Dark Eyes

by William Richter

  “Is for you,” the old man said. “In some years past, there was flooding from pipes. Maybe some damage to your things. Cannot be helped.”

  Again, Wally opened her mouth to speak, but had no words. She slowly reached out and took the envelope, then turned and walked toward the front door of the shop, stuffing the envelope in her shoulder bag as she went. From behind, the old man spoke, and she turned to hear his words.

  “Be careful, vnuchenka,” he said. “This world is a wilderness.”

  Wally nodded absently and turned back toward the door. Disoriented, she passed by the security man as she pushed her way out of the shop, making it halfway down the block before she felt faint and realized that she had stopped breathing. She leaned against a store window for a moment, forcing air into her lungs. Wally reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope.

  “What the hell?” she said out loud, breathlessly, to herself. How had this happened? She had traveled to this random shop for a new ID and instead come into possession of … what? Something with her Russian name written on it; a name that even Wally herself didn’t realize she remembered. What were the odds against such a coincidence? It seemed impossible.

  The old man had been right about water damage: two edges of the envelope showed dark water stains where the paper had been immersed for some time. The flap was tied closed with string; Wally unwound the string and began to tear open the flap, but then suddenly stopped herself.

  Wally had a sense that she was being watched. She looked up quickly and caught a flash of movement on the sidewalk, thirty yards behind her. As a man ducked into a shop doorway for cover, she thought it might be the burly security man from the shop she had just been in.

  Wally stuffed the envelope back in her shoulder bag and moved on down the street. She ducked into a large and busy women’s clothing store called Notions, its sign written in both English and Russian. Wally began to peruse the racks as casually as she could manage, given the level of adrenaline now surging through her. As she continued to browse, two stern saleswomen—mother and daughter, by the looks of them—watched her every move with suspicion, ignoring the six or seven other customers in the store. Wally quickly picked out two blouses and headed toward the aisle of changing booths behind a curtain at the rear of the store. As she approached the curtain, the younger saleswoman followed her, taking note of the blouses.

  “Two items,” the woman said to Wally in a flinty, Slavic tone.

  Wally nodded and stepped into the back room where the changing booths were. At the rear wall there was an exit with a sign that read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY—ALARM WILL SOUND. Without hesitation, Wally reared back and kicked at the bar lock on the exit door, blowing it wide open and sounding the alarm. Before anyone in the store out front could react, Wally ducked into one of the changing booths, shut the door, and stepped up onto the stool inside so that her feet would not be visible from outside the booth.

  Soon came the sounds of the saleswomen, rushing into the changing area and yammering excitedly in Russian, cursing Wally as they spotted the wide-open emergency exit and the alleyway beyond. From the booth, Wally could hear the volume of the women’s voices diminish as they stepped out into the back alley, looking for her.

  Then Wally heard another set of footsteps—heavier, male—approaching hurriedly from the shop floor and passing through the changing area, also headed for the emergency exit. As the heavy steps passed her booth, Wally opened the booth door just a crack and confirmed the identity of her pursuer: it was the security man from the copy shop. He wore an angry expression as he passed through the back room and disappeared through the emergency exit. Wally emerged from the changing booth, leaving the blouses behind as she walked through to the front of the store and out onto the street again.

  Wally made her way back to the Brighton subway station, using streets off the Avenue and moving quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention. She hoped that a train would be ready to go—and it was, the last few passengers trickling on board just as the doors closed. As the train pulled away, Wally glanced back to the platform where the security man, breathless and enraged, had reached the train moments too late. His eyes scanned the windows of the departing subway cars, but Wally leaned behind the solid wall at the end of the car to avoid detection.

  She moved toward the back of the last car, choosing a window seat away from the other passengers. She took a moment to catch her breath and collect herself, feeling calmer with every rattle of the elevated subway car that carried her back into Manhattan. She peered into her shoulder bag, where the envelope waited, still unopened.

  It was twilight then, and the car’s fluorescent panels flickered off and on with every irregular bump on the train tracks below. Wally reached into her bag and pulled out the mildew-stained envelope. She tore through the flap and pulled out two items: a water-damaged manila file folder that was about a quarter of an inch thick and stuffed with documents and a separate brown envelope, small and sealed closed with something rolling around loose inside it.

  Wally first opened the small brown envelope, tearing the flap open, and out rolled what looked like a pebble—a single pea-sized stone. On close examination, the “pebble” had a rough outside surface with the slightest hint of reflection coming off it, a faint green glitter. Wally returned the stone to the small envelope, folding it in half twice and then stuffing it in the secure inside pocket of her jacket.

  She opened the second item—the manila folder—and saw the extent of the water damage: a collection of official-looking papers, yellowed with age, were almost completely ruined. The ink of the documents had bled away and soaked through all the pages so all that remained were a few scattered words—Russian, Cyrillic—which at first glance meant nothing to Wally. A separate item was a stapled set of papers that resembled an old photocopy of a newspaper article, with only a few sentences still legible.

