Babayaga

on all the kinds of accounts an advertising agency works on.”
    “So, you work at an advertisin g agency?”
    “Yes, of course, where else would I work?”
    Nobody answered Will’s question. Jake sat looking stunned while Ned had a single snort of a laugh and Boris broke into a grin. This disturbed Will, especially when no one offered up an explanation as to what they found so entertaining. Except for Ned’s chortling, the table once again was quiet. They all sat there in what Will now found to be an exceedingly uncomfortable silence until the curtain was dramatically pulled back and Oliver returned to the room carrying two bottles of whiskey precariously topped with glasses. Seeing their expressions, he stopped. “Well, well, well, what did I miss?”
    “Oliver, I’ve got some news of your friend here,” said Jake, pointing at Will. “He doesn’t work at the agency, he works in an advertising agency.”
    “My gosh, really?” Oliver looked befuddled. “But I thought you said you worked with Bob Brandon at the agency?”
    “No, I only, I only meant…” Suddenly understanding too much, and blushing with embarrassment, Will rose quickly from his chair. “I’m sorry, I probably need to go, you all have things to discuss and I … have an appointment. There seems to be a bit of a mix-up here anyway. I’m not sure I can help you. I actually only know Bob Brandon socially.” Will’s heart was racing, nobody was supposed to know the kind of work he did. This odd series of events had almost tricked him into betraying the very thing he was never supposed to disclose, a fact he had not told anyone the entire time he had been in the city. How stupid. He couldn’t believe he had even let on that he knew Brandon in the first place. How had that happened? He remembered his conversation with Oliver at the party, how easily and innocently Brandon’s name had slipped from his tongue, all because he was talking to another convivial American. Had either of them mentioned the Central Intelligence Agency that night? It was hard to remember. The sinking feeling got worse. Maybe it had all been a setup. What if Oliver was in with the Russians, and the two pretty girls at dinner had been agents too. If that was the case, then, Will realized, he was playing way out of his league. He should have stayed at his desk, working on reports. He was really better as a manager, no more than a glorified clerk, not someone who should be out wandering the streets of Paris, spilling his guts to any smart fellow who happened to cross his path. He should be home, working, he still had the Bayer report to finish, what was he doing out on the town?
    “Relax, Will, it’s fine, a simple misunderstanding.” Oliver seemed to shrug it off. “How about a drink?”
    “Thanks, but no.” Will pulled on his coat as quickly as he could. “It was great meeting you all, really, thanks. Honestly, I’ve gotta run.” Putting on his hat, he nodded a quick farewell to the slightly stunned table. Sitting together in the dimly lit room, watching as he stumbled over himself, the four staring figures collectively reminded him of a dark gathering from some somber Rembrandt. Will pushed the curtain aside and the sound of Cannonball Adderley’s sax blasted loud in his face, sending his head spinning even faster as he bolted for the door.
    A cold light rain was falling. The air was foggy and smelled of sooty chimneys. Looking up and down the street, he couldn’t see any cabs coming so he walked fast toward the metro, hoping that the evening air would clear his mind. Shoving his hands into his overcoat pockets to stay warm, he jammed his palm against the long knife he had brought along to show Oliver. He realized he had forgotten all about it and thanked the Lord that it was folded shut.
    The knife was sentimental: a fourteen-inch antique ox-bone folding knife his grandfather had given him for Christmas when Will was only six or seven, still too young for such a gift. He could remember his grandfather telling him it was from Toledo, Spain, which had sounded funny to Will since he was pretty sure Toledo was down the road from Detroit someplace. He remembered too his grandfather explaining that this particular knife was best for fishing, and that there was a whole range of other knives he could collect that were good for hunting, campfire cooking, and woodwork. “What about a knife for fighting?” Will remembered asking. “Oh,” said his grandfather.