A grey April afternoon. Nevsky Prospekt breathes damp wind off the Neva, smells of diesel from the Ikarus buses and melting snow from the courtyards. A queue snakes outside the Melodiya record shop — thirty people, maybe more. The tail curves around the corner, past a poster column plastered with "Sobriety Is the Norm of Life." People stand close, patient, practiced — hands in pockets, cigarettes between teeth. Someone up front mutters: "They say they got a Melodiya shipment, records, imported ones..."

Two figures round the corner. The first — thin, dark hair to his shoulders, in a worn denim jacket, a guitar case of fake leather on his back, handle wrapped in electrical tape. The second — stocky, cropped hair, work jacket, walking with a broad, proprietary stride. Both slow down at the sight of the queue. Exchange a glance.

The stocky one whistles softly, reaches for a cigarette, pats his pockets.

"Zhuk, you seeing what I'm seeing?" says the one with the guitar, quietly, voice slightly hoarse.

"I see it. I see a queue," Zhuk replies, lighting a Yava. "Question is — what for." They take their place at the back, craning their necks toward the shop window. Zhuk shifts impatiently, then leans forward and lightly taps the shoulder of the person standing in front of them.

"Hey, friend," — a wide grin, Yava in the corner of his mouth — "what are we standing in line for? Records? What kind — ours or...?"

The one with the guitar is also watching — attentive, slightly from under his brow, with that quiet look of hope you get when you're already willing to stand in the cold for an hour, if something real is waiting at the other end of the line.