Dancing with Bears (19 page)

“Behold, Anya Alexandreyovna, the weapon with which we shall destroy Moscow, Muscovy, and all Russia as well.”

Pepsicolova stared in disbelief.

Back in the Hotel New Metropol, Arkady found that he was still unable to purge the images from his mind. The things he had done! His stomach churned at the thought of them. Yet, at the time, his traitorous body had gloried in those filthy actions. “I don’t understand, holy one,” he said to Koschei. “There were men present and I used them as I would a woman. And I…” His voice thickened with shame. “I…I let them use me in the same manner.”

“Why does this puzzle you, my son?”

“Because I am not…”

“Yes?”

“Not…well…one of them.”

“One of whom?”

Arkady blushed red as a beet and blurted out, “An ass-bender! Okay? I’m not a goddamned faggot!”

“The human body is a vile thing, when you reflect on it, is it not?” Koschei said. “An ancient prophet wrote that Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement—and what is that place of excrement but the Earth? The world is a dung heap, and those who crawl about on it are vermin who are fortunate only in that their stay upon it is brief.

“In such a world, the greatest blessing is never to have been born. Failing that, it is a short life. But it is not God’s will that we should escape His testing, and so there is Hell. All suicides go to Hell, and that wicked place is the most loathsome world in all existence. Which is to say that it is exactly like this Earth in every detail save one. This far from insignificant detail is that Hell is totally divorced from God. Is this not so?”

“So you have taught me, holy one.”

“How, then, can we tell that this world is not indeed Hell? From the fact that pleasure exists here, as it cannot in the Infernal Place. First and foremost, there is the experience of religious ecstasy, which is the highest of all pleasures. Second, there is the experience of being persecuted by the unjust, which is a pleasure second only to that of God’s presence. Very few are fortunate enough to experience the first or pious enough to appreciate the second. Yet there is also a third such proof, and that is the pleasure of sex, which is available to all. Though the deed be disgusting, the pleasure it engenders is pure. It comes not from the flesh, which is to be abhorred, but from the Spirit, which all human souls must embrace or be damned. Therefore, no pleasure is wicked or wrong or to be avoided, however much the mind may flinch away from it. Do you understand me, son?”

“Yes, kindly father.”

“Then kneel and receive your blessing.”

Arkady complied. He closed his eyes and waited for the monk’s hand on his head. But it did not come. Instead, he heard the sound of Koschei’s robe sliding to the floor.

Oh, he thought.

...9...

S
urplus helped Zoësophia into the carriage and then went around to the far side and climbed in, leaving the footman to shut the door behind him. The interior was dark and snug, and the cushions deep and soft. There was not a hand’s-breadth of distance between the two of them. Yet Zoësophia held herself with such a frosty reserve that it might as well have been miles. The coachman shook the reins and the horses started off. “You are quiet today, O Dark Flame of the West.”

For a time, Zoësophia stared out the window at the passing buildings. Then, without turning, she said, “You must never touch any of the other Pearls.”

Affecting a wounded tone, Surplus said, “Madam, I am a gentleman! Which is as good as to say that I am a devout believer in serial monogamy.”

“In my experience, what a gentleman
believes
and what he
does
are seldom the same thing. But let me ask you this. Suppose you were to kiss one of my sisters—Olympias, let us say—ever so lightly upon her fingertips, and those fingertips did not blister. What do you think she would do then?”

“One imagines she would seize the chance to rid herself of her troublesome virginity. But I would never—”

“My sisters are all warm-hearted and generous. They were created so. The first thing Olympias would do is inform her sisters of this happy opportunity. Then, as a group, they would descend upon you. Now, I want you to reflect back upon these last several nights and ask yourself this: What condition would you be in now, had there been six of me?”

“Oh, dear lord.” “Precisely. It would take a stronger fellow than you to survive the experience. I want you to think about that most seriously.”

Surplus did. After a moment or so, he broke to the surface of his thoughts to discover in the window’s reflection a rather silly smile upon his face and, over his shoulder, Zoësophia scowling darkly. She clapped her hand to his crotch and in a fury cried, “You pig! You’re in lust!”

