Babayaga

by Toby Barlow

  “An appointment?”

  “Well, a date actually.”

  “Really?” Will was confused, there was still so much to sort out. “But—”

  Oliver spun around sharply. “But what? You thought perhaps I’d be too lovesick pining for your precious Zoya? Really? Don’t get me wrong, she is a fine catch, easy on the eyes and exotically skilled in ways you’ve no doubt discovered by now. But, no, I wasn’t planning to mope about like some kind of sad Leporello to your lascivious Don Giovanni. Believe me, I have infinitely better ways to occupy my time.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all,” said Will, slightly taken aback. “I was only thinking maybe we should sit down somewhere and talk about Ned. And Boris. And that file the Russian embassy has. And my knife. There’s a whole host of problems we have to sort out, Oliver. Especially since Brandon and his boys are not going to go away.”

  “Oh yes,” Oliver said, quickly softening his tone. “I apologize. Don’t worry, we’ll attend to all that tomorrow, first thing. I can’t do it now, I’ve got to attend to my other responsibility, that poor, long-suffering little journal of mine.”

  “I thought you just said you were going on a date?”

  “Not a very romantic one. The woman has both the thickest ankles and the most equine features you’ve ever seen, but she does know a few writers I need to meet. I’d put it off if I could, but I can’t. Come by my place first thing tomorrow. I have a few notions on our case that I think will interest you.”

  Will shook his head. “I can’t come by tomorrow, I’ve been out of the office too much.”

  “Well, then, we’ll find some opportunity to catch up over the next few days, and in the meantime I’ll do some poking around on my own. For now you’ll have to excuse me. I would offer to share a cab, but I’m sure we’re going in very different directions.”

  With that, Oliver gave him a small smile, jumped into a taxi and was off, leaving Will once again bobbing in his wake. This pattern was growing absurd. Will looked at his watch. He had told Zoya he would come after dinner, and it didn’t seem right to show up early. So, feeling a bit stranded, he wandered down to rue Monge and found a bistro where he ate a pile of moules marinières and drank a half carafe.

  Afterward he hailed a taxi and gave the driver Zoya’s address. As the cab took him toward Pigalle, Will thought about Oliver’s last little outburst. It had only been a quick flash, but Oliver had seemed honestly hurt, angry, and almost human there for a moment. Will smiled to himself, it had been a refreshing sight.

  When the cab finally pulled up in front of Zoya’s building, Will was a little taken aback. The hotel made Ned’s seedy Arc Hotel seem luxurious by comparison. He walked in and saw the clerk fast asleep at the front desk. Will looked down to double-check the address written there and found the room number, 5A. The elevator was out of order so he took the stairs. A little winded by the time he reached the top, he paused and looked down the hall. The door to 5A was slightly ajar. Inside he could see flickering sparks of light. Feeling a little cautious, he walked down the hallway, gently pushed open the door, and ran into a tremendous amount of electricity.

  VII

  Witches’ Song Six

  Ah, you wonder what we’ve been busy with,

  how we’re poised now?

  Oh where, amid all the whirling, weaving,

  and dark conniving of these impatient players,

  we have cast our cursing lots?

  I know, it is hard to find us, to be sure,

  for while they flail and fly, we simply lie

  like grubs beneath the soil,

  brooding on our certain purpose.

  VIII

  Vidot was quite pleased with his perch. Elga had tucked Max the rat into the space between her sweater and blouse, resting him in her shirt pocket. Vidot had crawled up from the rat’s belly and now stood high atop Max’s skull. He felt like a Persian satrap riding atop a great elephant. The top of Max’s head sticking out from Elga’s hefty bosom gave Vidot an almost unobstructed view of the street ahead as they walked.

