Richard Montanari: The Devil_s Garden

During a layover in London’s Heathrow Airport Terminal Five – while luxuriating in the British Airways Terraces lounge, the area set aside for those traveling business class – Aleks allowed himself a massage in the Elemis spa.

Three hours later he sat in the section of the lounge overlooking his gate, a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black in hand. He glanced down, saw Elena’s face swim up from the depths of the clear amber liquid. He recalled the first time he saw her, standing in the grove where he had seen the grey wolf, already an ennustaja of her village at the age of seven.

He wondered: would Anna and Marya look like Elena? Would they have the same beguiling blue eyes, the same milky skin?

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He took out the three crystal vials held on an exquisite gold chain. One of the vials was filled with blood. Two were empty. He slipped the chain around his neck.

Three girls, Aleks thought. The legend of Koschei and the prince’s sisters. Anna, Marya, and Olga. When all their blood was at long last his, they would live forever.

He looked out the window at the lights of Heathrow’s runways. Cities, he thought. How he hated them, and all that they have spawned. Now he was heading to the most important city in the world.

An hour later he settled into his seat on the plane, the power within him beginning to grow.

She was petite and pretty, with a generous mouth and slender, boyish hips. She wore a stiff white blouse, navy skirt. She seemed to be in her late thirties, although her hands suggested she might be older.

“Can I get you something?”

They had been airborne for two hours, served a gourmet meal. The crew had dimmed the lights.

Aleks looked around the Club World cabin of the large, powerful Boeing 747-400. He knew all too well about societal divisions in life. The small group who had stood in a separate, fast-moving line at Heathrow, the select few who had been welcomed aboard with a warm towel and glass of champagne, looked at each other with an understanding that they were all in this together, a cut above those who traveled coach, chosen all.

Aleks glanced back at the woman. She was not a flight attendant. She was a fellow passenger. “I’m sorry?”

She pointed over her shoulder, spoke in a hushed voice. “From the kitchen. Club World passengers have access to the galley, you know. Would you like some juice, or a glass of wine?” She held up her own empty glass.

What a world, Aleks thought. Your own kitchen on a plane. “I’m fine, thank you.”

The woman eyed the seat next to Aleks. Business class had individual seats, side by side, facing in opposite directions. The seats flattened into beds, and could be fashioned into dozens of positions. The seat next to Aleks was unoccupied. The woman clearly wanted to sit and chat for a while.

“My name is Jilliane,” she said, extending a hand.

Aleks smiled a disingenuous smile. He was traveling under one of his three passports. This identity was Jorgen Petterson. He introduced himself, carefully crafting his accent.

“My friends call me George,” Aleks added. When it was clear the woman was not going to leave, he gestured to the seat next to him. Before she sat down, she picked up the small pile of papers Aleks had put there. He had meant to put them back in his bag. He must have dozed off.

Jilliane arranged herself on the seat, smiled. Despite the dim light, Aleks could see her teeth were white and even. She had dimples, a flawless complexion. She glanced around the cabin, back.

“This is all quite posh, isn’t it?” she said. Aleks could smell the sweet-sour breath of alcohol.

“Yes.”

She tapped a manicured nail against her wine glass, perhaps searching for a portal into the conversation. “Do you travel to New York often, George?”

Questions, Aleks thought. He had to be vigilant. If he said he came to New York often, she may ask him other questions. “This is my first time.”

Jilliane nodded. “I remember my first time in the city. It can be a bit overwhelming. I live there now, but I grew up in Indiana.”

“I see.” Aleks was beginning to regret asking her to sit down.

Before she could respond, she pointed at the swing-out table on Aleks’s side of the partition. “What are these?”

She was referring to pair of marble eggs sitting on the table. The eggs were actual size, intricately carved to depict the ancient Russian legend of an egg inside a duck inside a hare, the fable of Koschei the Deathless. Aleks had had them carved in Kaliningrad. He had forgotten to put them back into his carry-on bag. He wished the woman had not seen them. It was a mistake.

“These are for my precious brorsdotter,” he said. “For Easter.”

Jilliane looked puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” Aleks said. “They are for my nieces. I am from a town called Karlskrona. It’s in south-eastern Sweden.”

Jilliane picked up one of the eggs, a little mystified. She put it down, getting to the point. “Do you like music, George?”

“Very much,” Aleks said. “I play a little.”

Her eyes lighted. “Really? What do you play?”

Aleks waved a dismissive hand. “My instrument is the flute. I kneel a thousand feet below Gaubert and Barrere.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re just as good as those guys.’’

Those guys. He remained silent.

“What about jazz?”

“I am quite a fan,” Aleks said. “Chet Baker, Charlie Parker, Oscar Peterson. There is not that much to choose from for the flute, but I have played some of Charles Lloyd’s arrangements. To no great acclaim, I’m afraid.”

Jilliane nodded. She didn’t know Charles Lloyd from Lloyd’s of London. She hesitated for a moment, looked over shoulder, back. Most of the cabin was asleep.

“Look, there’s this jazz place I go to, not too far from where I live. I think you’d like it a lot.” She took her pen out, and grabbed a cocktail napkin off his tray. “They play a lot of jazz like Kenny G.”

My God, Aleks thought. Jazz like Kenny G.

She whispered, “I’m free all weekend, George.”

She gave him her number.

Long after Aleks had spirited the napkin away, and Jilliane had returned to her seat, he glanced at his watch. They were somewhere over the Atlantic.

He wondered what Konstantine would look like. The last time he had seen the man he had been standing over the body of a Chechen soldier, the dead man’s heart in one hand, a half-eaten pomegranate in the other. If one did not know Konstantine, it might have looked as if he was eating human flesh.

Aleks did know him, and it was entirely possible.

He settled into his seat, the thoughts of his past set aside. For now, he slept.

Five hours later he awoke from a dream, a vision of Estonia, a fantasy of sun sparkling on the river, of yellow flowers in the valley, of children running through the pines. His children.

Moments later, the jet began its slow descent to JFK International Airport.

Abby Roman stared at the young man in disbelief.

He looked about nineteen or so, drove a tricked-out Escalade with tinted windows, spinner hubcaps, and a vanity plate that read YO DREAM. A real class act. He looked a little threatening, sitting high in the SUV, but that was just part of the white boy thug routine. Abby glanced at the girls. They were in the back seat of the Acura, still strapped in. They were both listening to audiobooks that Michael had downloaded onto their new iPods. Charlotte was lost in A Bear Called Paddington. Emily was giggling at something called Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. The windows were rolled up. They wouldn’t hear anything, if there was anything to hear.