Babayaga: A Novel (34 page)

red-faced over banquet tables, nay,

but sordid troubles embroidered well

unfurled in spells untoward

able to ignite the great metamorphoses, yes, you’ve seen well,

but subtler spoilers come in handy too,

right spit words that make you miss crucial connections in distant stations,

leaving you as lone, soft, and vulnerable prey

for salivating wolves who dine on lamb and ewe.

Or you drool yourself, dripping constant stains, or spilling through passing palsy drops of shame

from pewter spoons and crystal bowls,

splotching dress shirts and fine silks, all now spoiled for public judgment.

Then fun too: rich, pungent flatulence summoned at intimate times,

with counterpoints of noxious belch and burp,

and rich myriad tapestries of ill blushings,

lavender rashes, and textured boils,

a plague of unreachable itches

desperate for their needed scratches,

all indulgently accented with lasting urinary burnings.

Not enough? More, then, more. Grave addictions, the harshest needs,

the barest raw hungers, all voracious

open-mouthed, and panting to fill a gaping hole

with alcohol, baccarat, horse cocks, or the poppy scar’s sap, yes.

Then of course taunting self-doubts,

gnats of insecurities, shaming anxieties

that flash white and hollow like lightning bolts tearing

through sturdy hilltop elms.

A vague but constant sense of forgetfulness,

always nipping with haunt

or a shadowed guilt for an imagined crime

that chews and frays at your tired mind.

Oh, a fierce envy for new polished shoes or great worthless land tracts,

a fevered lust for rubies, sapphires, pearl, and other beachcombed stones,

a gravitational attraction and steady pull

toward expensive strangers.

A gift for spilling teacups and dropping china,

a tendency to catch cloth on lit candles

or absently forgetting hearth and stoves

till cherished cottage and castle have all turned to cinder.

A strong wind for ill rumors,

the instinct to fold both winning hands and good enterprise.

Thick ears, stubborn pride, intolerance for strange skin and foreign tribes.

A profound, waist-swelling and spine-splitting constipation,

thick running noses spilling green, infused with muck,

or, worse, eyes weeping ceaselessly till red, bloody, and blind.

Our choice, we can pick, between sullen disappointments of impotence or the sorry prodding signals of poorly timed erections,

and even better yet, a splendid epilepsy of unending ejaculation.

A constant aching and swooning in extreme sexual longing

for the inappropriate people and inanimate things.

Then there’s the murderous, a matricidal hunger, a patricidal bend, or, to be simple again,

we can loosen an indiscreet tongue

providing an unwanted gift for grave offense

and a penchant for fouling any convivial humor.

Yes, more than once we’ve been known to bestow the naked

pining for limelight,

the stark drive for a crown,

and the false nobility of immortal ambitions.

Finally, and darkest of all, the most elegant curse,

a numbing inability to sense or comprehend true virtue:

constancy, patience, generosity, and dear kindness,

when they are held in the palm of your very own hand,

seated by your hearth, lying in your bed,

when all that could fulfill your own heart’s hope

until your last and final day

is standing by your side, bright-eyed and true,

while you, so oblivious, set your hungry eye

a-wandering …

XIV

Noelle awoke cold and shivering on the stoop. The chicken was asleep in her arms, its head tucked under one russet wing. The old woman had said she would be right back but now the streets were almost bare of traffic and the sidewalk was empty, so she guessed some time had passed, and yet Elga was nowhere in sight. Noelle rose and, hauling the chicken up under her arm, began making her way down the street with tentative, sleepy steps. A glowing green clock on the wall of a shuttered café told her it was three a.m. Perhaps Elga had driven off and forgotten her. That seemed possible, the old woman was moody and hard to predict. Noelle knew she had disappointed her in the fight with the bad woman, but Elga had seemed kind about it afterward, even forgiving. So it did not make sense that she would have abandoned her. There must be some other explanation.

Noelle walked down toward what she thought was the center of the city. She knew if she followed the lights of the Eiffel Tower she would eventually reach the Seine and there, somewhere near the Louvre, she would find the hotel. All she wanted was to crawl into warm sheets and sleep. Oh, such a soft bed, how nice it would be. She looked down at the still bird in her arms. Was it dead? She paused to lean over and listen to it. It was breathing, making a barely perceptible soft, trembling sound as it slept. That cooing made her feel better.

She had never walked alone in the city, and after she had continued for a few blocks she was surprised to find a particular comfort in the late-night emptiness. At her home back in the village, her parents had always spoken of Paris as a dangerous and forbidding place, seething with vague horrors. They never explicitly enumerated these terrors, though whenever there was talk of the city, her mother’s eyes would grow wide as if she were describing a goblin’s lair. Yet near her own home, Noelle would often find herself frightened in the woods, where there were spiders hanging from trees and writhing centipedes waiting under rocks. There in the forest, the wind creaked the bony branches, thorns scratched her face, and thick mud puddles sucked at her shoes, threatening to swallow her down. The city, by contrast, seemed quite predictable, paved and chiseled, with wide, smooth concrete sidewalks leading past the finely lettered windows of confectioners and tailors, bookshops and tobacconists. Even though they were closed, they were still comforting. All you had to worry about in cities were people, not the creatures of the wicked wilds; and for some reason, right now people did not worry Noelle very much. The chicken in her arms kept her warm, and she felt so content on her little adventure that she was tempted to start singing old nursery songs.

It was only as she came near the Galeries Lafayette that she began to feel slightly nervous, because that was when she began to hear the clipped footsteps trailing behind her. The pace was the same as her own, and when she slowed to let the person pass, no one passed. She did not want to turn around, and she did not want to run, but she picked up her pace again and tried to walk faster. The footsteps behind her kept up. Perhaps, she thought, it was a policeman, or merely a grocer on his way to the early market. Still, she would not look back.

