Finished! If anyone has any last minute tweeks they suggest, comment now!

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The dull sun grimaced out from the sky on that cold winter Tuesday. Its light tenebrous to the citizens of the cracked streets of Kazan, the dawning solar seemed residual with the great depression in the hearts and minds of her subjects below.

Setting up at his usual location, the aging Yakob, known to his fellow slum marketers as Mr Petrov, pushed such dark sentiments aside. Life was tough enough for a homeless merchant without worries of the mind and soul.

It was the usual market day affair. An early riser, Yakob had retired from his quiet sleeping spot to pick up his sacks and personal items from a disused garage nearby. Cars were a strange and seldom seen phenomena in Kazan, usually the sign of a local government dignitary spying out his subject-citizens from the safety of blacked out, bullet proof windows.

Politicians were either local Vors, or paid up by them. Thieves in Law indeed, such criminals could use their influence to make the most out of the town's people, charging both tax and protection money, all under a 'legitimate' guise.

After collecting his belongings, Yakob had proceeded straight to the ghetto area just outside of the town centre, meeting with local farmers and producers to buy up their goods. The profit margins were low, but if he could make it to his spot in the main square, Yakob was guaranteed to make enough money to keep his livelihood going.

It was now about mid-morning as he set up his paltry 'stall'. According to the city hall's clock face, it was quarter to ten. Such measurements served no purpose to Mr Petrov, only the hard iron of his scale weights, the soft clink of coin and the rustle of almost worthless notes. Once all of his goods were arranged into their respective squares, the elderly merchant rested his weary body against the wall of the redundant Secret Police headquarters.

To his left, Yakob shared the centre square with his fellow merchants; to the right he shared space with more local homeless, mostly soldiers who had gone unpaid for many years. At least he had wares to sell to feed himself and pay for a shower once a week at a local landlord's, unlike those penniless servicemen, bereft of hope and honour.

Yakob himself was once a soldier for the motherland. That was many years ago, and he had little desire to relive that time. Looking over the square, his hazel eyes observed the local citizens moving towards the stalls. Despite the poverty that existed in Kazan, people still needed to eat and clothe themselves, and in as corrupt a society as the modern Russia, there was always a way to make money to pay for such items.

"Mrs Letviski!" Yakob called out, a hollow smile pushing up the wrinkles on his face. The sentiment was cordially returned as a hobbled lady approached him. "Ah, Mr Petrov, it is a pleasure to speak with you once again."

Covered in a large, black overcoat, Mrs Letviski was one of many widows of the town. Her husband had been killed in the Afghanistan war, an old Serzhánt close to retirement before being gunned down by the Mujahadeen. Her face was worn with age before its time, a 60-something looking more like 80. Her back had been bent over double by the tiring labour work in the old factories as a means to pay her way to retirement, but with the factories closed and her health in decline, Mrs Letviski was forced to live off of the pitiful sums of money the State provided for her after years of loyal service to the economy.

"I believe that the young Sergei will be joining the Militsiya, Mr Petrov, he is such a wayward child" she gossiped, the disdain at the though of a relative joining such a disreputable state organisation evident in her cracked voice. "Relax, Mrs Letviski, allow me to offer you some of my tea leaves to help you relax. Sergei is young man, free to pursue career where he desire."

With a quick exchange of coins and a closely scrutinised measurement on the market scales, the transaction was complete. "Such a fine woman sunk so low. Still, her pride is strong" Yakob mused, watching his regular customer walking off in search of cheaper products.

Soon, another one of the town's well-known inhabitants came to Yakob, looking for goods to sell. "Is your bread fresh, Yakob? I won't buy stale bread" Dmitri quizzed, his sharp, blue eyes searching over the loaves in the sack. Dmitri was one of the more infamous members of Kazan, a self-professed 'Vor'. In reality, he was nothing more than a common errand-boy for the real criminals, a man who would never be inducted into the sacred ranks of the Vor z Zakone.

"They are as fresh as any other's bread, now will you buy Mr Vor?" Yakob replied, the quip visibly stinging Dmitri's sense of pride. Growling, he scared some coins at the feet of the merchant, grabbing the nearest loaf. "A jackal may make itself look like a wolf, but even wolves bend to the farmer for food in winter!" Yakob warned Dmitri, watching as the young man hurried away.

