Babayaga

Lecan shifted in his chair nervously as he went on. “I came in right away and introduced myself to her. It was only the pair of us, sitting there alone. She was so elegant, so good-looking, she excited me. I started talking at a fast, impulsive rate. She did not remember me at first, but I reminded her of where we had met, way up in Frankfurt so many years ago. I described the nights we had gone out and what she had worn, her feathered cap, her velvet coat, the ermine muff she always carried. Finally she smiled, she remembered, or pretended to. Yes, she agreed, she found it strange that she seemed still so young while I had grown—how did she put it?—‘as old as a turtle.’ I said the thought had been bothering me as well, for I had been so young then. She said she used a beauty trick that she had learned from an old friend. She asked if I believed in real tricks like that, not merely illusions or sleights of hand. I said I did not know what she meant. She asked if I believed that real magic could be found in magic tricks, and I said, emphatically, no, such things were only found in fables and children’s stories. Then she asked if I believed in curses. It was an odd question, but the whole conversation was getting quite hard to follow, she had started with beauty tricks and now she was onto curses. In any case, I answered again, no, curses were the same as magic, it was all silliness. Then she grew quite serious, her eyes grew wide, and I swear a shadow seemed to pass across her face. She said that I would discover I was wrong, because curses do in fact exist.

“Then she said she would prove it to me right there, by placing a curse on me. I asked her not to and she laughed and said I should not be worried, after all, I had said only moments before that I did not even believe in such things. Besides, she said, it was a small and simple curse. She said it went like this: I would gradually disappear, experiencing the absolute gray solitude of death long before I ever expired. First, she said, my wife would stop responding to my voice. Then my children, who are grown but still visit me every Sunday, would stop coming by the house. Colleagues would no longer include me in their confidences. Old friends would forget my name. Letters I wrote would go unanswered, my telephone calls would ring in crowded rooms but no one would pick up. Waiters would ignore my order or always get it wrong. When I went to the cinema, they would refuse to sell me a ticket, not because they were being rude but because they did not see me unless I shouted and waved my hands. In the end, I would wind up destroyed by my own solitude, utterly lost, an empty and invisible shell, abandoned by all those I had ever adored and even the ones I merely passed by on the street, for no one would acknowledge me, I would be a living ghost in their midst.

“I sat there stunned at her explanation, not saying a word. She said, ‘Shall we test it? Pick up that telephone and call a person you know, anyone, your wife or a friend, dial them up now and, watch, I guarantee you they will not answer.’ I scoffed, because I actually knew my wife was home at that very moment, overseeing our housekeeper’s weekly visit—you see, my wife thinks our housekeeper is a thief and she watches her every move like a hawk. So I picked up the receiver and dialed my flat. As I was dialing, Zoya pointed at me and made a few odd whispering noises. I did not pay much attention because now the phone was ringing. It must have rung twenty times but not a soul answered. Zoya was smiling, watching me holding the receiver of that black phone, which suddenly seemed incredibly dense and unimaginably heavy, like a great rock pulling me to the bottom of the sea. I know it sounds irrational, but it felt profound and terrifying. I swear, looking at that ageless creature sitting before me while the phone endlessly rang in my ear chilled me as the threat of death never has. I slowly hung up the receiver and asked her what she wanted. Zoya gave me a small smile and said I should walk her out of the station and take her to the nearest café, there we could say goodbye. So, unbelievably, that is exactly what I did. We got up and I escorted her past the front desk, out the front door, and over to the Café Balzac. I ordered us each a white coffee. I asked her, ‘When I walk away from you, please give me your word you’ll remove this curse,’ and she said she would. And so”—Lecan shrugged—“I left her there.”

The men sat there in silence, taking in Detective Lecan’s strange tale. Finally Vidot spoke. “And did you call your wife again?”

“Yes, first thing when I returned to my office. She was home, of course. She said she must not have heard the call when I rang earlier. Then she did not understand why I was weeping on the phone.” Vidot nodded with solemn understanding. Will looked on in amazement. Lecan sat back, “So, what now, Vidot? Will you turn me in?”