Babayaga

Really, nobody knows whether the world is realistic or fantastic, that is to say, whether the world is a natural process or whether it is a kind of dream, a dream that we may or may not share with others.

—JORGE LUIS BORGES, The Paris Review

I

Maroc had awoken that day feeling desperate. Lying in his bed, he reflected on how he had only meant for this position to be a brief sojourn in his professional life, a mere stepping-stone to a more lucrative appointment. But lately it had appeared as if this post might wind up derailing his career entirely, for beneath his watch the entire district seemed to be breaking apart in uncontrolled insanity—why, only the night before he had received a report of a victim found with his eyes gouged out and his throat ripped open. To make it worse, neighborhood witnesses had reported that the man had been killed by a chicken.

Enough, thought Maroc. He would have to assert himself more forcefully. He could not have episodes like this—along with police officers simply disappearing off the face of the earth—occur without consequences. The criminals must be found and then they must pay or, as his superior, Papon, had told him yesterday in what had been a very short, curt chat, Maroc himself would pay.

But now, only hours later, the wheel of fortune had turned again and Maroc was feeling a sense of radiant confidence and dawning possibility that made him almost ecstatically hopeful that things were changing for the better. After a week in which he sensed the whole world conspiring against him, good news finally began arriving. He learned the first piece of it that morning when, as he came into work, it was reported to him that Bemm and Vidot’s police patrol car had been recovered. Better still, the suspected thief was locked up downstairs in his jail. Maroc had immediately grabbed Lecan out of his office and the two headed down to the cells. Ignoring all the hissing and lurid catcalls from the prostitutes, they found the cell with the ancient woman sitting cross-legged on her bunk, chewing on a hunk of dry bread. She did not acknowledge them as they watched her through the bars. None of them said a word, and after a few minutes the two men turned and left her alone again.

Back in Maroc’s office they compared notes. “She looks stubborn,” said Detective Lecan.

“That’s quite a black eye she’s got. Wonder who hit her?” said Maroc, sounding uncertain.

“I doubt it was Vidot or Bemm,” said Lecan.

“You’re right. I don’t think an old hag like that could take on two able-bodied police officers. I mean, Vidot was a bit slight, but still.”

“Absolutely, she’s much too ancient. I can’t see her overpowering Vidot. And certainly not Bemm. They were both fit enough to handle an old woman.”

“What’s her story?” Maroc asked, taking a clementine off his desk and peeling it over the wastebasket.

Lecan looked through the report. “The woman says she first found the car over on rue Dupin. Perhaps she’s telling the truth.”

Maroc nodded thoughtfully. “Or she’s conspiring with Vidot’s wife, that’s my bet. The widow gets a new lover, the hag gets a new car. Not a bad deal for either.”

“If we ever find ourselves in a similar situation, I’ll take the car,” Lecan joked.

Maroc smiled as he continued: “We should at least grill the old cow, see what she has to say.”

“Like I said, she looks stubborn,” Lecan said. “I’d let her sit and stew a bit before we try to get anything out of her. Time in the cell will soften her up.”

Leaning back in his chair, Lecan read the rest of the file aloud. “She gave her name as Elga Sossoka, though she has no identification. She claims she took the bus in from the country to visit a friend but when she arrived, she says, she found that the friend had moved. Walking back to the bus, she saw the car with the keys hanging out the door. She says her feet were feeling sore and her ankles were swollen, so she took it and drove it around for a few days, trying to track this old friend down. She says she knew it was wrong to take the car, but she’s getting older and her mind makes mistakes.” Lecan threw the report across the desk. “Ridiculous! Who does that sort of thing? In a police car? Too absurd. I could blow up that story in ten minutes.”

“So blow it up,” said Maroc.

Lecan picked up the phone and instructed an officer to drive out to the address near Cergy where she claimed she had been living. “See if anyone’s there, tell them we have her in our cells. Let them know they might want to send a lawyer, but they shouldn’t expect her home anytime soon. Then ask a few questions and see what you can find out about her.”