by Paul Park
She was older than Rachel, perhaps fifty, with a barrellike body and fleshy arms. She wore a black wool skirt to the middle of her shins, under what Miranda decided was a smock—a loose shirt that left her neck and forearms bare.
The dog was trembling and her eyes were closed. “Mustn’t worry,” said the old woman under her breath. “Mustn’t worry, no.”
Which was easy for her to say. Miranda didn’t want to look. Instead she ran her hand down Andromeda’s smooth flank, searching for a wound. “Please,” she said. “It’s all right. We can—” But she stopped when she felt the dog stiffen, felt the rumble of a growl too soft to hear.
“No,” said the old woman, grasping her hand. “Don’t touch. Wait now. Watch me. Dog is good.”
She got up. Now she was wandering around the house gathering an assortment of objects from various boxes and piles: a hand mirror, a syringe, a comb, a drum, a hammer, a fan, a straight razor, a glass jar, a length of rubber tube—Miranda was not reassured. Nor was she pleased to see the woman squat down over the wounded soldier. She made a pile of the things she’d gathered on the floor.
“Ceausescu,” she said, the name she’d spoken on the bridge outside.
“Who is that?” Miranda said. Stanley had told her that her parents had been involved in the Timisoara riots, when President Ceausescu’s soldiers fired on the crowd. But that was there, and this was here.
“He is Ceausescu’s man,” she said, which didn’t help. “The red pig,” she said, pointing to a mark on his shirt.” Though her voice was harsh, her hands were gentle, fat and spotted as she rubbed the soldier’s neck and cheeks. He opened his eyes.
She unbuttoned his green coat, and with the razor she cut away his shirt and undershirt along the front of his body. His chest had a black mark on it. The woman made some clucking noises when she saw it, half laughter, half concern. “So,” she said to Peter. “You have not lost skill. Not all.” She held the mirror to the soldier’s lips.
By herself she must have dragged him across the bridge and into the house. But from the water, with Raevsky’s arms around her, Miranda had seen Peter knock the soldier down, as he had knocked down Kevin Markasev, and even the kid in the playground—Miranda felt a surge of gratitude. The man’s pistol lay in a corner of the room, next to the green cap. But what did the woman mean by losing skill?
“Hey,” she said. “Where is Gregor Splaa?” And there was another name, too. Someone blind.
Peter sat down now with the dog between them. He put his left hand into the fur above her tail, and Miranda heard her growl. “Stop that,” she told him.
“One comes,” said the old woman. “Must work fast. Dog must wait.”
“She can’t wait,” Miranda said. But in spite of herself, she was fascinated to see the woman force the neck of the glass jar into the man’s mouth. She forced the rubber tube so that it ran out the side of his mouth behind his teeth. He opened his eyes wider, but he seemed stunned or drugged. The woman clamped her hands around the neck of the jar, covering the man’s nose until his feet and arms began to shake.
Then abruptly, she took her hands away. She dragged aside all of her equipment and let him breathe again. “Not yet,” she said. She was kneeling over his head, and now she sat back on her heels. She hugged her arms over her enormous chest and, closing her eyes, began to sing a small melody, a whisper of Roumanian words.
“Come on,” Miranda said. How long had they been in this new place? An hour? Two? Already everything had gone wrong. She thought about what had happened on the ice, when she’d escaped from Raevsky, the gray-haired man who’d called her by her name. He and the rest had run away. Guns had been fired. Thankfully, that phase of things seemed to be over.
“Where is Gregor Splaa?” she asked again, irritated. No one was talking to her, not the old woman or Peter either. Though she was out of her saturated socks, her legs and feet were still cold. No one was answering even her simplest questions. And Peter wouldn’t even look at her. He was staring at the woman’s hands.
There was a movement at the door, which opened. Miranda saw the silhouette of a man in the white light. Then he was inside, crouching down below the window frame, a rifle in his hand. The door swung closed.
The woman shook her head as her song came to an end. “Great hunter,” she said. “How can you miss so much?”
“Please, mother,” he said.
