She knew something was wrong as soon as she opened her eyes. Her cheek was pressed into the dais, her body curled up in the foetal position, skin trembling and numb. Somewhere across the room, a woman laughed, but from her place on the floor the sound seemed like an eternity away, and she didn’t yet have the energy to focus her eyes. What had happened to her? What was in that red drink? For a minute or two she didn’t move, her head throbbing as she became aware of pins and needles tingling in her fingers. Eventually, slowly accepting that this wasn’t a dream, she lifted herself up slightly, pain in her joints flaring into life, deep in the core of her bones. Anna’s heart trembled. This wasn’t just stiffness, this was more than that. As if at some point during her dance she’d developed crippling arthritis.
Pulling herself into a sitting position, she moaned as she looked down at her hands. This couldn’t be right, this couldn’t be right at all. What was happening to her? What had he done to her? Where her skin had been pale and elegant, the fingers long and manicured, she was now covered in unsightly red and brown blotches and her left hand curled up like a claw. Trying to stretch it, she cried out in pain, dispelling any last shred of hope that this was merely a nightmare brought about by an excess of vodka.
Raising her head, she looked at the workbench. Frozen in a moment of sensuous movement, there stood a perfect replica of her, exotic against the rough wood. She stared at it. It wasn’t just a copy of her; it was as if the model was imbibed with her beauty and sex, the tiny figure mesmerising. Looking down, her jeans seemed too baggy, as if she were just skin and bone underneath. Painfully she dragged herself to her feet, the crookedness in her back not allowing her to straighten fully. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes as she stepped down from the dais and shuffled towards the two figures on the tatty mattress.
Gregori had his arm around a peroxide blonde in a tight-fitting T-shirt dress who was laughing and speaking to him in Russian as she went through Anna’s bag, removing her passport. Looking up, she smiled and threw the roubles from Anna’s Gucci bag at her feet. Ignoring the money, not sure that if she bent down she would be able to get up again, Anna watched as Gregori kissed the woman with all that Russian passion. It was the guide from her tour of the armoury, and with sudden clarity Anna saw how beautiful the woman was without the overdone make-up and set hair. Sitting by Gregori, she was fresh-faced, her hair hanging loose, making her look like a young Debbie Harry. The woman looked at her with disdain, and then whispered something to the still bare-chested man beside her. Gregori stood up and walked to the work bench, picking up the doll. Anna stood silent, unable to move, unable accept his duplicity. Unable to accept her own arrogant foolishness.
‘So what do you think of my art, Anya?’ He held the figurine up close to her face and, seeing all of herself within it, the tears fell free.
‘What have you done to me?’ Even her voice didn’t sound like her own, carrying a rasp in the words that was never there before.
He frowned, and she could see the hard cruelty in the lines of his face. He seemed younger than he had when she’d met him. The veneer of sophistication that he had used to lure her was gone, and in its place she could see the man that he really was. Cruel, talented, and hungry to succeed in this equal society. ‘I’ve made you immortal.’
From the corner of her eye she saw the tour guide slip her British passport into her own bag. Her soul numb and violated, she wondered briefly how much money they would get for it. Was nothing of hers to be wasted when it could be taken and bartered and used to escape from the equal life? What extremes of theft were these?
Still carrying the doll, Gregori went through the small door leading into the shop, and Anna followed him, trying to grab at him, needing more of an explanation. Panic pumped at her tired heart. She needed to know when she was going to feel normal again. When these drugs were going to wear off. She couldn’t go back to the hotel and Robert just yet. She wouldn’t be able to explain herself. Glancing at her wrist, there was an empty space where her Cartier watch had been, and looking at the shop window she could see it was still dark outside. Maybe she would just tell him that she’d gone for a walk and had been robbed. He wouldn’t need to know everything. As soon as her body got back to normal she would go back. Go back and forget that this had ever happened.
Turning to Gregori, her heart froze and she felt the tinkling of her life and soul breaking inside. She could see a reflection in the glass of the cabinets, a disfigured stranger staring out, and it was only when she met the terrified gaze that she realised the reflection was her own. One half of her face had sagged completely as if she’d had a stroke, and a series of lumps and boils were protruding over the skin that had lost its youthful tone.
She watched in horror as her reflection raised a hand, and then her own fingers confirmed what she was seeing, navigating the new shapes of her face with trembling digits. She stared, oblivious to both Gregori and the woman now dressed in his shirt who stood in the workshop doorway.
Her head echoed with the story Gregori had told in the Armoury. The aristocratic model that had hidden out her days in a nunnery. The husband whose grief had made him a murderer. He was rambling like a madman about magic and the Devil all the way to the executioner’s block. She stared at her stranger’s face in the glass and then at herself bottled up in the vivacious doll behind it, and she knew that her beauty and sensuality was lost to her forever. What he had done, could not be undone. It was magic. Russian magic; cold and passionate and alien to her.
