I drove my Mercedes to First City Hospital, where Yury waited, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He stood near a row of kiosks huddled together like thieves. On the side of one kiosk a lover of Bulgakov had copied the statement of Woland: WE'LL OPEN A WOMEN'S SHOP. The proprietors sold all manner of poshlaia -- that is to say, the lint that collects in society's navel: stale candy bars, flasks of cheap perfume, astrological medallions wrought of metal resembling pewter, stuffed bears with dead eyes, flat beer, Estonian pornography, liquid soap in bottles stickered with Donald Duck labels, and stacks of blank tape. Every stall had customers queueing up to make transactions, though most walked away only with vodka or cigarettes.