The Crown and the Key

by Andrey Vasilyev

  “I guess,” Azov said with a dismissive wave. “You should have seen it when the theme was ancient Rome. Ah, I love Rome. It’s a great city.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Vika’s eyes flashed as she took in the scene hungrily. “I really should have worn a dress. Everyone’s wearing them, and I’m the only one looking like an idiot.”

  “Not the only one,” Azov shook his head. “Inna’s over there in a gimnasterka. Her girls from the HR department are, too.”

  “That’s not quite a compliment,” Vika pouted. “They’re here to work, and I’m a guest.”

  “And almost all the guys are looking at you,” said the guy who had been whirling his saber around earlier as he walked over. “You look like a white swan with a bunch of ducks. See all the old guys wiping drool off their chins?”

  I was surprised to note that he was right. My lady friend’s austere outfit stood out against all the silk and gloss of the 20s, and she was coming off the winner.

  “Let’s finish them off with a dance,” Azov said to Vika. He grabbed her hand without waiting for an answer, pulled her into the crowd, and started doing something that looked like the shimmy.

  “Look at Ilya go,” Shus whistled. “He’s a disco dancer!”

  He walked away, leaving me to feel kind of lonely. Really, Vika was the only person I had there. Zimin and Valyaev were somewhere, though they were the bosses, and I didn’t even want to think about Vezhleva or Yadviga.

  I adjusted my papakha, unbuttoned my jacket to cool off a bit, moved my holster down, and thought about heading over to throw back a shot or two of vodka. There were waiters running around—more slipping between people—but they just had champagne on their platters. That wasn’t what I was looking for. I could have asked one of them for some vodka, though I didn’t see the point in that. It was a few steps to a table for me; they would have been running around for half the year.

  With that in mind, I took a step in the direction of one of the tables, though I was stopped by a pair of hands covering my eyes. Judging by the size and pleasant smell, they belonged to a woman.

  “Guess who,” somebody whispered in my right ear.

  “Marina,” I said in a doomed voice, though the hands didn’t let go.

  Who else could it be? I don’t know anyone else here. Although…

  “Dasha!” My voice sounded much happier. I have no self-control around her…

  The hands still didn’t pull away from my eyes, and my next guess had a note of fear.

  “Yadviga? No?”

  “Nope,” the voice whispered, something familiar about it. No, it couldn’t be!

  “Eliza.”

  If that’s her, the world has gone crazy. The hands remained.

  “In that case, I don’t know,” I said, relieved. “I don’t know any other women here.”

  “That makes sense,” the voice giggled. “Old age is no fun!”

  The hands fell away, I adjusted my papakha again, and, to my great surprise, Lena Shelestova appeared in front of me.

  “Unexpected, no?” She was enjoying the situation. She would.

  I was struck dumb for two reasons: the fact she was there and the way she looked.

  Beautiful didn’t begin to describe it. Any woman can look beautiful if she has the urge or means. But to make a man’s mouth dry out just from a single glance? That is a gift reserved for a precious few. You have to be more than just beautiful for that; you have to be a real woman. The kind born to rule men, bringing them to create and destroy empires with the power of a smile and nothing more.

  It was that kind of woman that was standing in front of me. She was wearing a silk dress, there was some kind of pin on her chest, a tiara was barely visible atop her lush hair, there was a line up the back of her hose, and buckles graced her shoes. It was quite the outfit.

  “I made a special trip to the library,” Shelestova said. “I didn’t believe the internet, so I went and found some magazines from 1921. It’s all great except for the shoes—they’re awful!”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied stupidly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Me?” she laughed. “I’m…wait, a tango! I love it—do you tango? Although, of course, you don’t…”

  Strange as it may seem, I can tango. I’d learned ten years before on a whim, complete with all the twists and dips.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking her hand. “If you want to tango, let’s tango.”

  Why not?

  Chapter Seventeen

  In which there’s a lot of pointless shooting.

