Rasputin's Prodigy

by Michael Weinberger

  “I can fight too!” Pha suddenly said without prompting, “But I be better if I had my knife. Big doo-doo head took it when I not ready.”

  “Big doo-doo head?” Lei asked while desperately stifling a laugh that had shocked her out of her melancholy, “Do you mean the man who was just in here?”

  Pha shook her head, “No, not really big man. Small, old man, but very big doo-doo head.”

  Lei could only guess that Pha was talking about Dimitri, in which case the girl was right. “I think I know who you mean, and yes, he is a very, very big doo-doo head.”

  Chapter 13

  I awoke before the sun was up and let Chris catch a few hours of sleep before we would to head out to see Larson's contact. I showered, which wasn't really an appropriate action for someone “on watch,” but the aches and pains in my body would restrict me and demanded my intervention. Still, it was a quick shower in any case, and I toweled off and dressed in rapid succession. The shower helped, but the pain was still gnawing at me and I tried to distract myself by sitting at Chris' computer and doing some random internet searching. I had always found YouTube to be a great choice for exactly that kind of activity, where I usually looked up comedy routines or music videos, but this time I just searched Yahoo for the latest news. The Yahoo news channels were reporting on the latest disaster or celebrity indescretion, peppered with shadowbox advertisements for some “extreme baby cuteness” video that had gone viral. I absently clicked on one of those videos about a giant dog that loves his new human baby, and watched as this enormous mastiff tried to curl itself around a three month old without crushing its tiny form.

  As I watched I felt my heart drop, and it wasn't the adorable nature of the scene that deflated me, but rather because Lei really loves this kind of scripted-reality video. . When we were killing time in our office back in Las Vegas she would repeatedly call out to me until I came over and watched the latest video she had found. It was a near-daily ritual, that could get a trifle annoying at times, mostly because she seemed to always want me to come watch a video clip when I was involved in something that commanded my full attention. Still, Lei was a force of nature, and deep down I knew I wasn't going to be off the hook until I dropped everything and went over to her desk to share in the “Oh, how cute” experience of some kitten, puppy or other newborn creature’s video.

  I could almost sense her next to me as I watched, and chuckled as the big dog started to whine when the baby moved away, and the dog had to put in another round of careful circling followed by a great flopping onto the floor, as only large dogs can do, with the infant once again perfectly encircled by the dogs girth.

  I scratched at an itch on my cheek and my fingertips came back slightly damp. I frowned and stared at my fingertips thinking I had cut myself, but the wetness was clear. Pressure on my shoulder startled me, but not enough to make me jolt, and the reassuring weight of Chris' hand made me realize I had been crying.

  “We'll find her,” Chris said, speaking in reassuring tones that were completely without doubt and would brook no debate. I wiped at my eyes, more to compose myself than as a result of any self-consciousness. Chris and I were brothers and I had no secrets from him.

  I could only nod my response, which prompted a reassuring squeeze and manly shoulder pat, before Chris broke contact and moved into the restroom. I turned to see that not only had the sun come up, but it now appeared high enough in the sky to have burned off some of the grayness of the misty sunrise. I shook myself and stretched, while I waited for Chris to emerge from the bathroom. Every fiber of my being was either sore or tight with muscle tension, and I knew I needed to get moving. I was going to say as much, when Chris waked out of the bathroom fully dressed and back to his old self.

  “So,” he said with more enthusiasm than was warranted, “let's go see if this backward town of former Communist heathens has a Starbucks yet.”

  ***

  It turned out that Nazran was, in fact, one of the last remaining places on earth without the Starbucks franchise. We found coffee though, at what passed for a tiny farmers market mostly featuring potatoes or other root vegetables, but we were not provided milk or sugar. I tend to cream and sugar my coffee to the point where it is more like melted coffee ice cream, as opposed to a hot and bitter beverage. Lei took hers black, and after seeing me fuss over my brew with the cream and sugar, would generally make a snide remark about how big a pussy I was. I'd follow with something snippy, along the lines of what it indicated about a person’s true nature, who enjoyed such bitter flavors, and the verbal dance would go on until we were both laughing and ignoring the coffee that had started the whole debate.

  Chris pulled out his cell phone and entered several passwords, before opening the “notes” section on his phone. Reading the directions and realizing we were only a few blocks away from where we needed to go we decided to walk, as opposed to attempting to hail one of the infrequent cabs that drove past. The morning was still a bit overcast, shedding a pale grey light and depressing the already ugly city to an even greater dimension. The city was a wide-open space, more reminiscent of the way in which cities in the Western half of the United States had been planned, as opposed to skyscrapers abutting each other in New York’s Manhattan. Most of the windows of the buildings had been blown out, likely by earlier artillery fire, and the few that looked intact were dilapidated in a multitude of other ways. All of the buildings seemed to be made of a filthy grey concrete and without any adornment, evocative of the “No-Frills” mentality that many government offices seem to engender. We could see the rubble of a number of buildings, which had either been bombed, blown up, set on fire or riddled with bullets. The area’s capacity for damage suddenly made me realize that the space between the buildings made sense in a purely survivalist manner.