This was a typical market day, gossip and stories passed around. But underneath, not even Yakob could escape the underlying sorrow of the town, the Nation. Russia's broken soul. This tired merchant was but one of millions of victims of the Motherland's economic implosion.

Looking back, he wondered with a tired mind of his history. How did a once successful entrepreneur become a street peddler, how did he sink so low?

It began in the days of the Soviet regime, a machine of incomprehensible power in all aspects of life. Money was plentiful and easy to find. In the glory days of the 70's Yakob was a young man with ambition, a rising star in the gilded halls of the local Communist Party Headquarters.

During that time, the man who would become a broken homeless merchant was a successful businessman. Having passed through service in the Soviet Land Forces as a fresh-faced officer, he had passed many hurdles to become recognised by his political peers and masters. With the help of influential civil servants and 'elected' officials, Yakob had built up an extended chain of market stalls, stores and a small delivery service.

That day, in 1974, Yakob looked upon his main office. It was a drab building architecturally, but it held a powerful place in terms of location. Sat between an OKB design Bureau and the Kazan Civil Administration Department, Yakob knew he was rubbing shoulders with the Soviet elite.

A simple brass plaque at the front door loudly proclaimed whom this building belonged to, boldly proclaiming its own extensive commercial reach. "Welcome to Petrov Produce Supplies, proud merchants of the Soviet Party and supplier to local Government and Civil Department."

The irony didn't escape young Yakob as he unlocked the oak door to his office building. Despite the Communist regime's abhorrence of the Capitalist economic model in public, in reality it was a theory that suited the best interests of the middle class businessmen and civil servants.

Taking off his beige Cossack cap and placing it on his mahogany desk, the wealthy merchant pondered on this fact. He was an honest merchant, selling goods and foods to the people of his town and never brining himself to disrepute, but it was with secret talks and meetings that he gained the permissions and licences to set up his various interests.

Sitting down, Yakob took out a bottle of Imperial vodka from his desk-draw, filling up a small shot glass with the warming spirit. His conscience was clear, an employer of many people in the town, he was doing this town a service. His belief in the communist ideal was absolute, and if he wanted to make a bit of extra money out of such good will, it was damned well within his rights.

Sipping from the glass, his eye moved across to a stack of paperwork on his desk. Invoices, licence applications and various invitations to Party events. All demanding his attention, all of which could wait. Life was good for Yakob, very good.

Looking over to his secretary, a certain half Russian half Pole female of intellectual persuasion, a soft smile passed across the young man's lips. Anzhela was quite an attractive woman. Dressed in a simple charcoal grey woman's 'suit' and skirt, her figure was discreetly shown for its best. She had quite a slender figure, with pert red lips and a shapely bosom. Her thighs were shapely, not standing out, but defiantly not unattractive. Noticing his appraising glance, Anzhela looked back to her employer through thin-framed glasses. Gracefully returning the social gesture, her attention quickly snapped back to her work.

"Anything for me to do while I sit here with nothing more to busy myself with?" Yakob asked, laughing softly. This was mostly for himself, but he hoped she would appreciate the friendly self-spiting humour none the less. "I believe all of your paperwork is already on your desk for your attention and reply. Whether it receives it or not is a different matter." A soft giggle escaped her luscious lips, provoking another childish grin out of the businessman.

Secretly, Yakob adored his secretary. Many nights he dreamed of holding her, not just in a sexual way, but also as a lover. He wanted to protect her, give her a steady income, and hold her heart close to his own. Common sense spoke out against the idea of a working relationship. It would be seen as extremely bad if the citizens of the Republic caught a businessman having a work affair with a young woman employed in his business. It just wasn't etiquette.

Judging by her soft movements, appraising glances and subtle references, Yakob knew she felt the same, or at least he desperately hoped. It was a fantasy that never left him.

Many months later, the entrepreneur found himself in the same routine, the soft tic for tact word games to pass the time in the office. This day would be different, he asserted to himself. "Anzhela, do you mind coming over here to help me with these letters. I don't know which invitation is from whom." Sheepishly cackling to himself, he watched with hungry eyes as she walked towards his desk. Her steps were slow and deliberate, the sway of her curved hips captivating Yakob in a lustful trance. Stopping in front of him, she leaned over the mahogany surface, peering at the paperwork, the curves of her bosom visible through the open collar of her shirt, perfectly framed in the long curls of her hazel hair.

