Authors: Toby Barlow
XVI
Witches’ Song Four
Yes, lust and love, yes, licking and sticking,
yes, sweat and saliva, yes, yes, all that pent energy exploding
into crystal white light. Me, I stuck with Lyda
for all of that sugary goodness.
Sweet fun and fat-cheeked, a hungry lover,
a lusty girl, skipping over borders and boundaries
and hauling around that fat dancing bottom
that teased so many for a slap and pinch.
No wonder the old river opened up
and sucked her down, wet and hungry, I’m sure.
Oh, we rode out many a waxing moon
in our crooked attic lairs, perched high over
the narrow streets of Moskva, Petrograd, and Minsk,
sweet sybaritic dreams, devilish fantasies incarnate
we wove, yes, seducing soldier, sailor, and monocled trader
as we wrapped them up warm in our generous flesh.
Luthiers brought us violins, butchers brought us tenderloins,
we cooked, shocked, and burned, and whoever we lured in
found themselves falling into our sweaty, writhing
triumvirate cocoons as we unveiled, and indulged,
always and truly good, attentive bacchante girls.
In the moments of high tempo
while she kept tongues tied up
and firm limbs enthralled
I would sneak and whittle chunks of fat
from their ruble-thick wallets.
Not the most honest way
to make them pay their fare
but we returned in kind, honestly, so,
with benevolent blessings
whispered into their sleeping, bare backs,
kissing their shoulder blades over and again
in fair and noble exchange.
Truly we were better charms
than any other diptych saints
they stumbled upon.
Nearly every crone bleats like a goose,
“Oh, I didn’t choose to be this way,
my papa went heavy with a spiked belt,
my husband fucked my virgin daughters.”
Ah, cry at the hurricanes, spit at the storm.
You could pile these melancholies higher
than all the tsar’s dead armies.
We never had patience or time for complaints,
such wasted words, tiresome as a winter’s rutabaga.
Flee the darkness of the past, run or drive or fly away.
Too many fools bear the burdensome bad of what was,
it spills out of their saddle bags and stuffed steamer trunks,
as they travel along slow bearing a heavy load,
while life itself flies fast by.
Running through nights with us you learned right,
to ride light and keep your history shut tight,
or leave it on the roadside far behind
for the village clocks count in chimes
all the time that is wasted,
nursing grief to no profit.
Elga never burdened us with her tale,
and we respected her restraint,
for the scars of fortune’s razor were not hard to see.
And I never asked Zoya, either, nor did she talk,
though we had guessed the shape of her history
long before the beasts finished
ripping out that old man’s throat.
That’s about it, as for the rest, bah,
our pack grows weary of the bitches’ barking,
on and on sobbing sagas so sad any bard
would bash his head in rather than recite.
Cynical, yes, but we chose this life
not because we were beaten or broken,
not angry or aching—
no man ever put me down, no—
we picked this path only
to drink at life’s fresh spring,
ever and anon.
We thirsted for the ripeness
of a thousand soft fruits,
oh, let me put my hands on a peach ripe this day,
but, alas, see here, my palms are nothing but air now,
and there would be tears in my eyes too
if there were eyes for weeping.
XVII
Rita Hayworth, Monique Chevalier, and Belinda Lee all stared up at Noelle from the covers of the movie magazines that were strewn across her big hotel bed as the little girl sat, propped up by pillows, biting into another éclair. It was her third of the morning and the sugar had her bouncing. She had also gone through five butter cookies and two fruit parfaits. She was so excited by Paris. This was truly the life of a fairy princess. She had never stayed in a place so elegant; the suite had two separate bedrooms and a large center room with a crystal chandelier and a full, deep fireplace. She had asked Elga if they could always live like this but the old woman said no. “Enjoy it now, but this is not the way we will live. Money attracts too many curious noses. We get what we need but we stay low, out of sight. Like hedgehogs and moles. But there will be nice treats like this from time to time”—she patted the girl’s head—“so gobble them up when they come.” Then she let Noelle order any dessert she wanted off the big room-service menu.
When the clattering cart had arrived, the hotel boy placed the tray at the end of the bed and Elga signed the bill. Then the old woman took her doctor’s bag and disappeared into the bathroom, with Max at her heels. The room-service boy had given the rat a curious look, but Noelle had said,
“Ceci n’est pas un rat.”
