Babayaga

Vidot knew he would go mad if he did not find some new distraction. His mind went back to the puzzling thing Adèle had said. Why had the station misled her? It seemed highly suspicious. Not only that, but it was harmful too, for had she been told the truth, the news of Vidot’s disappearance could have had a profound effect on his wife, she might have suddenly realized how devoted she was to her equally devoted husband. But, for reasons he could not understand, his superiors were covering things up. The shrieking sounds of Mimi’s sexual ecstasy started bouncing off the walls of the dark apartment. Christ, thought Vidot, this Italian was unstoppable. Vidot forced himself to concentrate on his little mystery. Why had the station lied? He guessed Maroc was probably behind it, that hunk of swine was as fork-tongued as they come. Vidot realized he would have to make his way back to the station to uncover the answers. Sensing the long, laborious journey ahead, he sighed. It would be so much easier, he thought, to stay here in this warm, comfortable apartment, spending his evenings listening to the lovely Mimi enjoying her false and perfect heaven.

VI

Zoya sat at the restaurant bar with Oliver, listening to him chatter on as he drank his scotch and emptied a pack of Chesterfields. She laughed at his stories on cue. He was not boring, but he was only a means to an end and there was little reason for her to pay too much attention. As his tales rambled on, she was reminded that this was why she preferred married men, they already had someone to bore with their stories. As if to accent and punctuate his various points, Oliver’s hand kept optimistically straying up her thigh. She let him have his fun.

At one point he paused mid-anecdote and looked her in the eye. “Zoya, my dear, you are intriguing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re a little strange.”

She smiled. “Oh no, I’m not, it is only that I am from a foreign land, and you are confused by our cultural differences.”

“I don’t think so. I know plenty of Russians and you’re different from that lot. Where did you grow up? Moscow? St. Petersburg?”

“A small town you’ve never heard of.”

“Oh, I know that town very well, it’s where so many pretty girls come from. But seriously, tell me about yourself, Zoya. I may come off as somewhat conceited and self-centered, and I suppose I am, but I can be observant too. At times tonight you’ve been absolutely luminescent, but in other moments, my God, girl, you get a look that is as heavy as an anvil.”

“That only sounds like a Russian to me, Oliver.”

“But—”

She patted his hand. “Maybe you should go home now, you’re drunk and tired.”

Oliver looked both amused and offended. “No, I’m most certainly wide awake. I feel like I’m Fred Astaire with Cyd Charisse in Silk Stockings.”

As his hand slid farther up her leg, she laughed. “Oliver, you make your passes the way Americans kill Indians.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you ever know any Indians?”

Oliver paused. “American Indians or Indian Indians?”

“The ones from your country, the ones you all killed.” His hand slid down between her thighs.

“I’m sure I certainly didn’t kill a single Indian. But I can’t say I personally know any, either.”

Zoya looked into her glass of wine. “But it’s funny, don’t you think? The way you Americans killed them. I read about it in a book once. How you would make treaties, yes? And then you would break the treaties so they would get upset and make war, and so you would kill them, and then there were new treaties? And you kept going and going, the same trick, over and again, until there weren’t any more Indians.”

“Well, they’re not all dead,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “But, of course, it was appalling.”

“Yes, a tragedy, but rather clever too, no?” she said. “You almost made it appear to be an accident. Sloppy and offhand, like spilling red wine on a rug. It was the same way Stalin killed, a few here, a million there, a few sips of vodka in between. That is the way to do it. Now, Nazis, they were serious and efficient about it, so German and well organized, that it could not be ignored. If they were more like you perhaps they would have gotten away with killing all those Jews. But the Germans were simply too obvious and clear in their purpose.”

Oliver looked at her with amazement. “Look, I don’t think—”

She laughed. “Never mind.” Now she placed her hand on his leg.

He smiled, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I merely want to say, as an American, that I believe our genocidal habits are well behind us.”

“Well, you did drop that atom bomb.”

He raised a tipsy finger. “Only to make a point.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Enough talk, Oliver, we should leave while you are still reasonably sober. I don’t like lovers who prefer their booze to my body. So, we go to your room now?”

“Yes,” he chuckled, surprised at her frankness. He threw a handful of francs on the bar and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Cold war indeed.”

VII