Читать книгу One Cup Chronicles. Tales Within a Tale of the Russian Underworld - Владимир Росс - Страница 6

***

“Now, this is something entirely new, Valdemar!” After a long pause, Senya scratched his head, and for the first time since these gatherings began, expressed his complete devotion to the only reading of that story. “I say, you should bring it to the publisher of The New Yorker. He’ll take it; he’ll take it and thank you. You brought forth a style which our Anastas here lacks. Surely, our gatherings have influenced your writing, Mr. Salvador Dali.”

“Senya, Dali was a true artist…”

“But I tell you what. You just created a masterpiece the king Dali never could’ve imagined in his lifetime. Simply astounding, my friend!”

After Anastas shot him a stern look, Senya nodded.

“Yes, little Vova is breaking all of the records.”

“Well, you two must have quite the conspiracy between you. Perhaps I can order something stronger for you, so that you hypocrites may go on deluding yourself.”

“Oh come now, it was a harmless joke. No need to get up in arms. I was only speaking of the style.” Senya exuded genuine interest as if discovering a new author for the first time.

“Indeed, the Muse has been unselfishly kind to me over the last few days,” I interjected.

“There now, come along! I suggest a walk to our favorite park. Let us get some fresh air remember in solitude the chiding Americans who, in recent days, have come down as with chains upon us Russian folk…”

That day we no longer returned to creativity. We talked about politics and Russian emigration and basked in the sun, which radiated a welcoming smile to anyone who needed it. Full of endorphins, embracing, each returned to his usual way of life.

All the next week I worked on a new story called “Silver Absolution,” and I couldn’t wait for Tuesday to come around. When I tried to call Senya on Monday evening to confirm our meeting, I found that I couldn’t reach him. My first instinct was alarm, but I didn’t put too much thought into it, and the next day I ran to our café with a particular fervor.

My anxiety flared back up when I reached the front of the café. Senya’s ever present Cadillac was absent. Overcoming my doubts, I ran into the hall, quickly glancing around, but didn’t find the familiar faces of either of my friends. I dialed Senya’s number, but the familiar voice of the operator echoed that he was out of reach. I then flipped through my notebook and sighed with relief when I found Anastas’ number. The voice on the other end sounded hoarse.

“Valdemar, not on the phone. I will arrive and speak to you there.”

I drank several cups of coffee in nervous anticipation before the familiar Greek heralded his presence. Anastas’s face was unreadable and, torn by curiosity, I could no longer sit still.

“What the hell is going on?” I shouted.

“Calm yourself, Valdemar.” The bridge of Anastas’ nose seemed to be a bit shinier due to an increased amount of rubbing from his large thumb. “I can say that we’ll be fine to do a little extracurricular reading without Senya. All I know is that he was forced to go into hiding underground.”

I could think of no words to accurately convey my astonishment, but I’m sure my face reflected those unhappy occupants of the painting “The Last Days of Pompeii.” I have always believed in the honesty and integrity of old thieves, but I can’t see why, for no apparent reason, one such thief who is in his seventies would be forced to lie low. It was beyond my comprehension.

“Don’t get worked up, Vovchik. I came to hear a story, so come now, read. I know I alone cannot provide a complete criticism, but so be it. Let’s read first, then we shall talk, okay?”

“Well brother, this is a story from the category of, how do I put it, “Inevitable Retribution.”

So for the first time, I decided to put my story forth to only Anastas.