  Vidot had been especially happy to leave the rat’s belly. Though it had felt warm and safe, he wanted to see what Elga was up to. Also, his belly ride had grown uncomfortable when another flea had crawled up beside him. This flea had not actually acknowledged Vidot’s presence, but it was the first that had dared to emerge from hiding, and it irked Vidot that he had become vermin enough to no longer frighten all the other vermin with his strange ways. He did not want to fit in with these creatures. Perhaps this flea also bothered him because his presence reminded him of his long-lost companion Bemm. He knew, however, that this was not the flea’s fault, and Vidot bore him no ill will. In fact, though he did not like being near him, observing this flea’s simple, focused manner did impress him. The creature reminded him of a monk in repose, only taking what he needed from the world. While human beings battled one another for iron, oil, and gold, this simple flea asked for no more than a soft bit of flesh to ride on and a bit of warm blood to drink. As far as the flea was concerned, the bare rat’s belly was a land of plenty. Were it not for the many pleasures he missed of cheese and wine and afternoons at the orchestra, Vidot realized he might be happy to remain there as well. But the thought of the joys he would have to give up were too great. He had to fight on. The taste of a good sausage alone was worth the struggle, not to mention the pleasures of a nice fat novel and the kiss of his sweet wife. He winced at the last thought, and scolded himself for allowing his memory to trick him into forgetting her betrayal. Vidot vowed he would get her back, he would win her heart again, he knew it was possible, it was merely another devilish puzzle to be solved. First, though, he had to stay with this Elga and watch her every move. Sooner or later an answer would show itself.

  The old woman’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. She was talking to the young girl, who was now holding a live russet-colored chicken.

  “Why did we get the chicken?” asked the girl.

  “Because you dreamt of the chicken.”

  “I also dreamt about a fox,” said the girl. “It would be fun to have a pet fox.”

  “No it wouldn’t,” said Elga. They had arrived at the car, which Vidot immediately recognized as his own police car. He could not imagine why the people passing by didn’t notice an old crone getting into a squad car with a little girl. Then again, he thought, there was a time not so long ago when he could not imagine being turned into a flea.

  “Does everyone dream of chickens?” asked the little girl.

  “No. Sometimes they dream of snakes, or deer, owls, otters, beavers, marmots, maybe moles. Reindeer, rats, lots of rats, mules, horses. Never dogs, never wolves, and I’ve never heard of foxes showing up before.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know. I hope nothing.” They were in the car now, driving through the streets. Elga had the windows rolled down and Vidot noticed that Max was keeping himself busy. The rat would look and sniff constantly, systematically reaching up with his little paw every now and again to tap Elga’s chest. If he tapped her on her left breast they turned left, if it was on her right breast, she turned right.

  The little girl kept going with her questions. “Are there any bad things to dream about?”

  “It’s bad if you dream of dragons.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because all the dragons are dead. So they’re no help to you. Whales are tricky too, they are never there when you need them. If you dream about whales or seals, you are going to have a very wet, cold time of it.”

  The car stopped and the rat scurried up over Elga’s shoulder and jumped out the open window. Vidot held on tight, and as they landed he tried quickly to decipher where they were. Peeking out from behind the rat’s ear, he saw neons brightly blinking and flashing above restaurants, cigarette shops, and nightclubs. Maybe in Pigalle? The rat scurried up a doorstep and sped across the faded parquet floor of the bright lobby before stopping
in the shadow of a moldy-smelling chaise longue. Apparently they were waiting for the others. Eventually, Elga and the girl came up, the old woman carrying a beat-up canvas bag, the girl clutching her chicken. Vidot watched the old woman pause at the front door and trace out an imaginary line around the doorframe, muttering a few words before they entered. Vidot looked over at the clerk sitting at his station reading a hunting magazine. The man seemed oblivious to their presence. She must have cast another spell, he realized, so that they could pass unnoticed. She had made them all, in essence, invisible. Vidot wondered if this might provide him with some tactical potential, but then he realized that, for all intents and purposes, his size already made him unnoticeable, even to the rat he was riding on.

