Babayaga: A Novel (51 page)

Lecan shook his head, as if even he didn’t believe himself. “Then when I came in to work this morning, I saw her name in the log. I recognized it right away. I’m telling you, my heart almost stopped. I had to go see for myself. Sure enough, there she was, sitting alone in the cell. It was almost as if the angels from above had brought her out from the shadows of the past, to taunt me and show me how old I have become.”

“You think too much of yourself,” said Vidot.

“Yes, perhaps.” Lecan smiled. “Anyway, the officer on duty informed me that you had left instructions that she not be disturbed, but I needed to speak to her. I simply had to. So I pulled rank and had her brought up to one of the interrogation rooms.”

Lecan shifted in his chair nervously as he went on. “I came in right away and introduced myself to her. It was only the pair of us, sitting there alone. She was so elegant, so good-looking, she excited me. I started talking at a fast, impulsive rate. She did not remember me at first, but I reminded her of where we had met, way up in Frankfurt so many years ago. I described the nights we had gone out and what she had worn, her feathered cap, her velvet coat, the ermine muff she always carried. Finally she smiled, she remembered, or pretended to. Yes, she agreed, she found it strange that she seemed still so young while I had grown—how did she put it?—‘as old as a turtle.’ I said the thought had been bothering me as well, for I had been so young then. She said she used a beauty trick that she had learned from an old friend. She asked if I believed in real tricks like that, not merely illusions or sleights of hand. I said I did not know what she meant. She asked if I believed that real magic could be found in magic tricks, and I said, emphatically, no, such things were only found in fables and children’s stories. Then she asked if I believed in curses. It was an odd question, but the whole conversation was getting quite hard to follow, she had started with beauty tricks and now she was onto curses. In any case, I answered again, no, curses were the same as magic, it was all silliness. Then she grew quite serious, her eyes grew wide, and I swear a shadow seemed to pass across her face. She said that I would discover I was wrong, because curses do in fact exist.

“Then she said she would prove it to me right there, by placing a curse on me. I asked her not to and she laughed and said I should not be worried, after all, I had said only moments before that I did not even believe in such things. Besides, she said, it was a small and simple curse. She said it went like this: I would gradually disappear, experiencing the absolute gray solitude of death long before I ever expired. First, she said, my wife would stop responding to my voice. Then my children, who are grown but still visit me every Sunday, would stop coming by the house. Colleagues would no longer include me in their confidences. Old friends would forget my name. Letters I wrote would go unanswered, my telephone calls would ring in crowded rooms but no one would pick up. Waiters would ignore my order or always get it wrong. When I went to the cinema, they would refuse to sell me a ticket, not because they were being rude but because they did not see me unless I shouted and waved my hands. In the end, I would wind up destroyed by my own solitude, utterly lost, an empty and invisible shell, abandoned by all those I had ever adored and even the ones I merely passed by on the street, for no one would acknowledge me, I would be a living ghost in their midst.

“I sat there stunned at her explanation, not saying a word. She said, ‘Shall we test it? Pick up that telephone and call a person you know, anyone, your wife or a friend, dial them up now and, watch, I guarantee you they will not answer.’ I scoffed, because I actually knew my wife was home at that very moment, overseeing our housekeeper’s weekly visit—you see, my wife thinks our housekeeper is a thief and she watches her every move like a hawk. So I picked up the receiver and dialed my flat. As I was dialing, Zoya pointed at me and made a few odd whispering noises. I did not pay much attention because now the phone was ringing. It must have rung twenty times but not a soul answered. Zoya was smiling, watching me holding the receiver of that black phone, which suddenly seemed incredibly dense and unimaginably heavy, like a great rock pulling me to the bottom of the sea. I know it sounds irrational, but it felt profound and terrifying. I swear, looking at that ageless creature sitting before me while the phone endlessly rang in my ear chilled me as the threat of death never has. I slowly hung up the receiver and asked her what she wanted. Zoya gave me a small smile and said I should walk her out of the station and take her to the nearest café, there we could say goodbye. So, unbelievably, that is exactly what I did. We got up and I escorted her past the front desk, out the front door, and over to the Café Balzac. I ordered us each a white coffee. I asked her, ‘When I walk away from you, please give me your word you’ll remove this curse,’ and she said she would. And so”—Lecan shrugged—“I left her there.”