The boy looked a little confused but left without asking a question. Alone in the room now, Noelle was wiping the last traces of chocolate and powdered sugar from her lips when she heard Elga call out.
“Noelle, are you finished?”
“Yes!”
“How was it?”
“Delicious!” the girl gleefully shouted, kicking her little legs with joy.
“Ha, good. Come here, girl, I need your help.”
Noelle jumped up from the bed and skipped across the room. Pulling open the bathroom door, she found Elga sitting on the edge of the claw-footed bathtub. Towels covered the floor and a few of the old woman’s odd jars of colored powders lined the counters. The steaming water looked funny to Noelle, it was same shade of deep dark green as the little slimy salamanders that lurked in her mother’s country garden.
“Come child, I need you to take a bath now.”
“Can I take it later?” Noelle edged away, scrunching up her nose. The room smelled like rotten eggs.
“No, now,” said Elga, patting the side of the bath. “Hop in the tub and I will comb those knots out of your hair.”
From the time she had spent in the country hospital, Noelle was used to disrobing and bathing in front of strangers. And so, resigned, she pulled her nightgown over her head and stepped naked toward the steaming bath. Elga had promised her shopping later in the day, so while the dark waters did not seem inviting, Noelle did not want to cause any trouble. Slipping her toe into the water, she quickly pulled it out.
“Oh, it’s much too hot!”
“No, it is not.” Elga spanked at her bare bottom. “Get in there.”
There was a firmness to the old woman’s words and a sting to her slap that made Noelle slightly nervous, so, despite the almost scalding temperature, she slowly squatted, wincing, down into the swampy bath. Her skin was scorched pink from the heat, but she got all the way in without complaint and rested her head gently against the rim of the tub.
“Good. Okay,” Elga said soothingly. “Now if you close your eyes and count to three, you will get a big surprise.”
Noelle, uncertain but excited that perhaps this meant more treats, shut her eyes tightly and began, “One, two—”
Suddenly, she felt the firm hands of the old woman pushing down on her skull, shoving her head forcefully under the water. Noelle squirmed hard to break free, thrashing to get out from underneath Elga’s grasp, but the woman moved quickly, pressing one palm against the side of Noelle’s face while her fist pushed the girl’s bare torso down to the base of the tub. Noelle kicked and opened her mouth to scream. Gagging, she sucked in a lungful of the green water. It burned against the inside of her throat. She twisted and pushed with all her strength, thrashing like a caught fish, but she was no match for Elga. Terrified, the girl tried screaming again. Looking up out through the murky water, she saw the stern shadow of the old woman’s face staring down at her. Noelle reached out to pull at Elga’s arms. She was so confused, the water entered her lungs again; the dark green was growing black. It felt as though acid was being dragged through her veins. Then she saw nothing.
In her dream there was a russet red chicken. The two of them stood in a large circular clearing in a birch forest. Noelle was wearing her nightgown. The pine needles tickled her bare feet. The chicken stepped around her toes, pecking randomly at the soft ground. Then it looked up at her and spoke: “You are a dancer?”
“No. I was a dancer,” corrected Noelle.
“Yes, I heard about that. The ballet, the audition, tut-tut,” said the chicken before returning to its pecking.
Noelle looked around the forest; it seemed to be quite early in the morning, though perhaps it was twilight, she was unsure.
“Excuse me,” said Noelle.
“Yes?” said the chicken.
A strong breeze came blowing through the trees, making their branches creak. Noelle started shivering. She looked down at the bird, who was waiting patiently for her to speak. “Do you perhaps have something to tell me?” Noelle asked. “Is that why we are here? I would like to know, for I am getting quite cold.”
“Yes. I have something very important to say,” said the chicken, pausing between pecks to look up at the girl.
“What?”
The chicken cocked its head as if trying to recall. “Well, I believe I am supposed to tell you to—” At that moment there was a blurring flash of red as a fox suddenly darted out from the trees. The chicken squawked and jumped, thrusting its feathers out wide in a panicked attempt to escape but the fox pounced upon the bird and, with a quick hard bite, snapped its neck. Then the fox dashed off into the woods again, carrying the bird’s limp body in its mouth. The wind stopped. Noelle looked around at the vast solitude surrounding her and called out a tentative “Hello?” The lonely sound of her small, worried voice echoed in the woods.