  Distracted with these thoughts, Vidot lost count of the floors as they climbed up the stairs and did not notice which floor they were on when they finally started down a hallway, the sniffing rat leading the way until he stopped at a door. The old woman leaned forward and ran her fingers along the edge of the frame as she carefully inspected the door from top to bottom, sniffing now like a shopper suspicious of cheese. Finally, she pulled a white envelope from her pocket. She poured out a handful of a brown substance and, crouching down, blew it beneath the doorsill. Vidot could smell it, cinnamon. He couldn’t imagine how that spice could possibly help Elga and his brain was feeling sorely taxed from trying to make sense of so many irrational events. He decided it was time to stop swimming against the currents of all these nonsensical details and simply ride along in this wild and fantastical flood.

  The old woman was now stooped on her knees in the hallway, picking the lock with a hairpin. The noise of a door opening down the hall made Vidot look up and he observed a small, balding man emerging from the neighboring room. Vidot felt his tiny heart skip a beat, certain that they would be discovered. He was not sure why he was nervous—he was, after all, the most insignificant player in this caper—yet when the neighbor walked past without a second look, Vidot exhaled with relief. He had to respect the audacity of this old woman, so confident in her camouflage that she had not even looked up from her work as the stranger passed by. The lock clicked and the door creaked open. “You go in first,” the woman said to the girl.

  “Me? Why?” asked Noelle, clutching her chicken close to her chest.

  “Because you are innocent. Now go. This is the last time this trick will work for you,” she said and pushed the girl forward. Elga and the rat followed.

  Vidot watched as Elga quickly took charge of the situation. First, she took the kitchen chair and stood it in the center of the floor, facing the door. “You sit there, so you are the first thing she sees. When she comes in, you start saying these two words, ‘knife light,’ over and over, like a chant.”

  The girl sat hesitantly down on the chair. “Why ‘knife light’?”

  “Why, why why? Why does your finger fit so perfectly in your nose? To get the buggers out. Do not ask so many stupid questions. Do what I say, repeat it over and over, no matter what happens, no matter what occurs. There may be smoke, fire, blood, I don’t know. But do not be scared, do not let yourself be distracted, repeat it over and over again. Got it?”

  “I think so,” said the girl.

  “Good.” Next the woman took a piece of chalk out and went to the door. With her elbow she erased some chalk marks written there and in their place she scrawled a new hieroglyphic. “If you do this well, we will go buy you a new winter coat. Maybe one with a fur collar. You would like that, yes?”

  The girl’s eyes grew big. “Yes, I would.”

  “Right. So be good. Remember, ‘knife light, knife light, knife light.’ Repeat it like that.” Elga went to unpack her case. From its depths she brought out the clock. How had she gotten her hands on that? He recalled that day so clearly, finding Bemm on his way to the station, meeting with the shopkeeper in his storeroom, watching from the pharmacy as she dropped the clock off and then following the woman home. Yes, he thought, Elga must have gone back to the shop. He did not like to think about how she got the owner to hand the clock over. It was a sobering realization, reminding him that he could not let his habitual bemusement distract him from the fact that this woman was perhaps the greatest single evil the city had seen since the mass murderer Petiot preyed on his victims. Vidot squinted his small insect eyes at her and waited for what was to come next.

  For the next hour he watched as Elga took a small screwdriver and systematically dismantled the ancient clock, meticulously removing its escapement from the frame, then carefully disassembling the springs and hands and all the other mechanical features until finally a hundred or so pieces were spread around her on the rough wooden floor, as if she were the center of some marvelously ordered brass universe.

  After that, nothing happened. Elga set herself down in the middle of this vast circle of parts and remained seated there, completely quiet. The girl called Noelle seemed apprehensive, watching the door nervously, waiting for it to open so that she could begin repeating her mysterious phrase. Even the chicken was silent. They all sat there, the old woman, the young girl, the chicken, the rat, and the flea, surrounded by the discrete metal pieces of a deconstructed clock. Propped up on top of the rat’s head, with an unobstructed view of the still and silent hotel room, Vidot could not help feeling as though time itself had stopped.

  IX

  Zoya walked up from the metro to her hotel. It was too warm. Over the years she had become accustomed to most things being within her control, but the weather was always mysterious. She had heard of women who could make it hail or draw thunder, but despite many attempts, those spells had always eluded her, the same way that some children cannot master the violin or a foreign language.