But she smiled at Miranda, winked. Her eyes were a bright shade of green. “I am mother when he fails, only. You see it is my way now. If de Graz and Prochenko—”
Those were the other names. Miranda was relieved to hear them from her lips. She was about to say something when the man interrupted. “We’ve got half an hour,” he said. He was dark-haired, hook-nosed, bearded, dressed in wool and buckskin leather. His cheeks were sunken, hollow. He spoke better English than the old woman. “They will attack as soon as they can.”
This was terrible news. Again Miranda wanted to say something, but this time the woman interrupted. “Is not attack. Not fight like this. Is my way now.”
She turned, poised as if listening. “One comes.”
The wounded soldier lay on the floor, breathing softly under her hand. His eyes were open. “It’s their captain,” the man said at the window. He raised his gun, reached for the door.
“No.” The woman shook her head. “You miss him at ten meters. Let him talk.”
Now there was no hesitating, and she took one end of the rubber tube between her lips. Again she put the neck of the jar into the man’s mouth, while at the same time sucking on the tube that ran behind his teeth. As Miranda watched, his eyes glazed and hardened, and then she saw for a piece of a second a shape in the jar, as insubstantial as a hologram, a tiny, hairy beast. Then it was gone.
“Have it,” muttered the old woman.
Miranda ran her hand down Andromeda’s hairy flank. In the thick fur she encountered Peter’s fingers—his left hand—and did not pull away. She glanced at him, but he was watching the jar.
The woman rubbed it in her hands. Now from moment to moment Miranda could see the little animal nosing around the inside of the glass, appearing and disappearing, diaphanous, multihued, alive. The woman fitted a cork into the jar’s mouth. Then, limber and light-footed in spite of her bulk, she stood up and made a little skipping dance across the floor.
She had a flowered shawl tied around her waist in place of a belt, and she slid the bottle into it. Then she bent down in front of Peter and snapped her fingers under his nose. “I say you can be your own son. A boy—is looking so. Is this Prochenko here? Hah, there are big mistakes! Always this is true! In a dream I went to that place once, that terrible Romania, that terrible Constanta—yes, when she was young.” And as Peter jerked back his face, the door opened and Raevsky stood there, unarmed, hands at his sides.
The woman’s skin was covered with moles. Her neck was fat and short. She had some gold teeth, and she smelled of liquor as she bent down over Miranda. “Captain Raevsky,” she said. “Do remember me?”
The captain blinked as he peered into the room. He said something in Roumanian, but the woman stopped him. “I was servant in the summer palace long before.”
She partly blocked Miranda’s view with her big body. But Miranda was comforted by her proximity—her and Andromeda, and Peter on the other side. In any case the captain was looking at the other man, whose gun was pointed at his stomach. “I’ve come for him,” he said, meaning the soldier stretched out on the floor. When no one said anything, he went on. “I promised his father I would bury him—”
The woman laughed. “You must please yourself. Is no hurry. Is not dead.”
As she was speaking, she took from inside her scarf a leather case, which contained a glass syringe. She chose a needle and screwed it on. Then she found a rubber-stoppered vial in her pocket, filled the syringe, and ran the needle into Andromeda’s side. Almost immediately Miranda felt the dog’s heavy head subside into her lap.
The
old woman was still muttering. “Prochenko! Always some mistakes. With his yellow hair. Nose in a pretty girl. So, it does not change.”
“Good,” said Captain Raevsky. “You are glad to know the other one will live. Hit in the face, as you know. There is no necessity for more blood.”
Miranda was relieved to hear him say so. He went down on one knee over the sleeping soldier, and put the back of his hand against his cheek. The other man followed his movements with the end of the long gun. “What can you give us?” he said.
Raevsky frowned. He turned toward Miranda. “Miss Popescu, we have gifts. Important messages. No harm will come. We are your friends. The man who hurt your dog, he is already punished.”
Miranda looked at Peter, and was surprised to see him shake his head. “I’ll stay here,” she murmured. It didn’t seem like much of a choice. She felt secure here in this warm room, despite its strangeness. And Raevsky had grabbed her, put his hands on her. He might have killed the dog.
