In the last post I had stated that maybe I would put the bit of a possible story up on my web page. I had intended to. I had even created a page for it. I was going to create a button with a “Work in Progress” label and then link it to the page.
Unfortunately, it’s been a while since I’ve worked on the web page. I have forgotten how create or add the button. I had started to do it all right after I posted the last post. At the time I was tired and thought that that had been the problem.
Then I thought, well, I had only said maybe . . . My next thought was that I would figure it out later. I never had time. At least not in the past week or two.
I have to believe that some of you might have gone looking for it, so I’m sorry. So now I’m just posting it.
Again, I’m not really sure I’m going to use any of it as a story. And of course, I will have to change Dasha’s name. Not sure what to change it to. Olga is out. I hate that name. Ludmilla is another one I don’t care for, for some reason. Sorry to anyone who possesses either name. I don’t mean anything bad by it. Perhaps I could go with Nadezhda (Hope). I could use the diminutive of it: Nadia. I am sort of leaning toward Natalia. Maybe . . . In any case, I can’t leave it as Dasha. Dasha is real, a real person. It is, however, difficult for me to pull away from the name now, as I’ve already run with it for the character of the possible story. Oh well, I’ll figure something out.
Anyway, I apologize to anyone who went looking for the story.
Here it is:
Remember, it was all just sort of off the cuff. Now with some tidying up, but still not a complete story; though, I guess it could be, if I choose to leave it as such.
Well, anyway . . . You’ll see I’ve even added a title.
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The Never-Ending Game.
“See, no dead bodies,” Dasha said. As she said this, she fanned her arms out as though she were on some game show and presenting a possible prize, something I might win. She said this with a slightly sardonic smirk. We were just then walking past Gorky Park. She was obviously referring to the Martin Cruz Smith book of the same name (which became the movie with William Hurt).
“I see,” I said, glancing at her with a smirk. Of course, there were no dead bodies. We walked a few more paces before I continued. The sun was sparkling bright, reflecting off the patches of snow and ice. The slush was melted from the sidewalk. There were only the periodic slick areas. I spoke the words before thinking: “Because they’re too busy piling up in Ukraine.”
I could feel Dasha tense up, a slight hesitancy in her step, not enough to be noticeable to the casual observer. There was a tiny spark that glinted ever so briefly in the brisk, dry air. She recovered herself well. I could see her breath coming out through her slightly parted lips, carrying a thought she wanted to express but didn’t dare.
I knew I shouldn’t have said it. I wanted to look around. We both did. Had this been the old days, she, or whoever, whatever female had been there, would have stopped and pulled out a small compact mirror, pretending to check her makeup. Unlike the movies, there wasn’t always the convenient reflective storefront window to see who was following, etc. She, of course, in reality would never do that. I could hear her voice in my mind: “I’m not doing that. How ridiculous. And obvious. Everybody knows that trick. Why bother?”
All the same, had there been anyone within earshot? Was there someone sitting in a car along the curb with a parabolic ear? I was certain there wasn’t. But still, there was the unease. The spark of tenseness that had glinted for a second had died. But there was the ridged, rhythmic sound of our footsteps on the sidewalk, the faint sound of our ragged breath. We weren’t moving any more quickly than we had been, but we were no longer relaxed. A tinge of paranoia was creeping in. I could feel the edge of it. Or was it Dasha’s anger?
This was my fault—and I had known better—that’s the thing. That’s what had made it so wrong. I had been away too long, out of the game. Some game, I thought. Really no more than an F—d up way of going through life, always having to be aware of surroundings, always having the urge to look behind you, knowing you can’t, pretending to be relaxed when there was absolutely no way you could be. It was draining, all of it. Only when you are truly alone can you relax, preferably in the outdoors, in the woods somewhere, or in an open field. That was the only place you could carry on a casual conversation. You couldn’t even trust being in a room, hotel or not. You could check things over a million times, but still, you might miss something; the thought was always there that you had missed something. Better to cling to that thought. Best to stay paranoid, to always assume the worst.
