Felicity
We’re led into the living room which is completely at odds with the garden. Where the garden is mayhem, this is order. The couch and the two armchairs are pressed firmly against opposite walls with a sparkling oak coffee table in between. Off to one side, a smaller table sits with a radio upon it. A glass cabinet displays various knickknacks: bullets and photographs and ornaments. The photographs are of Bear, but younger; he has two eyes and a happy grin. Most are black and white. I guess by the time color became the norm, he’d already lost his eye.
“Expected this to be a mess,” Roma says, as we stand at the doorway.
“I rarely go outside, except to the market in the village over the hill, so it doesn’t matter much what outside looks like. But if I’m going to spend the rest of my life here, I want it to be tidy.”
“Makes sense,” Roma nods.
Bear waves a hand at the couch. “Don’t stand to attention.”
We sit on the couch, side by side, our legs touching. I thought he might die. Something has happened to me, something which is at once confusing, terrifying, exhilarating. I have become attached to this man, attached to him in ways I never thought I’d become attached to any man. I don’t consider myself the easily-pleased type. I don’t think of myself as a woman who can be swept off her feet. But I can’t deny that Roma has done just that . . . in an alternative sort of way. No fancy dinners and helicopter rides for us. But who else can say their man killed for them, saved their life? My man, I think, astonished by how easy that sounds in my mind. Yes, my man.
“I’ll get some coffee,” Bear says. “And some bread and some cheese, aye? Bet you two are starving.”
“And some socks,” Roma says, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Aye, alright.”
Bear leaves the room and Roma turns to me. His dark blue eyes hold a hint of worry. “Really thought he was going to kill me then,” he says.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“He raised me, pretty much. The only man I’ve ever had to look up to. Found me when I was seven or eight and raised me up.”
“Found you? Found you where?”
“On the streets,” Roma says. He flinches, as though he’s said too much. I touch his face. His jaw fits perfectly into my palm. It feels like it belongs there. “You never have to hide anything from me.”
He nods shortly. “As strange as it is, I believe you.”
Bear comes back into the room making a lot of noise, huffing and breathing heavy, carrying a huge wooden platter of bread and cheese. He places it on the table and then reaches into his pocket, taking out two rolled-up pairs of socks. He drops them on the couch and then leaves the room again. A moment later, he returns with two jugs and three glasses, all of it gripped in his huge hands.
He drops into one of the armchairs opposite us after he’s laid it all out. “Wine.” He points to one jug. “Water.” He points to the other. “Just don’t ask me to turn one into the other. I can turn both into piss, but that’s as far as my parlor tricks go.”
He lets out a booming laugh. It’s infectious and Roma and I chuckle.
Bear waves at the food. “Tuck in.”
I started salivating the second he brought the food in. I can’t remember the last time I ate and the nighttime swim and the walk through the morning sun has only made me hungrier. I take up a huge chunk of bread and a slab of cheese, not even bothering to slice the bread, and begin munching. Roma does the same, leaning forward and eating efficiently, like a man in the army or prison. I doubt he even tastes the food. As hungry as I am, neither do I. We shovel the food in for around five minutes in almost-complete silence, the only noises our munching and glugging as we down water, and Bear’s occasional chuckles when one of us coughs on our food.
When we’re done, I sit back, tired, my belly fit to burst.
Bear is like a different man now he’s invited us into his home. His hostility is gone and he smiles easily at Roma. “It’s been a long time, lad,” he says. He holds a glass of wine in his hand. It’s almost empty. With one swift movement, he drains it, and then pours himself another. “How is life treating you?”
“Fine,” Roma says. Is his voice tight, or am I imagining that? I’m not sure. “Good, just working. Making as much money as I can.”
“Ah.” Bear runs his finger along the rim of his glass. “And you’re still working for Mister . . .” He trails off, glancing at me, and then finishes: “. . . Mister Smith?”
“He’s still in charge, yes,” Roma says.
Bear turns to me. “Politics!” he laughs. “I can’t make any sense of it. Ever since Mister Smith took control, the organization has become more and more politicized. I never understood why a business like ours needed to bother with politics, but there you are . . . I’m just a relic from a simpler time, I suppose.”
“My dad’s a politician,” I say. If Bear used to work for the private contractor my dad hired, I see no harm in telling him. Anyway, Roma didn’t seem to mind when I gave him my real name.
“Is that so?” Bears says, before sipping his wine.
“He’s the American ambassador to Russia.”
Bear goes quiet for a moment. Something flickers behind his eye; it’s like wheels spinning behind his gaze are reflecting the sunlight which slants through the curtains. He looks to Roma and then back again. Then he smiles. “I suppose that’s why this one was sent after you, aye?”
“Yes, my father hired him.”
“Your father is Greg Fellows.”
I nod. “You’ve heard of him?”
He gestures at the radio. “I listen to the news sometimes. He has some very progressive views about Russian-American relations, if I’m not mistaken. About crime and the like. Wants to set up a joint task force with the Russian and American secret service to help reduce international crime. He calls it—”
“Tackling the syndicates,” I finish. I can see Dad’s face clearly as he says it, his politician’s voice rising, his eyes alive with hope. “That’s correct.”
“Russian and American crime syndicates . . . your father also has eyes toward the White House, doesn’t he?”
“He’s always had eyes toward the White House.”
I smile as I remember him sitting me up on his knee when I was a girl. It was a few years after Mom died and I could see he was tired, always tired from working and raising me alone. But he always found time to give me some one-on-one attention, to make me feel special. I can hear him now: There’s a peaceful solution for everything, Felicity. And when I’m Mr. President I’ll do everything I can, in every situation, to follow that solution.
“Ah,” Bear says. He takes another sip of his wine. His white beard is stained red. “Yes, a very good man, with lots of support. Not from the Russian and American syndicates, though!” He lets out a guffaw.
I smile and glance at Roma. He’s smiling, too. But there’s something in his eyes. Worry, maybe. I tell myself I’m imagining it, just as I was imagining the tightness in his voice.
“You should’ve seen this one as a boy,” Bear says, pointing to Roma. “Had the goofiest smile you’ve ever seen. All teeth.”
“Bear . . .”
“The sweetest little boy you’ve ever seen,” Bear goes on, ignoring Roma. “Gap teeth and a cheeky grin and . . .” Suddenly, he goes quiet. “Anyway, I bet you two are tired, aye? Why not take a nap? I have a spare room, though I don’t have any clue why. It’s not like I have any visitors.”
I yawn. “I am tired,” I admit.
I stretch my arms above my head and side to side, feel the muscles in my body contract with the effort.
“I’ll think I’ll take you up on the offer,” I say.
Bear nods and stands up, waving me toward the door.
“I’m not tired,” Roma says, watching Bear.
I glance back at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “Go on ahead, Felicity. I’m too wired to sleep.”
I shrug. I get the sense he could go forever without getting tired. “Okay.”
Bear leads me up the stairs to a small room in which a single bed sits and nothing else. “Door open or closed?” he asks.
“Closed,” I say. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep with a door open after Barinov.
Bear closes the door and I immediately lock it behind him. Not that I don’t trust these men. But the phantom of Barinov’s sweating body still haunts me.
I lie on the bed. I think I’ll be awake for a long time, too wired just like Roma, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, exhaustion takes me and I sink into a deep sleep.