  There were few people on the streets, and those who were hanging around seemed as though they had probably slept there. They hovered in their spots in a way I associated with the homeless back in the states, although without the shopping carts loaded with “found treasures” nor the backpacks of belongings they frequently defended. These folk were dirty, haggard and in as much a decrepit state as was their surroundings, but they were cognizant enough to turn and eye Chris and me, as we walked by.

  “Isn't this interesting?” I whispered.

  Chris frowned, “What?”

  I inclined my head towards a trio of people who just sat and watched us walking along the street, “They look like street people, but no one has held out their hand or asked for money.”

  Chris turned away from me and back to the trio I had indicated as we were passing them, and he recognized the look in their eyes. “They're afraid of us perhaps?” he asked. I nodded as he continued, “and it’s also my guess that they don't quite know what to make of us.”

  I thought about that, and given Dimitri and his people's reputation for living like the vampires of old by feeding off of the fresh blood of others, it sort of made some sense. These people probably knew that we weren't part of Dimitri's group but, despite that, we were walking the streets of one of the most dangerous cities in the world unarmed and seemingly unafraid, which meant we were either completely stupid, insane or so dangerous that even the risks of Nazran were of no consequence to us.

  “We might want to consider finding a route with fewer spectators,” Chris spoke in a voice not much higher than a whisper.

  I nodded my head in agreement, “These people look like they have been effectively cowed, but we are attracting a lot of attention, and even though they may not attack us directly, one of these enterprising souls might try to sell our presence to someone on the lookout for strangers.”

  Chris rolled his eyes, “Seems kind of late for preventing that.”

  I smiled, “True, but I'm a big believer in not making a bad situation worse.” I pointed at Chris' phone, “Can you use that thing to get us off the main road?”

  Chris nodded and studied the map on the screen of his phone, “We're al
most there. We can walk between a couple of the buildings and make a shortcut of it.”

  “We aren't taking the quickest route?”

  “No, I had thought we were doing a casual recon of the city as we walked to the Green Fairy.”

  I tried to let the words roll over me, but failed miserably, “I'm sorry, the what?”

  Chris laughed, “I'm embellishing. The joint we're heading to is a liquor store specializing in Absinthe and the various associated accessories.”

  Chris had always been interested in myths and legends, even before he actually became one, so it was no surprise to me that he was aware of the legend of the “Green Fairy” that was associated with Absinthe. Absinthe is a high-volume alcohol drink or “spirit” having a proof rating from at least 100 to a usual maximum of 140 and contains the psychotropic chemical Thujone, which naturally resides in the drink due to the inclusion of wormwood within its recipe. Absinthe has been labeled the inspiration, and possible detriment, for a number of bohemian artists, musicians and writers throughout history. This close association with the creative process resulted in the legend of “The Green Fairy” or “The Green Lady” who would appear when the spirit is properly concocted and consumed. Ultimately, due to the presence of Thujone, the drink was thought to be a dangerously addictive and psychoactive drug that altered one’s perceptions, thoughts or emotions to the point that people could become insane. Recent studies had proved that the quantity of Thujone was so low in the “spirit” that it had little, if any, effect on the body. As it turns out, the dangers of Absinthe were the simple and mundane dangers of regular alcoholism, and the ban on the liquor was lifted in the 1990's.

  There were no signs or numbers on the door of the grey shop we approached, which made me wonder how Chris knew where the shop was.

  “GPS,” Chris volunteered before I could ask, “pinpoints exactly where we are and where we need to be.”

  I walked to the door and pulled, only to find it locked. Chris nodded as he pointed to the cell phone screen, “Larson's notes say that the shop would likely be closed, but the owner is always there.”

  I frowned, “So we just knock or something?”

  Chris shrugged, “Guess so.” Chris knocked on the door and, after a few seconds without anyone answering Chris knocked again, but this time added in a sing-song voice, “little pigs, little pigs let me in.”

  I rolled my eyes, “Now that's just creepy.”

  Chris pointed at his nose to indicate himself and said, “Vampire.”

  I pointed at his nose and said, “Idiot.”

  Chris smiled, “You're no fun, you know that?”

  I ignored him and said, “Knock again or something.”

  Chris smiled and turned to knock on the glass when a voice demanded something in what I guessed was Russian. I scanned the door and the space around it. The voice had the electronic and tinny sound from coming through a cheap speaker, but I couldn't see any sign of an intercom or speaker box.

  “Speakee English?” Chris responded in half chuckle that was offensive enough to make me sure we wouldn't get a response, even if the person speaking did have some command of English.

  To my surprise a heavily accented voice immediately came back, “Who are you and what do you want?!”

  Chris was still in “Chris” mode and called out loudly in a false baritone, “Little pig, little pig, let me... OOF!”

  I punched Chris hard in the shoulder to cut him off. Despite the sting of the blow I just had given him, Chris looked as though he might break out in a huge laugh and I was about to start chastising him when the voice came back, “Robert?”

  The angry words in my throat froze and I looked back at the door in dumbfounded disbelief. Major Larson's first name was Robert and the whole “Little Pig” thing had been a password he evidently used with his the contact in the Absinthe shop.