We kept moving. Perhaps I could explain later. But there was no explaining. I could only apologize. Later, holding her close in the shower, the water beating down on us, her hair wet and stringy against my cheek . . . Then I would press my lips to her ear and whisper an apology. I would say I was sorry, just a faint whisper. She would know what for. Ok, that was my imagination running away with me. There would be no shower scene.
But now, as we walked on, our feet still clicking on the sidewalk, our ragged breath misting out like small clouds and moving past our cheeks to dissipate behind our heads, we moved toward the curb. I caught her glance, just out of the edge of her eye, just for a second. The anger was subsiding, or was that just my imagination, just wishful thinking. We stopped. A frigid breeze whisked by, whipping a strand of her hair across her face. She pushed it back behind her ear. Her cheeks and nose were a faint red from the chaffing of the cold. We were ready to cross the street. We had a clear view in both directions. All clear. We waited on the final car to pass. She situated the strand of hair again behind her ear and glanced over, again just a quick glance. You idiot, was what the glance said. But was there the touch of a smile in her eyes, or riding the slight twitch of her lips? Did she understand? Or was she just relieved that all was clear. We hurried across the street.
Eventually, we reached, and hurried down the steps into the metro, mixing with the crowd. Dasha stopped in front of the wretched babushka sitting with her back against the wall. Bending down, she pressed some money into the old lady’s dirty hand. “Spasiba,” the babushka whispered, looking up at Dasha with compassion, her black and mushy smile toothless. The old lady’s eyes glossed over into hard marbles when her vision left Dasha and moved on past me. Did she even see me? No matter. We moved on.
As we stood on the platform awaiting the train I thought of Gorky Park, the book, I mean. Though I had trouble getting through several early passages in the book, there were a few scenes that I loved. I thought of my first favorite scene, beautifully written, when Irina Asanova is recuperating in Arkady Renko’s apartment. When he returns to the apartment the sun is going down. His wife has stripped the apartment bare except for a bed and a telephone. She even took the light bulbs. The street lights are shining through the window and Irina at one point appears to be “leaning against her own shadow” as she is leaning against the wall. I don’t remember the exact line, but it’s as if the shadow is holding her up. And then there is the conversation:
Renko asks Irina why XXXXX had sent men to attack her . . .She responds:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“In the metro station. I was there.”
“Then interrogate yourself.”
I loved that response from her. It was hilarious to me. This was just before or just after she had reached for his pack of cigarettes without asking and took one. And then how she thought Renko was KGB and that she suggested that there were KGB listening to them from the apartment below. . . This was the point where the book started getting good for me. The initial crime scene had been interesting, early on, but after that I had started losing interest, until that apartment scene and the developing dynamic between the two. And I’m only referring to the conversation and character interplay, not what follows.
As we stood in the metro now, I glanced up at the chandelier, its glaring brightness. Was this the metro station Martin Cruz Smith had in mind when he wrote the scene of the attack?
I sensed Dasha shift beside me. I glanced casually at her. She was on my right. Her left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly. Her eyes flicked slightly to the left and then she looked down and shifted her feet as though nonchalantly inspecting her shoes. I didn’t turn around, at least not until a couple of seconds later when the train sounded. I then looked. The man turned quickly as though watching the train, but not before I noticed his face and then the details of his profile. The last car that had passed by on the street, just before we had crossed splashed through my mind like paint slung onto a blank canvas. A picture fully formed. I could hear the tires crunching through the dirty snow and ice. There had been three men in the car. This one had been sitting in the back. The driver of the car must have pulled over just up the block and around the corner, stopping to let him out. It had been fairly obvious that we had been headed for the metro station. They needed someone on foot. The man from the passenger side was undoubtedly in the metro also.
