Babayaga: A Novel (10 page)

“Grigori? Grigori Yaroslavich? Today is your birthday, yes?”

He looked again at the women and spoke with the condescension that came naturally to him. “Yes, it is. But how do you know me?”

“Oh, you are a very great man, many know of you, and today I wanted to visit you on your birthday.”

“How—?”

“It does not matter. We are only here to tell you that though your journey has stopped, you will be the cause of much felicity and joy on this night. Your son may have died, but with every tragedy comes a bit of good, yes?”

He looked at her, puzzled by her words. He shook his head. “You’re confused, my son is in Tver, his wife gave birth to a baby boy, my grandson, there is—”

“Yes, yes, you will be the cause of much felicity and joy tonight,” she said again, and giving a quick bow, she turned and led her small group away. The count was confused, he felt like calling her back to ask her more questions or simply to slap her for her impertinence. The familiar tone with which she spoke to him, it was not right, especially not with the footmen watching. As the group of women slowly vanished across the field, becoming one with the cold darkness, he thought he could hear them singing in low tones out to the night.

Their song brought the wolves in. It was a large, hungry pack running fast, too many to fight off. The wolves curled round on every side, quickly closing the circle around the carriage. Someone tried to pass a gun up to the driver, from his perch he could have done some damage to the pack, but in his panic he lost his balance and slipped, falling down as the wolves dove in.

The count kicked at them, trying to keep them at bay. It was only once they had taken him down, when a wolf’s breath was in his face and he could see the glint of the moonlight in its bright grinning teeth, that he finally remembered the girl. He could not quite believe it, it seemed impossible, but there was no time to wonder.

Sitting on the bench in Paris, Zoya shivered and shook off the recollection. To distract herself, she opened her purse and pulled out a small mirror. She was curious to see what those shadows in the American’s apartment were up to. Muttering a tiny trick spell, she aimed the reflection carefully and coaxed the stubborn light to bounce and curve to her will. As she worked, the ancient echoes of Grigori’s desperate screams faded into the folds of her memory, along with all the agonies of stallions, servants, and centuries.

XII

The happy sound of a clarinet was playing as Will came to. His hands were bound, his mouth gagged with some cotton cloth—what was it, a washcloth? A dirty sock? He hoped not. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was lying on the couch in his living room. Boris was standing against the doorframe, looking sleepy. The woman named Ned was busy at the desk, a tiny camera in her hands, taking pictures of what Will guessed was the Bayer file. An Artie Shaw record was playing on the turntable as Oliver stood by Will’s open closet, trying on various hats. Hearing Will waking up, he looked over with a smile. “Ah, you’re alive! Excellent, we were growing weary of waiting. I was just going to teach Boris here how to play pinochle, you know, to pass the time a bit.” He came and plopped down next to Will on the couch. “Jake had to go home to rest. Poor boy suffers from narcolepsy and there’s no medication for that. When I first met him back in school he would fall asleep on the football sidelines and the coaches all feared he’d had a concussion. Now he falls asleep in bars and comes off like the village drunk. Then last month he fell asleep in the front row of a preview for Roussin’s new play, the result of which, my lord, the poor playwright almost killed himself. Can you imagine? Context changes so much. Care for a drink?”

Will looked at him in dumb disbelief.

“Oh, let’s take the silly gag off. Sorry about that. It’s only that I didn’t want you going bonkers when you came to. What would the neighbors think? Boris, please.” The Russian untied the table napkin from around Will’s head and took what appeared to be a balled-up handkerchief out of his mouth.

“And my hands?” Will sputtered.

“Of course, of course.” Oliver blushed. “Clearly, this sort of nonsense really isn’t my forte. Boris?” The Russian untied Will’s wrists and Oliver handed him a drink. Will sat there with a knot of rage in his gut while he tried to play along with their game.

“Want to tell me why your friend’s photographing my file?” asked Will.

“Oh yes,” said Oliver, looking over to the desk as though he had forgotten Ned was there. “Well, every Monday Ned here goes to the embassy and gives the agency—not your agency, mind you, but the one we work with—a packet. If they don’t get the packet, they don’t pay us. Used to be we were on a regular retainer, but lately, I have to say, the Central Intelligence Agency has not been acting all that intelligent.”

