Trinity Icon

by Niles Kovach

"Why are you trembling, Miss Dolnikov?" Misha asked it, in German, as he set aside the book.

  I tried to stop shaking. The heavy purse slid from my shoulder to the floor with a thump. "I'm not trembling."

  "I do not like liars. Why are you trembling?"

  I did not want to say, "Because I think you are going to shoot me." I was afraid it would become fact. Once uttered, the words could not come back. They would reach their destination and spark the act. It was, is, a superstition of mine, an automatic reluctance to say what I fear most. There was always a chance it had not entered his mind, and I wasn't about to put it there.

  "I...you might rape me or something." To me, this was so implausible, it had no chance of becoming reality. At twenty, I had never been on a date, had never been kissed. No boy had ever expressed an interest in me. I was not ugly, but I thought I was and carried myself accordingly. I was slightly plain and my habits were far enough outside what was considered normal, that I was never in a position to learn differently. I preferred study to parties, books to boyfriends. My knowledge of sex was limited to common cliches and finding ovaries in laboratory nematodes. Mama was distinctly old-fashioned and guarded such information as if it were a state secret.

  I expected an answer along the lines of "Those with the least to guard, guard it most fiercely." I was prepared to be insulted by the man sitting before me and preferred an insult to a bullet. I was surprised, then, by his answer.

  He regarded me silently for a moment before speaking. His blue eyes brushed over me, my frizzy hair, the glasses sliding down my nose, my baggy sweater and loose blue jeans. 

  "When I want sex,” he said, "I prefer the woman to be willing. Are you willing?"

  I could not answer at first. I did not know what he meant by this, but I was suddenly aware that there was a prospect worse than being shot by this man. It was the thought of being touched by him.

  "No," I croaked.

  "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  "No."

  "Ever had a boyfriend?"

  "No."

  He stood up and walked over to me. I dropped the paper bag as he grabbed the front of my jeans and began to unbutton them. I grasped frantically at his hand, trying to pull it away. His other hand took the hair at the back of my head in a vise-grip, pulled my head back, chin up. He kissed me then, if you can call it that. It was a violent, invasive, intimate investigation against my will. I was not accustomed to being helpless. It was an education. His right hand investigated, also roughly, with a savage precision that hurt more than my body.

  He ended the kiss, but kept his hold on me as he said. "Rape is not about sex. It is about power." He stared into my eyes; I barely saw him through my tears. "Do you need a lesson in power?"

  "No," I sobbed.

  He released me. I stood trembling in tears, grasping at my pants as if they were all I had (and they were, then).

  "Now then," he said. "Why are you shaking?"

  "Because I am afraid you will shoot me."

  "That's better. That is a reasonable answer. But I prefer to use a knife." He sat down again on the sofa. He spoke softly, in formal Russian. "I am more likely to cut your throat. Do you believe me, Alexandra Feodorovna?"

  "Yes."

  "We are making progress. You are not Grayson's lover?"

  "No!"

  "And you do not work for him?"

  "No."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "I've only ever had one job, at Sizzle Burger, but somehow I don't think that is what you mean."

  "Very good. Frank assures me that you are a typical American school girl. I don't find you to be typical, and that bothers me. Stop shaking!"

  I did my best, which was not very good. I was still standing stupidly holding my pants. He hadn't exactly done anything to put me at ease.

  "I have taken into account your family background, but when you lie, it bothers me more."

  "I haven't lied." As usual, my mouth ran off while my brain was occupied elsewhere, wondering what my family had to do with this.

  He looked at me again and began to get up.

  I corrected myself quickly. "Just the one time, and my German really is not that good," I said.

  He sat back down. "You conceal too much from me, Alexandra Feodorovna. Or you try to. It makes me wonder what you are up to."

  Vasily opened a bottle of wine, poured some in a paper cup, and brought it to me. I was still holding my pants, unwilling to let them go. He put the cup down on the counter, gently pulled my hands away and put me back together. I will never forget the look he gave me. It was not sympathetic or even compassionate, but a frank, knowing, look of regard. What Misha had damaged, Vasily healed with one look. I loved him from that moment.

  "What is in the bag?" he said as he handed me the wine.

  It was not the same wine as the night before, but it was nice and I took a long sip before I answered.

  "Money," I said.

  "Money?"

  "Money," I repeated. No one said a word. No one acted curious. Louis and Vasily set the coffee table with paper plates piled with coq au vin. They must have brought it with them. There certainly was nothing more than cold pizza in my kitchen. The two men sat on the floor opposite Misha and all three began to eat. I stood there feeling ridiculous and hungry.

  "Sit down," said Louis. "Eat." He pointed to a fourth plate on the little table.

  I sat cautiously next to Misha and ate every scrap as if it were my last, a reasonable assumption given the circumstances. It was delicious. Louis is a wonderful cook.

  It was Louis who finally asked about the money.

  "So you carry your money in a sack?"

  I looked at it. It was still on the floor where I had dropped it, a few feet from the door.

  "No. It isn't mine."

  "Whose is it?"

  "Yours?"

  "Mine?"

  "All of yours."

  "All of ours?"

  "I guess so. He said to give it to 'them,' and then he said to give it to Charlemagne, but I don't..." I realized my mistake when I saw the look on their faces.