Watching her, the woman in the doorway laughed, the sound as thick with the Russian accent as her voice was. ‘If he loves you, then you can still go back to your rich husband. He’ll look after you.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘If he recognises you, of course.’ She’d gathered up the roubles that Anna had left on the workshop floor where they’d been thrown at her, and she now held them out with the same disdain that Anna had once felt when looking at her. ‘Take this.’
Humiliated, Anna grabbed at the notes with her good hand and shoved them into her pocket, before Gregori grabbed her shoulders, pushing her towards the door. He opened it, releasing her when she was on the cobbles outside. Her boots wobbled; thin weak legs no longer steady in the heels. She was sobbing out loud, her vision blurring as he disappeared inside, abandoning her to the strange city. For a few seconds she banged on the door, but her own noise frightened her, and she stood back, panting and lost.
The sticky air was still hot with only a slight breeze signaling that the night was nearly over, and although the streetlamps still cast light down, the walkway was deserted. Tears cast new paths in the unfamiliar contours of her face, and, hunching over as she walked, she was glad that there was no longer anyone about to gasp at her body and face that made a mockery of the seductive outfit she wore.
About twenty paces from Gregori’s shop, she leaned against the rough wall and slid to the ground, her spirit broken, the reality of her situation dawning on her. She was truly lost. Displaced. There was nowhere for her to go. Maybe a stronger person would have returned to the hotel and to Robert and told him the strange tale of the bohemian on the Arbat, hoping that he would still love her or at least show her pity. Maybe there would be something that plastic surgeons could do to restore some of what she had been before, making her less obscene to look at. But it would never be enough to replace what he had taken from her. That essence was gone for good. And without her beauty she was nothing. She couldn’t go back to her life and be less.
She had been sitting there for an hour or more, curled in on herself, head buried in her arms, willing herself to die, when she felt the light touch on her shoulder and the warmth of a body huddling down beside her.
‘I wanted to warn you.’ The voice was soft, the accent American. ‘I tried to catch you up, but I couldn’t.’
Raising her head, Anna looked into the malformed face of the cowled black figure and saw that she too was crying. A long wisp of blonde hair fell out from the hood, and for a moment Ann
a thought she could imagine what this shell had once been, with her head thrown back in careless laughter.
‘You…you too?’
She nodded. ‘My name is Kate.’ She pulled Anna to her feet, before peering cautiously over her shoulder. ‘He called me Katya.’ Her sadness made the words heavy as they drifted away with her breath into the humid Moscow night. Above them the stars were starting to fade, the first hint of dawn’s arrival, and the two women shuffled towards the end of the street and towards the Metro station.
‘Where are we going?’ Anna’s body ached, its supple flexibility gone for good, and she clung gratefully to the American beside her. Her words were whispered, no longer wanting to draw any attention to herself. Ignoring the main entrance to the underground, Kate led them down the side of the building, stopping at a grate.
‘Under the city. Away. There are others there.’
As the two women tugged the metal upwards, Anna took one long last look at the dawning sun, and then disappeared down into the safety of the invisible dark and the tribes that awaited her.
JOHNSTOWN
By Brian Keene
Everything you are will be washed away.
That’s what my grandma told me the day I was baptized. Like a lot of Protestants, I got baptized twice—once when I was a baby and again when I was fourteen and became a member of our church. That’s what was expected of me, and here in Johnstown, you do what’s expected. I didn’t care much about being a Methodist. Didn’t care much about God, either. Oh, I believed in Him, in the same way I believe in Budapest or Mars. I’ve never seen either of those places but people tell me they exist, so I take them at their word. That’s how I was with God. Not my folks, though, and especially not my grandmother. They ate that religion stuff up. So I went through the motions.
The day of my second baptism, Mom straightened my tie while Dad took pictures and Grandma sat on the sofa and cried. When I asked her why she was crying, she said because she was so happy.
“You’re born again, today.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “You are washed in the blood of our Savior. We are born into sin, and we are sinful creatures. But not anymore. After today, everything you are will be washed away.”
I didn’t understand that then, but I pretended to so she’d be happy. We went to church and had a ceremony, and me and the four other kids who were becoming members all got baptized. When it was over, my family took me to the diner. I had a hamburger and fries. I’d already forgotten Grandma’s words.
But I remember them now, and I understand them.
She was talking about us. Me and Cindy.
* * *
The only two things I was ever good at were playing harmonica and falling in love with Cindy.
We met during our senior year. I’d seen her around before and knew who she was, but we’d never spoken. I was pretty much a loner, and she hung out with a big group. She wasn’t the homecoming queen or the head of the cheerleading squad, but she had a lot of friends. It was my opinion that while Cindy might not have been the most popular girl in school, she was definitely the prettiest. I’d never talked to her because I figured she was way out of my league.
Until the day she talked to me.
We were in between classes. I was rummaging around in my locker, making sure my little Ziploc bag of weed was still there. It was mostly stems and seeds, but back then, that didn’t matter. You smoked whatever you could get. When I shut the locker door, Cindy was standing there. I jumped, surprised.
She smiled. “Hi.”
I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Had I tried to, my heart would have probably jumped right out of my throat. My face felt hot and my ears rang. All the moisture vanished from my mouth.
