by Craig Nova
What’s her trouble? thought Felix. As though I didn’t have enough to worry about.
Her reddish hair was a bright spot against the otherwise dull landscape and the glittering wings. Here and there some dragonflies launched themselves again and darted one way and another. The woman walked with an upright, square-shouldered gait: she seemed to be straining, as though she had something heavy in her pocket. Even from a distance she seemed familiar. Her steady gait, so definite and yet suggesting something else, not anxiety, not worry, but desperation, left Felix thinking, Sure, sure. She needs a drink. A rummy. Why, what wouldn’t she do for a slug of something to keep the DTs away. That’s what makes her look that way. A good customer.
Armina walked the last distance through the glittering street, where a few of the dragonflies flitted around.
“What do you want?”
“Why,” said Armina, “I thought you’d know.”
“This batch isn’t ready,” said Frieda.
“Yeah,” said Felix. “You’ll have to wait. We’re cooking now. Isn’t that what you want? A little hair of the hound?”
“No,” she said.
“No?” he said. “Then why do you look sort of sick? I guess you’re one of those who’s ashamed.”
“You could say that,” said Armina.
“Well, you’ll have to wait. It’s going to be a good batch. Get a bottle and come back tomorrow.”
The mash had a breadlike, yeasty scent, which seeped into the air from the kitchen at the back of the building. Felix squinted at Armina, as though recalling the detail of a dream, then licked his lip, and reached for his lower leg, where he kept the ice pick, but then he stopped and stood up again.
“Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s here. Didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been a while.”
Armina nodded. Yes, it had been a while.
“So,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“America,” she said.
“No kidding,” he said. “America. So why come back?”
“You might be able to help me with that,” she said.
“A poor man like me?” he said. “What can I do? Look at my coat. Why, I’m lucky to be alive.”
About forty or fifty meters away, beyond a pile of rubble, men spoke to one another although the language was unclear. Not German, not English. Probably Russian. Still, even from here, the words were slurred and the men spoke in short argumentative exclamations. They sounded like hungry dogs barking at one another through a fence.
“Did you see those insects?” said Frieda.
“Yes,” said Armina. “I saw them.”
“Sort of sudden,” said Frieda.
“Yes,” she said. “They just arrive, out of the blue. And there they are.”
“Just a bunch of bugs,” said Felix. “Who cares?”
Three Russians emerged about thirty meters away, one pushing another, although even this was done with a fumbling ineptness. They couldn’t just shove one another out of a boozy anger, but instead they had to think about it, weaving back and forth like figures in a mirage. Then they started walking toward Felix, Frieda, and Armina. One pretended to take a long draft out of a bottle. What we need, he seemed to say, is another drink. He stumbled then kicked the brick that tripped him. Why even the stones in this godforsaken place were worthless.
“You’ve grown up,” said Armina to Felix. “Or at least you’ve gotten older.”
“See,” said Frieda. “She’s an old friend.”
He went on staring at Armina. She put her hand in her coat pocket and touched the pistol.
“Do you remember Gaelle? And working in the park?” said Armina.
“What’s she talking about?” said Frieda. “What’s that about the park. Aren’t we going to take a walk there?”
“Maybe,” said Felix.
“So,” said Armina. “You’re going for a walk?”
“Sure,” said Frieda. “Why not?”
“Why not?” said Armina.
Felix took a step to the side, moving from one foot to the other, and when he did he made a quarter moon–shaped mark in the dust. Armina looked down, and then at Felix.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Felix. “All of that was a long time ago. What difference does it make?”
“I want to go on a walk,” said Frieda.
“And there were others, too,” said Armina. “Weren’t there? We never talked about them, did we?”
“Go be a snob to someone else,” said Felix. “You’re just a snob.”
The Russians veered in one direction, as though bound by a rope, but then they corrected themselves, squinted at Armina, Felix, and Frieda, and took a more direct path. Two of them had a rifle slung over a shoulder.
“Russians,” said Frieda.
“Customers,” said Felix.
Frieda turned to Armina. “I think we should go.”
The cooker in the kitchen of the bombed-out row house made a steady hissing. At first, it was like gas escaping, a mild ssssss, but it seemed to get more intense.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Felix.
The hissing got louder.
“Go check it,” he said to Frieda.
“Why me?” she said. “Why don’t you go?”
An intense, watery hissing came from the still, and then a Bang! Coppery shrapnel flew in arcs out of the window, the edges of the metal as bright as a new penny. Armina turned, tripped over a stone, and dropped the pistol into the rubble. The smoke appeared like a gray pennant that curdled into a ball and rose along the side of the building.
Felix reached down and took the pistol and put it into the pocket of his coat.
“You were supposed to watch,” said Felix to Frieda. “What did I tell you? Watch. Listen.”
“I came out to look at the bugs,” said Frieda. Felix turned back to Armina.
“I haven’t got time for you,” said Felix. “I’ve got things on my mind.”
Felix and Frieda went to the side of the building. The kitchen was covered with the mash, and the still was gone: just bits and pieces of copper, none bigger than a hand. In the middle of the fire sat one jagged piece of copper that had been the base of the entire thing.
