* * *
The tavern stood empty; tables and chairs collected a custom of dust. Three bottles of unidentifiable liquor reflected the sunlight behind the bar, and an old poster, faded and stained, warned, Elect WORKERS to the Soviet! Do Not Elect Shamans or Rich Men! Marya touched it, and the light on her hand reminded her of something, though she could not say what. Everything in her old life was hard to grasp now, like catching fish as they swim by—so fast, so fast!
“Can I help you, Comrade?” the bartender growled affably.
He was remarkably short and fat, not quite able to see over the bar he tended. He looked as though he had not brushed his hair in years; it tumbled down around his ears in dark tangles, and he sported a big beard, all over his cheeks like moss growing on a stone.
“Zemlehyed!” Marya cried. Her memory plunged into cold water; it seized a fish. She put her hand over her heart to keep it in her chest. It worked, it worked; oh, Olga, thank you for the yarn, I shall never be able to repay you! “Zemya, it’s me—it’s Marya, and you’re not dead after all, and neither am I! No silver on your chest or mine. Come and kiss me!”
“I think you have me mistaken.” The little man laughed. “That’s my name, no fear, but I’ve never seen your own self in all my days, nor your friend there.”
No, no. No magic, no ugly curses. “But Zemya, we’ve known each other all our lives.”
“I doubt it! But I can introduce you to a good vodka, and leave you to get acquainted. I take no offense—I have a face people take a liking to. But don’t let my wife hear you asking for kisses!”
“Your wife?”
“My sweet, tall Naganya, how do I love her! Like a gun loves bullets, that’s how. Half-blind without her glasses and what a one for swearing, but she’s mine and I’m hers. Only she remembers how long we’ve been married.” He poured a generous glass for both of his guests.
“Fifteen years, Zem, and you have every one written on your belly.” A voice like the air in a flute floated through the room. Marya and Ushanka turned towards it as towards the sun. A slender, pale-haired woman with deep, elegant lines in her face laid her gloves on the bar. Her eyes were painted to match the glass of wine she poured herself. She was clearly the dressmaker whose shop sparkled outside the windows. Her cool white dress swept around her, tailored perfectly, and a fan of rather dingy, but still lovely, swan feathers gathered at her hip. “See you get home to her in good time tonight. Nasha has never learned patience, no matter how I try to teach it.”
“Lebed!” Marya gasped, and as if she were still a girl, as if she had never starved until her stomach shriveled up, tears came, running messily to her chin. “Lebedeva, I’ve missed you so! But I’m here now, you see; it’s all right.”
The dressmaker put an ivory cigarette holder to her mouth. “That’s rather familiar, Officer. Have we met?”
Marya had lost all her composure, all her care whether Ushanka knew her secrets or not. “Of course we’ve met! Madame Lebedeva, you taught me about cosmetics, and magic, and we ate cucumber soup that day in the cafe!”
“I think the heat must be on you, my dear. I can’t abide cucumbers. Or anything green, really.” The pale-haired woman sipped her oily red wine. “I do wish you’d get something good in here one of these days, instead of this endless Georgian swill.”
Zemlehyed shrugged amiably, as if to say, We drink what we drink.
“Perhaps you should go and see the butcher, Officer. He knows everyone in town. I’m sure he can help you find…” The lady paused meaningfully—or perhaps not. Marya could not tell. “Whoever you’re looking for. I can only assure you it isn’t me.” Madame Lebedeva tapped her fingernails against her glass, neatly excising Marya and Ushanka from her concern. “Nasha has rabbits’ hearts in a pie for dinner, Zem.” She changed the subject brightly. “She said I could join, if I brought mushrooms.”
* * *
The butcher shop possessed little else but a slab of cutting stone and a glassless case with a single ruby-colored steak on display, marbled with fat, quite a specimen. The rest of the place slowly fell apart around them, so slowly it managed to give the illusion of standing firmly upright. The floorboards did not fit together right; a lonely fan missing one propeller spun wobbly from the ceiling lamp.
Ushanka rang the bell obnoxiously—but Marya found everything she did obnoxious. No one appeared.
“Come on out or I’ll requisition
that rib eye!” hollered the sergeant. Nothing moved in the amber afternoon shadows of the back room.
“No one’s here, Ushanka.” Marya ran her hand along the case. Her fingers turned black with old dust. She still shook from seeing her old friends. And they were her old friends—she was not mistaken, could not be. Her heart hid down deep in her belly. Who will the butcher be?
“We don’t have an assignment in this town, Major-General. If you want a bit of beef, have at it, and let’s be off.” The staff sergeant slapped a fly on the counter and held her cupped hand over it, listening to it buzz uselessly.
A young woman appeared behind the counter, flushed, her pale gold hair frizzing out around a sweet, round face. Her pink lips made a little heart of apology and surprise.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Officers! Sometimes a nap lands on you and you just can’t get out from underneath.”
“Laziness is the enemy of industry.” Ushanka sniffed.
Marya stepped subtly but emphatically in front of her junior officer. “What is your name?” she asked.
The girl blushed for no apparent reason at all. “Yelena,” she said with a nervous laugh.
Marya made her face as smooth as she could. Her mind tripped over itself. Oh, the Yelenas with their terrible amber eyes! Did she know this one, among all of them? She could not remember. But she’s free, she’s speaking—something’s happened, and everything’s all right. This woman means everything’s all right, doesn’t she?