Assuming his sincerest mien, Surplus said, “What male would not be, given such images as you urged me to reflect upon? You conjure up an Arabian Nights fantasy of female flesh, an Aladdin’s cave of erotic treasure. Of course I lust after them—in my imagination. So too do I enjoy the original tales, as translated in classical times by Sir Richard Burton. Yet I have never gone to Deserta Arabia in search of the riches described in them.”

“Only because you knew those riches to be fictional. Otherwise, I am quite certain you would possess the fabled lamp today. You are most damnably ingenious in getting what you want.” As she spoke, Zoësophia peeled off her gloves. She took Surplus’s paws in her strong bare hands. When Surplus tried to draw free of her, he found he could not. Her grip was implacable.

Zoësophia favored Surplus with a ruefully amused smile, such as a woman gives a scoundrel who, while he may or may not have necessarily intended to do so, has given her great physical and emotional pleasure. It mingled scorn and fondness in equal measure. “Sweet, sweet ’Sieur Plus,” she murmured, “I am so sorry to have to do this. But I have sworn to protect the Pearls, and so I must.”

“Wh-what do you intend to do?”

“I am going to kiss you, long and hard and so delightfully that, whether you wish it or not, it will first take your breath away, then starve your brain of oxygen, and finally leave you in a state of mindless euphoria. Then, at the moment of greatest bliss, I will snap your neck.”

“Madam! This is not the act of a friend.”

“When the carriage door is opened, your corpse will be found and with it me—hysterical and clearly traumatized by whatever outré events have transpired within. By the time I have recovered well enough to narrate those events, I shall have concocted something convincing, I am sure.”

Without releasing her grip, Zoësophia leaned forward. Her lips parted. The pink tip of her tongue licked them moist. Her eyes were tender and merciless. Surplus had looked death in the face many a time. Yet never before had it looked so desirable. Nor had beauty ever seemed so terrifying.

“Wait!” Surplus cried. “This is not necessary! I know your secret!”

Zoësophia paused. “Oh?”

“You alone of all the Pearls were not a dedicated virgin. The reasoning I gave you was, as we both know, mere sophistry—the others would blister at my touch and die from my caress, for the mental commands they were given cannot be undone by logic-chopping. You, knowing the true situation, could pretend to be convinced by me, and so you did.”

Zoësophia released her grip and leaned back against the cushions. After a very long silence, she said, “How did you know?”

Rubbing his aching paws together to restore their circulation, Surplus said, “It was the simplest thing in the world. I asked myself whether, in a contingent of seven women who could be expected to have intimate contact with the Duke of Muscovy, the Caliph was likely to have neglected to include a spy. ‘Unthinkable!’ was my reply. Further, I reasoned, that spy was unlikely to be bound by the same mental commands and restrictions as the others, lest it hinder her information-gathering activities. Finally, I asked myself which of the seven brides was the most likely to be the spy—and one stood out like a lamp in the darkness for her shrewdness, intellect, and self-control.”

“But to take such a risk with one who was supposed to be a dedicated virgin! Had your reasoning proved incorrect…” Zoësophia’s expression was complicated, but Surplus, who had some experience with women, could read it like a book. She was waiting to see if he was simpleton enough to tell her that it had been obvious to him that she was no virgin. At which point, she would doubtless rip off his head, or other parts. It was true that she was far from a virgin. Far, far indeed, to judge by the last several nights. Still, young ladies had their pride. A careless word now would cost him dearly.

“Indeed, and there was always the chance that I had guessed wrong,” Surplus admitted. “You may be sure I thought about this long and seriously. Knowing not only your strength but your passionate nature as well, I was only too painfully aware that were I wrong, my life would be forfeit.”

“Then why take the chance?”

“I decided, finally, that the prize was worth the risk.”

Briefly, Zoësophia was silent. Then, wrapping her scarf about her lower face to preserve her modesty, she cranked down the window so she could lean out and call up to the coachman, “How much longer until we reach Chortenko’s house?”

“Fifteen minutes, Gospozha,” the driver replied.

“Then there is just enough time.” She closed the window again and began to unbutton Surplus’s shirt.

“My dear lady!” Surplus cried with more than a touch of alarm. “Whatever are you doing?”

“I have belonged to the Byzantine Secret Service literally since my genes were mingled in vitro,” Zoësophia said. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—that I find irresistible.” Her hand caressed his cheek.“But a man who is willing to risk death in order to possess my body comes close.”