The Russians stopped, as though the sound were a wall they had run into, and then they gesticulated to one another, throwing up their hands to suggest the explosions, the copper shrapnel, as though retelling it could make sense of the fact that they weren’t going to get anything to drink here.
Frieda stepped backward, keeping her eyes on the Russians, and then as she turned she said to Armina, “You should go.”
“I’ve got something to do,” said Armina.
“No you don’t,” she said. “Believe me.”
“It won’t take long,” said Armina.
The Russians came along in the circuitous path of drunkeness, heading one way and then another, bumping into one another and then shoving the one who had done the bumping.
“There’s where you’re wrong,” said Frieda. “It can take a long time. A long time. You’re going to need help.”
“I’ve got something to do,” said Armina.
“You should listen,” Frieda said. “You won’t ever forget. That’s the worst part. At three in the morning you go through it again. I’m not waiting for that, and you shouldn’t either.”
Frieda’s thinness, her delicate way of walking, her long fingers and slender legs made her seem vulnerable as she went as quickly as she could, not running, but obviously wanting to. Her dusty hair and her worn, gray dress, and her odd sense of disorder helped her disappear into the rubble. It was as though she had been erased.
The skin around Felix’s nostrils was white, his breathing shallow and wet. His coat hung on his shoulders and made him look like a jacket hung on a frame made of sticks. He went into the building to look at his cooker.
The oldest of the Russians, a man of thirty or so, swayed back and forth. His eyes moved from Armi
na’s hair to her breasts, to her stomach, her legs, down to her shoes. One of the younger Russians sang a song, humming the words he didn’t know, but he looked Armina over, too, from her legs to her face. The oldest Russian took some potatoes out of his pocket, six altogether.
See, he seemed to say to Armina, these are for you. There are six potatoes. There are three of us. That’s two for each. See? He dropped one, and when one of the younger Russians tried to pick it up, he bumped heads with the oldest. The oldest Russian pushed the younger one out of the way and picked up the potato. The other Russian, a young blond man, swayed back and forth as he stared at Armina.
“He has something,” said Armina to the oldest Russian. “I want to show you.”
The young blond man looked at Armina’s face. The oldest man offered the potatoes again, swaying as he did so. Then he reached into his pocket and took out another potato. Seven potatoes. He said something in Russian, and one of the younger men pulled his pockets inside out to show that that was all he had. That was his last, best offer. Three of them. Seven potatoes. He shoved the potatoes in Armina’s direction. See? You better take it. There are other ways of doing business. The older one swayed again.
“A pistol,” she said.
She made a gun out of one hand, pulled back her thumb like a hammer, and shot it. She said, Bang! Then she did it again.
“Where?” said the man with the potatoes. He put them into his pocket, dropping one and picking it up, almost falling. Then he stood up and blinked.
Armina pointed to the apartment where the smoke rose from the window. She made the pistol out of her hand again. Felix came out from the building.
“Him,” she said.
The youngest Russian, the blond boy with white skin, made a quick movement and grabbed Felix by the arm. Then he reached into Felix’s pocket and took out the pistol: it had some nicks on the wooden grip and some of the bluing had gone from the barrel, although Armina had kept it oiled, and the metal underneath had a silver glint.
“You,” the oldest Russian said to Felix. “Come.”
“Don’t you want to buy some booze?” said Felix.
“No,” said the older. “Later. We’ll find someone else. Come.”
They dragged him through the rubble to an open place in front of a brick wall.
“Hey,” Felix said. “Hey.”
The two younger Russians stood back a couple of feet. The older one held Felix by the arm.
“Hey,” said Felix. “It’s not mine. It’s hers. It’s not mine.”
“You had it,” said the old Russian, who stood next to him. “That’s it. Kaput. Bang.”
“Yes,” Felix said. “But there’s more to it—”
“No there isn’t,” said the older Russian.
“Put him over there,” said the older Russian. He gestured to the wall. “Make him stand.”
“They don’t always want to,” said the younger one.
“It doesn’t matter. He can stand or not,” said the older one. “I don’t give a shit.”
“Wait, wait,” said Felix.
“You had the pistol,” said the older Russian.
The older Russian pulled Felix against the wolf-colored brick. Armina stepped forward, her hand out, palm up. Felix’s skin was as gray as the lines of mortar that held the bricks together.
“Get out of the way,” said the older Russian to Armina. “We’ll take care of him now.” He swallowed and looked around. A bird flew across the sky. “Reminds me of home,” he said.
“Wait,” said Armina. “I need to ask something.”
“What?” said the older Russian. “I don’t understand. Nicht verstehen.”
He spoke to the younger, boyish Russians, one with dark hair, the other blond. The blond hair was filled with highlights from the sun. One of the boys shrugged, then the other. What the hell, they seemed to say. We’ve got other things to do. They unslung their rifles, swinging them around from their left shoulder to their right, but they had trouble mounting the butt and had to try a couple of times. They swayed as they held their rifles up, and the muzzles described figure eights.
