Babayaga

by Toby Barlow

  “You tell him what I said, Detective, or I swear I will have you tied up in months of internal investigations for the little holiday you’ve been off on.” Maroc stepped up to Vidot and seethed in his face. “And I promise you it will be a very thorough investigation, an inquest in which even the tiniest stones of your personal life will be turned over, and I am sure you do not want to put your sweet wife through that, do you?”

  Vidot’s eyes flashed as Maroc let the last words slip out. Maroc felt bad playing so low, it was not his style, but he was not about to let this arrogant detective get between him and the American’s money.

  Vidot slowly turned and spoke to the American, who without hesitation reached into the case again and unpacked more cash, not stopping until almost fifty percent of the case’s contents was stacked high on the counter. The American looked up at Maroc, gesturing with his hands as if to say, “Is this enough?” Maroc smiled and pantomimed that he should put the cash back into the case. The American looked at it, hesitated for a moment, and then refilled the briefcase and handed the whole thing to Maroc.

  Moments later, Maroc was walking out with a taciturn Vidot by his side and the case of cash in his hand. The mission was over. He turned to wave farewell to the American and his associate, who both stood in the doorway, watching them go. “What did he say as we were leaving?” he asked Vidot.

  “He said he hopes someday he can show us the same hospitality in America that France has showed him here.”

  “Ha ha, I bet he does.” Maroc felt absolutely victorious: like Charles Martel, who had fearlessly fought back the hordes of invading infidels at Tours, he had just taken on the great American army and won.

  When he and Vidot got into the car, he did not start the engine right away. They both sat still, facing the small laboratory building. Maroc was waiting for his heart to stop its tremendous and wonderful beating. The case of money sat between them. Finally he looked at Vidot. “You can take your share now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Maroc patted the case and smiled. “Go ahead, take some.” Vidot did not move. Maroc went on: “I was very rude to you in there. I owe you an apology. Besides, I am not as greedy as you think I am. So, go on.”

  “No,” Vidot said, shaking his head, “I cannot take this money.”

  “Oh, but you can.” Maroc turned and faced him while Vidot continued to stare straight ahead. “You can and you should, Detective, for your own protection. You see, if you do not accept my generosity, you will stay absolutely pure, and I do not like pure people. In fact, they make me sick. So, please, Detective, it has been an eventful enough morning, so simply take your share.” He pushed the case forward, cracking it open so that the money faced the detective. Slowly and reluctantly Vidot looked down at the cash.

  Watching the detective’s hand reaching tentatively into the case, Maroc felt calm again. In fact, he felt better than he had all day. Vidot paused. “I do have one request.”

  “What’s that?” asked Maroc.

  “Do you think you could drop me off by my tailor?” he asked.

  Maroc burst out laughing. There, see, he said to himself, no one is as noble as they seem. In the end, we are all parasites.

  He did wind up dropping Vidot off at his tailor’s by the Madeleine church and then headed back to work. It was still early in the afternoon, and, after parking the car, Maroc strode in through the station’s front doors, feeling as good as he had felt all day and going at full steam. The adrenaline from his little adventure still had his blood coursing and he was thinking up ways to make the most of it. He would only stay in the office a few minutes, he thought, check in with his staff, and then head to the bar again and get his hands on that sweet Camille. Striding down the corridor, Maroc was so distracted thinking about grabbing hold of Camille’s perfectly pear-shaped rump that he did not notice the other officers in the station staring as he passed by. He ran through his options with rough logic. He could not realistically spend a whole night again with the barmaid right on the tail of last night, his stupid wife might finally see the light, but the case of money in his hand inspired him to think he could dash out and buy Camille some Ladurée macaroons and maybe some shiny earrings and then get in a quick fuck with her before heading back home to his wife. Of course, though he’d try to buy her off with macaroons too, his wife would also probably be in need of some physical attention; she was always like that after he spent a night away. What was he complaining about? So, there would be a lot of serious fucking ahead? That would not be so bad, he thought with a grin, he only hoped he could get it up for— Maroc’s train of thought shuddered to a halt as he came upon the small crowd that was assembled around his office door.

