The Hungarian

by Victoria Dougherty

  “Why is it that when Ivanov sings to you, you believe him, even when he’s an ocean away? But when I sing, you shake your head.”

  Lily looked up, coming face-to-face with Pasha Tarkhan. He was seated in the front passenger’s seat, as if he’d always been there.

  “Could it be that you’ve developed some faith after all?” he said.

  Lily opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Pasha’s bear claw of a hand reached into the back seat. He touched his index finger to her nose with a motion at once so sweet and reverential that he may as well have been touching a breast for the first time.

  “Pasha,” she whispered.

  “Yes, it’s really me.”

  Lily took his hand, kissing the palm he’d pressed against his window. She brushed her lips over the pillow of flesh beneath his thumb and kissed each and every one of his fingers, then his wrist, his knuckles and the thick veins that snaked so close under his skin. His hands smelled like cigarettes, newspaper pages and smoked salmon from his breakfast. It was a heavenly perfume.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him.

  Pasha pulled a lock of hair from her coif and weaved it around his fingers. “Where I should still be, I suppose.”

  It occurred to Lily quite suddenly that he might not have come to stay, and it was an utterly unacceptable thought.

  “This is where you belong,” she said.

  Pasha smiled. “If I were a better man, Lily, I wouldn’t be here at all. And I certainly wouldn’t stay.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lily told him. “I’m a terrible human being. I deserve whatever you bring into my life.”

  Pasha’s chuckle felt as close to a home as anything.

  “Because we’re horrible people?” Pasha shook his head. “That is, I suppose, why I’ve returned. Because you and I are on a similar path, in equal danger, as it were. Especially now that you’ve chosen to assume your father’s dealings.”

  Lily snuggled his hand close to her chest. “Would you not have come back if I’d gone back to shopping and traveling?”

  He pressed his thumb over her heartbeat and raised an eyebrow. “I would not.”

  “Hmmf. Then I’m not sure I want you back,” Lily said. “You’re clearly far too good a person for me.”

  Pasha cocked his head, frowning.

  “I’m joking!” Lily said. “And speaking of horrible people, I was just on my way to meet an old friend of yours. I think he’s even worse than we are.”

  The traffic stopped again, and Pasha jumped out of the car, pulling his coat over his head as if it were raining. He slid into the back next to Lily and kissed her like he’d been waiting all his life to do it. Like he hadn’t kissed her a hundred times, everywhere. When he came up for air, he put his lips to her forehead, then traced a little cross with his thumb right over her brow.

  “Fedot can take care of Pushkin,” he said. “You needn’t concern yourself with the general or his approval.”

  Lily swallowed. She was embarrassed to admit just how much she wanted Pushkin’s good opinion. “Pasha, I need to see him.”

  Pasha gulped and kissed her again, trailing his lips to her ear. “The general is nothing to you,” he whispered. “He’ll beg like a dog if you tell him to, and you won’t have to ask twice.”

  Lily broke from his embrace and met the rich soil of his eyes. She couldn’t read them. She knew what Pasha was saying. That Pushkin was useful, perhaps, but utterly replaceable. And she hated herself for wanting to prove something to that two-bit Russian general.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I’m just trying to get familiar with everyone. Make myself known.” Despite how much she loved him, she couldn’t even let Pasha in on how hard it was for her to come face-to-face with some of the men in her father’s network and how badly she wanted them to respect her.

  Pasha cupped her hand and brought it to his lips. “There’s only one person you need to know—besides Mr. Ivanov, of course.”

  Lily leaned in to Pasha and bit down on her lip, the waxy film of her Brandywine lipstick clinging to her teeth. “You?”

  This time Pasha full-out laughed.

  “No, not me,” he said. “I’m just your lover. And an inconvenient defector. I was referring to yourself.”

  Myself, Lily mouthed. “Always the philosopher, aren’t you?” Lily nuzzled his chest, stroking her cheek against the crisp thread of his cotton shirt. Her father, the Hungarian, Pasha . . . It was all nearly too much to comprehend at once.

  “I think Bombay awaits us,” he said.

  “Bombay?”

