Nude women. Swinging in Osakarovka
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Vast steppe all covered by last year's yellow grass. On a hill, fixed by thick wire braces, stands an old, rusty iron stack. It hasn't produced any smoke for long years. There are five or six squat barns next to the stack; brick walls, laid long time ago, got many cracks and are about to collapse: only countless braces hold them together. Piles of coal ash stretch long behind the barns.
When it's hot, even the slightest wind puts thick black haze on top of the village. But now it is early spring, soil and ash are damp and there is no dust. This small Karaganda village in the middle of bare steppe reminds of a birth mark on man's large face. One spring day a lonely caravan appeared afar. But it was not regular caravan of Kazakh nomads. One by one stretched road carts pulled by teams and perches covered by canvas. Carts held fifteen or twenty people.
All the Russians. Only the first cart had a local sitting in it, a Kazakh named Kanabek, short, prone to obesity man. Next to him there was an athletic built man, his black hair turning silver in some places. The caravan pulled level with abandoned cemetery on the side of the road and stopped. Travelers looked around, but there was no sign of people; as if the village turned into a ghost.
A man went out from one of the barns; he had boxy shoulders and black long moustache. For about a minute he examined the visitors, trying to guess who they were.