Will sipped his drink and wondered what time it was. The record came to an end and the room was quiet except for the sound of Ned’s small camera clicking away and the soft slipping of the ice melting in their drinks. Oliver wandered over to the shelves and started looking through the record collection. “You’ve got some great stuff here, Will. Oscar Peterson, Teddy Wilson, very impressive. I would have thought you’d be more an aficionado of those sexed-up Negro spirituals Elvis Presley sings so well.”

Will still didn’t answer; he was too busy stewing with anger at himself and the mistakes he had made. Watching Ned at his desk working with her little camera, he realized he should not have brought the Bayer file home, it was not secure there, the apartment had no safe or even a file cabinet with a lock on it. But then again, he reminded himself, there had been no reason to expect anyone would ever break in like this. Will thought about informing Oliver that the file was already heading to their mutual friend Brandon, but he sensed that offering any more information would not be prudent. Better to stay quiet. He wondered what Brandon would think if he knew Oliver and his friends had gotten hold of the file. It wouldn’t be good. He could already imagine Brandon’s condescending look. Will realized he might be sent back to the States even sooner than he had expected.

“What made you come here? How did you know I would have anything you’d even want?” he asked.

“Oh.” Oliver shrugged. “At some point you mentioned that you were in research, so we thought we would pop by and see if you’d researched any subjects we might be interested in. Now, I don’t know if they’ll be interested, but it’s worth a shot.”

“How did you find my place?”

“Ah, a marvelous invention called the telephone book,” Oliver said, lowering the needle on the turntable. Lionel Hampton’s vibraphone started playing.

Will ignored his sarcasm. “Okay, well, so tell me this, how do you know I won’t call the police the minute you leave?”

Oliver went over to where his overcoat hung casually on the chair. Digging into the pocket, he pulled out a brown paper bag. “Well, here’s why. This bag contains your knife. We took it off you while you were resting and now it’s covered with your fingerprints. So, yes, I suppose you could call the police, but the minute one of us is picked up, that very knife of yours gets stabbed right into the side of some poor Pigalle prostitute.”

Will was shocked. “Wait, seriously? You’d kill a woman over this?”

Now it was Oliver’s turn to look incredulous. “Oh heavens, no, that would be some rude work. First of all, we need the girl alive to tell the policeman how you attacked her. Secondly, we like the girl. You’d actually like Celia too, she’s a zaftig one, quite roly-poly with a massive set of bosoms. They’re like a pair of great pointy Luftschiff Zeppelins. She claims they were the secret to her splendid success back when she danced in the Folies Bergère.”

“So, then you’ve done this before?”

“Boris has, Ned has, me, I’m only along for the ride.” Oliver leaned forward. “Look, I am so sorry about all this. It was a terrible mix-up. I suppose I had too many in me the other night, we had quite a time, didn’t we? And somehow I got the impression that you were with the agency. In fact I could swear you said you were. Anyway, I fear I’ve revealed some things I shouldn’t have, a bit more than was proper. Not very professional on my part, but there you have it. So, what to do? Originally, I had a much more innocent plan for the knife, but now I’m afraid I need a bit of leverage here. You understand, right? I’d be pretty sore if I were standing in your shoes, I know, but I can’t afford to have you running around like the proverbial loose cannon. Don’t worry, please, be a good fellow about it if you can. You have to understand, I’m merely trying to manage a rather sticky situation.”

Will was quiet for a moment, puzzled by Oliver’s clumsy blend of justifications, rationalizations, and attempts at friendly sympathy. “I can’t let you copy that file,” Will finally said.

Oliver shrugged. “Fine. I don’t want to be unreasonable. Give me some other shiny toy I can distract them with.”

Will nodded. “I’ll try. Tell me what they’re interested in so I know what to look for.”

Oliver shrugged. “Anything, really. Scraps on Algerians, hints on Russians, rumors of some potent or burgeoning movement, Fascist, Communist, doesn’t matter. Bits and bobs and curiosities, that’s all the agency wants. If it happens to be relevant to their work, they’ll pay me a little more for it.”

“Well, you’re not going to find anything along those lines at the advertising agency.”

“You’d be surprised. For instance, that Bayer file’s nice because they’ve been specifically asking us for anything related to the pharmaceutical world.”