“No, that is not right,” said Captain Raevsky. “Do not force these ones to defend you. Gypsies and Jews—your place is not with them.”
Gypsies and Jews—what kind of talk was that? Miranda would stay with the old woman—there was a silence in the crowded room. The man with the long gun ended it. “That’s enough,” he said. “She’s answered. As for this piece of garbage, he’s our guest.” He nodded toward the sleeping soldier.
The woman ran her hands over the dog’s stomach. “Listen to him—‘piece of garbage.’ Is good, is a brave man now. They call me Blind Rodica,” she whispered. “That is Gregor Splaa.”
Miranda was happy to hear these names. “I’ll stay,” she said again.
The captain gave her a disgusted look. “You have no right to bring a danger to these people.” He stared at her, and she stared back defiantly. Why was he even talking to her? His men had shot Andromeda. And her wrists were still sore where he had grabbed her.
He had a heavy chest and powerful arms. But his legs were thin. “I have a letter,” he said finally to Splaa. “May I give it?”
There was no answer, and so he reached inside his coat to produce the same soggy yellow envelope he had offered her before. He turned his back to Splaa and stepped across the room in his wet boots. Miranda looked at him as he approached. She put Andromeda’s head aside. Almost she cried out to Splaa, because anyone could predict what Raevsky would do. He would grab her by the arm again. Or he would turn and knock the barrel of Splaa’s gun aside. There was a red mark on his ear where she had bitten him. His face was stiff and tense.
But then Blind Rodica stepped between them and took the envelope. “I am with my lady in the summer palace,” she said. “Sophie’s Guest House, but you don’t remember? I recognize your smell. You came with the Baron Ceausescu. Prince Frederick and the Chevalier de Graz were there.”
When Raevsky heard this name, his expression changed. Miranda watched him glance at Peter and then look again. Suddenly there was no further chance he would attack them. There was no more stiffness in his shoulders and neck. In a moment he seemed panicked, almost eager to be gone.
“We will wait one hour,” he said as he stepped backward. And then in a pleading voice: “Please, miss, you must do what we say. You must not keep here with these people. They are not friends to you.”
He stepped backward toward the door. He was fumbling behind him for the latch, as he stared at Peter’s face. “In any way you have no choice,” he said. “I have men from Cluj, and better guns.” Then he was gone, and Splaa closed the door behind him.
Splaa shrugged, dissatisfied, and nodded toward the soldier on the floor. “He has six men and his guide from Albany. Tell me why I let him go.”
“Is better this way,” said Blind Rodica. “He protects. He won’t hurt the white tyger—if he is dead or so, the rest don’t wait.” Then she laughed. “Is frightened of the Chevalier de Graz. Is frightened, anyway. His master was the most cruel alchemist in Great Roumania, and now his lady, too. But is afraid of my small tricks.”
“What is the white tyger?” Miranda murmured.
But Splaa didn’t hear. Miranda had taken Andromeda’s head into her lap again, and she had spoken the question almost to herself, because she didn’t want it to sound as if she didn’t know anything. Maybe she’d learn something just by listening.
Splaa was by the window. “They’ve got their guns.”
“They won’t risk,” said Blind Rodica. “They go around the house and wait for dark. He won’t lose someone, and wounded will not be convenient. Is afraid.”
“He should be. I could hit three or four.”
Rodica laughed, winked at Miranda. “So you say. Is also possible he will wait more time. After some days, he thinks.”
They spoke as if Miranda weren’t there. But they spoke in English so that she could understand. “What is the white tyger?” she repeated.
Blind Rodica had knelt down over the dog again. Her hands were hidden in the yellow fur, and they were bloody when she drew them out. She found the envelope in the pouch of her scarf, and drew out a single sheet of damp, expensive paper.
“In proper time,” Rodica said. “There. A forging. Why will the empress say these things to you? She will put you in a prison if she catches you.”
This was useful information. “What does it say?” Miranda asked.
She shrugged. “I cannot read.” She crushed the paper between her hands and tossed it across the floor.