  “What is going on, why are you here?” he asked, but the group of policemen standing there did not say a word, merely parted to reveal the shivering, stark-naked man, with a coat wrapped around him, who was sitting alone on the floor in front of Maroc’s desk.

  “Bemm?” Maroc said, recognizing the officer. “Bemm! What are you doing here?”

  “That is what we were wondering,” said Officer Pingeot. “The maid says she came in to clean early last night and the office was empty. She locked it up when she left. Then a little while ago, I came to drop off the transcripts from Madame Vidot’s phone tapping. You were not here yet, so I got your key from Anna and unlocked the office, and that is when I found him curled up, shivering there, like he is now, only without the coat.”

  Maroc was bewildered. “How did he get in? Does he have an explanation?”

  “He has been unable to speak, he clearly has been through some sort of horrible trauma. We are awaiting the ambulance.”

  “Well, there must be some explanation!”

  The officer gave him a polite smile. “We were hoping you could provide that.”

  “How would I know? I was not here last night, I was home.”

  “We called your wife, looking for you, and she said you were not home last night, that you had told her you had to work late, in your office.” The last three words came out with a barely restrained emphasis that managed to offend Maroc to his core.

  He looked again at the shivering Bemm. This was too impossible and absurd for words. He knew this whole thing was a trap that Vidot had set for him, that was the only explanation that made any sense, and his only thought was to go find the little detective and beat him unconscious. “I am taking personal charge of this investigation, starting immediately!” he announced.

  “You were not here”—Pingeot looked slightly nervous as he spoke now—“so I had to call someone…”

  “So? So?” All the nerves in Maroc’s body were now screaming. “What are you saying to me?”

  “What I mean to say is, I called the prefect and he is now on his way.”

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” screamed Maroc, shaking violently. “You called Papon’s office! He is on his way here? Right this moment? Are you an imbecile? Are you insane?” Enraged, he lunged out furiously for the officer, intending to throttle him. In the process, the case flew out of Maroc’s hands. Falling to the floor and bursting open, its contents spilled all over the floor. Maroc was too mad with anger to notice and continued choking Pingeot.

  It was at this point in time that the prefect of the Paris police, Maurice Papon, strode around the corner to find his recent appointee, Maroc, standing in the center of a small crowd who were all energetically trying to keep him from strangling some boggle-eyed subordinate. Beneath this eruption of violence, a naked man sat at the foot of Maroc’s desk, awash in an enormous pile of loose ten-thousand-franc banknotes. The naked man, seemingly oblivious to the men struggling above him, stared out at the world with a troubled look of awe and confusion. And that was the last day of Superintendent Maroc’s once promising career in the Prefecture of Police.

  II

  Noelle was tired of listening to the old ghosts bicker in the coop. She and her chicken had first found the abandoned, low-roofed building after fleeing from the pri
est’s farm. She had crawled in for shelter and to recover from the shame of the barn fight. She had been hiding too, worried that Elga would find and punish her for running away. She thought about going back home, or even returning to the dreaded asylum, but every avenue seemed to lead to more punishment, so she stayed in the coop. When she grew chilly, she piled a rough bed of dusty old straw over her body and slept. The chicken stayed dutifully by her side, keeping watch.

  The first morning she woke, her stomach growled with hunger. Beside her, she found a solitary egg lying on the floor. Her red chicken sat next to it, looking up at her with an expression that held no emotion. She hesitated at first, remembering her sufferings from the last egg, but finally the extreme pangs of hunger outweighed the fears and Noelle snatched it up fast, still warm, cracked it against her knee, and opened it up. She swallowed it in one gulp, catching the yellow yolk and licking up every bit of the clear albumen before any could drip off the shell.

