Babayaga

Will felt silenced, he got up and nodded an awkward goodbye to the men and headed out to the street. Stepping through the double doors, he found an evening rain had started. Will lit a cigarette while Kelly’s words about Detroit rang in his ears. It wasn’t news. He would get long letters from his brother and mother describing how the whole city was falling to pieces, pulled apart by forces they could not quite explain. Each had their own prejudiced suspicions: his brother blamed the Negroes, while his mother blamed the auto companies, still stinging from the UAW’s wins and hell-bent on beating the workers back down. Will did not know who to believe. He’d been to all the joints Kelly had mentioned, and over a dozen others, enjoyed his first legal drink at Sutree’s, saw Johnny Hartman sing “Lush Life” at the Sudan. Will knew those clubs had been boarded up. The former patrons—ex-GIs with their new government loans, and union line workers enjoying their latest concessions—had all rushed out to the velvet quiet of the ever-expanding suburbs, while the downtown players, their old haunts, shuttered and abandoned, found their new gigs here as exiles in the City of Light. It seemed Paris somehow managed to absorb all the beautiful things the rest of the world discarded; it was a sparkling and bejeweled box of lost treasures, a wondrous cabinet that hummed with soft horn harmonies played against a grand piano’s minor chords.

“Well, those boys raised some interesting questions,” said Oliver, coming up behind him.

“In what way?”

“You heard it yourself, multiple deaths, eerily similar circumstances. Boris may have had a bad heart, who knows, but there’s no doubt he was helped along in his exit. I don’t like it. I’m sensing a rare pedigree of wickedness, some peculiar evil looming here in our midst.”

Will tried to ignore Oliver’s dramatic overtones. “Should we check out this Arc Hotel?”

“Oh, perhaps we should, though I’m not too excited at the prospect. I happen to know the Arc quite well, it’s a terrifically shabby place. We went there last summer to interview an American poet in from Morocco. The man was so high on kef he couldn’t finish a single thought. We literally spent hours patiently sitting at his feet, waiting for something resembling coherence to emerge. From what I saw, the entire place is packed to the rafters with that sort, nodding-off junkies, hashish-chewing automatons, and a pathetic calico that’s relieved herself on every rug in sight, making the whole place absolutely reek of cat piss. Very dingy stuff. But, given what the boys said, there’s probably no avoiding it.”

“Wanna go now?”

“Ha ha, no.” Oliver smiled and patted him on the back. “I’ve got to run, meeting up with Aga Kahn and a Hollywood friend of his for a game of bridge this evening. Do you play?”

“No, I’m more of a euchre guy.”

“Yes, you mentioned that. Shame, really, we’re in desperate need of a fourth. Look, I’ll ring you at the office tomorrow and set up a time for us to visit the Arc. Sound good?”

Oliver didn’t wait for a response but instead bounded off the curb into a waiting cab. Watching the car whisk Oliver away, it occurred to Will that he had wasted an entire day on this wandering journey, and instead of finding answers about the missing file, the missing knife, or even the missing small lesbian, all he had discovered of any note was a very large and very dead Russian. It did not feel like progress.

Will had no umbrella, and as he looked down the street for a cab, he realized that Oliver had taken what appeared to be the last unoccupied taxi in Paris. So instead, Will endured a long, humid, and stuffy journey in the metro, pressed in shoulder-tight among stoic businessmen, sleepy clerks, and pale, long-faced tradesmen all heading home. An impressive, and pungent, range of body odors filled the metro car and the stout woman Will found himself shoved up against wore an overbearing perfume that somehow only accentuated the various smells instead of masking them. It was a reminder that there were a few aspects of the city he did not entirely adore. He distracted himself by recalling the night he met Zoya on the metro. He remembered her little smudge of a black eye, how surprising it had been when she had spoken to him, and how he’d thought about asking her out for a drink but hadn’t, because he’d been too tired. He suspected that would be the single scene he took home with him as his mental postcard of Paris, the memory of talking with a pretty girl alone at night on an empty train.

When he climbed back up to the street he found the weather had gotten worse. He trudged the rest of the way to his apartment building, with the percussive drizzle of the cold rain hitting hard against his hat as the cold, chilling water soaked into his clothes.