  “We’ll be flying there tonight after a brief sojourn in my hotel room. Perhaps after Bombay, we can make our way to Hong Kong or Rio de Janeiro. People like us, my dear, don’t thrive in places like Boston.”

  Lily couldn’t deny that.

  “Rio,” she said. Lily looked up at Pasha, trying not to succumb to a smile so easily. “What can I say? I love beaches.” That was one thing that would probably never change.

  Pasha took her very suddenly into his arms, squeezing her tight as if he’d just awakened from a nightmare. “Say your prayers, Lily, and commune with our Ivanov. If you and I are to be together, we’re going to need every bit of Divine Grace we can marshal.”

  Lily nestled herself deeper into Pasha’s embrace, kissing the hollow in his throat. Bombay, yes, Bombay would be fine on this first leg of their journey. Anywhere would be fine, at least for now. Because in spite of the horrors of the past few months—the fear, the torture, the deaths—there had been a few tiny cells of magic. Lily had completed Tony Geiger’s mission, after all—the one he’d died for. The one he would’ve never guessed she’d take up on her own. That thought alone could make her smile for a week. She’d traveled through Russia, Persia and Eastern Europe with a purpose that didn’t even vaguely concern wine, a closet of new dresses or a parade of worthless men, none of whom would have cared about her.

  And there had been happiness.

  Right there in her Chrysler Imperial, with her Russian and her father’s dubious enterprises, her own changing heart and Ivanov’s voice in her head—always Ivanov’s voice—Lily felt happy.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I want to thank my readers. So many of you reach out and share your lives with me. You follow me to some outlandish places, too – exotic times and locals filled with ghosts, assassins and lovers. Your faith and loyalty keep me sane.

  A big, big thanks to my street team, aka Coldsters. Your enthusiasm makes launching a new book like a party. I wish I could take each and every one of you out for a coffee. Or a good whiskey.

  My husband, Jack, without whom I’d spend all of my time merely wishing I was a writer. And our kids, too, deserve a hug, an ice cream and a trip to Disneyworld for being so tolerant of their mother’s imaginary world.

  Writing can be a lonely business, and I’m ever so grateful for my fellow writers who have spent so much time with me around the virtual watercooler in our various online writers groups. You are, quite simply, great people and I feel privileged to have gotten to know you. Christoph and Catalina, this means you, among many others who are too numerous to name, but live in my heart regardless.

  Josh Getzler of Hannigan Salky Getzler – thank you for your support and terrific editorial feedback. Thanks also to Danielle Burby, who was always there to lend a hand along the way.

  Andy Straka, co-founder of Crimewave, at the Virginia Festival of the Book, thanks for an ear, a word, and for having such a lovely wife.

  Supportive friends are worth their weight in gold. Thank you Nancy Bishop for championing my work and spreading the word. Michele Kayal and Dale Eastman – I think you’ve read this book nearly as many times as I have. Thank you. And to all of you kind souls who have read or recommended my work to your friends, shown up at my book readings, and lobbied to have my books featured in your book clubs, you can’t know how much that means.

  Kate
Brauning – thanks for being a great editor. Chris Bell, your design sense makes my words look so great on the page that they actually read better. Brianna Harden – your cover design is gorgeous. Thank you.

  If you can spare a moment, the author would be grateful for an honest review of this novel—even if it’s just a sentence or two—on Goodreads or the platform of your choice.

  Victoria Dougherty

  Victoria Dougherty is the author of The Bone Church, Welcome to the Hotel Yalta, and Cold. She writes fiction, drama and essays that revolve around lovers, killers, curses, and destinies.

  Her work has been published or profiled in the New York Times, USA Today, The International Herald Tribune and elsewhere.

  Earlier in her career, while living in Prague, she co-founded Black Box Theater, translating, producing, and acting in to sold-out audiences in several Czech plays—from Vaclav Havel’s “Protest” to the unintentionally hilarious communist propaganda play “Karhan’s Men.” Black Box Theater was profiled in feature articles in USA Today and numerous European publications.

  Her blog—COLD—features her short essays on faith, family, love and writing.

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