Babayaga

Vidot made a small bow, relieved that Will had remembered him from their mutual hallucination. After a few more awkward moments, the priest had finally gone to get him a set of clothes.

In the car now, he tried to use logic to reassemble the surreal course of events. All he could come up with was that the death of the old woman had broken her spell over him, returning him to his natural state. He wondered if the same thing had happened that day all over Europe. God knows how many others were sprung free. The woman was ancient and had, no doubt, cast countless spiteful spells between Russia and Paris. He imagined legions of bears, squirrels, and tortoises spontaneously becoming men again, awakening naked to their restored form, as bewildered as he was. Driving along in the car now, he scratched his fingers lightly along the top of his hand, pinching himself and pulling at his skin. He rubbed his arm and ran his fingers through his hair. He never imagined the intensity mere existence could cause, but now, as tears ran down his cheeks, he scratched at his testicles and wiggled his ten toes in the old priest’s roomy loafers, all while savoring the simple satisfaction of being back in his own skin. He looked over his shoulder at Zoya, lying unconscious with her head in Will’s lap. The American was softly stroking her forehead, gazing down at her face with an expression of tender affection that almost made Vidot’s heart burst.

Oliver drove fast. As they left the countryside behind, buildings slowly filled in the spaces, crouching together and growing in height, as if they were physically being pulled shoulder to shoulder as they stacked up toward the center of the city, rising taller as they were drawn in by the centripetal excitement of Paris. It was not too late in the evening and the boulevards still bustled with families and young couples out for an after-dinner stroll. Vidot realized his wife, Adèle, was there in the city too, perhaps even now in the arms of her lover. Vidot wanted to run to find her, pull her from her Alberto’s arms, box the man’s ears and punch him in the nose, and then seize her, kiss her, throttle, embrace, and shake her till she screamed. The impulse was so strong, he had to close his eyes to try to calm himself. Not yet, he thought. I cannot go to her when my heart is so rough. I must wait.

They drove down rue Lafayette and turned up toward Pigalle. “I’ll pull up in front of the hotel,” said Oliver. “You can help get her upstairs, yes?”

Vidot nodded. He was curious what would happen. They had all listened as the priest, crouching next to Zoya on the barn floor, had explained the necessary steps they would need to take if they hoped to revive her. Will had asked the priest to come with them, but the old man had refused. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ll find it by the window.”

Oliver stopped in front of the small hotel to let them out. Will lifted Zoya and put her over his shoulder, shaking off any assistance. As they went in, the front desk was empty. Vidot led the way to the stairs, which they climbed quickly. When they reached Zoya’s floor, Will pointed down the hall. “It’s that one, on the left.” Vidot did not bother telling him he knew the way.

The door was unlocked and as they entered neither commented on the state of devastation. Vidot glanced to the corner where the dead rat still lay on the floor with a cleaver stuck in its skull. Flies were buzzing lazily above the bloodstains on the wall and floor.

Will took Zoya over and placed her gently on the bed, while Vidot opened the window. On the sill he found the three owl balls that the priest had told them would be waiting there. Vidot then went to the kitchen and found the matches and pipe. It made him smile, for it was a man’s pipe, with a red walnut bowl and a black stem, exactly like the one Vidot’s grandfather had used. The old man had never smoked but had always chewed on the end of it to disguise his nervous jaw. What would the old fellow make of this, wondered Vidot, crushing an owl pellet into the bowl of the pipe. He took it over to Will, who was arranging Zoya on the bed.

Will unhesitatingly took the pipe and lit the match.

“Bonne chance, monsieur,” said Vidot.

“Thank you,” said Will somberly. “We’ll need all the luck we can get.” He put the pipe to his lips and lit the owl pellet, inhaling deeply. Then, following the priest’s instructions, he pressed his mouth against Zoya’s. Exhaling forcefully, his breath pushed the smoke down into her lungs. He went back to the pipe three more times before the narcotic took hold and he lost consciousness, collapsing on top of Zoya. Vidot moved Will’s body off her and then watched as the pair lay together, jerking gently now and then, the way cats and dogs often do in their sleep.