kindred spirits

“Suffering has no limits, comrade but could one say the same of drunkenness?”, the man in the dark suit almost whispered as he poured.

Markov lifted his stolid gaze quizzically at the commentator and then cast heavy eyes back down upon the dark mahogany. 

The flame in the last candle that still stood was bobbing in the ether and so was the brass candelabrum that held it. That's when Dmitri half-knew he had checked out of his senses.

“I had better go.”

“Not without some help first, comrade.”

“Care to know a little secret, dear brother?", it was Markov's turn to whisper in a mock conspiratorial tone, as he narrowed his eyes and gulped down the glass. "I'm afraid this comrade of yours cannot be seen with anyone tonight.” 

“Fortunately for you, I'm not just anyone. Dmitri Rosporov, Chief Militsioner of the Mitino precinct at your service.”

“Ah the militsia! All the more reason to stay away, friend. I'm a marked man.”

“I could arrange for a safehouse tonight - we worry about details later as long as we slip out in the darkness. No questions asked. Moreover, your state does not offer much by way of confidence in your ability to defend yourself, Comrade Markov”, Dmitri offered with no hint of hesitation.

“Did I introduce myself tonight, Dmitri? I don't recall”, Markov said, not quite certain whether this was just vodka-induced amnesia or vodka-induced clarity of thought.

“No, you didn't, comrade. Quite remarkable, your presence of mind. You sound like just the kind of man that might interest us”.

“Us?”

“Never mind. Shall we step outside?”

At half-past-midnight, both stepped out hobbling together in each other's arms in a way one couldn't tell which one the drunk was. 

The inky sky was covered with what could only be a thick shroud of clouds. The inching snow still reflected some unseen source of light in the darkness and steadily muffled their crisp footfall. An icy silence gathered around them as the feeble wind died down to a whimper.

The officer's white Lada was parked beside a half-crumbled brick wall, buried under the snow except for what looked like a retractable antenna that bobbed up slowly to peep as if sensing their presence. 

“Nice camouflage”, the thought intruded Markov's sozzled senses as he attempted to get inside.

An unsolicited offer of assistance met with fumbling, grumbling resistance. Dmitri quickly relented.

They drove away after the officer played back recorded messages from his radio while warming up the engine. Markov could barely decipher the language of the bursts wafting by the rear-seat, reliably unsure of the alcohol's actual contribution to the garbling.