Kyril and his bandits had stacked two empty crates atop each other and thrown a white cloth over them for a table, and were playing three-card Monte, exactly as they had been taught. Kyril slammed down three cards: two black deuces and the queen of hearts, creased lengthwise, so that when he flipped them face down, they were like shallow tents. One could almost—but not quite—see the markings under them. “Find the lady, find the queen,” he chanted. “Five will get you ten, ten will get you twenty. Watch carefully—the hand is quicker than the eye.” There was a scattering of banknotes on the cloth to catch the eye and avarice of the bystanders.

“I switch the cards once…twice…three times and where’s the queen? To the right?” He flipped over the rightmost card. A deuce. “No. To the left?” Another deuce. “No.” He flipped both back and turned over the center card. “She’s right in the middle, right where I put her. The hand can do what the eye cannot see.” His hands spun the cards about the cloth. “Who’ll play? Who’ll play? Five will get you ten, ten will get you twenty. You, sir. Will you play? Or you? You can’t win if you don’t play.”

A crowd of idlers had gathered to watch, but so far there were no players. Which was Dmitri’s cue to come forward. He squirmed through the spectators and slapped down a copper ruble. “Betcha I can spot it.”

“Only a ruble? Only one? One’ll get you two, but ten’ll get you twenty.” Kyril flicked the cards about, turned them over—one, two, three—and turned them back again. “Twenty gets you forty and fifty a hundred. Only one? All right, then. Here’s the queen.” He held the card up and turned from side to side so that all could see. Then he slammed it down onto the cloth, switched the cards rapidly about, and finally took a half-step back from the table. “Choose.”

Dmitri’s finger jabbed. “That one.”

Kyril turned the card over. It was a deuce. He flipped over a second card. Also a deuce. The red queen he turned over last.

“Here! Lemme see that!” Dmitri snatched up the red queen and examined it suspiciously. But as it was only a pasteboard card, there was nothing to be discovered, and so Dmitri returned it to the table.

But as he did, he bent up one corner of the card.

Kyril swept the ruble coin to the side, along with the bills, and began manipulating the cards again. He did not appear to notice that the queen had been altered.

Dmitri turned away to give the crowd a broad smirk and a wink. Then he dug deep into his pockets and came up with a grimy five-ruble note. “Here! This is all I got. Gimme one more chance.”

“Everyone’s money is good. We have a player. Five’ll get you ten, ten rubles for five. Watch the cards. The hand moves faster than the eye. Here’s the queen and over she goes. She dances with one, she dances with his brother. Everybody dances, everybody wins. Annnnd—make your pick!”

Dmitri pointed at the card with the bent corner. “That one.”

“Are you sure?” Kyril switched the other two around and then flipped up one. A black two. “Double your bet and I’ll let you choose the other card.”

“Naw. I want that one.”

With a shrug, Kyril flipped over the remaining two cards, showing the queen where his friend had pointed. Then he brushed two banknotes to the front of the table. Dmitri waved them triumphantly in the air and then, pocketing the money ostentatiously, swaggered off.

“Ten’ll get you twenty, fifteen thirty.” Kyril flipped the cards face down, face up, face down again. “Who’ll play, who’ll play? Thirty gets you forty, fifty a hundred.” The queen was still turned up at the corner.

“I’ll play!” A gent with gold-rimmed pince-nez fumbled several banknotes from his wallet and, face gleaming with greed, laid them down. “Fifty rubles says I can find the queen.”

“Everyone’s money is good,” Kyril said. “Here’s the queen, watch her go. She dances with the deuce, she dances with his brother…” As he slid the cards back and forth, he smoothed down the corner of the queen with his thumb, and bent up the corner on one of the deuces. Now all he had to do was let the mark choose the wrong card and sweep in the winnings.

“Caught you!” Muscular arms wrapped themselves around Kyril, holding him motionless. “You’re under arrest, you vicious little swindler.” It was a goat—and in uniform, too! How had the lookouts let him get so close without whistling a warning?

Looking wildly about, Kyril saw Stephan and Oleg, standing too close to have been doing their jobs, take to their heels. Saw, too, Lev snatch up the white cloth with all the money on it, and run as well. At least he was doing his duty. But that still left Kyril in the strong grip of the policeman.