  Finally I found my voice, “We're Robert's friends. I believe he told you we were coming?”

  “Ah! Da, da. He told me of you. Wait a moment.”

  Chris was smiling at me with a smugness that made me want to hit him again.

  “Say it,” Chris chastised me.

  I growled, “No.”

  Chris' smile grew wider as he taunted, “You know a “real” man admits when he made a mistake.”

  I turned my face away from him lest his smile become infectious, which absolutely would not be appropriate at this time, “Not my fault if you don't tell me everything,” I complained.

  Chris would not let it drop, “C'mon, say it. You know you should.”

  I let out a breath and threw my hands in the air, “All right! I'm sorry I hit you in the shoulder,” but I quickly followed with, “but you were so...

  Chris cut me off, his smile growing ridiculously wide, “No, no. An apology with an excuse attached isn't an apology.” He was enjoying making me uncomfortable way too much.

  I let out a defeated sigh, “Okay, you win. I'm sorry for hitting you in the shoulder.”

  Chris' smile turned to satisfaction as the door to the shop opened and a small round man beckoned us inside, “Come, come. Quickly.”

  “After you,” Chris gestured regally with one hand and, as I turned to head inside, he socked hard me in the shoulder.

  I yelped, and the man holding the door for us looked as though he was going to bolt inside and lock the door behind him, but Chris walked inside before he could act on his impulse.

  I bit my lip both in the pain of the shot he gave me as well as stifling the laugh that threatened to overwhelm me. Chris was many things, but best of all was the way he could cheer your spirits and push a smile out of you when you needed it most. I had been feeling such worry for Lei that it was threatening to overwhelm me. Now, with a mock look defeat on my face and a hand over my punched shoulder, I shuffled meekly into the shop and let the man close the door behind me.

  Chapter 14

  The impoverished appearance of the sparse and somewhat rundown exterior of the building was stripped away the instant we stepped inside. The shop was of a basic rectangular box shape, with display shelving on the long sidewalls and a bar countertop at the far end. Exotic hardwoods covered the floor and spanned seamlessly up the walls and into the cabinetry, as if impossibly cut from a single log. Along one of the sidewalls were bottles too numerous to count of various Absinthe brands, which were arranged neatly to become as much a part of decor as the woodworks. The opposite wall displayed an enormous collection of intricately designed silver Absinthe “fountains” and slotted sugar spoons. Absinthe fountains are used to dilute the alcoholic spirit with water, which is usually dripped over a sugar cube that is resting on a slotted spoon spanning the opening of a specially designed crystal drinking glass. Most of the pieces utilized by connoisseurs were of basic design, little more than funnels, but with the added ability to regulate the water flow. The Absinthe fountains in this shop went way beyond the principles of mere functionality as each was a wonder of hand-crafted art that could have served as a museum quality steam-punk masterpiece. Such was the artistry that each piece looked as though with a turn of the spigot, the fountain would not only dilute the beverage, but would likely animate itself and fly away with strains of some classical music chiming in its wake.

  Chris and I both hesitated while taking in the dreamlike majesty of the shop. Not very professional on either of our parts, but the surreal way the interior appearance contradicted its exterior, and with Nazran as whole, was just too much to be ignored.

  The man who had opened the door for us smiled at our awe as he casually locked the shop door. Any traces of anxiety on his face at our presence or behavior melted away as he, too stopped to join us in appreciation of what he had presumably created. Chris walked over to the wall where the Absinthe fountains rested on the oversized display shelves that stabilized their bulk, while still keeping them accessible to whomever might be looking at them.

  Stepping in front of a fountain with a particularly gothic design, Chris’ eyes tw
inkled like child’s, who has just entered a major toy or candy store for the first time, and turned to the shop owner, who answered with a nod at the wordless “Can I touch it” question on Chris' face. Chris ran his fingertips over the detailed workmanship that was so fine it looked as though it had been created under a microscope, as he traced the path the water would take from the fountain's reservoir until it reached one of its many terminal spigots.

  “Is this functional?”

  The owner smiled wickedly and responded in that heavy Slavic accent, “Oh da, very much so.”

  “It doesn't seem possible,” Chris wondered, “it seems as though the water has to defy gravity to get to its destination.”

  The owner nodded happily, “Indeed, that is exactly how it was supposed to appear, but it is simple case of the water pressure from the reservoir overwhelming the weight of the actual water in the piping so it rises as though lifted by the fairy herself.”

  I chuckled, “Poetic.”

  The owner turned to me and shrugged his shoulders, “It's Absinthe, would you expect any less? The mystical legend of the spirit is half the fun.”

  The owner walked past us and rounded the bar at the far end of the room, “Now as much as I am flattered by your admiration of the art in my store, you are here to do business, Da?”

  “Business?” I said in confusion, “Major-”

  Chris stopped what I was going to say by resting a warning hand on my shoulder. I turned to him in confusion, “What?” but he was looking at his cell phone screen and ignored my question.

  After a few seconds Chris raised one eyebrow at the cell phone screen and mumbled a quiet, “Hmm, who knew?” before pocketing his cell phone and turning back to the owner.