Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology)

by Larsen, Christian A.

  "I'm tired. Sorry, mate."

  Alyosha turned to me. "I hope you are not going to bed soon too, Jean."

  I shrugged. "Probably not. It is late, but I'm only a little tired.

  "Good. We are going to have second party when sun comes. We will say hello to my birthday."

  Zhenya frowned and tugged on Alyosha's sleeve. He muttered something in Russian. All I caught was "bad idea".

  "It's my birthday," Alyosha replied loudly and in English. "It is my decision."

  Zhenya cast a glance my way. "But Jean is tired. She needs sleep."

  "I'm not that tired," I added.

  "Yes, she is not that tired, Zhenya. I want her to come to party."

  Zhenya replied in Russian, urgently.

  "Zhen', don't be lame." He turned to me. "You will come and drink with us then, yes? It will be cool."

  "Yeah, okay," I agreed.

  Zhenya looked away.

  * * *

  Sunrise came quickly. Charlotte had opted out, instead sneaking off with Big Sasha. Little Sasha and Masha seemed excited that I would be at the sunrise celebration and ushered me along the tree line.

  "It is this way," said Sasha, pointing towards a small gap in the woods bordering the yard. "It is best place to say hello to sun."

  "You must wear black," added Masha. "It is tradition." She draped a fake-velvet black cape around my shoulders before donning one herself. She took another out of her bag for Sasha.

  The woods weren't very large, but they were dense with birches and firs. Sasha walked ahead, lighting the dark path with his cell phone.

  We reached a clearing by the Kirzhach River after a couple minutes. Two folding tables had been set up along the trees, one filled with snacks, the other with drinks. Each was lit with tall tapered candles. I could hear music from tiny speakers somewhere—Vampire Weekend.

  I hung back from the Russians. They were greeting everyone as if they hadn't seen each other for weeks. I gravitated toward the drink table.

  I saw regular bottles of vodka and several bottles of sweet red wine, along with mixers: Coca-Cola, tonic, and orange juice. Pitchers of thick red liquid sat in the middle of the table. Each had a label stuck to it: I, II, III+, and so on.

  "Blood," said Alyosha, sneaking up behind me. "It's a scary party, yes? The plus-ones have vodka already in them."

  I recalled that Russia didn't use the ABO blood type system. Instead, they used Roman numerals.

  "What blood group are you?" he asked.

  "Um…which is most common?"

  "Type I and II. Both very normal."

  "Okay, which one is O? Nothing, null, zero."

  "Ah, type I. It is most delicious. You should try some." He poured me a glass.

  "No, thanks. I don't like tomato juice."

  "Khochesh kak khochesh," he said. You like what you like. He downed the glass in one gulp.

  "Lyosha!" someone called, adding something in Russian, ending with "get ready!"

  "One moment!" He nodded at me and ran over to a group huddled by the edge of the trees.

  I was left alone again by the drinks. I picked at a plate of potato chips, trying desperately not to look as awkward and unsettled as I felt.

  One Russian—I didn't recall his name—stood not far away, and he approached the tables. I looked away, uncomfortable with how he was eyeing me. I glanced over to the group surrounding Alyosha and tried to make out what they were saying.

  "Soon it will be your birthday…"

  "…are you ready, Lyosha?"

  The group was mostly girls, fussing over Alyosha as though he were about to go in front of a camera. They put some sort of metal crown on his head. Zhenya crouched on the ground at the edge of the group, picking at some grass.

  "…are you sure this is a good idea, friend?" I heard him ask.

  "You are Jean, yes?" asked the man next to me, bringing me back to myself. He was still leering. "English, yes?"

  "American," I corrected.

  "Ah, what is it like, in America?" he asked.

  "Different." I shrugged. I made a point of turning away and building myself a small cheese sandwich.

  "I very much like American films."

  I nodded noncommittally.

  "You are very beautiful, you know," he said, walking around to my other side, trying to face me. He reeked of cigarettes and booze.

  "Uh, thanks." I took a couple steps back, looking around furtively.

  "You are—let's drink together. I would like drink with pretty American girl."