  The violins sang, and the light filling the hall dimmed. Or is that just blood rushing to my head?

  “Here,” I said to Petro, taking off my gun belt and handing it to him. “Take care of that, would you?”

  “You got it,” the big guy replied through a mouth full of something.

  Lena’s hand laid in mine, my second finding its way to an expanse of her cool silk dress just under her shoulder blade.

  “Well, soldier,” she said, looking me shamelessly and invitingly in the eye, “it’s our first tango.”

  The people around us disappeared, leaving the three of us alone in the enormous hall: her, me, and the music. The tones wafted to the beat of my heart and hers—tangos aren’t danced; they’re lived and died. Each tango is an entire lifetime, from the first wail and howl to the last wheeze. That’s the only way to exist within them, and that’s the only way to understand the pain piercing the hearts of a pair about to be separated. One, to die on the field of battle the next day; the other, to languish in obscurity and heartache. Each movement in the tango is a finished sketch drawn by the master named Life, even if the pair is taking their first two steps arm in arm.

  Lena was a fabulous partner. She felt my movements and even pulled off the enticing bolero filmmakers love so much. The silk of her dress swirled around her long, slender legs, she bent willingly, and I felt her hand fixed on my back.

  When the last chord died away, I found, to my surprise, that we were alone in the center of the hall. Either everyone else had gotten tired of dancing or something else, but the result was the same: we were the only ones left there among the pandemonium. Our arms stayed fixed amid the silence.

  “Paris, 1914, no?” I heard Zimin call from somewhere. “Very romantic.”

  And that was the end of the lull. The orchestra got back to work, starting something that sounded like the Charleston.

  “Not bad,” Shelestova said. “I wouldn’t have thought you could dance the Argentine tango. The American tango, sure, but the Argentine? And are you going to let me go, or are we going to just stand here like this?”

  “I know a thing or two,” I said, pulling my arm away from her back. “Life has a way of teaching them.”

  “So, you had an interesting one?” she asked without a smile on her face.

  “Why ‘had’? It’s still interesting.”

  “You think so? I wouldn’t call what you have a life. It’s more a stall for a horse, complete with all the oats and hay you could ask for. Your job is to just eat and, every once in a while, do what people tell you to do. Oh, look, here come your jockeys.”

  “Lena,” Valyaev’s voice came from my left. “I can’t leave you alone for a second—I just turned my back, and off you went to dance with the anarchists.”

  “Good evening,” Vika said from my right. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Hay and oats,” Shelestova smiled, holding her hand out to me. “That was fun, soldier.”

  “It was my pleasure, miss.” I carefully pressed her hand, and she walked off with Valyaev. The latter turned and made a face as if to warn me about getting involved with her.

  “She’s always butting her nose in,” Vika muttered. “I even—”

  “Vika, I know everything you want to say,” I cut in, turning to her. “But, really, just leave it be, right now.”

  “Okay, then,” she said compliantly. “Whatever you say.”

  “T
hat was great!” Petro flashed me a thumbs-up and handed my trappings to me when I got back to our little anarchical colony. They’d already taken control of a table, pushing everyone else away to get to work on some vodka. “You sure showed them.”

  “Yes, that was beautiful,” Azov added. He’d taken his jacket off, leaving just his telnyashka on his heavyset but powerfully built torso. “It was just like a movie.”

  The group crowded around, one of them sticking a large glass filled with a clear liquid into my hands.

  “Hey, give us a good toast,” Shus said to me. I still didn’t know what his actual name was.

  “What’s there to say?” I looked around. “Let’s drink to the damn women. It’s hard to live with them, pretty much impossible, but there’s no getting around how much we need them—they’re all that’s worth living for.”

  Our glasses clinked, the vodka burned its way down my throat, and I instantly felt that blessed catharsis you get after your first drink.

  “Ah-h.” Azov followed his vodka up with a piece of thin, nearly transparent, and delicious-smelling ham. “Well said. Oh, be quiet, the Old Man is going to say something.”

