Slava's flashlight disappeared inside the Peter the Great's shack, and Sergey tiptoed closer. There were voices inside-at first, Slava spoke, and a strange voice answered. Sergey felt cold sweat trickling down his spine, and the weight of silence around him. A small breeze stirred the leaves over his head and he was embarrassingly grateful for this sign that he was still in the park, in the human world, for the voice he had just heard certainly did not belong here.
He could not discern the words and was too spooked to look inside. He backed from the house silently, even more terrified to make a sound. He knew well what Slava was capable of, but the creature he conferred with seemed even more dangerous, unfathomable and otherworldly.
He made his escape and no longer followed Slava on his night expeditions. The change in his demeanor was noticed, and it was his turn to be questioned. He feigned personal preoccupations and even invented a knocked-up girlfriend who wouldn't get an abortion.
"All right, Slava told him, his eyes still dark with unease. Just don't let it make you sloppy."
Sergey swore that it wouldn't; he felt relieved at not being found out.
The end came when Slava called him on his cell. I need you to do something for me, he said. Very hush-hush. There's a new hex in town, and I need you to find me a test subject. I don't care what or who it is, just get me a body. Just make sure it is alive."
Sergey drove through the streets of his neighborhood, to an open-air market where sloe-eyed Caucasian nationals sold roses and melons, tomatoes the size of a baby's head and bootlegged American thrillers. It was dusk, and the customers dispersed. Relations with the Caucasian gangs were strained as it was, so he decided to target one of the leaving customers. A middle-aged woman, her hands happily occupied by bulging plastic bags of southern produce, turned down a narrow side street, and Sergey followed. He pressed a gun against her ribs and persuaded her to follow him to the vehicle. He didn't worry about her being able to identify the Jeep-the subjects of Slava's experiments rarely got an opportunity to talk about their experiences afterward.
He called Slava back. Got one, he said.
"Meet me at the central entrance, Slava said.
"I'll be there in half an hour."
He drove to Kolomenskoe, and parked next to the idling Merc. Slava waited inside, a cigarette smoldering in his narrow lips. Good job, he told Sergey once he presented the woman, mute with fear and tear-stained. Come along-I want you to see this."
Sergey and his captive followed. The tourists and the relaxing citizens had cleared out of the park by then, and the paths crossed by long shadows were especially mysterious. Slava kept quiet, and Sergey grew uneasy.
"What's that new thing for? Sergey asked.
"Turning people into birds, Slava said. Only it's not for us. It's a favor I'm doing."
"For those who gave all this magic to you? Sergey asked.
Slava stopped and turned, his hands in the pockets of his maroon jacket. Yes, he said. He took one hand out of the pocket and showed Sergey a blue glass sphere. And this one is for you."
Several goons with tape and pliers stepped from behind the trees crowding the dark path.
Sergey struggled in their hands. What did I do? he asked Slava.
"I hate spies."
"I'm not a spy, Sergey said. Why do you say that?"
"I never told you the central gates of what, Slava answered. Stupid bitch."
9: Oksana
There were too many questions that needed asking, and yet Fyodor felt disinclined to ask them. He left it up to Galina and to Yakov; the latter continuously surprised Fyodor by his seemingly earnest caring about finding out what happened to the bird people. Ever since the resurrection, he had been locked in the back room of the Pub, interrogating the resurrected thug. Fyodor and Galina waited with the rest in the overcrowded main hall, drinking David's homemade beer, which Fyodor was growing quite fond of.
Galina and Elena were speaking in hushed tones, and he looked around for entertainment. Koschey, apparently satisfied with success of his feat, walked from table to table, smiling and nodding to the grudging praise. Fyodor smiled and thought that the underground felt cozy to him, as if he actually belonged here. He loved Koschey and Zemun, who leaned against a table where several rusalki and vodyanoys were sharing a pitcher of something steaming and delicious; he loved the Medieval Tatar-Mongol who argued animatedly with the Red Army soldier circa 1919 two tables over. He was used to the interstices of life, he fit comfortably into crannies which most people overlooked, and the underground was nothing but crannies and interstices. He was content to let Yakov and Galina chase after leads and interrogate dead thugs. He was quite happy to stay in the Pub.
His gaze traveled from one table to the next, snagging at patches of color and unusual faces, drinking it all in. He thought about the history they had learned in school, and felt a profound sense of gratitude that there was an underground, to supplement the stirring tales of conquests and orderly victories, of revolutions and heroes, of thwarted invasions; that there was that hidden side without which nothing made sense. All the while it had been there, and now Fyodor knew why the world used to feel so off-kilter, so careening, so missing something important. He wondered if everyone felt that way, that vague longing for something they believed lost a long time ago, but in reality just buried underground.
"What are you thinking about? Galina asked.
He just shrugged, lacking the ability to verbalize the deep sense of calm and satisfaction at all the pieces finally tumbling into their proper place. Just how cool this place is."
"Well, it won't be so pleasant much longer, Elena said. Enjoy it while it lasts."
Fyodor sat up. Why?"
"Weren't you listening to that-corpse? Galina said irritably. If the thugs know there's something here, don't you worry they'll come looking for more?"
"Not to mention that one of the old ones is helping them and turning people into birds, Elena said. This is serious business. And still no trace of Berendey."
"Maybe he's just busy, Galina said.
Elena shook her head. When Zemun calls a meeting, all the old ones come. Even Koschey made it, which frankly I found surprising."
"Do you think he's the one who's helping them? Galina said.
Elena shrugged. It would be in character, but I don't think we should be hasty in our conclusions."
Zemun sauntered over, her jaws moving in their indefatigable chewing. Who has the most to gain? Answer me that, and you'll have found your culprit."
"Gain what and from what? Galina irritably swatted a strand of hair that fell across her forehead. We don't even know why whoever it is wanted people turned into birds."
"We can guess, Elena said, and Zemun nodded.
Fyodor resumed his survey of the Pub. He noticed a bright spot of green, red and blue out of the corner of his eye-the same swirl of intensity he dabbed on his canvas time and time again, remembering a jingling of bracelets on thin wrists and a flutter of black hair that swept over dark smoldering eyes. At the thought of her, his fingers itched to paint the forbidden, that which could not be understood or pinned down. He took another sip of his beer and turned carefully, expecting the vision to dissipate once it was in full view. It did not.
Fyodor shook his head to dispel the unbidden apparition; he told himself that it couldn't be her-she still looked the same as that day, years ago, on the bridge. She saw him too and frowned a bit, as if trying to locate his face in the gallery of her memories.