The charcoal-colored birds that had come to eat the insects now circled overhead, their shapes like glistening Vs against the sky, and as they turned in a widening pattern to find the place where most of the insects remained they cawed and squawked and fluttered against one another when they landed. The Russians glanced up at them and then back at Felix. The two younger ones worked the bolts on their rifles, flipping them up, pulling them back, letting the cartridge rise from the magazine, pushing the bolt forward, slapping it shut against the wooden stock. The actions of the rifles made a sort of subdued cackle.
The older Russian pushed Felix against the wall.
“Stay there,” he said. “Right here. See. No moving.”
“Wait,” said Armina.
“Ask her about the potatoes,” said the blond one in Russian. “I always feel horny afterward.”
Felix put one hand to his thin hair, pulled his leg back so that it looked more normal.
“Wait until this is over,” said Felix to Armina. He gestured to the Russians. “You’re going to have some fun.”
She held up her hand. The older Russian stared at her and then spoke to the others. What was she up to anyway? What’s going on? They were getting hungry, too. Where were they going to get some bread? Some cheese?
“Look at you,” Armina said to Felix. “Look at your leg.”
He put his head up, chin out.
“You insult me when I’m facing this.”
He pointed at the Russians.
“You limp,” she said.
“That won’t get you anyplace,” he said.
“A minute,” said Armina to the Russians. “Ein Minuten.”
The older one shrugged. The barrels of the rifles waved around.
“One,” said the older Russian.
“Wait,” said Armina.
“Some fun,” said Felix. “They like you.”
“None of them wanted you,” said Armina. “Those women in the park. Isn’t that right?”
“You think you can make me angry?” said Felix.
The older Russian blinked, glanced at Felix, then at the younger soldiers and tried to remember what he was doing. He swallowed and put his hand to the back of his mouth.
“Did Gaelle push you away? I bet she wouldn’t even take your money,” said Armina. “I bet she wouldn’t touch you. Not that way. Why, she wouldn’t have anything to do with you. So, when Hauptmann asked you, you saw your chance. You’d do what you wanted and get paid for it.”
The look of the fawning street urchin seemed, for a moment, to be suspended on Felix’s gray face, like a mask worn at carnival. Then his face seemed slack, numb, without any expression at all, and it was this slackness, this emptiness that Armina realized had been the last thing the women in the park had seen. He reached down to his ankle, lifted the pant leg, and reached for the ice pick, but the older Russian grabbed him, pulled him up, shook him, and then took the taped handle with the long spike and the sharpened tip. Then the Russian threw it into the rubble, the thing making a small circle, like a propeller, as it flew away and landed among the black, squawking birds.
“So,” said Armina. “She wouldn’t take the money. Too disgusted for that.”
“The women in the park learned something from me. Oh, yeah. They did.”
Felix looked at her with that same slack expression, as though the nerves that controlled the muscles had been cut. “Aim,” said the older Russian.
Armina held up her hands. The Russians hesitated.
“Marie,” said Felix. “There was Marie. In the gully. Some young-looking ones. Too dumb to come in out of the rain. They fought a little. But not much.”
“And Gaelle?” said Armina.
“She could have saved me, see?” said Felix. “She could have brought me in from the dark. I washed her stockings.”
He took a dirty, stained silk cord
from his pocket and let it hang from his hand.
“Isn’t this what you wanted to see?”
“What did he say?” said one of the younger Russians.
“Screw it,” said the older one. “How would I know? Ah, shit, I’m not feeling so good.”
He put his hands on his knees and vomited in slow, watery eruptions into the rubble. The younger ones waited, as though they had seen this before and knew he would get over it.
“That’s all?” said Armina to Felix.
“One here the other night,” said Felix.
His face seemed even more slack, gray, and inscrutable.
“Why?” said Armina.
Felix shrugged.
“They didn’t like me,” he said. “I could tell.”
The older Russian tried to lean against the wall but fell down and dropped the pistol. The blue metal clattered on the stones and rolled into the dust at the bottom. The younger Russians leaned forward, their rifles mounted, but they still tried to help up the older one. Felix starting running.
He didn’t go fast, but he limped quickly, up and down, as he went around the first mound of bricks. His coat flapped back, like gray wings, and his shoes made puffs of smoke like dust. Armina picked up the pistol, put the bead between the rear sights, just like in those endless hours on the range, and aimed for the heaviest mass, the middle of Felix’s back. He looked over his shoulder as the pistol went off, Bang, bang. He kept on running, then slipped down on one knee, tried to get up, took another couple of steps and sat down on a pile of rubble.
“I’m shot. I’m shot,” he said. “Can you believe it? Shot.”
He tried to get up, limped another step, and then sat down. Some black birds that were feeding on the insects rose into the air at the shots. They squawked and whirled, like a collection of black flags, and then, with a swoop, settled down again.
The young Russians turned to Armina, but now they seemed more sober than before. They swung their rifles around, neatly shouldering them, one arm through the sling. The safeties clicked off. Armina held out the pistol, flat in her hand, offering it. Then she put it down. She stepped back and held up both empty hands. The older Russian swayed back and forth.