  The hall fell suddenly silent. It was almost like somebody waved a magic wand and cast a mute spell on everyone there.

  “Good evening, friends,” the Old Man said from his spot standing on the edge of the dais. He was wearing a black, perfectly tailored suit, a snow-white shirt peeking out from under his jacket, and there was a black, gem-studded spider holding the collar closed. “I’m happy to see you all here again, happy that all is well with us. And all is certainly well—you’re laughing, talking, drinking wine. How it warmed my heart to see that lovely pair whirling in dance. Who was that who mentioned Paris in 1914? Was that you, Maximillian?”

  “Yes, sir,” Zimin replied.

  “No, this isn’t Paris,” the Old Man smiled sadly. “Everything was different there—hysteria gripped the city like you wouldn’t believe. No, they reminded me of another pair. How they dance, red hair flowing, the feathers in her hat flashing… Anyway, who has time for the tales of an old man? Friends! Today, we’re remembering a good time, if dreadful and pregnant with fear. But this is a good time, too. The Chinese say that living in times of change is a curse, but I disagree. It’s no curse; it’s a great blessing. One era is dying out, while another is on its way in, new, fresh, spontaneous, genuine. And those with the daring and stubbornness to seize it can always find their place. Most importantly, you can’t be afraid of taking that first step. The people you’re portraying today took that step. Sure, for many, it was a step toward the gallows, but oh, how they lived! They believed in their cause, and it was beautiful to see how they wanted to change the world. In the end, each received their just desserts, exactly as one particular interesting book would lead us to believe. And therefore, I raise my glass to all of you! But, most importantly, to those unafraid of taking that very step forward.”

  It turned out that the Old Man was holding a glass I hadn’t even noticed. A dark liquid swirled inside it, and he quickly downed the contents. Everyone else in the hall followed suit—someone stuck another glass in my hand, and vodka seared its way down my throat for the second time that evening.

  “And with that, have fun, eat, drink, and laugh! Today is a great celebration, for it’s a day that is always special to me. Without it, I wouldn’t be here, for life is only full when you have a worthy cause, a worthy friend, and a worthy foe. I have all that, and I hope the same for you.”

  “Hoorah!” Valyaev called.

  “Hoorah!” echoed the hall, myself included. It was a tremendous sound.

  “I think, I’d like to dance, too,” the Old Man said suddenly. “I’d invite the beauty who just danced the tango, but I think her partner would be opposed. It was just recently that we met, and I can assure you that he is an altogether promising young man. Never one to give up what’s his, he’d rather take from others—there’s no sense in me tangling with someone like that. Eliza, my dear, are you here? Would you do this old man the honor of waltzing with him?”

  “You have but to wish it,” Eliza replied, walking out of the crowd with beauty that took your breath away. She bowed her head to him.

  The Old Man took her by the hand. “Just wish it? No, mine is to ask and hope that I am not refused.”

  “Maestro, a waltz!” Valyaev called, and the strains of Strauss soon flooded the room.

  “No matter how many times I hear his music, it always gets to me,” Azov said confidentially. “What power.”

  “That was you he was talking about,” Petro said with a look of growing admiration. “Watch out now!”

  Vika took my elbow. “Watch out for what?”

  “Just watch out,” Azov said. He ripped a chicken apart with his hands after brushing some berries and other trappings off it, licked some grease dripping down a finger, pulled a leg away from the body, and bit into it. “Nobody really liked you that much before, and now they’re going to hate you.”

  “The boss went a little overboard with his praise,” I said, nodding understandingly.

  “For sure.” Azov was obviously enjoying the tender meat. “You may not be his favorite, but you’re definitely a finalist for the spot. Taking you out now means they won’t have to deal with you in the future.”

  “That’s only if we let them get close enough,” Vika said fiercely, grabbing a shot of vodka and downing it with a toast. “Death to every last one of our enemies!”

  “Valkyrie,” one of the group said approvingly, the rest just nodding their respect. “Our kind of person. Here, have something to eat so you don’t get hung over.”

