What would one do for a coffee and Danish, a coffee and Danish, just now? Why, I’d go for a girl who makes coffee and Danish, coffee and Danish, and how!
John Smith, Kyiv-based detective, slips into the Doll House Café on Mezhygirska in Podil.
Autumn had turned damp on him, puddles ‘round every turn, and the odd shitkicker or his brother ready to stamp into one in passing, come what may to an unsuspecting pedestrian reared from the cradle on the value of mutual respect in an urban setting. Wet pant legs and muddied shoes are surely the low mark of décor, Smith thinks.
Inside it’s quaint… for whatever that counts. The tables are heavy, wooden and white. The walls are covered with pictures of cuddly toys, some of which occupy the establishment’s bookshelves in a world of nooks and crannies.
Smith moves toward the back, where it’s dim, but a back door exit can already be discerned. There’s a steep staircase that surely leads to more of the same plus maybe a toilet, also dollhouse-styled, with the padded seat and a can of air freshener prominently on offer near a small window above the toilet paper roll.
The proprietor, a no-longer-young woman, has clearly noticed him but has made no move to acknowledge a possible sale. It’s as if any idiot off the street could waltz in here and occupy the ample airbag sofa without bothering to spend a dime, thinks Smith.
Instead, the door chimes go off, and Smith can see the green corduroy trousers and cheap three-quarter-length black leather jacket of The Half Guinea ambling down the place’s two front steps. He’s accompanied by Steve Kowalski, who has a book bag slung over his shoulder.
The no-longer-young woman quietly drops what she was doing and, head down, leads the two customers to where Smith is not yet sitting, then goes back to her affairs behind the sales counter.
After an incalculably unspecified amount of time, Kowalski has occupied a cushy love seat and the attentions of a plain-faced university girl clutching an English-language workbook over her lap.
“John talks to Steve.”
“John is talking to Steve,” the American remonstrates, his forefinger defying all challenges to the grammatical contrary, his eyes narrowed fiercely upon the object of his tuition.
“The kid needs a job.”
“Do you think I’m an employment agency?”
The Guinea smiles, not surprised by Smith’s response, but as if to give him a chance to consider how it might be taken.
“Sure, he’s educated and all that,” Smith continues, after blinking a little with both eyes. His coffee cup goes unsteady, its handle appearing too small for the holding hand.
“Language skills are welcome, even held in high regard. As for the diplomas that certify such and such proficiency, I don’t have to tell you about the lamentable state of modern educational institutions… I might even concede the presence of a fire in the boy’s belly, an earnest desire to tackle any task that presents itself, a burning commitment to please one’s superiors without a hint of back talk, gung-ho to leap into the fray, sword drawn… but an English teacher does not make for an interrogator… experience… a nose for deception… Does that dedicated heart feed blood to a feathered head…?”
Smith halts, on the verge of a stutter, his eyes revealing a conscious, painful attempt to put the brakes on the next wagon-full of words rattling down the rails from his brain, his train of thoughts stopped in its tracks with a frightening squelch, amidst a cloud of dust, that clears to have him teetering before us on the precipice – one deep and dark as an infinite and monstrous mouth – of lost self-control.
“Spit it out, Smith.”
And the detective does just that, crashing to the floor and a small pool of coffee and coffee cup shards.
The Guinea stands to take off his jacket, his face heavy and filled with thick red blood vessels, looms overhead, while the no-longer-young woman moves about briskly nearby thumbing a dripping hypodermic needle.
Smith feels a single puncture, sees a flurry of white rabbits circling overhead and then, just briefly, the flustered expression of Kowalski’s half-hidden face, the latter writhing on the love seat beneath his now headless student, her ass gone black and bare, perched high and center stage, the well-shaped buttocks pulsating from a source buried deep into the helpless English teacher’s midsection.
Smith regains consciousness in utter darkness, the kind bespeaking a great space that surrounds one, an empty and endless space. When the lights come on it’s from a screen, a movies screen in the newly refurbished Zhovten Cinema. The seating is packed, the pasty faces of Kyiv’s citizenry eager to be spellbound by the latest cinematic magic from the West.
“Spectre: starring Steve Kowalski as 0011,” flashes across the giant screen.
A car chase ensues, with a maniacal Welsh Losser behind the wheel of a ‘71 Cadillac Eldorado racing through the streets of New Jersey with a 7-Eleven in the background. Hostage to the madness in the vehicle’s passenger seat is New York literary hopeful Andrew Plum, rightfully frightened out of his wits but too arrogant to admit it.
“So you think you’re a writer do you?” growls Losser, menacing a fat pink fist in the face of his petrified captive.
The audience gasps in unison, followed by some raucous remarks from the back rows.
Smith turns to discover The Half Guinea seated quietly behind him sucking face with a smooth-skinned and beautifully featured Negress, not a kernel of popcorn deigning to spill from the cardboard bucket she holds so lightly over her lap.
During the intermission, Smith bumps into an old acquaintance of his near the refreshment stand: American English teacher Steve Kowalski.
The two exchange small talk, mostly expatriate gossip, and then perhaps quite predictably start making light of the coincidence in names between the film’s action hero and the freelance educator living in Kyiv.
The Half Guinea and his date soon approach to join in on the levity and all decide to meet afterwards at a nearby café called Doll House.
“I tell you, John, this kid’s got the makings of a detective,” says The Guinea, winking at his date across the table of the café.”
“A virtual James Bond,” responds Smith.
All laugh.
Filed by Commix Writer #14B – Evening Shift, November 13, 2015