Gregor reached down into the basket, his arms, then his head, disappearing. We all wanted to laugh, but not one of us did. Then he straightened, clutching a bundle. I thought at first that this was a joke, something we would all share now that we were about to become men. But then I saw the look on Gregor's face as he placed the baby in Alexsei's arms and I knew I was mistaken. I knew that none of us would escape our fate. Only then did he present Alexsei with his bottle of vodka. I looked at the labels on the bottles on the shelf, the blue wolf, the bent tree, the motif that was woven through our lives. My father said that if you evaded the wolf, the bent tree was always there to get you. I looked at the laundry basket, the sleeping baby in Alexsei's arms. And I was afraid for something I did not understand.

Soon I was standing under Gregor's sweating face. He bent to me and whispered of his respect for my family. Your father will be proud of you, he said, and he lightly stroked my hair. I saw a pen in his top pocket, a blue stain where it had leaked. He turned to dip his head into the basket, but it skidded from him, and I was relieved, buoyed by the idea that some family connection, some sleight of hand on his part, had spared me this thing. But a minor official pushed at the basket in a flat-handed manner, and Gregor rose, his face red, and placed the baby in my arms. For you, he said.

Afterwards we stood outside on the pavement. No one spoke. I looked at the empty road, the flag on the mast. I felt the wind whipping cold against my legs, and I realized that this was how it had always been. We were fools not to know. There had been so many ways to find out. A baby squealed; another cried with urgency. They were waking up from whatever soporific dose they had received.

We walked quickly to Pietro's bar. Pietro stood waiting, excited, his diseased chest pressed against the zinc counter. He had already poured the colourless liquid, brimming in thick glasses, ready for our entrance. By now my tongue was swollen with shock, my throat sore, and I could not speak. We collected the glasses and sat at the tables, but no one would take a first sip. We waited under the high chandelier for Pietro to say something, to tell us that now was the moment to drink. I adjusted the baby in my arms and was grateful for its silence. Pietro raised his glass and downed the liquid in one gulp, and we all shouted for the relief of it and did the same. I remember it tasted like no vodka I had ever drunk before. I savoured the aftertaste for the enlightenment it might bring, but soon it grew sour in my mouth.

A song, someone said, but the knife sharpener was not there and no one that day had the courage to lead.