She tried to distract herself by thinking about the Galeries. She had been there once a few seasons past when her mother had brought her into the city for Christmas shopping, and Noelle had hoped Elga would take her there as well. It was the most beautiful place, every little girl’s dream, like being inside a sparkling diamond or a sugar-tiered birthday cake. Her mother had bought her powdered beignets and currant scones—

—Noelle’s thoughts froze as the footsteps behind her came closer still, so close that they were right behind her. Her heartbeat was racing fast as a hummingbird’s. She did not have any money or she would have run out into the street and flagged down one of the lonely black taxis that were occasionally passing by.

“Good evening, mademoiselle.”

The sound of his voice made the hair on her neck stand on end. She now felt as small and weak as a ladybug cowering beneath the shadow of a great descending boot. She dared not look up at the stranger. She kept walking, her eyes focused straight ahead. “Hello,” she said, hoping not to offend.

“Do you have a spare sou?”

“I do not,” she said, though she would have given the beggar any change she had to make him go away.

“Oh,” said the stranger. “Very well then…”

This short conversation had distracted her long enough that she had not seen the darkened gap of a courtyard that lay tucked between the approaching buildings. But the stranger had noticed. In one sudden motion, he pulled her up off her feet, his hand over her mouth, and shoved her past the building’s gate, into the blackened darkness. The first thing she did was drop the chicken and try to kick at the man’s legs and bite his hand. The bird squawked loudly as it hit the pavement. Noelle’s assailant was breathing hard as he pushed her up against the wall. It was then she saw his terrible, thin face, his stubbled skin, weathered and oily, with acne scars running down the sides of both cheeks. His expression up close was mean and hungry. He leaned in toward his little prey, his breath stinking of bile, tobacco, and sour wine.

“I only want what’s in your pockets,” he seethed. “Give me—” He was cut off by a wild screeching and a thunderous batting of wings, as if an entire kettle of hawks had dropped out of the skies. The man screamed out in a spasm of agony and released Noelle. She fell down and scampered away fast, looking back with fascination as the two silhouettes struggled in the shadows.

The chicken was attacking the man with a frenzied fury. Blood was already thickly streaming down from his clawed eye sockets as he tried to shield himself. The bird twisted and fluttered, its beak attacks alternating between the man’s now tattered eyes and his Adam’s apple, pecking hard with quick success so that the man’s howls of pain were soon subsumed by the wet, gurgling sound of drowning. Finally, the bird’s screeches and its victim’s cries caused neighboring lights to come on. Noelle ran off down the street, nursing a strange thrill in her heart.

A little over an hour later, with the verve of excitement still tickling her veins, and her ribs sore from the attack, an exhausted Noelle turned the corner of the avenue and saw her hotel, down at the end of the block. With its broad façade and fluttering flags, the building looked reassuringly paternal, as if it had been patiently waiting up through the long night to comfort her upon her return. She exhaled, pleased and relieved that she had found her way home. She knew the night manager would let her into her room; he was the one who had brought her warm milk on the first night they were there.

She was surprised at how calm she felt, remarkably untouched by the puzzling series of events she had endured—the fight at the apartment, the death of the rat, Elga’s disappearance, and, finally, the awful assault on the street. She knew she should be a bundle of frayed nerves, ready to be put back in the asylum bed where Elga had first found her. But, truth to tell, she felt perfectly fine. She turned and looked back down the boulevard to where the chicken was coming along behind her. The red bird paused occasionally to peck at the pavement’s cracks.

XV

Will was awoken near dawn by Zoya’s soft kisses. The woman who had seemed dead to the world was now feverishly alive, her lips running across the top of his collarbone, biting at his ear. In no time her attentions had him completely alert. He clutched her tightly, pulling her against him. She held him fast, her hands joined at the base of his neck, her forehead pressed against his chest. He grabbed at her breasts and nipples as she bit his shoulder and pulled his hair, gasping as he found his way inside her. They rocked the bedframe and knocked the headboard hard against the wall. Her legs were above his body as she pressed up against him, burying her cries into his neck. They rode each other, ignoring the racket they made, finally finishing with a high breaking moan and strong shudder. Then she fell off to his side.

“Where are we?” she sleepily asked, her eyes already closing again.

“Oliver’s.”

“Oliver’s?” Her question was barely a breath. “Why?”

“There was someone watching my apartment. It wasn’t safe.”

Her brow furrowed as if these words worried her, but then she slipped back to sleep, resting against his chest, her eyes shut fast. He watched her sleep for a bit and then crawled out from under her to go to the bathroom.

He found Oliver in a bathrobe and striped pajamas, sitting up in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and an early edition of
Le Monde
. “Well, hullo,” said Oliver. “Couldn’t help hearing you two exerting yourselves in there. At first I thought it was Madame Boillet’s poor cats yowling from the flat downstairs.”

“Sorry to wake you. I thought I heard someone else here?” Will couldn’t help prodding.

“Oh, Gwen could sleep through the running of the bulls. And, anyway, you didn’t wake me. I was actually coming to roust you when I heard your little commotion.”

“Right,” Will remembered, “you mentioned some errand last night.”

“Yes, take a look at this.” Oliver took two business cards out of his robe pocket and laid them out side by side. They were identical, reading:

“One of those cards was in Boris’s pocket when he collapsed. The other I found in Ned’s room. As far as I can discern, it is the only common thread they share. Now, I’ve never heard of Poitier’s and I’ve asked around a bit and gotten nothing. Even Red and the rest of the jazz boys didn’t recognize the name, and those boys are usually fairly knowledgeable in this area.”