Will wondered if that was somehow related to Brandon’s request for the Bayer file. He had never provided Will with any explanation for the agency’s various interests and Will had never bothered to ask. “Any idea why?”

“Ours is not to reason why, only do and die, yes?” He smiled. “I don’t think they honestly expect substantial information from us; it’s the evidence of our industry that counts. The key is to appear tireless and eager, to keep the action moving, keep the eye busy. We’re like those Puerto Ricans with the three-card monte games up in Spanish Harlem. It’s exhausting, really. Brandon’s people used to be much more generous. But now the money’s tight and they’ve got us sweating for every franc.”

Will nodded. “The U.S. is spending more in Indochina now.”

Oliver gave him a funny look. “Your friend Brandon tell you that?”

“Not too hard to figure it out from the papers,” Will lied, not wanting to draw any more attention to his relationship to the agency. “With France pulling out, makes sense that we’re going to have to go in there to keep things stable.”

Oliver smiled. “You know, they call Saigon ‘the Paris of the East.’ I’ve never been there, but I’m fairly certain I prefer the original.”

Across the room, Ned switched off the desk lamp and tucked the camera into her coat. “I’m done.”

Will pointed at the camera. “You’re not taking that, are you? I told you, it will be traced back to me.”

“I need something, Will. I haven’t got enough to make payroll at the journal right now and I desperately need that embassy cash.” Oliver buttoned up his jacket and reached for his overcoat. “I’m happy to make a trade, though. We can give you twenty-four hours. Find us a good tidbit and I will give you Ned’s film from tonight. Fair enough?”

“Not really, but I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“Yes, well, apologies again.” Oliver grinned. “Of course you know it’s all toward great and noble ends. And I am sorry for that bruise; at least it won’t be a bad black eye. Take some aspirin and knock it back with some scotch, that should do the trick.” He gave a half-salute farewell and followed the other two out the door.

Will listened to their footsteps disappear down the hall. Once he was sure they were gone, he got up and locked the deadbolt. He was surprised to find his initial anger already dissolving into some milder form of irritation. Why wasn’t he more upset with the three of them? Shouldn’t he be furious? Somehow Oliver’s apologies, combined with his bemused and detached manner, made it hard to take the odd course of events seriously. The entire evening simply seemed preposterous. He walked over to the bar and refilled his drink, rubbing his sore jaw as he looked around the room. Lionel Hampton’s mallets were bouncing across “Stardust” on the stereo and a few LP albums were spilled out across the table, empty cocktail glasses sat on coasters, a few hats lay on the floor, and the last of Boris’s Gitane was still smoking in the ashtray. In the past two hours he had been assaulted, tied up, and blackmailed, and yet his apartment looked no different than if he had been hosting a few friends for drinks. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t so angry, he thought. Maybe it had been nice to have company come over.

XIII

Elga pulled her head up from the sink and wiped the bits of vomit from her lips, sick with dizzy anger, her breath puffed full of hysterical rage. What a goddamned gutted sour fish, she thought, what stinking putrid marrow. That bitch. That horrible bitch. Zoya had led them here, she knew it, her bowels screamed and gargled this truth to her. Why? When they had first appeared at the door, panic’s hammer had struck hard at Elga’s tired heart. Policemen! In her home! What were they asking? Why? Their presence kicked her mind spinning, and now she could not remember much of what they had said, the echoes and static of their questions buzzed about her skull like honey-drunk bees. In her tangled thoughts, the policemen’s words were clotted and mottled, wet bits of sonic matter that clogged her brain. She tugged at her ears, trying to unstuff the meaning. Her stomach cramped and she retched again, spitting gray and green into the basin. Think, think, get their faces back; when she tried to imagine them she only saw big sturgeon fish burping fat bubbles underwater. She slammed her hand on the counter, trying to remember. It was hard, the nosy policemen’s questions were slipping away, like silver coins rolling off a sinking deck, every phrase drowning in the murk. She grabbed and grasped at the words before they went. Yes. Wait. There it was, it was the clock, the shit of a clock. Damn the little mite. The clock had been a snare. Zoya had given her the clock, like a piece of cheese baiting a trap. That bitch, that serpent, that double-crossing fork-tongued asp. Ah, yes, that reminded her.