“You look like policemen,” Tatyana said, moving to Elena’s side. “You are bad for business. Customers here see a policeman and they find other places to go.”
“You called the Syrian,” said Elena, pulling back from the touch of Tatyana’s shoulder against hers.
Tatyana shrugged and looked over Elena’s shoulder at Sasha, who looked back at her. “You would be very appealing if you smiled,” she said to him.
“I will probably smile when I order everyone to leave in about five minutes,” he said. “You called the Syrian.”
“I called the Syrian,” Tatyana agreed. “Who do I look like?” She was looking in the mirror over the bar.
Elena followed her gaze and examined the image. Tatyana’s eyes were half-closed, the cigarette in the corner of her wide mouth. “Dietrich,” she said.
Tatyana looked at Elena and Sasha in the mirror and saw no recognition. “Marlene Dietrich,” Tatyana said.
“Do you know where the girl is?” asked Sasha.
“Everyone is too young,” Tatyana said, shaking her head. “You want a drink? I’ll buy.”
“We’ve got drinks,” said Elena.
“You have water,” Tatyana whispered into Elena’s ear. The woman’s breath was warm and sweet. Elena forced herself not to move.
“You called the Syrian,” Sasha said again. “Do you know where the girl is? If you do not answer, we will take you to a very small holding cell in District Eleven where you can sit all night on a bench in a very bright little room with nothing to do while you try to remember.”
Tatyana smiled. “You are a year too late, pretty policeman,” she said. “You can’t do such things anymore. People will run and tell on you and you will have to say five Hail Yeltsins in penance.”
“You are drunk,” said Elena.
“I am stoned,” Tatyana corrected in English.
“What?” Elena asked. The woman’s face was now inches from hers.
“Your partner is very pretty,” she said. “And you are very, what are the words in French, plantureuse et douce.”
Elena looked puzzled.
“She says you are full-figured and sweet,” said Sasha.
“Est-ce que vous parlez français?” said Tatyana, turning her attention to Sasha.
“Oui, je le comprends,” he said above the music. “You can answer in French or Russian, but you will answer. I will ask once more and then I will climb on this bar, break that mirror, and order everyone to leave.”
“I have a better idea,” said Tatyana, looking into Elena’s eyes. “Why don’t the three of us go in back, climb on top of the beer cases in the storeroom, and take off our clothes?”
“The girl,” said Elena evenly.
Tatyana looked past her in triumph and said to Sasha, “Did you hear that? The little tremor in her voice? She is tempted, our petite choute.”
A man to Sasha’s right had his back turned. He was engaged in earnest conversation with a very young girl with long dark hair. Sasha pushed the man out of the way and climbed up on the bar.
Heads turned toward him, smiles crossed faces. A few people clapped, believing a young drunk had decided to make a dancing fool of himself. One of the four young-old men in the electric band saw him, pointed with his guitar, and the music went wild. Sasha looked down at Tatyana, who was whispering something to Elena.
“Quiet,” shouted Tkach, pushing the hair from his eyes.
No one was quiet.
“Get down,” said Tatyana. “You’ll get yourself hurt.”
“I am the police,” Tkach shouted, reaching down for his half-full glass of warm beer.
“It is Sting,” shouted a young male voice, and those nearby who heard roared with hollow laughter.
Sasha flung the glass at the mirror. Shards of glass sprayed the bartenders and patrons, who covered their heads and eyes.
“Get down, Tkach,” Elena said, touching his leg. Around her was an ocean of faces beginning to realize that this might not be a drunken joke. The music stopped suddenly, except for one guitarist with spiked hair whose eyes were closed. Another guitarist poked the spike-haired one in the shoulder and the final guitar let out a thin eeeel and died.
Conversations died; all attention turned to the show at the bar.
“We are the police,” Sasha shouted. “This bar is closed. Hard currency has been exchanged here.” He pulled out his wallet and held it up with his red identification card and picture showing.
“Throw it here and give us a look,” came a tough voice from the yellow-gray shadows.
“No, pull your trousers down and give us a look,” came a woman’s voice, which brought further howls.
Tatyana reached for Sasha’s right leg and grabbed his trousers. “Get down,” she cried. “You … get down. I’ll talk to you.”
“You’ll talk to me when everyone leaves,” shouted Tkach. “You had your chance.”
“Leonid,” Tatyana screamed, pulling at Tkach, but there was so much noise from the crowd that no one could hear her.
Elena grabbed Tatyana’s wrist and wrenched it from Sasha’s leg. Tatyana’s free hand went between Elena’s legs as one of the bartenders shoved Sasha from behind. He fell forward into the drunk with the flower in his mouth, and both went tumbling onto the floor. Something smelled foul and acrid as he tried to stand. A booted foot caught him in the chest. Sasha had the sense that people were trampling him, stampeding toward the door. He felt like a soccer ball rapidly losing air. Women screamed. Men cursed. Something hit him behind the ear.
“Smash the bastard,” Tatyana’s voice cried.
Somewhere in the mesh of voices a musical instrument hit something hard and echoed like a wind chime. Somewhere close by, a fist came down against Sasha’s ear and he sank back onto the floor.
Another foot. Another fist. Sasha covered his face and tried to roll into a ball as he had been taught to do in situations like this. He had also been taught that situations like this should never be allowed to happen.
He told himself to keep from tightening his back muscles as he groped for his knee and felt something solid crash against the knuckles of his right hand. He waited for the next blow, not knowing where it would land, wondering if Elena was alive. No blow came. It was a trick. If he opened his eyes and rolled over, he was sure the bartender with the bad teeth would smash him in the face with a beer bottle.
Sasha forced himself to roll over and open his eyes, to search for Elena, to try to help her. Above him, horizontal and five feet off the ground, was a man with a surprised look on his face. The man was suspended as if he were part of a stage magician’s act, and then, suddenly, the levitation stopped and the man flipped over past Sasha’s huddled body and skidded into a table. Another man, this one larger than the one who had flown past, tripped over Tkach with a loss of air and tried to regain his balance, but he was moving too quickly and the bar caught his back with a snap.
“Are you badly hurt, Sasha Tkach?” Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov said, reaching down to him.
Tkach took his hand and was lifted easily to his feet. “Elena?” he asked, and then he saw her.
Tatyana was bending over the bar as if she were trying to vomit on the other side. Elena was holding the woman’s head down. Elena’s hair was wild, a wispy curl coming down over her right eye. There was a sound near the beaded curtain at the rear of the stage. Sasha looked and discovered that only his right eye was open.
In front of the curtain stood a large man in a leather jacket. Leonid Dovnik’s eyes met those of Rostnikov, who saw that the man was considering whether to advance or retreat. Even with one eye Sasha could see that in spite of what the Washtub had done, the man was not afraid. That frightened Sasha. Elena looked up in time to meet Dovnik’s eyes, which had turned to her. He looked at her for a moment, fixing her in his memory. Then, in no hurry at all, he turned and went back through the curtain.