The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (33 page)

“
Aquavit haf dill as ingredient.”

“
Ah. Fuck me. Fucken dill. I thought…”

They howled. They screamed. They screeched. Two wrinkled old bastards, friends and survivors, away with the mixer, rolling about on the deerskin rugs and wooden floors of Bjorn Eggen’s house, with empty bottles piled around them like the walls of a stormed and fallen castle.

“
I alvays sink die laughing vas joke,
ja
,” Bjorn Eggen said.

Wally was suddenly serious. “Don’t start that shit again, you old fart.”

“
I alvays thought I vould die alone.”

“
We all die alone, blue. We live alone and we die alone. We’re passin’ through, mate. Someone can ’old yer fucken ’and but it don’t make no fucken difference.”

“
So. If you sink like in this way, why for are you focken here?”

“
I ’eard you ’ad some spare beer lyin’ about. Din’t want it ter get wasted.”

“
I should haf something done,
ja
?”

“
About what?”

“
Phil. Me vife. Mary Rose.”

“
Listen, blue. It is what it fucken is. And nobody can do nothin’ about fucken nothin’ or nobody. We just hope that we can. The people that we love are a fucken privilege, mate. Ya done the best that ya could, and weren’t none of this shit your fault. Yer a fucken good man, and good on ya.”

Wally picked up the bottle of aquavit, drained it, and grabbed another. He was crying openly. He knew what was coming.

Bjorn Eggen smiled. Wally looked at him. It was the wisest smile he had ever seen. He tried to smile himself.

“
Zis one time,” Bjorn Eggen said, “I vas in voods. Middle of novhere. Stand in pile of fresh bear shit. Look at me boot. Look like you focken face now.”

They howled. They screamed. They screeched. Two wrinkled old bastards, friends and survivors, gone with the wind, walked all the roads of the earth, and traversed all the oceans, and yet come to this moment and this place, on the roof of the world.

“
Do not cry for me,” Bjorn Eggen said when the laughter subsided and they lapsed into silence and stared at each other. “I haf not fear to go. Is nothing. Less than nothing. Ve haf the days seen, you and me,
ja
? Haf been gud life. Take me hand, and let me sleep, my friend.”

Wally shuffled over to where Bjorn Eggen sat with his back against the fireplace. He took Bjorn Eggen’s pale, veined hand in his black, gnarled claw. He looked at Bjorn Eggen’s face. Bjorn Eggen was smiling at him. He looked so handsome. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, the sardonic eyes of a wise old king. Merlin eyes. As if he knew something.

Wally squeezed the hand tight. He passed the bottle. Bjorn Eggen raised it to his lips and drank deep. He smiled, a distant sad smile, and handed it back.

“
Sank you, my friend,” he said.

Then Bjorn Eggen slowly lowered his head onto his chest and closed his ice blue eyes. Forever.

Wally sat holding his friend’s hand until the Valkyries came winging down. They took his noble soul gently in their arms, and their hair flew behind them in the wind as they carried him to Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever. Wally walked out into the night sky and watched the godly steeds obscure the stars as they winged Bjorn Eggen on his way to the halls of Thor and Odin. The long, mournful, heartrending howl of a dog assailed the night sky. Wally stood in the chill and the snow and he saw the dark trees and the brittle light on the stark branches and the pale moon road on the snow, and he looked up at the beautiful clear golden moon as she gazed down at him, and they both knew that he himself would not be far behind, and Wally drank from the bottle and turned and walked inside to sit beside his friend who was as still and cold as a rune stone.

Chapter 12

Why did there have to be a full moon? Monsoon was not a man accustomed to physical activity, and as a rule the only time he got any exercise was on the midnight trampoline. Even so, he was surprised to find himself so short of breath so soon. And so weak. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of adrenaline rush or something? What about the famous survival instinct that you kept hearing so much about, the fight-or-flight mechanism that gives you the lifesaving burst of energy just when you need it? When was that supposed to kick in? What, being pursued by a pack of ravening wolves through a frozen Russian wilderness in the middle of the night in the middle of fucking nowhere didn’t count?

Monsoon was making a sound like the last few squirts from an almost empty fly spray. His breath was coming in short, rasping gasps, and small ephemeral clouds of condensation hovered around his face like goblin farts. He was sweating despite the intense cold. He looked back down the road. There was nothing to see, but the howling was getting closer. He thought maybe he should cut into the woods and try to climb a tree. But he was a city boy. He felt safer on the tarmac. Besides, the snow was deep. He knew enough to know that if he got bogged down in deep snow he would be history for sure. Plus, a miracle might happen. A car might come past, a bus, a truck, a bicycle, some twat on roller skates. Anything. Anyone.
Please
.

Monsoon tripped and went down. He tried to stand up but his legs wouldn’t lift him. He lay panting. Already he could feel his sweat beginning to freeze. He dragged himself over to a tree and used its branches to haul himself upright. He leaned against it, wheezing like a punctured bagpipe.

Suddenly the howl came again, much closer. He frantically looked up and down the road, but there was nothing. But the howling sounded so close. He should be able to see something. Then he realized. It was coming from inside the woods. Beside him. Unseen in the branches and the darkness, approaching on silent paws over the snow. He tried to break a branch from a tree to use as a weapon, but the branches were green and would not yield. All he succeeded in doing was slipping on his ass again.