Frustrated, Miranda put her hand on Andromeda’s sleeping head. She would have been relieved to see Rodica shave the wound, or stitch it up, or bandage it, or merely wash it. But the woman had done none of these things since she’d given the injection, just rubbed and worried the dog’s side with bloodstained hands.
Now Rodica reached into the dog’s mouth and seemed to produce from there a slug of lead the size of a pea. “Not trying to kill—ha, ha,” she said, and then her body was quivering as she started to laugh. She snapped her fingers, and the bullet disappeared.
“Bounced from the bone. And you,” she went on, snapping her fingers in front of Peter’s face, “wake up.”
Peter jerked his head back. And it was true—he did look a little dopey. He hadn’t said anything in a long time.
Gregor Splaa was standing by the front window. Every minute or so he walked across the room to the back of the house, where he looked out another small window on the opposite wall. There was a field out there, a wide, snowy expanse before the trees began.
Miranda kept her hand on Andromeda’s head. “I’ve got some questions,” she said stubbornly.
Which made the woman laugh harder. “I think you do. I think so.” She got up, and without washing her hands she filled a kettle from the first of a line of buckets against the wall, and put it on the stove.
Now Andromeda and the soldier were asleep. Peter was sitting beside the stove. He sat cradling his arm, leaning back against a pile of blankets and pillows. As Miranda watched, he ran the fingers of his left hand along his big right forearm, and was opening and closing his dark right fist.
Splaa walked back and forth between the windows, carrying his gun. Miranda cleared her throat, but Blind Rodica interrupted before she could speak. “We are your servants, miss. Your aunt Aegypta put us here to wait.”
“Yes,” Miranda persevered. “You’ve got some letters. Not that one.” She nodded toward the message from the empress, unread, crumpled in a corner.
“Is not time,” the woman said again. “White tyger—what are these names to you? But your aunt keeps us here to protect you from those murderers! Splaa was a stableboy, is true. Now he is a big man with his gun, but we don’t think so—hah, we know him! I work in the nursery after you are born. One week after you come from Germany.”
Miranda shrugged. “Where…?”
“No, in Constanta, child. Roumania. Where else? Your aunt brought you from Germany when you were two days old.”
“And he’s your son?” Miranda motion
ed with her head toward Gregor Splaa. They were talking too softly for him to hear.
“No, child. But I take him. Roumania has orphans in those days and now still. Your aunt would not separate. He is just a boy when I come here.”
Gregor Splaa walked back and forth. “Tell her the story.”
But she was making food. She mixed the water with some meat stock from a greasy jar and put it in a pot on the stove. Then she sat beside Peter slicing vegetables into a bowl, muttering and singing to herself.
The walls were charred and stained with soot. Long, soot-covered cobwebs hung from the rafters. They trembled in the draught Splaa made as he walked underneath. The flame of one of the kerosene lamps trembled also, and cast flickering shadows. “She’s blind,” Splaa muttered. “She does everything by touch. Don’t trust her pranks. That’s all it is, make-believe.
“This boy,” he went on, touching the soldier with his foot. “Maybe she drugged him. But the rest is Gypsy tricks. Not what we need now.”
Rodica laughed when she heard this, winked her grass-green eyes. She was slicing pieces of smoked ham into the pot. And now she took from the pouch of her scarf what looked to Miranda like the same jar that had contained the little animal. She opened it, turned it upside down, shook out a pinch of what looked like salt. Still, how could she be blind? Later she sat and rolled a cigarette with expert, practiced movements.
“Stop that,” she said to Gregor Splaa. “They will hit through the window. I tell you nothing happens before dark.”
6
A Second Assault
THE INSIDE OF THE LITTLE house was full of distinct smells. Lying near the stove with her eyes closed, without moving her nose, Andromeda could separate them out. There were onions and garlic. There was deer meat and dried rabbit meat. There was a small stink of urine, and two kinds of blood. There was salt and wood and smoke, which almost overpowered all the rest. There was dirt and sweat from the Gypsy woman. There were Miranda, Peter, and there was Gregor Splaa.
She opened her eyes. In the afternoon, in the little house by the stone dam, Gregor Splaa walked back and forth.