Babayaga

of order so he took the stairs. A little winded by the time he reached the top, he paused and looked down the hall. The door to 5A was slightly ajar. Inside he could see flickering sparks of light. Feeling a little cautious, he walked down the hallway, gently pushed open the door, and ran into a tremendous amount of electricity.

VII

VIII

Vidot was quite pleased with his perch. Elga had tucked Max the rat into the space between her sweater and blouse, resting him in her shirt pocket. Vidot had crawled up from the rat’s belly and now stood high atop Max’s skull. He felt like a Persian satrap riding atop a great elephant. The top of Max’s head sticking out from Elga’s hefty bosom gave Vidot an almost unobstructed view of the street ahead as they walked.

Vidot had been especially happy to leave the rat’s belly. Though it had felt warm and safe, he wanted to see what Elga was up to. Also, his belly ride had grown uncomfortable when another flea had crawled up beside him. This flea had not actually acknowledged Vidot’s presence, but it was the first that had dared to emerge from hiding, and it irked Vidot that he had become vermin enough to no longer frighten all the other vermin with his strange ways. He did not want to fit in with these creatures. Perhaps this flea also bothered him because his presence reminded him of his long-lost companion Bemm. He knew, however, that this was not the flea’s fault, and Vidot bore him no ill will. In fact, though he did not like being near him, observing this flea’s simple, focused manner did impress him. The creature reminded him of a monk in repose, only taking what he needed from the world. While human beings battled one another for iron, oil, and gold, this simple flea asked for no more than a soft bit of flesh to ride on and a bit of warm blood to drink. As far as the flea was concerned, the bare rat’s belly was a land of plenty. Were it not for the many pleasures he missed of cheese and wine and afternoons at the orchestra, Vidot realized he might be happy to remain there as well. But the thought of the joys he would have to give up were too great. He had to fight on. The taste of a good sausage alone was worth the struggle, not to mention the pleasures of a nice fat novel and the kiss of his sweet wife. He winced at the last thought, and scolded himself for allowing his memory to trick him into forgetting her betrayal. Vidot vowed he would get her back, he would win her heart again, he knew it was possible, it was merely another devilish puzzle to be solved. First, though, he had to stay with this Elga and watch her every move. Sooner or later an answer would show itself.

The old woman’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. She was talking to the young girl, who was now holding a live russet-colored chicken.

“Why did we get the chicken?” asked the girl.

“Because you dreamt of the chicken.”

“I also dreamt about a fox,” said the girl. “It would be fun to have a pet fox.”

“No it wouldn’t,” said Elga. They had arrived at the car, which Vidot immediately recognized as his own police car. He could not imagine why the people passing by didn’t notice an old crone getting into a squad car with a little girl. Then again, he thought, there was a time not so long ago when he could not imagine being turned into a flea.

“Does everyone dream of chickens?” asked the little girl.

“No. Sometimes they dream of snakes, or deer, owls, otters, beavers, marmots, maybe moles. Reindeer, rats, lots of rats, mules, horses. Never dogs, never wolves, and I’ve never heard of foxes showing up before.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. I hope nothing.” They were in the car now, driving through the streets. Elga had the windows rolled down and Vidot noticed that Max was keeping himself busy. The rat would look and sniff constantly, systematically reaching up with his little paw every now and again to tap Elga’s chest. If he tapped her on her left breast they turned left, if it was on her right breast, she turned right.

The little girl kept going with her questions. “Are there any bad things to dream about?”

“It’s bad if you dream of dragons.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because all the dragons are dead. So they’re no help to you. Whales are tricky too, they are never there when you need them. If you dream about whales or seals, you are going to have a very wet, cold time of it.”

The car stopped and the rat scurried up over Elga’s shoulder and jumped out the open window. Vidot held on tight, and as they landed he tried quickly to decipher where they were. Peeking out from behind the rat’s ear, he saw neons brightly blinking and flashing above restaurants, cigarette shops, and nightclubs. Maybe in Pigalle? The rat scurried up a doorstep and sped across the faded parquet floor of the bright lobby before stopping in the shadow of a moldy-smelling chaise longue. Apparently they were waiting for the others. Eventually, Elga and the girl came up, the old woman carrying a beat-up canvas bag, the girl clutching her chicken. Vidot watched the old woman pause at the front door and trace out an imaginary line around the doorframe, muttering a few words before they entered. Vidot looked over at the clerk sitting at his station reading a hunting magazine. The man seemed oblivious to their presence. She must have cast another spell, he realized, so that they could pass unnoticed. She had made them all, in essence, invisible. Vidot wondered if this might provide him with some tactical potential, but then he realized that, for all intents and purposes, his size already made him unnoticeable, even to the rat he was riding on.

Distracted with these thoughts, Vidot lost count of the floors as they climbed up the stairs and did not notice which floor they were on when they finally started down a hallway, the sniffing rat leading the way until he stopped at a door. The old woman leaned forward and ran her fingers along the edge of the frame as she carefully inspected the door from top to bottom, sniffing now like a shopper suspicious of cheese. Finally, she pulled a white envelope from her pocket. She poured out a handful of a brown substance and, crouching down, blew it beneath the doorsill. Vidot could smell it, cinnamon. He couldn’t imagine how that spice could possibly help Elga and his brain was feeling sorely taxed from trying to make sense of so many irrational events. He decided it was time to stop swimming against the currents of all these nonsensical details and simply ride along in this wild and fantastical flood.

The old woman was now stooped on her knees in the hallway, picking the lock with a hairpin. The noise of a door opening down the hall made Vidot look up and he observed a small, balding man emerging from the neighboring room. Vidot felt his tiny heart skip a beat, certain that they would be discovered. He was not sure why he was nervous—he was, after all, the most insignificant player in this caper—yet when the neighbor walked past without a second look, Vidot exhaled with relief. He had to respect the audacity of this old woman, so confident in