  Then she heard voices behind her. Turning around, she saw them standing against the wall. She recognized Elga right away. The old woman had the point of a butcher’s knife sticking out through her chest. Much to Noelle’s relief, Elga paid no attention to her, focusing instead on the heated discussion she was having with the two other women. One of them, who had a bloodstained hole where one of her eyes used to be, seemed to be baiting Elga with sharp words in a language foreign to Noelle, while the other looked solemnly on, occasionally nodding in agreement with the first. Elga was loudly arguing back, waving her finger in both their faces and then gesturing toward what seemed to be a third person, though no one was there.

  That entire first day, none of them spoke to Noelle, though they occasionally gestured in her direction. Tempers flared and at times the coop was thick with the din of their shouting. Occasionally Elga would clomp over to the far corner, where she would sit alone with her back to them, her arms crossed in a pout. The bloody-eyed woman would yell and curse at her and Elga would turn and yell back until finally Elga would come stomping across the coop to shake her finger once more in the other woman’s face.

  After a full day of this, the sun sank and Noelle lay down again, ignoring the old women and piling up her straw for another night of sleep.

  The next morning when she awoke it was so cold she could see her breath. The room was quiet and the women were no longer there. Noelle’s throat was parched with thirst, so she crawled out of the coop and into the brush, following her chicken as it wandered through a glade toward the sound of a creek. Once they found it, Noelle leaned over the flowing water and scooped up handfuls to drink. The chicken in turn waded into the shallows and pecked at the creek’s surface in a manner that made Noelle giggle.

  They walked through the sun-dappled trees up the low slope of the hill, the chicken keeping a few steps ahead of Noelle. Climbing back up into the coop, Noelle lay down on the hay again. She longed for the hotel suite, with its warm bed and chocolate éclairs. The thought rekindled her hunger and she looked at the chicken.

  The chicken sensed Noelle’s gaze and seemed to grow slightly self-conscious. It got up, shook out its tail, and made its way to the edge of the hay. It walked around in a small circle and then sat down. It remained there, in an almost contemplative manner for a number of minutes, occasionally looking over at Noelle but then looking away again. When it rose, there was an egg.

  Noelle slurped it down and within moments the old women were back. They were no longer shouting at one another. Now they were all comforting Elga, who sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands. The one with the bloody eye leaned over and whispered words into Elga’s ear as she caressed the old woman’s shoulder. After a long time of this, the ghost of Elga finally rose, straightened out her skirt, and, wiping the tears and snot off her face, came over to Noelle.

  “Okay, well, it’s time to go. You can’t stay here,” Elga said, clapping her hands.

  Noelle felt nervous. She reached over and grabbed the chicken, holding it close to her chest for comfort. “I’m sorry I ran away,” she said.

  “Ah,” Elga snorted, “forget about it. Regretting the past only eats up the future. But now you must go.”

  “Where?” asked Noelle.

  “First, go to the train station and pick a stranger’s pocket. Look for someone tall to prey on, their brains and eyes are so far away from their pockets.”

  “But I don’t know how to pick a pocket.”

  The old woman nodded. “You will. All you have to do is try. You’ll be good at it. We’ll give you a charm to protect you. Then, take the train to the city. We are going to find you help there.”

  “But what if I get hungry. How will I get food?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” Elga snapped out of her gloom and pointed at the bird. “You can always sell the chicken.”

  Noelle held the bird tight to her chest. “Oh, but I don’t want to give up my chicken.”

  Elga chuckled, her eyes were still glassy and wet from weeping but they sparkled now. “Don’t worry, that chicken is smart, it will always find its way back to you.”

  Noelle looked at the bird. “Really?”

  The old woman nodded. “Yes. Believe me, child, you’re going to be selling that chicken for a very long time.”

  III

  Slowly coming to, Will reached clumsily across the bed to where she should have been. Finding only the empty pillow, he got up fast, leaping out from the sheets and shouting Zoya’s name with an urgency that shocked him. Nobody answered, the room was empty. On the small table he spotted an envelope with his name written on it. Inside, the message was short.