The men sat there in silence, taking in Detective Lecan’s strange tale. Finally Vidot spoke. “And did you call your wife again?”

“Yes, first thing when I returned to my office. She was home, of course. She said she must not have heard the call when I rang earlier. Then she did not understand why I was weeping on the phone.” Vidot nodded with solemn understanding. Will looked on in amazement. Lecan sat back, “So, what now, Vidot? Will you turn me in?”

The younger detective shook his head. “No, I do not think that is necessary. You are certainly not to blame. I had suspected Zoya would only stay with us a little while, though I had hoped to speak with her once more before she left. I have many questions. I think your friend Maroc might have been angry with you, but, well, he has his own troubles now. So, I see no reason for you to worry.” He rose from his chair. “Thank you for your candor, I sincerely appreciate it. Our business here is done.”

With that, he walked out of the office and Will, still stupefied by all he had heard, followed. “I don’t get it,” he said, trailing behind the detective.

“Nor do I, but there are some answers I do not have time for. We have our lives to live, don’t we? And I will not waste any more of your time, sir. It has been a rare treat getting to know you. Now you’ll have to excuse me, I have to put a bulletin alert out for your girlfriend.”

“An alert? But she—”

“She is a lovely woman, monsieur, but she is very dangerous. Do not worry, I am sure we cannot capture her, she is well rested and extremely capable. But there are, no doubt, other people who are looking for her as we speak, men quite powerful and not particularly well-intentioned. I suspect she is nimble enough to elude them, but still, I believe it would be better for all if she left the city. We do not need a girl like that running loose in our streets. As our poets never tire of reminding us, Paris is already magical enough.” He smiled. “Good day, I hope we meet again in more fortunate circumstances.”

Vidot walked off, disappearing around a corner of the hall. Will remained standing there, amid the typewriter clatter and cigarette haze of the station’s fluorescent bureaucracy, more than a little uncertain of his own direction.

IV

The scientist sat on his metal stool, meticulously attending to the line of test tubes, uncorking their Claisen heads and precisely administering the drops, his careful actions disclosing little of the irritation that was buzzing through his every nerve. He was exhausted and upset, angry with himself for becoming so distracted by the appearance of Elga and Zoya. But who would have ever thought they would turn up again? It was incredible. After how many years? But it was so peripheral, he had allowed these old, vestigial emotions to define his actions when he should have been wholly focused on the business at hand. He felt as though he had sentimentally fallen prey to his old supervisor Huss’s obsessions and succumbed to some innate desire for satisfaction. But such justice was never useful, and it was completely unnecessary to the matters at hand. He should have stayed uninvolved, let his colleagues sort it out, for that was their business, not his. Those women were the past, causing predictably what they always caused when you unearthed them: bloodshed, chaos, and tragedy. He was glad to leave that behind, to let them fight among themselves, stirring up their small, provincial evils, they were not his responsibility.

He had made it back to the lab to find the Americans waiting, General Strong having just paid the French police off with the money that was supposed to be for him. Then there had been all the questioning. Bendix had told Strong only what he thought he needed to know, keeping significant details aside. Strong had guessed there was more to the story and tones had grown heated. At one point, Strong even called Bendix an “evil little Nazi creep” (this accusation came often and always offended Bendix, who was technically Swiss and, though he had advised the Germans during the war, had never technically joined the National Socialist party). In the end, Strong wanted to shut the shop down and take all the packets of formula off with them, but Bendix refused, telling Strong he could have them once he came back with his cash. In exchange, Bendix agreed to cook up this last final batch.

He had hoped to have time for more clinical tests, but there was no time left. Besides, he had run out of test subjects, and without Brandon’s assistance he had no idea where to find more. It was fine, though, the important work had been done. There might still be some imperfections, but the army could sort through that on their own. They had plenty of guinea pigs on hand.

