Babayaga

by Toby Barlow

  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, mademoisel
le. 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.”

  Maroc threw out his hands. “Ah, I had forgotten what a frustrating man you can be, Vidot. You reappear out of nowhere, offering no explanation of where you have been or what you have been up to. You have nothing to say regarding the fate of your colleague Bemm. You vanish, lose your partner, and now you’re ordering me about? Who is in charge here?”

  Noticing that officers coming out of the station were staring at the two of them, Maroc grew a little self-conscious. He did not want to make a scene by losing his temper, but Vidot was especially skilled at getting under his skin.

  The detective was nonplussed by his superior’s outburst. “Of course, sir, you give the orders and I merely carry them out, but when I come across significant crimes being committed in our city that need a timely response, you will forgive me if I expect our leaders to respond forcefully,” he said.

  Maroc paused, looking Vidot over. The detective’s attitude repulsed him. As humble as the detective tried to sound with his “sirs” and his formal manner, there was an insubordinate note of condescension in his tone. The superintendent took a step back and changed the subject. “Have you been home yet?”

  Vidot raised one eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  Maroc smiled mischievously. “I only wondered if perhaps this little adventure of yours might merely be a way of avoiding returning to your apartment. Perhaps this ‘mission’ you describe is not very so important, perhaps you’re only popping up and hauling me off on some merry goose chase so you will not have to explain to your lovely wife why you have been away and out of touch for so long?”

  Vidot paused for a moment before he answered. “You are correct about one thing, sir. My wife is a lovely woman.” If Vidot’s tone had been cool before, it was now arctic. “But I was not aware you had met her.”

  Hearing the edge in the detective’s voice, Maroc decided to leave the subject alone for the time being. He realized it might be a good idea to come along with Vidot on this arrest: Why should the arrogant little officer get all the credit? “Very well,” Maroc said, indulgently patting Vidot on the back, “let’s look into this lead of yours.”

  Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of an ordinary-looking building. Going directly to the front door, Vidot knocked hard. No one answered.

  “See if it’s open,” said Maroc. It was unlocked. “Voilà!” he said with a smile.

  Inside the room there was a scientific lab set up along three long aluminum tables. A line of storage cabinets stood behind them. Rubber tubes, glass vials, and various joints, pipes, and screws ran down the length of the tables, past a series of silent Bunsen burners. At the end of the tables sat a pile of loosely arranged thick manila packets. Maroc went over and pulled one open. It was filled with a white powder. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he said, dipping his finger in for a taste.

  “I would not do that,” said Vidot, grabbing Maroc’s hand before it could reach his tongue.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?” asked Maroc.

  Suddenly, a loud voice with a broad American accent filled the room. “Well, bonjour!” They looked over to the staircase, where a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue suit descended, followed by another man. Maroc suspected the men had been hiding, hoping they would leave. Maroc looked to Vidot, but the detective clearly did not know these men.

  The American stepped forward and spoke again, but this time only in English, which Maroc did not understand. The American took his wallet out of his jacket, pulled out a card, and passed it to Maroc. It read:

  He said a few more words Maroc could not understand and then he ceased talking and broke into a broad smile.

  Maroc looked around a little bewildered until Vidot spoke up: “The gentleman says he is General Philip Strong, and he says he’s from the American embassy. He says he is waiting here for his team and he says he would like to know who we are and why we feel we have the right to walk into someone’s private property.”

  “Well, tell him the door was open.”

  Vidot and the man proceeded to have a conversation in English while Maroc stood there feeling increasingly frustrated. Finally, Vidot turned to him. “He says that he and his team have been working with the United States Department of Defense in conjunction with both NATO and Interpol. He claims he has oversight on a project being run out of this building and says the contents of those envelopes are United States property. He apologizes for his English, but neither he nor his colleague speaks French. And, finally,” said Vidot with a bemused smile, “he is requesting we leave the building now as it is a matter of national security.”

  This annoyed Maroc even more. “Oh really? Whose national security is he talking about? Ours? Are the Basques somehow involved, the Kabyle, the Pieds-Noirs? I sincerely doubt it. We don’t need an American cowboy strolling in to lecture us about his idea of national security. And I would specifically like to know what that substance is in those packets over there, in fact I demand to know—” At that moment, mid-rant, Maroc glanced over at the grinning American and realized there might be some opportunity here that he was missing. “Ahem, yes, let me begin again. Vidot, please tell this gentleman we apologize, but this is a major investigation, and wh
ile we respect his credentials, in fact he has no authority here, we are—”

  At this, the American cut him off, talking now even more volubly with a great booming voice that echoed through the room. This interruption once again infuriated Maroc, and he started shouting and shaking his finger in the air. “Tell this man to shut up while I am speaking! I am the law here! I want an explanation!” Vidot was attempting to make sense to both sides but neither would be quiet. The American, while still shouting, strode to the middle of the room and slammed his briefcase down on the countertop. Maroc was still yelling, Vidot was trying to translate, but then the American opened up the case and everyone got quiet.

  The American peeled two piles of ten-thousand-franc notes off the stack, placed them on the counter, and pushed them toward Maroc. Vidot explained, in a slightly disapproving tone, “He says he would like to pay us, in order to reimburse us both for wasting the Prefecture of Police’s time.”

  Maroc looked at the money, he looked at Vidot, and then he looked at the American. “He is offering this as some sort of a payoff?”

  “Yes, that appears to be the case. It is clearly an attempted bribe,” said Vidot.

  Maroc’s face grew red with revulsion and he slammed his hand down hard on the counter. “This is absolutely disgusting, Vidot. Tell him that as an officer of the law I am appalled at his offer. Anyone with even an idiot’s sense of justice would see that our time—which he has absolutely wasted—is worth much more than this insulting sum.”

  Vidot looked at him, stunned.

  “Go ahead,” said Maroc. “Tell him.”

  “I will not,” said Vidot. “Crimes have been committed in this room, there are bodies buried in the basement, there is a homicidal scientist loose—”