‘I remember the scent of oranges. I can still remember the way it used to smell in spring.’ ‘Vassily would say that,’ Tanya said. ‘You should smell the spring in Jalalabad, he would say to me, when the snow melts on the mountains, when the trees blossom.’ ‘I remember the smell of charred flesh, too, the smell of bombs and dust and sweat and fear.’ Tanya reached out, under the sheet, and took my hand in hers, caressing my fingers gently with her thumb. There had been orange blossom on the trees at the time of that first raid. We had regrouped at the foot of the mountains. The pine and spruce growing higher up had given way to ash and oak. An orange grove rambled across a low hill. The trees were decked with blossom. When we scrambled out of the APCs we were greeted with the scent of narcissi, which grew in profusion on the grassy banks of the road, scarlet and yellow. I sat in the dust, still cradling the lifeless body of Pavlov, gazing out across the orchard as we waited for the medical choppers to arrive to take the dead and injured to Jalalabad.