I wanted to laugh. I have to confess I felt a slight chill of delight rush through me. I had been out of the game for several years now. They didn’t know it, of course. Even if they knew it, would they have ever truly believed it? Probably not. I resisted the urge to turn and grin at Dasha. There were too many of them to have just been following her. Was this just my ego? Or, perhaps there was something else going on–something Dasha hadn’t shared with me yet. Would she share it? After all, she knew full well that I was out of the game. Why would she share?
And then moreover, was one ever truly out? Totally and completely, I mean. The other side, or sides, never fully believe it.
In any case, it was now time for me to kick back and watch Dasha in action, see if she had any new tricks or moves up her sleeve when it came to losing a tail. I just hoped I wouldn’t hold her back. We had, after all, made a good team in the past. Then again, as far as I knew at the moment, there was nothing happening. We weren’t going to be meeting anyone, or making a drop or pick up of any kind.
Let them follow. We could bore them to tears for hours. I was suddenly puzzled that something that had once been very tedious and draining could all of a sudden seem like fun. I had been away—had it been too long? Why was I enjoying this? Was I back in it? No, that’s nonsense. But an afternoon of fun couldn’t hurt anything, right? It wouldn’t, would it? I heard a sigh from Dasha, almost as though she were reading my thoughts. Or perhaps she was just tired of the game, all of it. Could she escape it, for a time at least? With her things were more complicated. But then again, they always had been.
“Ebat’!” Dasha cursed under her breath as we boarded. “It’s because of you.”
I shrugged. “They knew the minute the plane touched down—maybe before—that I’m back.”
“Probably before.”
I shrugged again. “What do you want me to do about it?”
The train was crowded, as usual. The man we had spotted had entered through another door further back. We still hadn’t spotted his comrade, but rest assured he was somewhere close by. Dasha and I stood amidst the throng as the train lurched forward and on its way. We were facing each other. Her head was almost against my chest. She looked up at me, her face deadpan. “Are you?” she asked.
“Am I what?”
“Back.” She stared intently up at me, waiting.
I shrugged again. “Guess so, at least for now.”
“Xhorosho,” she grinned. Good. She looked past me for a second. I figured our friend was moving in a little closer. Undoubtedly to try and catch some of our conversation. Dasha lowered her voice a little more. “Remember last time we were here?”
I started to shake my head no. I was puzzled, but only for a second or two.
“In this very spot, I mean. This very train . . .”
I continued frowning, pretending to not remember. Like with the splashing image onto the canvas of the passing car, the man, I had remembered. The image was clear, the push of the crowd, the sounds, the moving train, and even the scent of her standing close, planning, plotting our escape.
“You’ve got a different perfume.
She punched me playfully in the stomach. “Shut up,” she said. “I’m serious.” Her heated breath rose up and clung in beads to my chin. I was sure of it. The heat of the collected bodies was strong. I think Dasha had been aiming for my chest but couldn’t get her arm up any higher due to the push of the crowd. I felt a little woozy for a second, not from the punch, but due to the heat. I noticed then that there was a middle-aged woman looking up at us, watching. Could she be one of them? The faint aroma of cabbage wafted to me from the crowd. A bead of sweat slid down my temple. I stared back at the woman. She scowled and looked away. My head cleared.
“I remember,” I said.
“I’ve got a slight variation, nothing major, just a little quicker. You’ll see. When we get to the corner of–” She stopped. I took it to mean our friend had pushed his way into hearing range.
A few seconds passed as she casually looked around at the other passengers. We were coming up on the next stop now. She leaned in closer and looked up at me, her gaze intense. She lowered her voice, slightly. “Or do you want to screw around with them for a little bit?”
“Up to you,” I said.
“Since you’re back,” she grinned.
“Temporarily,” I said.
Dasha shrugged. The train was coming to a stop. “Let’s do this then,” she said. “Let’s play with them, at least for a couple of hours. You up for a long boring stroll about town, or a speedy game of cat and mouse?”