“I saw you this weekend,” Cindy said. “At the movies.”
I nodded again. I wasn’t sure what was happening. Thought it might be some kind of trick. Girls like Cindy just didn’t walk up and start talking to me. I was a shop guy. I spent my lunchtimes smoking behind the gym. Dating shop guys didn’t improve a girl’s social standing—especially a girl as beautiful as Cindy. Most people around here are from German or Swiss descent, but Cindy was Italian and Irish. She was tall and slender, and her straight, black hair hung almost to her hips. She smelled like lavender and lilacs, and when I looked into her warm, brown eyes, it felt like I was falling. I would have been happy to stay like that forever—in eternal freefall.
I tried to think of something funny to say, but couldn’t, so I just said, “Huh?”
“The movies? The Sunday matinee? You were there, right?”
“Yeah, I was there. Young Guns II was playing.”
“I know. I sat a few rows behind you.”
“Oh.”
I glanced around, looking for snickering jocks or sneering preppies—any indication of who was behind this practical joke. But the halls were empty, except for us.
“Did you like it?”
“W-what?”
“The movie,” Cindy said. “Did you like it?”
“It was okay.” This was an understatement. In fact, I’d felt a strong enough kinship with Billy the Kid that it had frightened me a little bit.
“I liked the soundtrack. And I liked Keifer Sutherland. How about you?”
“He’s okay, I guess. I... I liked the part when the guy asks Billy if he has any scars.”
Her expression grew serious. “Yeah. That was pretty deep. I could tell that you liked that part because of the way you were sitting. You leaned forward and seemed drawn into it.”
“You were watching me?”
Blushing, Cindy turned away. She sighed, and I was mesmerized by the rise and fall of her breasts. When she turned back to me, we were both red.
“I’ve been watching you since the eighth grade. I’m Cindy.”
“I know.”
And that was how we met. I’m not going to call it love at first sight, because that trivializes it. What we had was a lot more than that. It was something that most folks spend their lives dreaming of and never get. We had it. Trying to recount it now doesn’t do it justice, because it was a young man’s story and a young man’s feelings, and I’m almost forty now. At this age, you forget the depth of a young man’s emotions. But that initial spark burned bright and true, like the furnace at the steel mill, and like that furnace, it was never supposed to go out.
Cindy and I used to come to the river all the time. It was cheaper than going to the movies or out to eat. Quieter, too. On Friday night, I’d pick Cindy up and we’d drive past the city limits. Pavement gave way to green trees and fields of multi-colored wildflowers, which was special, because Johnstown was the color of rust and grime. In winter, the snow was a dirty shade of gray.
The Conemaugh River started at the juncture of the Little Conemaugh and Stony Creek rivers, but compared to the city, it was a whole different world—our own private Heaven. We spent as much time there as we could. Even played hooky a few times as graduation loomed and the days grew warmer. We’d strip down to our underwear and go swimming. Sometimes, we stayed there all night. Our parents didn’t care. We’d spread a blanket out along the riverbank, and lie there together, listening to the radio and watching the stars and talking about everything and nothing. I’d play my harmonica for her—Supertramp, Bob Dylan, maybe some John Prine. She’d never listened to any of them, but she liked it when I played, just the same. Sometimes, Cindy fell asleep in my arms.
It made me shudder back then and it makes me shudder now.
One night, when we were lying there, Cindy turned to me and said, “I hope you're happy.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I hope that some part of you is truly happy, because in all the years I’ve watched you and wondered if you’d ever notice me, I don't know if I've ever really seen you happy.”
“Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Most people probably never noticed, but I did.”
I shrugged. “Sure I’m happy.”
“Are you? I hope so, because it matters to me. Remember when you said you liked the part in Young Guns II when Billy talks about his scars? That made me sad, but at the same time, I understood it. Sometimes you seem like you’ve got this desperate need to find something that eludes you. That scares me, a little. For you, and for me, because I’m searching, too, and I’m scared that if you find what you’re looking for, then you’ll leave. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to lose you. Or maybe I'm wrong, and I’m putting my own feelings on you. Maybe I just don’t want to believe I’m the only one who feels that way.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I used to feel that way... I guess. But not anymore. I found what I was looking for. I found you.”
“And you’re happy?”
I kissed her head, closing my eyes and breathing in shampoo, and beneath it, her clean, fresh scent.
“I’ve never been happier,” I whispered.
That was the first time I told Cindy that I loved her. And it wasn’t the only first that night. It was the first time either of us made love. And it was the first time in my life I’d ever been happy. I hadn’t known I was unhappy, until then. Never really thought about it much. But I liked how Cindy made me feel. She made me dream.
That was important, because this town isn’t much on dreams. There’s no time for them. There’s work to be done. Back in the Eighties, we had three choices—the steel mill, construction, or the military. These days, the opportunities are even worse. A few steel fabrication jobs. Healthcare. Telemarketing. Temp agencies. Folks have to go all the way to Pittsburgh or Altoona for a job that pays well.
Mister October - Volume Two Page 15
