Janne Drangsholt - The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter

That pretty much seemed to be the gist of it, but there were quite a few minor characters that I didn’t get the point of, not to mention that they all had names that made them sound like bad guys, like Ovlur, Skula, and Yeroshka. I felt dizzy and weird, and at one point I might have fallen asleep with my head on Pretty Putin’s shoulder.

During the intermission the others went to buy more wine, but I couldn’t face getting up. I was certain I had a fever. It was eating its way through my body, and the tickle in my throat kept compelling me to cough. I took another swig from the brown bottle and observed that no one had asked how I was doing or if I wanted to take a cab back to the hotel.

It was like that summer when I had pneumonia.

The nights were so long.

I lay there as quietly as I could, waiting for the rest of the family to wake up.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Seven thirty.

I could hear them moving around—the click of the coffee machine, the radio turning on, buttering their toast, reading the paper, mumbling to each other.

I wanted to call out to them. Yell that I missed them. That I didn’t have the strength to lie there all by myself. That I was scared. But it hurt to breathe. Talking was out of the question.

My memories of those weeks involved my mother poking her head in the bedroom doorway when they were ready to go.

“We’re leaving now,” she reported.

Thumbs-up.

“Hope you feel better soon.”

Nod.

When they came home, it was the same procedure. They set things on the kitchen counter, turned on the radio, got out pots and pans, set the table.

I couldn’t understand it.

Why didn’t they come check on me, say hello?

I recovered after a week, but the loneliness wouldn’t release its hold on me.

It had never released its hold.

The pneumonia didn’t cause it. It just put words to it.

I was alone.

“I have to go back to the hotel,” I said when Pretty Putin sat back down next to me.

“You have to see the last act,” he said firmly. “There’s only an hour and a half left.”

I moaned and tried to find a comfortable position, but all the stuff going on onstage kept bothering me. The last act was really a hot mess. The only unifying motif seemed to be an overfondness for bird metaphors. As far as I could tell, Khan Knichak was like a raven, who swooped down and brought the Russians grief. Igor for his part was more like a falcon. These allusions bordered on being understandable. No one likes ravens. They’re unreliable troublemakers devoid of self-discipline and integrity. Can’t do anything on their own, just scrounge off others.

Not like a falcon. A falcon is a leader.

You can’t capture a falcon.

I could picture it as I sat there. So high up that it couldn’t even hear the falconer.

The widening gyre turning.

Things falling apart. The center that cannot hold.

And mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

The bells rang.

The Cumans were approaching Putyvl.

But Igor came running on the stage and flung himself into the battle against the Cuman hordes with his sword in hand while Yaroslavna clutched at her heart.

After that I don’t remember anything.

I tried to find the hotel, but when I knocked on the doors at each building, a dog opened and explained that no one was home. And the landscape was so odd, so unrecognizable. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t find my way.

There was no way to know what time it was, but outside the window it appeared to be night, because the streets and the canal were shrouded in darkness. A lady in a babushka slowly made her way down the street before disappearing around a corner.

And then there was no one.

My head throbbed dully, and the veins in my temples were swelling. My sinuses ached.

I squirted my nose and pulled out the brown bottle, which somehow was almost empty. The label didn’t indicate how much you should take in a day. I couldn’t even find the little pictogram Norwegian medicine bottles have to warn you not to drive while taking it. I took a little sip, and then one more.

I thought about the icon.

Maybe it would be wise to check if it was still there. If someone had followed me earlier in the evening, they might have removed it from its hiding place. Was it still up there radiating light and hope?

I pushed myself off the bed, forced my feet to climb up two flights of stairs, ordered a glass of Georgian wine, and sat down on the corner sofa. There was hardly anyone there. Two men in silk shirts focused intently on their conversation at a window table, and a woman sat at the bar looking bored. I wondered if she might be a prostitute. In movies prostitutes always sat at the bar and waited for men to pick them up.

I regretted not having brought a book with me. Now people would probably assume I was a prostitute. But then I remembered that I wasn’t wearing any makeup and hadn’t brushed my hair or changed my clothes. Plus I was sick. All things considered I should be pretty safe.

The cough syrup was still working well, and the little fairies had come back, too. I reached out my hand to touch them, but they eluded me every time. They were too fast, way too fast.

As fast as Pretty Putin, who was suddenly sitting in the chair in front of me with a glass of whiskey in his hand. I stretched my hand out again to see if he was real. He was.

I giggled, while at the same time carefully creating a magic shield between him and the duct-taped icon.

“I thought we put you to bed?” he said tiredly.

“But now I’m awake.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“Did you take that whole bottle of cough syrup?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Peter, who entered the room huffing and puffing. He didn’t seem to see me, because he ran straight over to Pretty Putin.

“There you are,” he said. “I can’t find Irina anywhere! Where could she be?”

“I don’t know.”

“She said to meet her in the bar by the lobby.”

“It’ll be fine,” Pretty Putin said. “Your colleague is sick.”

“Ingvill is sick?”

Pretty Putin nodded at me.

“You!” Peter said, as if he’d forgotten I existed. “I thought we put you to bed?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I slept a little. And then I took some medicine. Oh, and here’s a glass of wine. So, I’m doing fine. No need for concern.”

I raised my glass in a kind of cheers, which made Peter raise his eyebrows.

“Why are you raising your eyebrows?”

“No reason.”

“Should I raise my eyebrows at how you’re running around chasing all the women you can find here in Russia? At how you’re acting like we’re not on the same team, even though you’ve always said we are?”

“Did you know that—”

“Maybe you should go look for Irina,” Pretty Putin interjected, “if she said she would meet you? She’s usually quite punctual.”

“Of course,” Peter said with a little bow. “Of course.”

And before I could say another word, he was out the door.

“He’s an idiot,” I said.

Pretty Putin didn’t say anything. I didn’t even know if he’d heard me. He glanced out the window at the snow, which was doing its usual blowing thing. He looked like he was far away. I wondered how far away he was. If he was all the way out at that sinkhole.

“You’re coming on too strong,” he finally said. “Russian women are subtle. They know what men like.”

“What do men like?”

“A certain mystique, coyness. Men like to take the lead. There needs to be a sort of dynamic in the relationship—one who gives and one who receives. Otherwise it’s like a head-on collision.”