Babayaga

Once Will had arrived at the office, he immediately buried himself in the distraction of work. Since he was not responsible for much these days, it didn’t take long to catch up with his reports. The media buying for Guizot had been completed in his absence, and the first-quarter estimates had all been done; still, he gave all the work a thorough review and then attended a pair of brief meetings with his colleagues in which they were all given updates on their clients’ general health. Then it was lunchtime.

As was often his ritual, he sat alone at his desk, eating the ham-and-brie his assistant had brought in for him. Most of the office went out at lunch; many would not return till it was almost three. Will had long ago come to terms with the fact that the French did not embrace his same slavish devotion to office hours that Americans did. Looking out at the empty desks, Will was of two minds: on the one hand, he was happy that Americans like him worked so hard, clearly it allowed his country to remain at the vanguard of industrial leadership, the captains of capitalism, stewards of the modern, civilized world. On the other hand, he envied the French their serenity. After all, they too had, at one time, ruled much of the world like their American cousins did now, but it seemed they had abdicated that role with only a little regret, finding more than enough consolation in the various pleasures that could be found in a nice, long lunch.

But no matter where they were, he thought, not one of them was experiencing anything like the strange misadventures and exquisite pleasures he had known in the past twenty-four hours. Then again, he thought, who was he to guess? Maybe two or three were out there in the throes of wild cataclysms that would make his recent escapades seem positively provincial. Chewing his sandwich, he enjoyed thinking that some of his staff were, at that very moment, caught up in riotous, bawdy, action-packed exploits involving various disguises, swashbuckling swordplay, suitcases stuffed with franc notes, the whooshing sound of throwing knives, loose prowling circus lions, or fleeing half-naked lovers racing across sunny, aristocratic courtyards. Perhaps that’s what they were all doing right now, out on their lunch breaks, desperately trying to extract themselves from their absurd situations in time to make it back to their desks before anyone noticed.

Eventually, though, they did return and the afternoon went on, and though he waited for the phone to ring, Zoya never called. Finally, as the clock neared five, he filed the papers away in his desk and prepared to head out, wondering if she would still be there, waiting for him. She might have found an apron somewhere, poured wine, thrown together a cassoulet, and put it in the oven. No, he smiled, he could not imagine that. No cassoulet. But he felt his pulse pick up at the thought she might still be undressed, waiting for him there beneath the white duvet, her skin still warm and soft. He closed his eyes to savor the image. When he opened them again the first thing he saw was Brandon’s two men heading down the hall, aiming straight for his office. Will realized he would not be going home any time soon.

“Hello, Mr. Van Wyck?”

“Hi, boys, what can I do for you two?” Will said.

“Brandon sent us over. You promised us those personnel files.”

“Of course, I remember.” Will lit a cigarette. “Say, what were your names again?”

“I’m Mike Mitchell and this is Caleb White.”

“Right, well, Mike, look, I really haven’t had time to—”

They both gave him a cold smile. “You did promise us the files,” White said.

Something about their manner bothered Will. Both of them were a few years younger than him and they each seemed to share the same smug expectation that he would unquestionably acquiesce to their authority. Brandon, at least, had always been collegial and chummy, like they were fraternity brothers just goofing off. But these two took it seriously and played it straight in a way that made things both clear and ugly. They honestly irritated Will, and so, before he had thought through the possible repercussions, he said, “Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking it over and I’m not entirely comfortable handing those files over. After all, I don’t really know what you’re going to do with them.”

He watched them take this news. They gave him a pair of official grins.

“We’re only going to look them over, see what we can learn, and then give them back to you,” said Mitchell.

“I understand that’s what you want to do. But it doesn’t seem right to me. So I’m not going to turn over those files.”

He was surprised at his resolution. He wasn’t sure what had caused him to be so headstrong, but he could see that, without the friendly presence of Brandon overshadowing them, Mike Mitchell and Caleb White both looked like small and mean men. These were not the sort of fellows you wanted digging into anyone’s past.

“You mind if we use your phone?” said Mitchell. “We need to call Brandon.”