Babayaga

you that, only a real war will do the trick. After all, every soldier hit with a bullet means another new job listing, and every jeep blown up means another order on the books. So they’ve got that kind of war now and, well, bully for them. But when we pull out of here, that’s it for this place. As funny as it seems, this was the last battle for Paris, the final act, and now, mark my word, this city will be abandoned, not by people but by history. The local intellectuals will go on with their philosophies, and de Gaulle will wrestle with his little Algerian conundrum, but the idea of France as the beating, vibrant heart of the world is over. They will be left with nothing but dull tourists coming over, packed like wet sardines on those new Pan Am and TWA flights, pouring out in record numbers to overwhelm the palaces, plazas, and galleries. They won’t have the slightest notion that they’re standing where Marat shrieked to the crowds, or where Baudelaire searched for his absinthe, or where a Stravinsky ballet—a ballet , mind you—caused a bloody riot. They won’t see Degas for the shifty little snob he was, and, my lord, they won’t bother reading Proust. For them, all this will be little more than one of those cheap roadside attractions you see up in the Catskills, all will be trivial. The mighty dynamo is dead.”
    “Okay, well, then,” Will said with a grin, “sounds like it’s a good time to hit the road.” He stood up and looked over toward the waiting train. “They’re probably boarding now, Oliver. Thanks for coming, I appreciate it.”
    “Ah, yes, of course, sorry for going on like that. Ridiculous of me, really,” said Oliver, rising to his feet. “But I am glad I could see you off. That’s what friends are for, right?”
    Will suspected Oliver was only being polite, they weren’t true friends. Oliver was too naturally opaque, maintaining a safe distance from the world; and Will was little more than a stray white tennis ball that had rolled onto Oliver’s court from some clumsy beginner’s match. But there was no one else for Will now in Paris, and so this tall, thin man with the cool smile and his insouciant manner was probably the closest thing to a friend Will had left.
    Oliver walked him to the platform. “You really think you can find her?”
    “I can try.” Will said. “She mentioned Spain, so I thought I’d start looking there.”
    “You know, Spain isn’t particularly small.”
    Will grinned. “I know that.”
    “And while your Zoya is an exceptional woman, I have to say—”
    “I’m going to find her, Oliver.”
    “Yes, yes, of course you are.” Oliver gave him a bittersweet smile, as if he had done all he could. Will shook his hand and headed down the walkway. Looking back, he saw Oliver still standing at the head of the platform, his hand held up in a halfhearted farewell.
    Perched high in the station, a pair of owls sat resting upon the broad steel girders, watching quietly as the traveler made his way down toward the waiting train, his shadow growing long in the low, waning light.
    X

    It was the last ferry of the night. As the engine started up, its blue-gray diesel smoke blew back across the deck, mixing with white wisps of sea fog. Zoya lay in the lorry’s open bed, tucked, unseen, amongst paneling, packing crates, and rolls of insulation. The truck was parked on the deck amid long haulers, buses, and passenger cars. As the ferry eased away from the Copenhagen docks, bouncing softly into the choppy, cold waters of the Oresund Strait, the boat engine’s groan matched the ache in her heart.
    A narrow crack of the night sky was visible between the bales and tall boxes, and a low orange moon peeked down at her. She tried to distract herself, thinking about a newspaper article she had read a few months before about how the Russians, those old friends from so long ago, had recently sent a rocket up beyond the atmosphere, aimed at the lunar surface. That is so like us, she thought, we are always reaching up, clawing and grabbing, first for the fruits on tree branches and now for the stars. Even the spires of our small town churches and city cathedrals seem to be stretching up, straining to scratch at heaven’s peak.
    She imagined what the Soviet rocket must have looked like, sailing away from the confines of the earth. The thought reminded her of sieges she had witnessed, long ago, where the long, red streak of cannonballs arced high above the desolate,