HUNGER OF THE WICKED

2.

Gord Droski exhaled the lazy cloud of smoke which flew towards the ceiling. Leaning against the wall, he watched his potential customer with a dreamy look. The man, as tall as he was—a good six feet or more, bore an Italian name but spoke without an ounce of accent. His face was cheerful, with intense black eyes, and fine greying hair. His slender build, embellished by an expensive three-piece suit imported from his native country, gave him the look of a fashion model. Lively and supple, he moved like a cat, except that he used a cane whose presence appeared however incidental, intended only for effect. Since Gord Droski had arrived at the house he intended to rent to him, several things had attracted his attention. In the first place, the Italian didn’t make the slightest sound, whatever the material on the ground where he laid his delicate polished shoes. Then, with astonishing skill, he avoided all the objects—mirrors, glass doors, windows—likely to return his reflection. Excessive lack of vanity? It doesn’t matter. For Gord Droski it was only necessary to rent this old house, which had been abandoned for years, and which weighed on his expenses without bringing anything back to him. The origin of the customer remained an insignificant detail.

The Italian roamed the drawing-room from one end to the other, his cane brushing against the floor, his eyes fixed on the impressive ceiling paintings. He progressed through the vast and unfurnished room in absolute silence, most disturbing.

“So, dear sir?” asked the Russian finally, a little impatient.

“I will take it. I will also need, as soon as possible, a person who knows the surroundings like his pocket.”

He paused for a moment, thoughtfully, and when his voice rang again, Gord Droski blinked in amazement. The Italian was right in front of him. He bowed his head, a strange smile on his lips.

“And endowed with a strong character, if you see what I mean.”

It would take more than this to impress the Russian who took a new puff of his pipe.

“If you pay the price, no problem,” he answered tacitly.

“I always pay when it is worth it.”

“With me, you’ll not be disappointed. Everyone will tell you: in business, I’m a man of my word.”

“That is why I am speaking to you, Mr. Droski.”

“And I’m not stupid, with it: no paper to sign, p*****t from hand to hand. I can even call you Mr. Italy if you want.”

In response, the person revealed teeth cut in straight lines, with a brilliance worthy of a toothpaste advertisement. Certainly, he had surgery to achieve such a perfect result. Although, on reflection, his canines were perhaps a little too long.

The landscape of the steppe, monotonous and cold, passed by the window of the car. Darya was amused with the mist, happy. With her mother, she sang a koliadki to mark the winter solstice. Soon they would arrive at the party and she could dress up, like the other children, and play with the straw horse effigy. She was so excited! Her mother smiled, her eyes glowing, her father tapping rhythmically on the wheel. Suddenly, there was a great bang and the car swerved. It went sideways, made several rolls, and slid on its roof before finishing at the side of the road, stopped abruptly by a well-compacted embankment of snow. In the terrible silence that followed, Darya saw only two broken bodies smeared with blood. Their lifeless faces, atrociously expressive; her mother who stared at her, her mouth half-open in a cry that never crossed her lips. A black veil spilled over this vision of horror until the teenager could no longer see anything inside the cockpit. Then the ash began to rain...

Kolevski awoke with a start, trembling and sweaty. Pi was with her, a bathrobe in his hand. He looked at her and tried not to linger over the scars that melded the right side of her chest. They marked the flesh deeply and retained a reddish hue, despite their age. The defect was due to the moisture which revived the old wounds. This summer, it would appear a little less. Embarrassed, he looked at the steaming stones.

“The boss is waiting for you in his office.”

“I slept for a long time?”

“A good two hours.”

The girl grumbled and stood up. Pi helped her put on her robe while looking away, discrete. She stroked his cheek, the one that remained intact in her perception.

“You’re a darling, Pi.”

Then she left the room, took a long corridor, crossed a waiting area, and knocked at a heavy door. As soon as she heard the voice of her boss, she entered. Gord Droski was seated behind a large oak desk in an enormous armchair suitable for his illustrious presence. His size, his brush-cut hair, and his square face gave him the appearance of a soldier, something she abhorred. He was dressed in Levi’s jeans—very classy, according to him—an indescribable floral shirt and tailor-made suit jacket. He was stuffing his pipe when the girl came in, and he motioned her to sit down, all while moving a plate of warm coulibiac to her. Darya obeyed willingly and picked up a piece, bit into the puff pastry with an appetite, and then chewed with a sigh of contentment. The coulibiac filling was beef, the meat she preferred. She ate with her eyes closed, most of all to avoid looking at Gord. To see this man she loved so much as he would be the day of his death, covered with bruises, his throat cut, became more and more difficult with time.

“So sweetie,” he said quietly, “you got into trouble?”