Babayaga

“I would be grateful if you could avoid mentioning me.”
    “How did you wind up out there, anyway?” asked Oliver.
    “I was the old woman’s prisoner.”
    “The old woman’s…?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah well, she seemed like a terribly strange creature.” Oliver looked at Zoya on the bed. “Have you ever seen the painting by Goya called Witches’ Flight ?”
    Vidot shook his head and said “No.”
    “It’s quite marvelous, a circle of witches float in the sky, flying and dancing in their nocturnal Sabbath, while beneath them a poor trapped man cowers, his head hidden beneath a bedsheet, quite desperate not to look up.”
    Vidot nodded. “He does not want to see the women?”
    Oliver considered that thought. “That’s right, he does not, and I, for one, don’t blame him. Understanding any woman can be difficult, but trying to comprehend a sight like that could drive a man mad. Besides, whom could he tell? Who would believe him?”
    Vidot looked at Zoya lying on the bed, her eyes shut, her mouth open in a silent cry, her black hair spilling over the pillow like a dark wild sea. He realized how little he knew, how unimaginably vast the universe was, and how its emptiness was only another word for mystery. “Yes, who would believe him?”
    “So, I imagine it might be prudent for us to keep many of these details to ourselves, or else we’ll probably both wind up in the booby hatch.”
    “Yes, I would agree,” said Vidot with a slight smile. Only days ago, it would have professionally offended Vidot that someone could seriously suggest withholding elements of an investigation: to him it was the equivalent of stealing pieces away from an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. But now he saw that the questions lying before him led into a sinister labyrinth, a complex and many-storied maze from which there was very possibly no return. That was enough for him. Still, there were duties that needed attending.
    Oliver rose from the bed. “Nobody is going to be at the embassy at this hour.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll have them call someone to come listen to me. I want to be the first one in to give his version.”
    Vidot nodded. “ Oui , oui . Go, monsieur. If there’s trouble, I can get help.”
    Oliver put on his hat and gestured to the sleeping couple. “I shouldn’t be long. Thanks.” With that, he was gone.
    Vidot watched him go with some disbelief. Who, he wondered, would ever leave his vulnerable friends in the company of a complete stranger, especially one he had only recently found naked and lying on the floor of a countryside barn? But the recent events had been so disorienting that it was clear no one was thinking straight. Vidot himself felt especially light-headed. He sat on a chair in the corner for a long time, looking across to the bed as the man and the woman lay shaking in their low tremors. Then, Vidot took a deep breath and began looking for a telephone.
    XX

    Zoya awoke to Will lying only millimeters away, their noses practically touching. His face, angled up to the side, looked smoothly angelic. What a strange dream it had been. His eyelids twitched in sleep, and she smiled groggily as she reached across and gently stroked his cheek. How long had she known this man? A little over a week? Really? The mere sight of his sleeping face made her heart feel as soft as a ripe persimmon.
    There was the small cough of someone clearing his throat. She looked up and realized that she was back in her small hotel apartment. At the foot of her bed stood a man wearing baggy, rumpled clothes and a slightly embarrassed expression. Behind him stood a policeman.
    “Good morning,” said the man in the oversized clothes, putting his hand to his chest, “I hate to disturb you. My name is Charles Vidot, I am a detective with the police here in Paris and I regret to inform you that you are under arrest.”
    “What?” She sat up in the bed. “I do not understand. There must be some mistake? Why are you arresting me?”
    He paused, and it seemed to her as though he were about to break into a smile, but then a shadow seemed to pass across his features and his expression became painfully sad, as if it were on the verge of tears. “Oh, mademoiselle,” he said, shaking his head sadly, his voice breaking with emotion, “I am arresting you for the terrible murder of Leon Vallet.”
    She sat there, staring at him, far too drained and weary for any tricks. She looked down at Will’s sleeping body. She knew what