“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Half Guinea held for murder of Dirk Dickerson!” … “Grease Ball melts under hot lamp interrogation!” … “Kyiv city sleuths crack crime of the century!”
On a low-sunk curb before a pockmarked road stands a lone sentry of English-language journalism. His dark, shiny hair twists willy-nilly in the wind; his blemished brow unbent against the onslaught of March rains; his throat, gone hoarse, holds strong, firmly secured in the bend of his buttoned-up blue-jean jacket collar.
Nor do the knees, knobby by nature, betray signs of any buckling within the hollow folds of his freshly pressed square trousers. Feet planted firmly into a slab of cracked and dirty pavement take succor from a pair of newly laundered black-and-white sneakers with their laces loosely tied.
But Kowalski stands alone – none to hear his clarion cry: neither man, beast, nor automobile nearby. The car-congested streets of Kyiv’s underlying Podil District lie empty as a septic tank, recently relieved of its fetid contents. The roar of truck engines, the blare of car horns, the fleeting chatter of pedestrians, their cell phones held tight to their ears – all gone.
‘Hear ye, hear ye, O, Expatriate Kyiv, explorers of post-Soviet glory, wanderers of Cyrillic-studded urban landscapes, men of business and letters, seekers of girls and gold. Where the fuck have you all gone,’ his pale and pathos-filled face seems to ask.
But neither stray dog, nor alley cat responds. Not even the shriek of a bag lady, the angry grunt of an awakened alcoholic, can be heard.
They sky itself, now crowded out with dark and low-lying clouds, purple interlopers looming ominously overhead, seems to forbid his every word, to hush his every sentiment.
Suddenly, a furious gust picks up, starting a stampede of litter and leafy foliage scurrying across the pavement. The loose bundle of A-3 printed pages held under his arm struggles fiercely for its freedom from Kowalski’s bony grip.
The front page of the copy he waves defiantly overhead, a banner of editorial independence braving the elements in the name of news, its glossy depiction of the infamous, middle-aged Mediterranean, whose capture was previously thought impossible, whose crimes, long held unspeakable, begins to wail in angry protest.
Then Kowalski feels a sharp poke to the middle of his back and turns to see a sour-faced old Ukrainian man staring at him and tapping his temple with a gnarly old index finger.
“Trivoga,” [“Alarm”, “Danger” – Eds.] says the old man, and Kowalski realizes that the city is again under attack by Russian drones.
***
Back at his “crib”, as Kowalski frequently refers to his single-room flat near the Druzhba Narodiv [Friendship of Nations – Eds.] metro station, Kowalski has made himself a strong black tea, which he judiciously sips while occasionally nibbling at some dry, sugary biscuits recently received in a care package from his aunt Agatha in Hamtramck, Michigan.
The furniture is Soviet, and a moldy rug depicting dogs playing poker hangs from one wall.
“And remember to put away some money,” reads the letter accompanying the package.
“In any case, I do hope you have made some friends … Not that you should trust just anyone, Steve.”
Kowalski notices that cookie crumbs have tumbled into the pocket of his short-sleeved, button-up shirt.
“Would I be prying to ask how things are going with that girl you once mentioned. C.G., I believe, is how you referred to her. Is that her full name or just how you call her? Young girls are just full of surprises these days – and not all of them entirely appropriate.”
On Kowalski’s kitchen table still lies a framed picture of him and Commix Girl – actually, a group picture where she, he, and other members of the news team, are enjoying themselves at a company Christmas party. Kowalski had sidled up to her as close as he could, but she’d laid her big bulky purse on the chair between them.
He dusts off the picture and stands it upright, propped up between his saltshaker and a bottle of ketchup.
“Oh, and I should tell you that your uncle Stan is planning to visit our relatives in Krakow, and thought it would be nice if you two could possibly meet … family have got to … won’t be a bother … talk to you soonest … Agatha.
Kowalski slurps down the remainder of his tea, puts the lid back on the cookie jar, and begins typing on his laptop, eventually opening the pages of the Kyiv Unedited website.
“Cold Grease Under a Hot Light.”
Filed March 25, 2025