  The file included a single photograph that had survived well. It looked to be a surveillance photo, taken from above, of a man walking across a city street. He was sturdily built, with dark hair and sideburns styled for another era—the eighties, maybe—with dark aviator sunglasses perched on a strong nose. Something about the way the man carried himself was unsettling. Wally looked closely at the man’s face—slightly blurred from the poor quality of the security camera image—but his features meant nothing to her.

  The final item in the file looked to be completely undamaged. It was a standard-sized mailing envelope, a light blue color that might have been part of a personalized stationery set. There was a faint scent to the envelope. Wally held it to her nose and breathed in, deciding it was an Old World smell, floral and musky. The name Wally was written on the outside of the envelope in a woman’s handwriting. Wally paused at the last moment before opening the envelope, suddenly feeling a twinge of dread, but then carefully slit open the flap. She pulled out a note, in English, written in the same woman’s handwriting as the outside of the envelope. The beginning of the note read My dearest Valentina. Skipping down to the bottom of the page, Wally read the closing of the letter: With my deepest love for you always, Yalena Mayakova.

  “Yalena Mayakova,” Wally mouthed the name to herself quietly, in shock and disbelief. At the Ditmas Avenue station, the train dipped down into its dark underground tunnel; by the flickering lights of the train, Wally began to read the letter from her Russian mother.

  FOUR

  Wally made it back to the bank by dusk. She felt terrible inside and must have looked that way too, judging by Tevin’s reaction when he saw her.

  “Did’ja see a ghost or something?” Tevin asked, concerned.

  Wally had no answer. She was overwhelmed by the events of the afternoon, and the long subway ride home from Brighton Beach had not helped. It had been too much empty time for her to sit alone, struggling to process the events that had the potential to turn her life upside down. She hated appearing vulnerable in front of her crew, but in this situation there was nothing she could do about
it.

  “Obviously she needs food,” said Ella.

  Tevin went out and returned fifteen minutes later with two pizzas and a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper. The crew allowed Wally to eat and relax until she was ready to talk. She forced herself to eat one slice and drink two sodas. The combination of grease, sugar, and caffeine eventually worked for her, and within half an hour Wally felt at least partially revived. She pulled the big padded envelope out of her bag and spread all its contents across the warm marble floor, neatly arranging them in the same order she had found them. The crew knelt on the floor beside her and inspected the items.

  First, of course, was the letter. Ella picked it up and, just as she was about to read it out loud, stopped herself and looked to Wally.

  “Is it okay?” Ella asked.

  Wally nodded yes, actually looking forward to hearing out loud the words that had been crashing around in her head for almost two hours; maybe they would be clearer this way.

  “My Dearest Valentina,” Ella began reading, then gave Wally a questioning look. “Valentina?”

  “That’s me,” Wally said. “My Russian name.”

  Though all of Wally’s crew knew about her adoption, they hadn’t heard her other name, obviously.

  “You never told us that,” Ella said.

  “It’s new to me, too,” Wally said. “Kind of.”

  “Whoa …” Jake said.

  Ella began again, this time with a greater sense of gravity: “My Dearest Valentina. My greatest hope has been that one day, you and I would face each other, embrace each other, as mother and daughter. If this letter has come to you, that dream will never come true. I am gone. Writing this, my heart breaks …”

  Ella choked up a little and she paused her reading. She gave Wally a sympathetic look.

  “You okay?” Tevin asked.

  “I’m okay,” Wally said.

  Ella continued: “There are so many things I would like to express to you. I fear that you could never forgive me for abandoning you to this world, but I would happily endure your anger just to be with you, for the chance to explain the choices I have made in my life. You can be sure that I have never stopped loving you, that I have forever hoped for the day that we could finally be together and safe. Perhaps in another life. I am so very sorry.”

  Ella paused again, a bit overwhelmed, then went on. “Certainly you are curious about where you are from and who you were born to be. I have included documents here that will help you to understand all things. It is your right to know why our lives were fated to be separate. Please accept the knowledge here as complete, and search no further. Jeopardy and heartache await you if you do not believe this warning. Please, my beautiful Valentina, accept the miracle of your life and go forward in peace and happiness. With my deepest love for you always, Yalena Mayakova.”

  The four of them sat in silence for a moment, considering the contents of the note. Each of the others glanced at Wally to see how she was responding. Though she had already read the note on the subway, the emotional impact of the words was still powerful. She felt stricken by the confusing combination of excitement and doubt.

  “Holy shit,” said Tevin.

  “Where the hell did you get this?” Jake asked.

  Wally recounted the events of her afternoon. Tevin, Jake, and Ella took a while to process the story.

  “You just walked in there for an ID,” Tevin said, “and an old guy you’ve never seen before gave you this?”

  “And his security guy tried to follow me. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything.”

  “This is totally out there, Wally,” Jake said.

  “Yeah,” she agreed.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Tevin said. “I’d bet the letter is wrong. Your mother—the person who wrote this—the letter makes it sound like she’s dead, but I think she’s actually not.”

  “How do you figure that?” Wally challenged him, though she had already reached that same hopeful conclusion herself.

  “The envelope has your name on it, so you were meant to get it at some point, right?”