He reminded himself of the monumental significance of what he had completed here. What Fermi, Oppenheimer, and Teller had accomplished with the atom, he had done with the mind.

Outside the rear entrance, the two men Strong had placed on duty to watch the building lay writhing and choking on the alley’s cold cobblestones, each one purple-faced, each tugging at his throat, desperately wheezing for a last breath.

Along the bench, various tubes of borosilicate bubbled, hissed, and gassed, cloaking Zoya’s footsteps. Before Bendix sensed she was there, she had come up behind him and gently touched the potent point in his neck where the occipital and trapezius muscles meet.

He would have reacted, but he could not. He was immobilized.

She stepped in front of him and smiled. “Sorry. You do like to run away and I had to make sure you would stay with me. But don’t worry,” she said, moving out of his static line of sight, “this will not take long.”

Straining every muscle, desperate to see what she was up to, Bendix found he was frozen in place, fastened firmly to the spot, with every muscle he wished to move now absolutely petrified. His eyes darted about with widening terror. He could hear her opening the glass cabinets, removing items and placing them on the metal counter, and then his pupils dilated wide as he heard the familiar clinking of the syringes being removed from their velvet case. “You are fortunate it is me,” she said, in a voice that was almost soothing. “If Elga were alive, you would be stone deaf by now, watching while she snacked on your bloody ears. Then she’d stick the tines of a fork through an eyeball and pluck that out too. You’d watch her chew with your good eye for as long as she let you.” Zoya returned to his line of sight. “She might even spare your life, so you could suffer in agony. Me, I am not that cruel, I promise I will let you die. But I do think it will hurt.” She held up the needle. “After all, your strange equipment is very new to me, so you’ll have to be a little patient”—she smiled—“I’m a virgin at this.”

It did hurt, and after the first injection, the searing pain was so tremendous he desperately wanted to scream out, but his paralysis prevented even that last great spasm. He knew he only had a little time, perhaps less than a minute, before the drug hit. The shame of his defeat burned at his pride, he wanted some tool, some trick, to smash her, to maul her, to wipe that mocking smile from her lips. Perched on the metal stool before him, she was still talking, calmly, soothingly, looking into his eyes as he endured the piercing agony and strained to break the spell. “Is it not odd to you that our paths would cross? After so many years? Have you given that any thought? I have. Incredible, even for a coincidence. What does your scientific reasoning tell you about this, Doctor? What natural force pulled us together? Was it electricity? Gravity? Was it God?” She shook her head. “No, we have no God, do we? That is a bond we share. But what was it, then? Can you guess?” The room was dimming; he had only seconds left before the nightmares came. He did not want to imagine the visions that were now rising up from his subconscious, racing toward him in a great tumultuous wall like a massive black storm bank descending upon quiet plains. He was intelligent enough to be terrified. He could barely hear Zoya’s voice now. “Goodbye,” she whispered, reaching out to gently stroke his cheek. It was the last human touch he felt before the darkness of his life exploded.

Over the next twenty minutes, she kept building on the nightmares, methodically filling the syringes and emptying each one into his pale, prone arm. Finally, as he sat there, immobilized with his eyes glaring, lost in the grotesque phantasms of his delirious, macabre mind, she rose and went to the bookshelf. Pulling down the manuals and textbooks one by one, she tore the pages out and covered the floor. Then she held a fistful of paper up to the burner and, after it caught fire, dropped it to the ground. The flames caught fast. As she left, she wondered what the neighbors of the 6th arrondissement would find lurking in their own dreams once the smoke hit.

V

Witches’ Song Twelve

One down and done, yes, that hairless goon gone,

real strong venom for that foul cur, making it linger,

making it hurt, his mind dancing mad to cindered ends

his mean mongrel spirit spit out from hell’s teeth,

all in fair recompense for all evil done.

So now we elemental sisters exhale,

our most bitter course through,

and now a fair wind will soon take

the dandelion seed dancing