  Dear friend,

  Good day to you! I have asked your friend Zoya Polyakov to come to the police station on rue St. Denis for some questioning. She is technically “under arrest.” Please excuse me for not waking you. There was too much to explain. A desk officer should be able to help you with any questions once you arrive. I may be out of the station on an errand but I hope you will await my return.

  Sincerely,

  Detective Charles Vidot

  Will was out the door in a shot. Tumbling down the hotel staircase as he buttoned his shirt, he tore through the lobby and out onto the street. There was no taxi in sight so he started running down the sidewalk. Cars flew by and he craned his neck over the automobile hoods, desperate for a cab. Finally he spotted one coming around the corner of rue Blanche. Will dashed across the street and threw himself in front of it, causing a shriek of brakes.

  He jumped in and rattled off the address to the driver. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost five o’clock. As the driver’s radio played a Polish polka, Will tried to piece together what must have happened. He remembered carrying Zoya to the room with the other fellow, the one he had seen in the dream world. Was that man this Vidot? The letter referred to him as a “friend,” so presumably they knew one another. And where was Oliver? The taxicab jolted, braked, and barked its horn through the traffic, the Place de l’Opéra was bumper to bumper. Will rubbed his face with both hands in frustration. His memory was cloudy. He remembered smoking the owl pellet as the priest had instructed. Then he must have passed out. He did not remember any dreams or visions, only a deep, soulful rest. He tried to remember what day it was, Friday? Saturday? The traffic on the street was busier than it would have been on a weekend. It must be Friday. At the thought of work, Will shook his head. He had not called in sick, left any sort of message with his assistant, or even checked in. At this rate, his job probably wouldn’t be waiting for him.

  He leaned toward the driver, “Je te donnerai cinquante francs de supplémentaire si vous pouvez m’amener au commissariat de police en dix minutes.”

  The driver’s eyebrows went up and a broad smile broke out on his face. “Okay!” he said in English and they were off. Through a combination of blaring horns, bravado, and inspired sidewalk driving, the cab zoomed, lurched, cut, swerved, and sped down the Boulevard des Capucines, along rue de la Paix, then turned up the Right Bank un
til it crossed the Pont Notre-Dame and pulled up in front of the police station.

  Will threw a fistful of francs at the self-satisfied cabbie and, leaping out, ran up the steps. Inside, he found a desk clerk. Yes, yes, she said, a woman matching that description had been brought in early that morning. The clerk began leafing through the ledger in front of him.

  “Well, hello!” said a voice behind him. Will turned and saw the man from the barn, no longer naked or wearing the priest’s borrowed clothes but now clothed in what appeared to be a smartly tailored suit. “We never had time for a proper introduction. I am Detective Vidot.” He looked down at his clothes. “I am not usually this formal, but I will be reuniting with my wife soon after some time away and I would like to look my best.” He offered a tight smile. “I trust you had a good rest.”

  “Where is Zoya?” Will said.

  “Ah,” said Vidot, “I have some news there, good news or bad news, I do not know. I had hoped we could keep her longer, but when I returned from the tailor I discovered she had already left.”

  “She was released?”

  Vidot looked uncertain as to how to answer that. “Maybe? Or perhaps she released herself, with some assistance? I am not sure yet.”

  “You think she escaped?”

  Again Vidot paused before answering. “Yes, that is my guess, though it was not entirely unexpected. I was actually on my way to speak with a man who will, I believe, shed a bit of light on what occurred. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”

  As Vidot led him down the hall, Will looked around. He had never been in a police station before. The slow clatter of typewriters clicking out reports and the stale cigarette scent mixed with the smell of mimeograph ink permeated all the rooms they passed through. The officers and clerks they passed moved in a slow and steady motion, as if they were assured justice would ultimately prevail, or because they simply did not care. At the end of the corridor they came to a closed office door that Vidot opened without knocking. An older man sitting behind the desk stood up as they entered. He already looked nervous.