“Hey Smith, wanna see me pull a rabbit out of my hat?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go to the Fried Sun.”
“That would be in Podil,” smiles the detective.
The Guinea takes a seat ground floor in the not inconsiderably sized niche near the cash registers.
John Smith brings up the tray, with house-made chocolate brownies for UAH 14 and limitless refills of chilled uzvar for UAH 19.
The Guinea gets a decent-sized cup of Coffee Americano for UAH 14. It’s smooth, dark and disarmingly warm, like the women he desires. With no such prospects on hand among the wait staff, he’s content to enjoy the company of this man.
John Smith is engaged but not married and therefore keen on low-cost eateries. He plans to buy a house one day. The older still well-built man has promised him a promotion to Investigator First Class, in the not-too-distant future.
Smith sips the foam off the dried-fruit drink, his small mouth steadfast in its refusal to slide over the rim of the glass, to wade into the sweet, full-bodied wetness held before his face.
The Guinea’s thick dark knuckles barely fit around the coffee cup handle. His purplish lips stain the smooth surface of the white china.
“Hey Smith…”
Eyebrows go up.
The Guinea tears off his own head and holds it in his hand sideways. The bulging black eyes make fun of the face, batting open and closed like a vaudeville clown’s.
Regaining his composure, Smith observes the finger of The Guinea’s other hand pointing at something behind his back.
Smith turns to see a larger-than-life hare sketched in great naturalistic detail on the opposite wall. The ears are fully erect, honed in on the most inaudible of movements. But it’s not about to flee from an approaching predator. It is the predator, and Smith feels like the prey.
Presently, Smith finds himself in a Metro car racing through the underground tunnels of Kyiv. The train howls like a subterranean beast, screeching with every brake, shaking at every turn. Smith clings to the overhead handrail like a drunk trying to hold up a wall. His fedora’s pulled down tight over his contorted face. The tails of his raincoat flutter in the draft.
The Guinea is seated in the otherwise empty car with his head still off and looking down onto his lap to read a newspaper.
A soldier appears from another car, his head shaved to stubble, his ears white and turned out, his face stamped into a square crater, not a single feature surviving the impact of the shell.
The Guinea drops a coin in the soldier’s open palm as he passes by and into the next car.
Next, they’re out on Naberezhna Road, the river dark and silent at their backs. The Guinea holds his head up over his shoulders, offering it a better view of the opposite shore.
Smith stands watch over the traffic. Cars race by in blurred streaks of blue and yellow. Signboards illuminate the road shoulder – beautiful women in high-heeled boots and long furs, square-jawed men enjoying cigarettes or expensive liqueurs.
There’s an old man standing in the middle of the road, and a little kid waiting on the curb.
A bounding bread truck makes fast in that direction, swerves to avoid another pot hole and flattens the old man across the pavement. The little boy drops his head. The Half Guinea approaches, whispers in the boy’s ear, and then Smith finds himself sitting on a bench near the Zhovten Cinema.
It’s minutes and then maybe an hour or more in the dark before he sees The Guinea exit the charred doors of the antique movie house with his arm around the waist of a young black woman. She kisses the middle-aged Mediterranean man casually and the two part.
Smith waits further, and the black woman returns in sexy long strides, one foot just in front of the other like a fashion model with hungry eyes. She stops a few feet short of Smith, hands on her hips, then nods over her shoulder to two hooded youths rushing onto the scene.
They set upon Smith with gleaming hypodermic needles, attempting to jab him in the neck and arms.
The detective is eventually pinned to the bench, his feet flailing to no avail. His skin is pierced above the collar bone, and Smith is again in the Fried Sun facing The Guinea with his head back on.
“Do you know what I like about Kyiv, Smith?”
“No.”
“It’s not the history – much overrated by my count – a drop in the bucket of civilized living, short and largely uneventful. The Mongols cut things short to be sure. The Poles and Lithuanians never picked up all the pieces. The Russians came along with a tablecloth of their own making, and even the Germans did a stint at the table.”
“And your point…?”
“I’ve never been keen on patriotism. It takes the ‘M’ out of ‘Man,’ often leaving him most unkind. What is a country compared to an empire, an empire compared to a civilization? The Moors cast a shadow across three continents…”
“The Romans…?”
“Those were the days and still are, my new world friend. Just step outside, here, in Europe or the Americas and you’re bound to see an arch, a columned roof. Go get a Ukrainian dictionary and we’ll count the words with Latin roots together…”
“That’s not necessary.”
“And not much fun, either…”
“So what do you like about Kyiv, Ukraine, East Slavic culture minus the Finno-Ugric additives?”
“The pancakes,” smiles The Guinea, his mouth growing larger than his face.
Smith looks over his shoulder again at the rabbit, now smiling. A line of naked girls is parading around the establishment, pasted in dough. One wide-hipped with large breasts and thick-netted public hair, the others – mostly clean shaven and virtually flat-chested. All are singing a song.
Oh what a wonderful day,
The war goes on and all are poor,
But we still work and play.
February 26, 2015