“Funny place to wait.” He pointed up the road to the west.
“How come you’re walking this way?”
“Because it’s the way we’ll be going when my friend picks me up.”
“This also is funny because after several kilometers the road ends in the middle of fields. Perhaps you’re on the wrong road.”
“The wrong road? Yes, I must be. I’ll return to the village and call my friend from there.”
“You’re one of the refugees, aren’t you?”
A story, something to make this meeting insignificant to the militia or the KGB. “Yes, my mother and sister and I have been living in your village for almost a week. We are very grateful for your hospitality.”
The man smiled. “So, why are you leaving?”
“I’m not leaving. I’m simply meeting someone.”
The man glanced at the overnight case on the ground. “I see…”
“My laundry. I know someone who lives in Korostyshev. She has a washing machine…”
“Is she picking you up?”
“Yes, here, on the… the east road out of the village.”
“Aha!” said the man. “This is the west road.”
“Hey!” yelled the driver from inside. “Tell her to get in and I’ll drive her to the village on my return trip.”
The man jumped down, reached for the overnight case. “Come on.”
Juli held onto the case. “No! I… I’ll walk.”
“Come on. It’ll only take a few minutes.” He snatched the case from her.
A horn sounded, and when she turned, she saw a white car approaching behind the bus.
She grabbed at the case, and the man let go. She held the case in her arms, the lettered side against her.
“My friend is here. She knew I’d take the wrong road.”
Juli waved to the car, waved for it to stop if it was Lazlo. The car pulled off to the side and waited. She turned back to the man who had removed his cap and was scratching his head.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“Me?” said the man. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Don’t let your wife hear you!” shouted the driver. “She might get the wrong idea. Especially with all the Chernobylites at your doorstep.”
Juli hurried back to the car, away from the joking voices of the man and the driver cut off by the closing door. When she glanced up, she saw the faces of the farmers staring at her. Men and women were out of their seats, their heads stacked at the bus windows like multiheaded monsters, or like an investigative committee considering the verdict. Some smiled, but many frowned.
“Try to look like a woman. I told them I was waiting for a girlfriend to pick me up.”
Lazlo pulled the visor down as Juli got in. Beneath the visor he watched through the dirty and cracked windshield. The bus pulled away, leaving a cloud of smoke.
“It’s a good thing you stopped when I waved. I don’t think they saw you. We have to turn around because this road doesn’t go anywhere.”
“I know, but I didn’t think about a bus carrying farmers. And the car got stuck in the mud where I’d hidden it.”
Lazlo cranked the wheel to turn around. When he reached for the shift lever, he felt Juli’s hand on it. He turned to her, and they kissed, holding one another tightly. He held Juli until she stopped shaking. Then he turned the car around and drove back to the main road.
He drove south, heading for the town of Zhitomir. There was little traffic, only an occasional farm truck and other buses carrying workers to fields along the way. After he had driven about fifty kilometers, he glanced at Juli. She leaned against his arm, her eyes closed.
While Juli slept, Lazlo recalled the transaction for the car, the man suspicious about his use of cash and wanting the car immediately rather than waiting for the cracked windshield to be fixed.
He’d found the car at a gasoline station and, seeing it had an expired plate, inquired about its sale. In Kiev it would have been easier to buy a car. But out here there were no dealers, no parking lots where locals struck bargains.
The purchase of the five-year-old Skoda from a stranger had de-pleted his savings, and he wondered if it would have been better to steal a car. Perhaps before this was over, he would have to steal a car.
Cars were scarce in the countryside, and stealing one would have attracted the republic militia. Even so, stealing a car would be nothing.
He only hoped he would not be forced to kill again. But he knew he would if he had to, especially if someone were foolish enough to aim a gun at him and Juli the way the agent had in Visenka.
Before falling asleep, Juli had related the story she told the man from the bus. If they were to get over the frontier, they would both have to be clever, perhaps tell many more stories. Although there seemed no room for mistakes, he felt he had already made one. Instead of filling the gas tank when he purchased the car, he’d left with a half tank. In an hour or so, he would have to stop for gas. He kept glancing at the Skoda’s gas gauge and wondered how accurate it was.
After sleeping less than an hour, Juli awakened. “Where are we?
This doesn’t look like the main road.”
“I’m taking a route around Zhitomir. It’s a sizable town with an active militia. We’ll stop for gas at Berdichev. After Berdichev we’ll take back roads to the Carpathian foothills.”
“They’ll be watching for a man and woman. I’ll lie on the back seat beneath the blankets. If you put on a lab coat and leave the case with its lettering clearly visible, I’m sure the station attendant will want to get rid of you as quickly as possible.”
The gas stop in Berdichev went exactly as Juli said. At first the attendant wanted to talk about the Chernobyl accident, saying how terrible it was and asking if Lazlo knew anything. But when the man began cleaning the windshield, it was obvious by the speed with which he finished the windows and completed filling the tank, he had read the Russian words on the case. When Lazlo handed the ruble notes over, the attendant handled them with thumb and fore-finger, as if picking up a baby’s diaper.
On their way out of Berdichev, Juli stayed hidden in the back seat while Lazlo stopped at a local market for some sausage and canned vegetables and fruit. Before going inside, he took off the white lab coat and put his own coat back on. He also turned Juli’s overnight case so the lettering faced down.
“We’ll have a picnic,” said Lazlo, driving again.
“I can smell the sausage from here,” said Juli from the back seat.
“I’ll find a place where the car will be hidden from the road.”
“What kind of car is this?”
“A Skoda. It’s a Czech piece of shit. We’ll see more of them as we head west.”
“From back here it sounds like a dog growling.”
“The muffler’s right below you. I think it has a hole in it. That’s why I’m keeping the windows open.”
“How much longer do I have to stay back here?”
“Not long. We’re almost out of town.”
“Do you see our picnic grove yet?”
“No. But don’t talk now. There’s a militia car behind us.”
In his mirror Lazlo saw only one man in the green and white Moskvich. He was certain it was a local militiaman because republic militiamen normally traveled in pairs. The Moskvich followed closely, the driver obviously trying to read the license plate. Although the registration was expired, Lazlo had smeared mud on that portion of the plate. But if the car was stolen, or if the man who sold it to him had reported it stolen instead of sold…
Railroad tracks ahead and a station to the left. Lazlo turned in, but the Moskvich followed. He parked near the station’s passenger ramp, pretended to yawn so the militiaman would not see his mouth moving.
“Juli. Stay where you are and don’t move. We’re at a train station. I’ll go in and pretend I’m waiting for someone.”
“How long?”