  “I don’t eat after the first one,” Vika replied. Her face was flushed, and she unbuttoned her leather jacket.

  “Don’t let her drink too much,” Azov whispered to me. “I know her kind—let them go, and there’s no pulling them back in.”

  It was good advice I didn’t have a shot at following. Vika was a hurricane, and if she took off, she’d be flattening some trees. The fact that we had a whole program ahead of us for the evening made that doubly true.

  “Comrade colleagues,” Inna, the same girl who’d gotten on us about being late, called loudly. “The Proletkult[10] would like to invite everyone to participate in a variety of competitions and other games suitable for the working class. Prizes and mementos await!”

  “You got that right,” several people called at once. “The workers have every right to a little culture!”

  I didn’t see the Old Man anymore, no matter how hard I stared at the dais. He’d apparently gotten his eyeful, said his piece, and taken his exit. Zimin and Eliza were also nowhere to be found. They hadn’t invited me to wherever they were going, too, even with how altogether promising I was. It wasn’t that I was upset, of course… It just would have been a nice bump for my self-esteem.

  On the other hand, I did get my five minutes of fame. A steady stream of people came up to me to introduce themselves, hand me business cards, assure me that the Fayroll Times was on the verge of earning the Very Big Journalism Prize, and invite me to stop by for a visit as soon as I could. This is easy.

  Valyaev remained, however, and he was having a blast. He participated in a number of contests, doing his best to cheat every time and standing up for himself whenever he was caught. There were a few he won, and he walked away with a bottle of moonshine and a leather Komsomol cap that he settled on his head. The bottle was soon empty, at which point he grabbed an accordion from a member of the orchestra and started playing a tune. He was in his element.

  Vika wasn’t far off his pace, either. Several shots of vodka kept her going, and we went around to all the different booths people were making fools of themselves at. I had to hop in a sack race with her, even, though we were beaten by a nimble pair from the advertising. That done, we followed a shout we heard.

  “There’s the bourgeois, look at that smile on his fat face. Hit his mouth with a ball and help the prole
tariat throw off the shackles of slavery!”

  Naturally, there were plywood figures of fat cats wearing top hats and holding plywood chains that entangled a rubber, suffering working man. You were supposed to get five balls into their mouth, at which point the chains would break, and the poor little guy would be freed. That also won you a couple bottles of beer. They were interesting, hexagonal bottles I hadn’t seen before, too.

  “Kalinkins,” Azov said from next to me. “Nice work, Inna—she must have put in a special order.”

  Vika missed all five of her throws, though she had a great time doing it. Her guffaws, I thought, could have been heard all the way down on the first floor.

  “Your cutie’s had quite a bit to drink,” someone said, taking me gently by the elbow. Ah, there’s Vezhleva. She, apparently, hadn’t been invited to visit the inner circle, either.

  “Eh, she’s fine,” I replied with a wave of my hand. “Hi, Marina.”

  I turned to the woman and gave her a democratic peck on the cheek.

  “You’ve been drinking vodka,” she said, enveloped in a black velvet dress. “Good for you—very manly. These days, you go to a restaurant, and the men all get cognac or even cocktails. Can you believe that?”

  “To each their own.”

  “Hey, who was that lovely girl you were dancing so well with?”

  “Just a girl.” I didn’t really want to discuss Shelestova with her.

  “I could tell that it wasn’t a boy. Did you know her before that?”

  “There’s the girl I know,” I replied, pointing at Vika. “The one throwing the balls, though she could try to get one in just for a change of pace.”

  “Kif, that’s just someone convenient for you to sleep with,” Vezhleva said reproachfully. “I already explained the difference between girls and women to you. It isn’t a good thing or a bad thing, either; it’s just the way things work. The one you were dancing with, she was a woman. A real woman. The two of you had something, too, even though you may not even realize or see that. Everyone else certainly did. And that’s why I’m wondering—where did that barefoot beauty come from?”