Babayaga: A Novel (48 page)

Oliver had been pointing a pistol at Vidot when he finally emerged, naked, from the shadows. Feeling as exposed and vulnerable as he had ever felt, Vidot raised his hands in surrender just as Will stepped forward and told Oliver to put the gun down. “He’s okay. I told you, I know him.”

“Where in the Lord’s name do you know him from?” said Oliver.

“He’s a friend,” said Will, nodding to Vidot. Then, addressing him:
“Merci.”

Vidot made a small bow, relieved that Will had remembered him from their mutual hallucination. After a few more awkward moments, the priest had finally gone to get him a set of clothes.

In the car now, he tried to use logic to reassemble the surreal course of events. All he could come up with was that the death of the old woman had broken her spell over him, returning him to his natural state. He wondered if the same thing had happened that day all over Europe. God knows how many others were sprung free. The woman was ancient and had, no doubt, cast countless spiteful spells between Russia and Paris. He imagined legions of bears, squirrels, and tortoises spontaneously becoming men again, awakening naked to their restored form, as bewildered as he was. Driving along in the car now, he scratched his fingers lightly along the top of his hand, pinching himself and pulling at his skin. He rubbed his arm and ran his fingers through his hair. He never imagined the intensity mere existence could cause, but now, as tears ran down his cheeks, he scratched at his testicles and wiggled his ten toes in the old priest’s roomy loafers, all while savoring the simple satisfaction of being back in his own skin. He looked over his shoulder at Zoya, lying unconscious with her head in Will’s lap. The American was softly stroking her forehead, gazing down at her face with an expression of tender affection that almost made Vidot’s heart burst.

Oliver drove fast. As they left the countryside behind, buildings slowly filled in the spaces, crouching together and growing in height, as if they were physically being pulled shoulder to shoulder as they stacked up toward the center of the city, rising taller as they were drawn in by the centripetal excitement of Paris. It was not too late in the evening and the boulevards still bustled with families and young couples out for an after-dinner stroll. Vidot realized his wife, Adèle, was there in the city too, perhaps even now in the arms of her lover. Vidot wanted to run to find her, pull her from her Alberto’s arms, box the man’s ears and punch him in the nose, and then seize her, kiss her, throttle, embrace, and shake her till she screamed. The impulse was so strong, he had to close his eyes to try to calm himself. Not yet, he thought. I cannot go to her when my heart is so rough. I must wait.

They drove down rue Lafayette and turned up toward Pigalle. “I’ll pull up in front of the hotel,” said Oliver. “You can help get her upstairs, yes?”

Vidot nodded. He was curious what would happen. They had all listened as the priest, crouching next to Zoya on the barn floor, had explained the necessary steps they would need to take if they hoped to revive her. Will had asked the priest to come with them, but the old man had refused. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ll find it by the window.”

Oliver stopped in front of the small hotel to let them out. Will lifted Zoya and put her over his shoulder, shaking off any assistance. As they went in, the front desk was empty. Vidot led the way to the stairs, which they climbed quickly. When they reached Zoya’s floor, Will pointed down the hall. “It’s that one, on the left.” Vidot did not bother telling him he knew the way.

The door was unlocked and as they entered neither commented on the state of devastation. Vidot glanced to the corner where the dead rat still lay on the floor with a cleaver stuck in its skull. Flies were buzzing lazily above the bloodstains on the wall and floor.

Will took Zoya over and placed her gently on the bed, while Vidot opened the window. On the sill he found the three owl balls that the priest had told them would be waiting there. Vidot then went to the kitchen and found the matches and pipe. It made him smile, for it was a man’s pipe, with a red walnut bowl and a black stem, exactly like the one Vidot’s grandfather had used. The old man had never smoked but had always chewed on the end of it to disguise his nervous jaw. What would the old fellow make of this, wondered Vidot, crushing an owl pellet into the bowl of the pipe. He took it over to Will, who was arranging Zoya on the bed.

Will unhesitatingly took the pipe and lit the match.

“Bonne chance, monsieur,”
said Vidot.

