Babayaga

our fresh curses were cooked and our efforts done.

The loot was split fair,
Elga loaded a half dozen bartered asses
and rode off, beating them down the lane,
laden with potent bounty.

It was only long later that she turned up again,
sprouting in our path like a drizzle-day mushroom might,
now pulling Zoya along, fresh bait for her fancy.
Elga was always a barb, you know her well enough now,
even a small taste of her bitterness lasts a cur’s age.
And the young one too often caused us grief,
too pretty. Such wide blue eyes, such fulsome paps,
pulling like a strong northern tide.
Elga and Zoya were good enough companions
but at times so dark, too conniving for me—
their trick was idiot simple,
Elga dangled the girl,
first luring in arguably deserving devils,
then milking them of their shiny kopecks,
before cutting them free of life’s loose grasp—

In these days our bickering was slight but needle sharp,
and so when we were chased to the fens, pauper poor,
or bulge-eyed with bare-bones famine,
I was more than happy to say farewell.

Thusly we would come, we would go,
and the years passed like bloody feathers
ripped by hungry hands
off a barnyard hen.

And now here we are,
death running fast toward fate,
fate running fast toward death
as a sour Elga waddles the cold cobblestones,
hissing out ancient maledictions.

XVI

Will found a tuxedoed Oliver in the back lobby of the Hotel Lutetia. He was sitting on a love seat with a lit cigarette and the remnants of a Bellini. There was a pianist playing in the corner, but otherwise the room was empty of patrons.

“Oh, hullo,” said Oliver. He began to rise, and then, on second thought, settled back down.

Will sat down beside him. “Nice penguin suit.”

Oliver forced a smile. “I’ve got a premier tonight.” He looked at his watch. “My companion’s in the powder room now, she shouldn’t be long, then I’m afraid we’ve got to dash. So let’s make this quick.”

“No problem,” said Will, pulling a fat envelope out of his briefcase, placing it on the cocktail table. Since it was a Sunday, getting the file had turned out to be a reasonably simple task. Will had spent less than an hour at the office going through the agency’s filing cabinets. It turned out there was an abundance of material that looked weighty and substantive but was actually useless stuff.

Oliver took the envelope and slipped it under the black overcoat beside him. “What is it?”

“Hoffmann-La Roche’s file. A sizable company. Swiss, growing. You said you could use something pharmaceutical, right?”

“Yes, exactly.” Oliver looked at his watch and glanced around the room impatiently. “And they’re a client of yours?”

“No, it’s a competitive analysis.”

“Good?”

“There are a few bits some might find of interest,” Will exaggerated. He knew no one would find one iota of valuable information in that file. There were, however, a lot of words.

“Yes, well, this should be enough to feed the beast. The agency is stuffed to the gills with data addicts, pure and simple. Here, as promised.” He pulled out a small silver film canister from his pocket. “These are the shots Ned took at your place last night. Cigarette?”

“Thanks,” said Will, taking both the film and the cigarette. “I’d like that knife of mine back too.”

Oliver slapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh gosh, that’s right, your silly knife, I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it. It’s at home, I’m afraid.”

“That’s not funny.”

Oliver put out his palms. “I’m not joking, Will, honestly, it completely slipped my mind. I’ve been fairly distracted in the last twenty-four hours, and not only by our little misadventure. You see, I also met up with the most delightful old friend—” Suddenly, his face brightened. “Ah, here she is now!”

Will looked up. She looked familiar walking across the room, but he couldn’t place her. Her dark hair was pulled back, her blue eyes sparkled, and she was smiling at him in a familiar way, as if they were old friends at a school reunion. He and Oliver both rose to meet her. “Will Van Wyck, this is the lovely Zoya Polyakov,” he said.

She smiled. “It is nice to see you again.”

Will paused, confused. “I’m sorry—”

“We spoke, on the metro last night, about the rain. Do you remember?”

“Last night?” Will remained confused even as the memory dawned. The accent should have reminded him, but her black hair pinned up changed her face, her cheekbones seemed stronger, her neck longer, and in her elegant low-cut black dress she only vaguely resembled the woman he had met the night before. He did recognize her eyes, though; they were hard to forget.

Oliver laughed. “My, that is amusing, what a small town, eh? People do have a tendency to pop up out of the blue. Right, well”—he slipped his arm around Zoya’s thin waist—“I’m afraid we have to make our exit. I would invite you along, Will, but I’m not sure it’s up your alley. It’s a profligate and atheistic work, designed to shock, hence the Sunday screening. But I’m fairly sure it’s going to be dreadful. We should be ready for a good strong drink afterward, if you’d like to meet up.”

“No, that’s okay, I—” Will’s gaze was still stuck on Zoya. He was thrown by the coincidence, and, given all that had occurred that weekend, he didn’t quite trust it. But more than that, the girl intrigued him.

“You stole my eye,” she said, ignoring Oliver.