Ekaterina Sedia - The Secret History of Moscow

The corners of her mouth dimpled as if she were holding back a smile. “I won't hex you, handsome,” she said, clearly enjoying her power over him. “Just paint me a picture, and we're good. I'll even give you a talisman that'll protect you from any gypsy curse."

"I don't believe in talismans,” he said.

She laughed. “But you believe in curses? Come on, paint."

"You can have this one.” He proffered the sketchpad with his most recent view of the river and the Alexander Garden-splotches of green and light-on the other side.

She shook her head, and her earrings and necklaces jangled. “I want a picture of me,” she said.

He obeyed the woman, not quite sure why he did so. He painted in quick strokes, not waiting for the watercolor, barely diluted by the dank river water, to penetrate the paper, slathering it thick like oil. He poured on blacks and blues for the cloud of her hair, he painted gold and silver on her thin wrists, carmine for the lips, greens and yellows for her shawl and wide skirts. He painted with abandon, with catharsis-finally, finally, he had given in, unable to keep the gypsies out. Now he would be stolen away for sure; he felt relieved at the thought. When everything you had ever feared happened you didn't have to fear anymore.

The girl looked at the picture and smiled. “I like it,” she said. “Here.” She unwrapped a thin chain with a copper circle from her neck and handed it to Fyodor. “Here's your talisman. Now no gypsy could harm you."

He studied the dull circle that looked like an old coin polished into obscurity. “Does it really work?"

"No,” she said, “but neither do hexes. Come on, put it on."

He obeyed.

"Now,” the girl said, “do you have anything to do?"

"No,” he said, and followed her when she beckoned. On the way, he told her about the failed exams and the dusty asphalt of Zvenigorod growing soft under one's feet in the summer heat. He told her that he had no plans and no desire to go back.

"You can stay with my tabor ,” she offered. That's what a group of gypsies was called, he remembered. A tabor of gypsies-like a murder of crows or a pride of lions, a special word just for them.

"No, thanks,” Fyodor said. “I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Where are we going?"

She pointed ahead, at the squat gigantic building with arched windows, which he recognized as a train station.

"Paveletzky Terminal,” she told him. “We're staying there, for now at least. They have a very nice waiting hall, and the courtyard. We need the courtyard for the bear."

"The bear?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. I think we're the only tabor in this city that does bear shows. Only he's getting old."

"Oh."

The station bustled with travelers, and the din of voices and sharp sounds of children's crying assaulted Fyodor; he hugged his sketchbook to his chest.

"There are the Roma.” The girl pointed.

They were not like Fyodor remembered them. Instead of bright colors they were dressed in drab city clothing, dirty with neglect and age. Only their dark faces indicated that they were truly alien. “Their clothes…” Fyodor faltered. “What about you? You're dressed like a proper gypsy."

The girl laughed. “What, this? I'm coming from a party. This costume is something we wear when we have to perform."

"And you pickpocket in the regular clothes."

The girl gave him a long look. “Pretty much, yeah. Want to see the bear?"

He nodded and followed her through the hall of the train station to a small grass-covered yard in the back. Furtively, he made sure that his watch was still attached to the wristband, and that the band still circled his wrist.

The bear chained to a wooden stake thrust carelessly into the ground was old and arthritic, and his rheumy eyes watched Fyodor with indifference born of old age and a lifetime of oppression. The fur under his eyes was sticky with gunk, and his chin was bare, as if he rubbed it too much. There were also large bald spots on his sides, gray skin amid mangy brown fur, like patches of lichen on the stone. The bear smelled strongly too, of wet dog, iodine and bad teeth.

"Poor thing,” Fyodor said.

"Poor Misha,” the girl agreed. “He's so old, my mom says he won't live through the winter."

The bear sat on his haunches, his sides rising and falling, his pink tongue hanging out among the broken teeth; Fyodor doubted he would survive the summer. “You call him Misha?"

The girl laughed. “Yeah, I know. Original, right? By the way, I'm Oksana. You?"

"Fyodor.” He thought a bit. “Why did you drag me here?"

"You said you had nothing else to do.” She still smiled, but the look in her eyes was crestfallen.

Had he been older or not so preoccupied, he would've understood that she was showing kindness to a stranger, looking for a friend or just offering a hand. If he had not been so scared of being stolen in all these years, he would've known better than to scoff, and say, “Look, I told you I don't have any money. None."

Oksana just stared at him. The bear moaned.

"I better go,” he said. He had sense enough not to add, I wouldn't have fucked you anyway , but he thought it, and suspected that Oksana could guess his thought.

He never went back to Zvenigorod-another gypsy encounter, coupled with the presence of the amulet and the image of the old and ailing bear convinced him that going back would mean stagnation and death. As the formerly solid structures and ideologies crumbled and the social services collapsed one by one, he learned how to live the life of the street artist. He squatted when he couldn't find other options, preferring the attics of the apartment buildings downtown, not too far from Arbat where he sold the watercolors and bought art supplies and booze; Herzen Street was the reliable favorite. Sometimes he stayed with the hippies who liked Arbat and the artists, and a few of whom didn't mind his overnight presence on one couch or another. Winters were hard but he survived; if it got too cold in his attic, he dragged himself down the stairs, into the streets, into the flashing lights of ambulances who had the good grace of collecting indigents on especially cold nights and taking them to hospitals and shelters, wherever there were beds and food. Sisyphus’ labor if there ever was one, because the winters kept returning, the indigents grew in number, and the ambulances got their funding slashed time and time again.

He was not looking forward to the winters, and come September he started to drink and worry more and paint less-nowadays, he stuck with the views from the roofs and attics he frequented. Every time he saw gypsies, he searched for Oksana, but she was either not there or he failed to recognize her in her street clothes-he remembered her earrings better than her face. He painted her occasionally, hoping to summon her by sympathetic magic, which turned out to be as useless as the defaced coin hanging on the chain around his neck.

The tourists liked buying Oksana's portrait-they liked anything colorful and exotic, like magpies. They were also as loud as magpies, talking at Fyodor in slow, loudly enunciated syllables. He just smiled and gave no sign that he understood English; he didn't have to-exchange of art for foreign green money was a silent transaction. Moreover, if he played dumb, he got to hear them talking about him-terrible, did you see how drunk he was? This is the problem with this country, communism really fucked them all up. Now hopefully things would get better. They'd still drink though.

Like hell they will, Fyodor thought. Although still young, he had learned that things did not get better but worse, that entropy was winning, that despite the appearance of order the universe had one direction-toward heat death, the second law of thermodynamics said as much, and who was he to disagree with Herr von Helmholtz. Everything sought its lowest energy status, and Fyodor had found his.