  “So …” Wally agreed.

  “So the way she’s written it …” Tevin picked up the note and scanned it for the sentence he was thinking about. “Here: If this letter has come to you, that dream will never come true. I am gone. See? You’re supposed to get this only after she’s dead. But you ended up in that shop today by accident, so you got it before you were supposed to.”

  “How do you know when she was supposed to get it, Tev?” Jake said, always the skeptic. “You’re just guessing. We don’t know how or when any of this should have happened. And all that shit in there looks pretty old. Anything could have happened to this Yalena woman in that time.”

  “But what’s wrong with Wally believing it?” Ella protested, giving Jake a nudge.

  “If it’s bullshit, I’d say there’s plenty wrong,” Jake said.

  It was a strange experience for Wally to sit in on this debate, listening to the crew debate the question without her. Part of her wanted to jump in and insist that Yalena was alive, but she didn’t know the truth of it any more than the others did.

  “I’d bet something else …” Tevin said.

  “This oughta be good,” Jake sneered.

  “It is,” Tevin said. “I think Yalena is somewhere nearby. Or she was when she wrote this letter.”

  “Why would you say that?” Wally asked.

  “First of all,” Tevin said, “how else did the envelope end up in the U.S.? In Brighton Beach?”

  “And look what she called you,” Ella said, obviously agreeing with Tevin. Beautiful Valentina. She wrote that. She’s seen you, Wally. How beautiful you are.”

  “Please. Every mother says that about every kid,” Jake insisted, but Wally could feel those words hang darkly over the crew—even Jake. Each of them had painful histories with their own parents; kind and loving words were never guaranteed.

  Ella shook off the gloom of the moment, defying Jake’s cynicism.

  “She’s alive and she’s been watching over you.” Ella spoke those words in a whisper, infusing them with a romantic, storybook essence. “That’s what I think.”

  Magical Ella, thought Wally, though she wanted to believe it herself.

  “But if you’re right,” Wally said calmly, determined to be rational, “and she was near, why wouldn’t she have contacted me?”

  “It’s got something to do with the guy in the picture,” said Tevin.

  They all looked again at the photograph that had been included in the package: the man in aviator sunglasses, crossing an unnamed street in what could be most any metropolitan area in the world. He looked to be about forty years old, though there was no telling how long ago the photo itself had been taken. He had the solid build of a physical laborer and his dark hair was cropped close. Looking at the photograph again now, Wally noticed a dark patch of skin on his neck, partially obscured by the collar of his shirt. A tattoo.

  “What about him?” Wally said.

  “He’s a scary one,” said Ella.

  “There’s something else here,” said Tevin, pointing at the underside of the photograph.

  Wally took the photo from Tevin and found a faded notation on the underside, in pencil, written in the same hand as the letter from Yalena Mayakova. “This is a most dangerous man,” Wally read the note aloud, a chill passing through her as the words crossed her lips. “He has driven us apart. If you see him, you must run.”

  Hours later, Wally lay awake in her sleeping space high above the bank floor, staring up at the dark ceiling. As cars passed by outside, their headlights swept into the bank and flickered on the Trojan War mosaic, briefly giving life to the ancient heroes before leaving them dark again.

  Was it possible, Wally wondered, to want something your entire life—desperately—without consciously knowing it? That was how she felt when she first read the line in her mother’s note: My greatest hope has been that you and I would one day embrace a
s mother and daughter. Wally shared that furious need for completeness, now more than ever. All her life Wally had felt abandoned, had assumed that she had been an unwanted child tossed aside by unloving parents. Now it seemed—if the letter from her mother could be believed—that the opposite was true. Little Wally—little Valentina—had been cherished.

  Something else about the Brighton event occurred to her, but only many hours later: when speaking her Russian name aloud—Valentina—Wally had pronounced the V sound somewhere between a V and a W, which she knew was common among some native speakers of Russian. Claire had never really explained why she had chosen the name Wallis, but now it seemed self-evident: Wally was to Wallis as Vally was to Valentina. With the mixed pronunciation of the W and V, the nicknames were virtually the same in both languages. Claire had chosen the name Wallis as a way of connecting Wally’s Russian and American identities, possibly to help give the five-year-old Wally a sense of continuity, easing her abrupt transition from one culture to another. It was a small thing, maybe, but all these years later Wally was grateful for the gesture, and grateful for the reminder that whatever their differences, Claire did love Wally, did care for her in every way she was able.

  Wally heard Tevin’s footsteps approach on the dark walkway. He sat down beside her, cross-legged.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Long day …”

  “Yeah.” Wally managed a wry chuckle. “It’s all so crazy.”

  “You think it’s real? The letter and everything?”

  “I don’t know,” Wally said at first, then, “I want it to be.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to look for her,” Wally said. Just saying the words made her feel warm … not quite happy, exactly, but strong.

  “Cool,” Tevin said. “We’ll all look together.”

  Wally smiled. “Thanks, Tev.”

  “Maybe we even need it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “After a while, having something to run away from ain’t enough. I think you gotta have something to run toward too. You ever feel that?”