  "Um, no, that's okay. I—"

  I stepped backward again and ran into somebody. I whirled around. "I'm sorry, I—Zhenya! Hello." My heart pounded even faster.

  Zhenya said only two or three words to the other man—words I usually heard only in cheap Moscow bars as a precursor to a fight.

  The man looked from me to Zhenya and back again. He reared up and grew even taller somehow. For one second, I thought he was going to attack Zhenya. Not even hit, or punch him, but really attack him, like a bear or something. I shrank back. Zhenya stood his ground. The man was going to break him. Zhenya was barely an inch taller than I was and probably thirty pounds lighter. He couldn't—

  And suddenly, the other man backed down.

  "Sorry," he mumbled, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and walked away.

  I turned to Zhenya and caught him composing his face. "What did you do?"

  He shrugged. "Dima did not really want to fight. Let us go for a walk."

  "But, the party—"

  His mouth twitched to the side in a sad smile. "We have had this party before. It is not a good party, and it is no place for a lady." He set off walking, not back the way we came, but toward another small path in the woods to the east. He twirled a small flashlight around, lighting the ground and the trees in turn. I had no choice but to follow.

  "Zhen'! It's time!" one of the girls called. He ignored her.

  "There are ladies at the party," I pointed out.

  "They are not ladies," he said. "They are…" He frowned, and finished in Russian: "takiye." Like that.

  "Like that", I knew, could mean anything from slutty to uncultured to of a different race, or even that they were all lesbians. I didn't ask for clarification.

  "So many here are takiye. You must be careful. Do not be like them. Do you understand?"

  I shook my head.

  He sighed.

  "Are you angry?" I asked him.

  "With you? No, no." He smoothly took my hand—no hesitation, no shyness, like I would have expected. We walked on.

  "Why did you come here?" he asked abruptly.

  "What do you mean by "here"? Russia?"

  He shook his head. "The dacha."

  I shrugged. "You know, it's Alyosha's birthday; he invited me. I thought it would be nice to spend some time in the country, to see the real Russia, not just Moscow, y'know? And, I don't know, it's not like I had anything else to do."

  "Maybe you should not have come."

  "What? Why? Don't you—do you wish I wasn’t here?"

  "It would be easier, yes."

  I felt as though I'd been slapped in the face. I sat down on a log by the side of the path, half gone from dry rot.

  Zhenya stood before me and chewed his lip. "I have offended you."

  "Why don't you want me here?"

  He sat down beside me. "No, not that. You know. I am glad I have met you."

  I turned away, staring into the woods. I could almost make out the figures of my friends in the clearing where we'd started. "Then why?"

  "Because I like you. And there is danger here."

  "What are you talking about? I don't understand." I shifted to see what was going on at the party. The night was cloudy and dark despite the full moon. The main source of light was the cluster of candles and battery-powered lanterns back by the food, and another farther on, where black-clad figures were gathering.

  He paused and chewed his lip again. "There are—things—that can
hurt you. Attack you."

  "What, like bears?"

  "Mm, tipa da." Sort of.

  "I didn't think there were actually bears in this part of Russia."

  He only shrugged and looked away.

  I followed his gaze back to the campsite. The figures were running around one extremely tall shadow—someone must have been standing on a chair. Something glinted atop his head. It must have been Alyosha.

  I leaned towards the scene, trying to make it out. "What the…" I began, pointing.

  Zhenya tilted my head to face him, and in the same swift move, he was kissing me.

  I can't remember much about the kiss itself. You'd think it would be etched in my memory. I suppose I was more excited about the idea of Zhenya kissing me than the actual kiss. I couldn't believe my own luck. He drew back and gave me a little half smile with eyes shining.

  "You want go back to house?" he asked.

  "Uh, yeah. Yes. Let's do that."

  He helped me up from the log and we made our way through the path slowly, in silence, holding hands.

  Near the end of the path, right before it widened into the clearing, the flashlight began to flicker.

  "Wait. This happens sometimes." He began to smack the end of the flashlight, swearing in Russian.

  It went out completely.

