“Could you top this one up, John… that is, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Sure Mr. Soiree. Just let me finish washing up these dishes.”
“Certainly, certainly, John,” coughs superficially. “You just take your time. I’m in no hurry, heaven only knows.”
Soiree, Rico Soiree, owner and founder of Kyiv’s Silver School of English, is reclined on a black leather sofa in his spacious and nicely furnished flat. His head is wrapped in a turban of fine yellow silk, from which a fringed strip of blood-stained bandaging peeks out below ‘the ear.’
Smith dries his hands briskly, retrieves the empty tumbler from Soiree’s feebly outstretched hand and proceeds to prepare another Scotch on the rocks for his new employer.
“I don’t need to tell you how grateful I am for your assistance, John.”
“I’m happy to have the work, Mr. Soiree.”
“Oh, ho, ho. You’re too modest, my boy… Um, you don’t mind my referring to you in such a manner, do you, John? It’s just that…”
“No need to explain, Mr. Soiree, and no offense taken.”
Savoring the first sip of chilled Scotch with renewed vigor, “I must say that I feel like a first-class fool, having taken you for a racist, John…”
“No need to…”
“No, no, there is, John. There is every reason for me to explain myself. You see, I’ve always considered myself a man of liberal values. Give everyone a chance – that was my motto. And how could I think otherwise, when the Garden State had been so generous to me?”
“I understand, Mr. Soiree,” says Smith, having returned to his dishwashing.
“Please don’t interrupt, my boy… please… Uh, er, where was I? Ah yes – the Garden State. It’s really all about education. That’s where opportunities arise. With the proper funding of a district’s school system, miracles can happen.”
Having rinsed all the plates and saucers, stacking them in the rack to dry, Smith has moved on to the cutlery.
“Yes, miracles, John! That’s why I came to Kyiv…”
“To perform miracles, Mr. Soiree…?”
Regaining his composure, the turbaned East Coast educator casts a guarded glance over his shoulder to see Smith assiduously scouring a large, fancy-handled dessert spoon.
“Hmm… Well, in a matter of speaking, YES. I don’t see why I should mince my words. Now, I don’t know exactly where your value system lies, John, but you’ve certainly shown yourself to be an industrious and attentive personal assistant, particularly in the light of my recent misfortune, which has made me more dependent on the kind of domestic help you are providing… frankly speaking, more than I feel comfortable with.”
“You’re paying me a salary, Mr. Soiree,” says Smith, now dealing with a stubbornly stained fork.
“Well, be that as it may, my boy, er, John, I need you more than you need me… ahem, yes, and, er, that’s pretty much the relationship I have with Kyiv, too – only in the reverse!”
Soiree gulps more greedily at his Scotch, seemingly lost in the thoughts that, strangely, he is only now fully, if not honestly, putting into words.
“The Silver School of English is a quality establishment that fills a role long overlooked or underperformed in this fair city. And, by George, I take my responsibilities seriously…”
“Understood,” says Smith from the kitchen area.
“Of course, I’ve also enjoyed this city’s pleasures… which, more recently I’ve felt less capable of indulging in, due to a variety of, I must admit, age-related issues.”
“Well, Mr. Soiree, you’ve also shown incredible physical resilience…”
Eyes widening in fear, anger, bewilderment – then barely perceptible resignation, of the stubborn rather than timid variety, “Yes, I’m a survivor, John.”
“You are,” says Smith, sounding increasingly more assertive as he dries off the last of Soiree’s cutlery.
“I am!” now almost shouting, “still alive and kicking, indeed, but with my faith in my fellow man, not just shaken… but dashed on the rocks of indifference like a lifeboat that had been only moments before enjoying dancing waves and happy skies.”
“But surely you must have had your doubts about Davies from the start. Who more than an educator should know the value of doing one’s homework? Due diligence, checking into the past of a prospective business partner?”
Now clutching his turbaned head in pain in a scene reminiscent of a biblical personage dramatically portrayed on the canvass of some baroque artist, “I really don’t want to talk about that man, John.”
“Keep it up kid,” comes the voice of the older, well-built man via a cleverly concealed micro transmitter in Smith’s ear.
“Was it the Viagra, Mr. Soiree?”
“John, I THINK that will be enough for today,” says Soiree, now gritting his teeth and clutching his head almost savagely, just above ‘the ears.’
“Come on Soiree. No one blames you for trying to supplement your income as an educator. And then there’s the girls, selfish little sluts that they are, aren’t they? These things cost money, and it’s not like you were dealing heroine, after all. How did it all come undone? Tell me. I’m not going to flap my gums to anyone,” says Smith, toying with the serrated kitchen knife just a few feet from the black leather couch his employer is now sitting up on, still clutching his temples.
Soiree’s big screen TV turns on to display a close-up of Josh Davies, whose face appears to be almost pressed up against the camera filming him.
“Howdy there, all – just a friendly neighborhood reminder about the next Donkeys Abroad picnic this weekend at the Kyiv fairgrounds…”
Then… “Police in Kyiv are still looking into the vicious attack on an American educator in Kyiv… Kate Mustard, live from in front of a 9th-story Brezhnev-era apartment.”
“It’s The Ferret. He’s on the roof fiddling with the cable decoder,” says the older, still well-built man into the carefully concealed transmitter.”
To be continued
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, June 22, 2013