Babayaga

next he emerged he was in his own apartment again, watching this perfect devil once again embrace his Adèle.
    He barely recognized his wife: in Alberto’s presence this prim and proper woman instantly became a creature of lust; her eyes watered with hunger and her mouth opened wide as she avidly kissed him until she had to gasp for breath. Vidot felt sick and instinctively returned to his only comfort at hand, once again digging his jaws deep into Alberto for more vengeful—and succulent—sustenance.
    About twenty minutes later, lying dazed and nearly unconscious amid the man’s thick hairs, he was suddenly roused by the sound of his own name. Scurrying again up to the peak of Alberto’s skull to listen, he saw his beautiful Adèle lying naked on the bed, recounting how a policeman had called to say that Vidot was off on an undercover investigation. She said that while this was certainly convenient for the two of them, it was also odd, as her husband surely would have mentioned it. Alberto kissed her cheek and told her they must make the most of this little vacation together. He rose to dress. Vidot was so distracted thinking about what his wife had said—why would the station say that he was off on some secret mission?—that he missed the critical moment and so once more found himself trapped beneath Alberto’s hat.
    When Alberto arrived home, Mimi had greeted her husband with the usual ardor, laughingly telling a tale of models running around the magazine’s office in their frilly underwear. Alberto had laughed too, patting her bottom affectionately and pouring them both wine while she pulled a casserole out from the oven. Vidot was flummoxed by the casual ease with which his rival moved from scene to scene. This Italian was a marvel.
    As they were retiring to the bedroom, Vidot finally leapt clear of the man. He did not want to witness any more of Alberto’s amorous antics or be party to any more of his betrayals. Settling beneath the couch, he anxiously counted the days he had left. A flea’s existence might be short but it could certainly be lively; since he had been transformed it felt as though he had already died a thousand times over. How fortunate he would have been, he thought, if only he had perished alongside poor Bemm. Being torn asunder by the talons of an owl seemed infinitely preferable to the slow, unendurable torture life brought to him now.
    Vidot knew he would go mad if he did not find some new distraction. His mind went back to the puzzling thing Adèle had said. Why had the station misled her? It seemed highly suspicious. Not only that, but it was harmful too, for had she been told the truth, the news of Vidot’s disappearance could have had a profound effect on his wife, she might have suddenly realized how devoted she was to her equally devoted husband. But, for reasons he could not understand, his superiors were covering things up. The shrieking sounds of Mimi’s sexual ecstasy started bouncing off the walls of the dark apartment. Christ, thought Vidot, this Italian was unstoppable. Vidot forced himself to concentrate on his little mystery. Why had the station lied? He guessed Maroc was probably behind it, that hunk of swine was as fork-tongued as they come. Vidot realized he would have to make his way back to the station to uncover the answers. Sensing the long, laborious journey ahead, he sighed. It would be so much easier, he thought, to stay here in this warm, comfortable apartment, spending his evenings listening to the lovely Mimi enjoying her false and perfect heaven.
    VI

    Zoya sat at the restaurant bar with Oliver, listening to him chatter on as he drank his scotch and emptied a pack of Chesterfields. She laughed at his stories on cue. He was not boring, but he was only a means to an end and there was little reason for her to pay too much attention. As his tales rambled on, she was reminded that this was why she preferred married men, they already had someone to bore with their stories. As if to accent and punctuate his various points, Oliver’s hand kept optimistically straying up her thigh. She let him have his fun.
    At one point he paused mid-anecdote and looked her in the eye. “Zoya, my dear, you are intriguing.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, you’re a little strange.”
    She smiled. “Oh no, I’m not, it is only that I am from a foreign land, and you are confused by our cultural differences.”
    “I don’t think so. I know plenty of Russians and