“Thank you,” said Will somberly. “We’ll need all the luck we can get.” He put the pipe to his lips and lit the owl pellet, inhaling deeply. Then, following the priest’s instructions, he pressed his mouth against Zoya’s. Exhaling forcefully, his breath pushed the smoke down into her lungs. He went back to the pipe three more times before the narcotic took hold and he lost consciousness, collapsing on top of Zoya. Vidot moved Will’s body off her and then watched as the pair lay together, jerking gently now and then, the way cats and dogs often do in their sleep.

The priest had said the process could take hours, so Vidot settled in to wait. Hearing a sound at the door, Vidot looked over to see Oliver enter, hat in hand. “Hullo,” Oliver said, and then, looking around at the wreckage of the room, “Good grief.”

“On sort d’une grosse bagarre,”
said Vidot.

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“
Seulement le rat
.” Vidot pointed at Max.

“My, that’s quite an extermination.” Oliver sat down gingerly on the corner of the bed. He pointed at the twitching couple. “Seems to be working.”

“Who knows? One must trust the priest, I suppose,” said Vidot, now wandering distractedly around the room. Here and there, the inspector picked up small items, hairpins, a pair of dice, two loose buttons, a scrap of blank paper, carefully looking each one over before setting it down again. On the kitchen table he came across a photo. He recognized the face of the man standing next to the girl. Vidot discreetly tucked the photograph into his pocket.

“Listen,” said Oliver. “I think I’d better go check in with my friends at the embassy.”

“Of course.”

Oliver gave him a sideways look. “If you want I can leave you out of the story.”

“Yes,” said Vidot, “I would be grateful if you could avoid mentioning me.”

“How did you wind up out there, anyway?” asked Oliver.

“I was the old woman’s prisoner.”

“The old woman’s…?”

“Yes.”

“Ah well, she seemed like a terribly strange creature.” Oliver looked at Zoya on the bed. “Have you ever seen the painting by Goya called
Witches’ Flight
?”

Vidot shook his head and said “No.”

“It’s quite marvelous, a circle of witches float in the sky, flying and dancing in their nocturnal Sabbath, while beneath them a poor trapped man cowers, his head hidden beneath a bedsheet, quite desperate not to look up.”

Vidot nodded. “He does not want to see the women?”

Oliver considered that thought. “That’s right, he does not, and I, for one, don’t blame him. Understanding any woman can be difficult, but trying to comprehend a sight like that could drive a man mad. Besides, whom could he tell? Who would believe him?”

Vidot looked at Zoya lying on the bed, her eyes shut, her mouth open in a silent cry, her black hair spilling over the pillow like a dark wild sea. He realized how little he knew, how unimaginably vast the universe was, and how its emptiness was only another word for mystery. “Yes, who would believe him?”

“So, I imagine it might be prudent for us to keep many of these details to ourselves, or else we’ll probably both wind up in the booby hatch.”

“Yes, I would agree,” said Vidot with a slight smile. Only days ago, it would have professionally offended Vidot that someone could seriously suggest withholding elements of an investigation: to him it was the equivalent of stealing pieces away from an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. But now he saw that the questions lying before him led into a sinister labyrinth, a complex and many-storied maze from which there was very possibly no return. That was enough for him. Still, there were duties that needed attending.

Oliver rose from the bed. “Nobody is going to be at the embassy at this hour.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll have them call someone to come listen to me. I want to be the first one in to give his version.”

Vidot nodded. “
Oui
,
oui
. Go, monsieur. If there’s trouble, I can get help.”

Oliver put on his hat and gestured to the sleeping couple. “I shouldn’t be long. Thanks.” With that, he was gone.

Vidot watched him go with some disbelief. Who, he wondered, would ever leave his vulnerable friends in the company of a complete stranger, especially one he had only recently found naked and lying on the floor of a countryside barn? But the recent events had been so disorienting that it was clear no one was thinking straight. Vidot himself felt especially light-headed. He sat on a chair in the corner for a long time, looking across to the bed as the man and the woman lay shaking in their low tremors. Then, Vidot took a deep breath and began looking for a telephone.