  "Zhen'?" I stretched out my arm, feeling for him blindly. "Zhenya? Evgeniy? I—"

  A beam of bright light shone directly into my eyes blinding me for an instant. I blinked.

  * * *

  It was light.

  I mean it was day. Likely, it was still early, but well past sunrise. The grass underfoot was damp with dew and unknown birds chattered in the distance. A cuckoo called once, then stopped.

  I glanced at my watch. 6:52.

  "Zhenya, it's—"

  But he wasn't there. I was alone. I was also in front of the dacha, not back by the clearing. The bright light from a moment ago had been the headlights of a car on the road, making the sharp turn. My clothes were covered in mud, and I was barefoot. The aftermath of the party was scattered all around the gazebo and the lower half of the yard.

  I dumbly made my way inside. Had I blacked out? I'd never done that before. Why was I alone? Had I been sleepwalking? That would be new too. What happened last night? I couldn't remember anything after my walk with Zhenya. Or was that something I remembered from a dream?

  I felt awful. Weak. And my head buzzed with the worst hangover I'd ever had. It was hard to think.

  I stumbled to the bathroom. I looked terrible—bloodshot eyes, pale as death, and stringy dark hair. I also had quite an impressive hickey bruise on the side of my neck. That, at least, hadn't been a dream. I tried to vomit to get whatever it was out of my system, but nothing came up.

  I shuffled to the room that was supposed to be Charlotte’s and mine, but it was locked. The sofas in the common room were both claimed by random, passed-out drunk Russians, so I tried the next room.

  I didn't recognize the girl in the bed, but I was too tired to care much if I bothered her. I dragged a pillow and a blanket from the open closet and threw them on the empty sofa. I stripped off my dirty T-shirt and jeans, passing out, half-naked and dead to the world.

  I didn't dream.

  * * *

  When I woke up, my watch said 2:12 and light streamed in through the window.

  No one seemed to be in the dacha. I heard voices outside, but no lights were on in the house. I tried the doorknob on "my room"—it was open.

  Charlotte wasn't there, which wasn't surprising, but neither were her things. She must have moved them into Sasha's room. I grabbed my clothes, got dressed, and set out to find someone who I could ask about last night.

  The sunlight burned my eyes. I held up a hand to shade them. A sizeable group was swimming in the river, but a few people were gathering by the picnic tables.

  "Good morning, Jean," greeted Alyosha. "How are you feeling?"

  I groaned. "Coffee?"

  "Only cold. You want Coca-Cola?"

  "Sure." I spotted Zhenya across the yard, and waved as I grabbed a Coke from the cooler. He just nodded and continued on his way. He must be busy, I thought.

  "Lyosh, do you know where Charlotte is?" I asked.

  "Sorry. I no see her today."

  "What about Simon?"

  "In his room. Hangover."

  "Thanks."

  I walked back to the house and knocked on Simon's door. "Hello?"

  "Rrrrg," came the reply.

  I took that to mean, "Come in". "How are you feeling?" I asked.

  "Awful. Fuck a duck."

  I offered him a swig of the Coke. He shot me a grateful look and drank nearly half of it in one gulp.

  "How much did you drink last night?"

  "I didn't think that much, but I blacked out. So, I guess a lot."

  "I actually blacked out too. I suppose Russian drinks are strong."

  "Yeah. Fucking Devyatka."

  Devyatka, or Baltika 9, was a very strong beer—ten percent alcohol by content. It was pretty awful, but it got the job done. And you could buy it in convenient two-liter bottles.

  Simon stretched. "What time is it? Where's Charlotte?"

  "It's about three, I think. I don't know where she is—I've been trying to find her. Want to look around with me?"

  "Sure. Give me fifteen minutes or so." He seemed perkier already.

  While Simon was changing, I attempted to text Charlotte.

  Where are you?

  Out in the countryside, though, it was next to impossible to get a signal to send it. I tried standing close to a window, then outside, back inside, and finally got it to send by leaning out the third floor window. This country was ridiculous.