Frightened, she woke up. She was in the hotel bed again; Elga was sitting at her bedside. Noelle immediately jolted up, desperate for escape, but the old woman grasped her tightly in a warm embrace. “There, there, do not worry, it is over, you are fine. You are good now. Look at you, you are fine.” Elga stroked her hair as a terrified Noelle beat the old woman’s sides with her tiny fists. Finally, Noelle stopped struggling and burst into tears, wrapping her arms around Elga and letting her whole body shake with grief and relief. “Why did you do that?” pleaded the girl through her tears. “Why?”
“It had to be done. Relax. You are safe now, you are safe forever,” said the old woman.
The girl cried hard until it seemed as though she had drained her body of all its tears. Then, finally, she relaxed and lay back down again. Elga leaned over with a dingy handkerchief and roughly wiped Noelle’s cheeks dry. Sitting beside her for the next hour, she massaged Noelle’s back as the girl rested. Looking out the window, Noelle noticed the sun had set. There would be no shopping, she had slept through the whole day. “We missed going to the stores.”
“Do not worry, there will be plenty of time for stores. You rest,” said Elga, playfully tugging at the girl’s earlobe. “But first tell me, what did you dream about?”
“A chicken.”
Elga stopped rubbing her back. “Mmn. You are sure it was a chicken? Not a duck or a rooster or—”
“I know it was a chicken.”
“Fine. So what did this chicken say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No. But it wanted to. It tried to tell me a very important thing, but then it was eaten by a fox.”
“A fox? Hmmm.” Elga gave Noelle a final pat on the back and stood up. “Okay. Well, a fox is not so good.” The old woman shuffled out of the bedroom and shut the door, turning out the light behind her and leaving the girl in the dark.
XVIII
It was a simple trick that saved Vidot. For two consecutive days he watched as Dottie took the slender vials of fleas down, one by one, and handed them to Billy, who then disappeared with each into his hooded workbench. Billy wore his unusual pair of thick magnifying spectacles as he labored, making him resemble some sort of massive and diabolical insect god each time he emerged to take hold of a new subject. Billy would then vanish again beneath the white cloth, working for less than a minute, before reappearing with a carefully harnessed flea. A good number would be attached to carriages while the rest were hooked up to small silver balls. After observing to check that the flea was relatively undamaged by the operation, Billy would carefully hand the flea to Dottie, who would box the creature and place it in a traveling case.
The process was simple in theory but its actual exercise was, like any effort involving the collision of creatures with conflicting desires, fraught with violence. A good portion of the fleas taken beneath the hood were often simply brushed out, landing on the floor, mortally injured or dead, many torn to pieces. Occasionally, Vidot watched the silhouette of Billy’s hooded fist come down with a force that shook the whole table, after which the debris of what must have been an unruly and uncooperative flea would be swept out onto the floor. Vidot surmised that Billy had an uncanny ability to predict a flea’s motions, gathered over a lifetime of wrangling these simple creatures. Of course there was no remorse or even pause amid the constant carnage; these were merely bugs, common vermin, nothing more. The couple and their dog blithely ignored each death, stepping all over the fragments of flea debris as they worked, until they eventually crushed the corpses into dark smudges resembling no more than ink stains on the floorboards.
The entire exercise took about an hour. After they were done, Billy applied wax to his mustache and fastidiously put on his threadbare suit and tied his red-and-black-striped bow tie while Dottie rolled up her net stockings and zipped up the black petticoat with the pink trim. Watching her, Vidot could still remember the budding sexual thrill that had struck him as an adolescent watching the much younger version of Dottie assist a then much handsomer Billy in front of that small carnival crowd. To the enthralled and childish Vidot, she had been as captivating as a blossoming flower, teasing the bees crowded round with the succulent honey lurking there beneath the edges of her pink skirt. She must have been barely twenty then, if that, at the time of her life when every expression she adopted could not help but be coquettish and tempting. Now, though, she was of an age where it was almost too bittersweet to watch her dab on her eyeliner, brush on her rouge, and paint on the black vanity mole above her lip. The two gathered their carnival cases up in their arms and left, turning out the one bare lightbulb as they went, leaving all their captured bugs in the pale shadows nervously tapping against the walls of their slender glass prisons. Vidot did not hop about. Instead, he laid his head against the vial’s cold surface and waited, feeling the hard pressure of time closing in.