XX

Zoya awoke to Will lying only millimeters away, their noses practically touching. His face, angled up to the side, looked smoothly angelic. What a strange dream it had been. His eyelids twitched in sleep, and she smiled groggily as she reached across and gently stroked his cheek. How long had she known this man? A little over a week? Really? The mere sight of his sleeping face made her heart feel as soft as a ripe persimmon.

There was the small cough of someone clearing his throat. She looked up and realized that she was back in her small hotel apartment. At the foot of her bed stood a man wearing baggy, rumpled clothes and a slightly embarrassed expression. Behind him stood a policeman.

“Good morning,” said the man in the oversized clothes, putting his hand to his chest, “I hate to disturb you. My name is Charles Vidot, I am a detective with the police here in Paris and I regret to inform you that you are under arrest.”

“What?” She sat up in the bed. “I do not understand. There must be some mistake? Why are you arresting me?”

He paused, and it seemed to her as though he were about to break into a smile, but then a shadow seemed to pass across his features and his expression became painfully sad, as if it were on the verge of tears. “Oh, mademoiselle,” he said, shaking his head sadly, his voice breaking with emotion, “I am arresting you for the terrible murder of Leon Vallet.”

She sat there, staring at him, far too drained and weary for any tricks. She looked down at Will’s sleeping body. She knew what this meant. She could not bear to leave him, she felt like a green branch being stripped from its trunk. But what Elga had said so many years ago was true, you can never run far with a man, no matter how strong they are, they only slow you down. She had wanted this though, they could have tried. She could have opened her heart and taught him her secrets. He was not like Leon, he was not like any of the others, she could have spared him. They could have lived on forever. Tears filled Zoya’s eyes as she reached to touch Will’s face.

“Do not wake him, mademoiselle. Please, let him rest. He has been through so much,” said the detective, holding up a piece of paper. “We will leave him a note, yes?”

Book Five

Of course, in present-day France you have to say that everything’s fine, that everything’s lovely, including death.

—
SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR
, The Paris Review

I

Maroc felt good as he strode down the street toward the office. He had spent the previous night in a room not far from the station with a bouncy, zaftig barmaid, Camille Vermillon. He rarely stayed through to the morning with her but the previous evening had sought her out with the full intention of burying himself deep in the folds of those generous bosoms straight through to the dawn. He had even called his wife before he went to hunt Camille down, telling Madame Maroc that he had important police business that would keep him at the office. Then he went to the bar. Camille was distant and pouty when he showed up, but after he had swatted her ass a few times and pushed her around a bit, she was ready to treat him right. He had needed it. The pressures of the previous weeks had been almost too much to endure. After a long night of great exertion, he had left his Camille a sulking pile of flesh, bruised and sore, smoking a cigarette in her bed and glaring at him as he pulled up his suspenders and left. He knew she would be there for him when he came back, some girls just needed it like that. He was thoroughly happy, reinvigorated, and relaxed, feeling as though he had just spent a week at a Swiss spa.

Approaching the station, he suddenly felt even better. For as he neared the entrance, a familiar figure stepped out from the doorway, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. It was Vidot, right there before him, alive and in the flesh. Maroc was so surprised and relieved, he almost hugged his old antagonist. “Vidot, you silly fool! Where have you been?”

The detective gave him a polite smile. “It is a rather long tale. I will put it all in my report and so I would rather not have to go through it twice. You can read it there later. But you will be pleased to learn that I have made an arrest in the Vallet case; she is resting in a cell downstairs.”

“Really? That is wonderful news, and what about Bemm?”

“I currently have some of our people looking into that. But I’m glad I caught up with you, I need your help this morning on another important arrest.”

Maroc was even more pleased. “Another one? Is that why you’re dressed in uniform?”

Vidot looked down at his clothes. “I needed some clothes, I was in a bit of a predicament. Luckily I had these at the station. Shall we go?”

Maroc shook his head. “I shouldn’t. I have work to do, Vidot, get some other officer to help you.”

“I’d happily do it on my own if I could, but I believe I will need your authority, for it is a very important arrest. Come, let us go.”