  Simon and I walked down to the picnic table, grabbed a couple of little open-faced sandwiches and another Coke, and set off on the path. First, we headed down to the riverbank, where three of the Russian girls were sunning themselves in bikinis.

  "Have you seen Charlotte?" I asked, in English, followed by a rough approximation in Russian.

  They shook their heads.

  I tried calling Charlotte several times as we searched the area, but still couldn't get a signal. I eventually asked Simon to try with his phone, since he had a different cell carrier.

  "You have a voicemail on here, man!" I cried, waving it in his face.

  "Yeah, but I don't know how to check it. It's all in Russian."

  "Hang on. Let me try." I read the message informing us of the voicemail several times. It seemed I had to call a specific number before I could listen. Finally, I figured it out.

  "Hey. Simon." It was Charlotte. She spoke in a low whisper, and the message was punctuated with bursts of static. "It's me. Listen, I don't have much time. You and Jean have to get the hell out of here. Like, now. I…I love you guys. I'm sorry I've always been such a train wreck. You've always been there—"

  And with a click, the message ended.

  I silently passed the phone to Simon, queuing up the message to play again.

  "What the fuck," he said, dropping the phone.

  "What do we do?"

  "I…I don't know. I mean, maybe she was on something. Do Alyosha and his friends do a lot of drugs? Maybe somebody gave her something."

  I shook my head. "If they do, it's only soft stuff. Nothing that would make her freak out like that."

  "Well, she's always been sort of…you know…"

  "Crazy?"

  "…yeah."

  He wasn't wrong; that was for sure. "Maybe—maybe she got really paranoid and headed back to Moscow."

  "That would be just like her."

  Again, Simon was right. Charlotte had been known to run off to various cities without telling anyone. She was close to being fired, between coming to work hung over and missing classes due to these impulsive trips. So it wouldn't have been out of character for her to up and leave.

  "Well, let's go back to the dacha and ask everyone about her again," I suggested.
"Maybe we can find Big Sasha; I heard she went off with him last night. If we can't find her, we'll head back to Moscow tonight."

  "One of us should stay here in case she shows up," said Simon. "Your Russian is better than mine. You should stay."

  I nodded. "Okay. Good plan."

  * * *

  We checked the entire dacha and surrounding area again, but with no luck. And no one we talked to had seen her since around three o’clock the morning before. I was starting to panic.

  Alyosha tried to calm me down. "She is somewhere," he said. "She doesn't just…pff! Gone."

  "I know, I know, but I don't know where. And what if she's hurt? What if she's in the woods somewhere?"

  "She is smart girl. I am sure she is not in woods."

  Zhenya walked by just then and said something in Russian to Alyosha.

  "Zhenya, have you seen Charlotte?" I asked.

  He stared at me blankly. "Sorry, I no speak English."

  I blinked. "What? But…we talked last night. Your English is great and we—"

  He shook his head and made a sort of Gallic gesture with his shoulders. "Sorry, I no understand." His accent was much thicker than it had been the evening before.

  "Alyosha, you heard Zhenya speak English, right?"

  Alyosha ignored me and instead, asked him about Charlotte in Russian. I heard the negative answer and stalked off, frustrated.

  * * *

  After searching all evening with no luck, Simon got ready to catch one of the last trains to Moscow a little after nine o’clock. Misha, the boy with the ancient Lada, agreed to drive him to the station about half an hour away. I made him promise to text me the minute he arrived in Moscow and to keep me apprised of his search.

  Just before he left, we tried calling her apartment in Moscow, but there was no answer.

  I mostly sat around and stared for the next couple hours. I couldn't eat anything. I drank a little, but I didn't want to be incapacitated if I did hear something. Alyosha and Little Sasha tried to keep my spirits up, but it was no use. I was worried sick about Charlotte, and I felt completely useless. I wanted to go home, either to Moscow, or better yet, back to the States. I had no idea what I was doing anymore.

  I also realized, with a chill, that I was truly isolated. No one around spoke English at more than a basic conversational level. That was probably true for the entire region; I'd have to get back to near Moscow before I'd find another native English speaker. And my Russian was terrible. If something happened…