  "And who told you about Charlemagne?" Misha said.

  "Nobody." I struggled to gather my scrambled brain about me. "I mean, Grayson said it. I don't have any idea what it means."

  "Somebody else said it, or you would not be so nervous."

  "I'm nervous because you terrify me."

  "Who else said it?" Misha persisted.

  "Frank told me not to say it," I admitted. (I still don't know how Misha reads me so accurately.)

  "He gave you good advice." MIsha stood up. I shivered as he passed by me and picked up the bag. He looked inside it, then looked at me. "Charlemagne is our trade name. "We," he gestured toward the other two, "are Charlemagne. Grayson told you to give this to us?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "He said something about now that you have the money, you can go away."

  "We want no money from him."

  "I told him that."

  Misha's puzzled expression narrowed. "And how did you know that?"

  "Frank said it. He said something about it not being money."

  "And you told Grayson that?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said it didn't matter. That it should be enough to buy you off, and if you want more, he'll double it. There is fifty thousand dollars there, he said."

  "Fifty thousand?"

  All three men roared with laughter. I was not in on the joke. Not having ten dollars to spare, I did not find a bag of money particularly amusing. Misha threw the bag at me.

  "Here," he said. "You keep it. Fifty thousand would not cover our expenses."

  I knew I could not keep a bag full of cash of uncertain origin, but I was finally catching on and out of simple prudence did not argue with Misha.

  Vasily was still chuckling. He sat on the floor, hands behind him, legs stretched out before him. I tell you this because of what I saw in hi
s laugh. I saw goodness. It lasted only a moment, but it was there, despite whatever other reality there might be, or that I would come to find out later, either in fact or in my imagination. There was a man there, who could laugh, not a monster.

  We had coffee. Louis showed me how to pick a lock and gave me some tools. Vasily and I discussed music. I thought his taste was a little old-fashioned. I was beginning to relax when Misha sat next to me again.

  He put one hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him. I feared the worst and tears started against my will. I bit my lip trying to hold them back.

  "Stop that," he said. "I am not going to touch you."

  I made an effort.

  "We must make a decision about you." He said it rather gently — for Misha.

  "If that's meant to make me feel better," I said, "it doesn't."

  He ignored this and continued. "We live in a world with many secrets, Alex," he said. "Do you know that world?"

  "No."

  "Maybe not. You were born to it, but it seems, not brought up in it." He paused, watching me steadily. "We would like to meet your parents."

  "My parents? Why?"

  "Because then I will be sure you are what you say you are. Then I will know you are not working for Grayson or someone else. There have been too many coincidences that involve you. Is that plain enough?"  

  "Yes. But I don't see what my parents have to do with it."

  "There is another reason." He paused and glanced over my shoulder at Vasily sitting behind me. "In our world, facts are very hard to determine. We can find anything in a file, but we rarely get the facts when something happens, because nobody will talk about it. Nobody. So we get only rumors."

  He paused, considering his next words. "We want to talk to your parents for two reasons: to make sure of who you are, and to clear up a rumor."

  I did not point out that he was being as obtuse as any rumor-maker. But I did finally stop shaking.

  "The only question,” he continued, "Is which one of us should go with you to meet them. I don't think we all need to go."

  That was a relief. I thought for a moment. Louis was the most charming and seemed relatively harmless, compared to the other two.

  "Louis," I said.

  Louis laughed, Vasily chuckled, and Misha smiled. 

  "Louis," said Misha, suppressing a laugh, "is too dangerous."

  I thought that was an odd statement coming from this man.

  "He is very hot-headed," he explained. "And has no connection between his brain and his gun. I think I should go."

  This was the last thing I wanted. "How about Vasily?" I asked.

  "Vasily?" Misha rubbed his chin, then looked at Vasily.

  "Can you?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe you are right," he said to me. "It would be useless to have you next to me shaking all the time, and it is Vasily's business. Vasily will go in with you."

  "Frank is here," said Louis. 

  I must mention here that Louis said this from the window. All three of them checked that window frequently. I don't think the street below was unobserved for more than a few seconds at a time. They also stopped talking whenever they heard my neighbors on the stairs. At times I fancied they acted more like the hunted than the hunters.

  "I've been looking all over for you guys," said Frank when he came in.

  "Then you are pretty stupid," said Misha.

  "I love it when you flatter me," said Frank. "And it's nice to see the girl still in one piece. How are you doing, Alex?"

  "Fine. Thank you." It wasn't a lie, but I have felt better.

  "Fine? Good. Are we all through here? Satisfied? Ready to get on with it and leave the girl alone?" He emphasized "alone."

  "Not quite," said Misha.

  "What now?"

  "Vasily is going to meet her parents."

  "He is?" There was a note of panic in Frank's voice. "That's not safe, in my judgment

  "You have no judgment Frank."

  "Let's not be hasty. Tell you what; why don't I nip downtown and pull the file? I know I can get you authorization to read it."

  "Your files are meaningless, Frank."

  "But they are informative."

  "Vasily will learn more this way."

  "But...Let me have a minute with Alex, will you?"

  "No. If you have anything to say to her, say it here."

  Frank looked at me, biting his lower lip. He glanced at Vasily, then back at me. "Tell your Dad," he said, ”that Buddy says ‘Hi.' Tell him I'm on the all-star team now."