He rolled over onto his back. He remembered his Zippo and reached into his pocket. He flicked it on and held it up, a tiny flame guttering in all that darkness. The smell of the lighter fluid was sharp and pungent in the cold. Fire. Man’s ancestral friend against his ancestral enemy. Fire to keep the beast at bay. A tiny flame in all that wilderness was all the hope he had. The lighter burned his fingers and he dropped it. It fell and extinguished itself in the snow with a loud hiss. The darkness that rushed in seemed blacker than ever.

Just then, the clouds parted again, and the man in the moon leered down at him, in all his glory. Monsoon lost it.

“
You think this is fucking funny, you glowing cunt? You think this is some kind of fucking joke? A lifetime of trying to make a decent hand out of the shit cards I got dealt, a lifetime of carrots held in front of my face just so you and that other miserable bunch of fuckers can watch me end up in a pile of mule shit, as usual. Well, who you gonna laugh at when I’m gone, huh? Who you gonna have to play with then? Was it too much to ask just for one winning fucking hand, one lousy lucky break, you cheesy yellow bastard?”

A headlight illuminated the treetops, and the sound of a motor roared loud in the still night. The clouds covered the moon.

“
Oh, thank you, moon man, thank you. I didn’t mean it. I love you man, I…”

A rusty, antiquated truck slid to a halt. The door opened. The lights were full on Monsoon’s face. The driver killed the engine. But there was no silence—just a dreadful snarling. Monsoon desperately tried to get to his feet, to get to the wheels. He couldn’t make it. He started to crawl. Something heavy and furry landed on his back, driving him into the snow. He felt hot breath on his neck. The terrible growling grew louder. He closed his eyes and waited for the rending fangs to sink into his spine.

“
Sasha.
Nyet
.”

The weight removed itself. Monsoon grabbed a low bough and managed to roll himself over. He stared straight into the eyes of the biggest, most terrifying, most ferocious cocker spaniel that he had ever seen.

“
You are not from around here, are you?” the driver asked.

“
What the fuck?” replied Monsoon.

“
Ah. American. Please forgive Sasha. He is very naughty. He ran away again. I have been looking for him for an hour.”

“
What the fuck?” said Monsoon.

“
Ah, excuse me. I am Yevgeny. I live in the village.”

“
What the fuck?” said Monsoon.

“
Er. I am a schoolteacher. Maybe I could help you with your vocabulary.”

“
I thought it was wolves.”

“
And your geography. You are precisely eighty-eight miles from the center of Moscow. The nearest wolf is in the zoo. What are you doing out here at this time of night with no coat, may I ask?”

“
It’s a long story.”

“
Come. You can tell me on the way. You must have some warm clothes and some hot soup. You will catch cold.”

“
Thanks, man,” Monsoon said. “Come to think of it, I ain’t feelin’ so hot.”

Yevgeny pulled Monsoon out of the snow and helped him to the truck. Sasha jumped in next to him. As the truck coughed and rumbled and clattered down the road, it could have been the back seat of a Lexus as far as Monsoon was concerned. Yevgeny turned the heater up to full, and Monsoon was asleep before they had gone a mile.

***

Bar Strelka wasn’t really Baby Joe’s kind of joint, but the frame of mind he was in, any joint would do. Major Oblov had insisted on bringing them. He said it was the most fashionable bar in Moscow. Judging from some of the mannequins and marionettes on display, it looked like he was right. Agents Black and White seemed equally unimpressed.

“
I come here all the time,” Oblov lied. “You might say it’s my local.”

“
Listen, Major,” Agent White said. “As fascinating as the details of your social activities are, do you think we might cut to the chase here?”

Oblov assumed the facial expression he reserved for uncultured foreign barbarians. “But of course,” he said curtly. “How may I help?”

Agent Black produced a list. “These are the people who were on the same flight as some of the people we’re after. Any of these names ring a bell?”

Agents Black and White studied Oblov as he studied the list, watching for any change in his facial expression. Baby Joe studied the room.

It was a young crowd. Students, intellectuals, people from the arts. Ponytails and poses, carefully arranged facial expressions, oh-so-casual wardrobes just thrown on, designer cool, talking about important this and important that. Baby Joe felt sorry for them, without exactly understanding why. They were the future, the beautiful bright young things who would make the world a better place and show us all where we’d been going wrong. Except they weren’t. Give it twenty years and they would be just as fucked up as everybody else. Fat and balding and disillusioned. So go ahead, guys and gals, believe in make believe while you can, embrace the way that it should be, before the way that it is comes and slaps you in the teeth, and the sweet bird of truth flies in through the window and craps in your latté. Enjoy the sense of rightness, the clarity, the certainty. Adore the blushing rose that gazes back at you from the mirror, before it turns into a cactus.

Baby Joe stood up and walked over to the bar. Nobody said anything. He ordered a whiskey and a beer chaser. He could feel a subtle change in the people around him, a slight moving away, a turning of the heads, a barely discernible lowering of the voices. He didn’t blame them. It was as if a bat had flown into the aviary. He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar, and a grim gargoyle leered back at him, eyes of stone looking at his own self as if at a stranger.

Is that it? Is that what we become, strangers to ourselves, foreigners in our own heartlands, refugees in the landscape of our own minds? Who are you? Who am I? What am I doing? Why? Why don’t I just fuck off? Why don’t I just stand up, walk out, and keep walking? Find a proper bar, get blind stinking drunk, sleep it off somewhere, go to the airport, and get on the first fucking plane to anywhere warm?