out back. Clearly, infrastructure didn’t take priority, since my brother invested his money in improving customer service by gathering up all sorts of appliances and mechanisms for repairing everything imaginable. He lived in town, coming to work every morning and descending back into the valley well after nightfall. He had a killer team working alongside him—Kocha and a guy everybody called Injured, both self-taught mechanics who had resuscitated numerous trucks over the years, something they took great pride in. Injured also lived in town, whereas Kocha had been forced out of his apartment, so he hung out at the gas station all the time, sleeping in a trailer furnished according to the principles of feng shui. There was a patch of asphalt with a repair pit near the station, and a few metal tables were sunk into the ground off to one side, under the lime trees. Gullies and apple orchards started behind the gas station, stretching along the chalky mountains; to the north thelandscape gave way to steppe, broken up by the occasional noisy tractor. Mangled car parts had been heaped together behind the trailer—stacked tires and the remains of disassembled vehicles. The cab of a Kamaz truck, offering a panoramic view of the sun-kissed valley and the unprotected city, was hidden away in the raspberry bushes. But this business wasn’t about infrastructure or old pumps. It was all about location. That was certainly what my brother had in mind when he decided to buy this gas station. The fact of the matter was that the next place to get gas was seventy kilometers north, and the highway ran through several dubious places, places with no government to speak of, and hardly anyone to govern. It seemed as though there wasn’t any cell service up north, either. All the drivers knew that, so they wanted to fill up at my brother’s place. Moreover, they knew he had Injured working for him, and Injured was the best mechanic around: the god of drive shafts and stick shifts. In short, the place was a gold mine.

    Two detached car seats had been brought over and planted by the brick booth, next to the gas pumps, covered with the black skins of some unidentifiable animals. Springs were jutting out randomly from the cushions, and a long metal arm or lever had been attached to one of the seats, making the thing look like a catapult. Kocha wearily plopped down onto the seat, took out his cigarettes, lit one of them, and pointed at me, seemingly saying, “Take a seat, buddy.” I did so. The sun was beginning to radiate heat like rocks on a riverbank, and the sky whirled along above us,goaded by the wind. It was Sunday, at the end of May—a perfect day for getting the hell out of here.
    â€œYou here for long?” Kocha asked, whistling a bit as he spoke.
    â€œHeading back tonight,” I answered.
    â€œWhy ya leaving so fast? Stay for a few days. We’ll go fishing.”
    â€œKocha, where’s my brother?”
    â€œI already told you, in Amsterdam.”
    â€œWhy didn’t he tell anyone he was leaving?”
    â€œHerman, I don’t know. It wasn’t planned, you know. He just up and left. He said he wasn’t coming back.”
    â€œWas he having problems with the business or something?”
    â€œWhat problems could there be, Herman?” Kocha replied testily. “We don’t have any problems here, or any business either—it’s just a mess. You can see that.”
    â€œSo what’s next?”
    â€œI don’t know. Do whatever you want.”
    Kocha put out his cigarette and tossed the butt into the bin labeled “No Smoking.” He tilted his face toward the sun and didn’t say another word. “Damn,” I thought. “What’s going on in that head of his? He’s probably hiding something—sitting there cooking up some scheme.”

    Kocha was fifty or so. He was pretty energetic for his age, had lost most of his hair,