"This one is from the Civil Administration Director, requesting more stationary supplies to his usual monthly order... And this one is from Commandant Ivor, he invites you to the 21st Tank Regiment's annual ball, but kindly asks for a 'donation' to the catering, if you know what he means... Could be a good business meeting if you rub the right hands with your palm."

Listening to Anzhela run through the various letters, Yakob sighed softly. He had no interest in paperwork, orders, dispatches and all the various little details that the Soviet Machine demanded. "Anzhela. We both know the truth. We both know why I have asked you here, as I never ask you to explain my mail." Turning her ice blue eyes to Yakob, her shapely face remained as cool and as collected as it always did. "It's not right... You know it's not.." she replied, her voice floating out from her mouth into Yakob's ears.

Standing up, he pulled Anzhela towards him by her arms, locking his lips with her own in a passionate embrace. He no longer had the patience, he needed her, and he adored her. Feeling her arms wrap around the small of his back, the Russian continued to place kisses upon her, feeling the Pole melt within his arms.

It was about an hour after a long awaited moment of heated intimacy that they shared words once more, too exhausted to speak more than a sentence at a time. "It's been too long, Anzhela.." Yakob whispered between gasps for air, his lips delicately brushing across the soft skin of her neck.

"I know..." Anzhela replies, stroking the arm coiled around her waist "Far... Far too long, my love...."

Snapping back to the present, Yakob sighed as he served a young urchin. "I will not lower the price, young boy. It is what it is, and you will pay me my due." The young lad was scantily dressed for the cold weather, tired and dusty trousers clinging to his thin frame. Looking on the green down jacket the child wore, Yakob pressed his fingers to his palm. "I know your mother is poor and needs these ingredients to give you food, but the price of potatoes is too high for me to give her a discount. Now pay me my due or find another peddler!"

With that, the child paid up, handing over the few coins his mother had provided for nothing more than a palm's worth of vegetables. Once the task was complete, the youth made a mad rush back home, knowing his mother would scold him for taking too long and bringing back too little.

Shivering in his own coat as he took out a cigarette, Yakob looked back to his past. "Anzhela, my love...." He whispered as he flicked a match to life. Drawing heavily from the wrinkled white stick, he pondered on the time he lost her, the fall from grace.

It was 1992; a year after the Soviet Government had collapsed. Oligarchs and the Vor z Zakone were the new economic elite, and it was a thin line between the two. By this time, Yakob had become desperately broke, his various businesses put out to pasture after the invasion of convenience super markets and the high price for protection money the local mafia demanded.

Looking over the year's invoice receipts, tears came to Yakob's eyes. He had made the biggest loss since the start of his business. The rent was overdue and any money he made went straight into the pockets of the ruling Vor, a man who happened to be the local Minister for Business for the town.

Sleepless eyes turned over his shoulder, catching the glance of a horrified woman. Anzhela was no longer the coolly collected woman she once was. The hair on her head was messy, thinning from age and stress over the last few years. Bags formed under the once vibrant eyes, dulling them and stealing the radiance her face once possessed. "It's over, Yakob. You're poor, you're broke. The business is dying. We're going to be made homeless soon, we're already sleeping in the office and this will be sold up soon enough."

Sobbing softly, Yakob reached out for her hand, shamed in the truth she spoke. "No, I will not comfort you. You knew that being so dependant on the officials would be bad once the government collapsed. You fucking knew this five years ago!"

Slapping her palm across her husband's face, Anzhela held her face tightly. Yakob could see she was struggling to hold back her emotions, after years at the breaking point, he could see she was losing her patience.

Finally, it snapped. "I've had enough!" she screamed, turning herself towards the door. Ignoring Yakob's cries, she stormed out of the door, slamming the slowly rotting oak against its frame. No drama, no argument. She just walked out on him.

That was the day he lost her. The day he lost his love. It wasn't long after that day that Yakob lost his office. The rent couldn't wait, and so, carrying what little he could, Yakob was thrust out onto the street.

Once more, tears came to his eyes, but he was an older man now. Wiping the droplets from his wrinkled face, Yakob continued to watch the customers come and go from the rag tag market place. This was his life now, this was his existence.