  She entered the lobby and went to check in with the desk clerk. It was a different man from the one she had met when she had first moved in. This one was a thin man with yellowed skin who always seemed a little worried.

  “I’d like to know if I have had any visitors or mail,” she said.

  “No, mademoiselle, none, but there is a note here saying that you are late with your rent.”

  She nodded. Then she started whispering. Confused, he leaned in close to try to understand what she was saying and then she reached out and softly touched his clean-shaven cheek. Immediately he fell fast asleep. She laid his head down on the counter and whispered some more, feeding his dreams and confusing them with reality. With that, she had paid the rent.

  As she walked up the stairs she got her key out. Later she would remember the scent of cinnamon, but at the time it had barely registered. She was distracted, worried that the owls might not have left any pellets, and wondering if Max had found her yet.

  Upon entering the apartment, she noticed the girl first, seated there, holding a red chicken in her arms. It was a confusing sight and she dropped her guard for a moment. It wasn’t until the girl started chanting that Zoya realized it was too late. “Knife light, knife light, knife light…” Zoya turned to flee, but the door slammed in her face. Then she heard a familiar voice speaking to her in Russian.

  “You cannot leave,” said Elga.

  “Knife light, knife light, knife light…”

  Zoya looked back and saw the old woman sitting on the floor, surrounded by small pieces of metal. It was a curious sight, even for someone as odd as Elga. “Why are you here?”

  “Because Max said you would be here,” said the old woman.

  “Knife light, knife light, knife light…”

  “But, Elga, why did you want to come find me?”

  “Because,” said the old woman, “you betrayed me. You sent the police to my house.”

  Zoya shook her head. “I did not.”

  “Knife light, knife light, knife light…”

  The old woman shrugged. “So you say. You lie a lot. But it does not matter. I have reached my decision. I brought you in, I can take you out, and it is time for you to go.”

  “To go.” Zoya nodded. “You mean to die?”
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  The old woman did not answer.

  Zoya started trying to think, but no ideas were coming to her. She knew without even trying that the little girl’s chant was a trick that kept her from employing her own. “I see, yes, every journey has an end and this has certainly been a long journey. So”—she put her hands on her hips, trying to look resigned—“how would you like me to die?”

  Elga grinned her old wicked grin. “I am going to feed you this clock.”

  “Knife light, knife light, knife light…”

  Zoya knew her options were very limited. Elga would have thought of as many angles as she could come up with herself. Zoya felt like a bug crawling across the dusty floor and her two uninvited guests were the curious chickens about to peck her to death. There was a movement in the far corner and she looked across and saw the rat sitting there, watching. Ah, yes, she thought, my old friend Max. Maybe he can help. She looked at the old woman. “If you would let me smoke some pellets, I could go out in a dream. That would be kind, Elga.”

  The old woman shook her head. “No, that won’t work, I don’t know where you go in a dream.”

  “Knife light, knife light, knife light…”

  Zoya wanted to smash that chanting child’s face. “I see. Then, perhaps I can have one last glass of water?”

  The old woman studied her for a moment, weighing this indulgence. Zoya knew that Elga was not, by nature, merciful. But they had crisscrossed the borders of countless countries in the span of more than two centuries. They had ridden in private locomotive cars to aid in the looting of conquered cities, and they had trailed dying asses in retreating caravans, trudging past corpses through snowbound passes. There had been exotic palaces, expansive suites, and countless garbage pits where they were forced to dig for mildewed scraps of sustenance. They had been through enough together that she was sure she should be granted this small, last request.

  But she wasn’t certain, for who could comprehend what went on in Elga’s mind? Zoya had no idea what madness was driving the old woman to this bloody deed now. Zoya suspected that it was the accumulation of all the many ages, now balled up like sewage debris jammed in a dam’s drain. But it really did not matter. What mattered was getting to the kitchen. What mattered was Elga’s answer.