The Pale Dance
Nikola Javakhishvili lived at fifty-eight of the Rope Walk, a place where the damp seeped through the floorboards and into the bone, and he wanted only to keep his job. The municipal office in Tbilisi was a stone box of iron and dust, and the heat from the central grate was a living thing that pressed against his chest like a hot hand. He was twenty-four, a clerk with a fever that rose when he...
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