dream a little dream

Mordino is making noise somewhere. I lift my head long enough to see that he’s pulled out all the drawers and disheveled the blackout curtains. I mumble something but can’t make it out and drift back into sleep.

I’m back in Russia and it’s cold. Freezing. I understand that I’m dreaming but I don’t recognize the forest. It’s every forest, all pine trees and snow. I’m cowering from the cold between two trees. I can see Sophia in a clearing and she is crying. Her shoulders lurch back and forward as she sobs and screams.

I can hear her but it sounds like laughter. I shout out in confusion and run toward the clearing but I can’t get any closer.

Sophia looks at me, smiling. She is not crying. I blink my eyes shut.

When I open them again Sophia has changed. She is not Sophia anymore. She is old. A hag, doubled over from arthritis and wrapped in furs to keep out the cold. And she is not alone. Two men straddling guns on broad shoulders are talking to her. I recognize them from the airstrip. Sophia’s brothers.

The old hag looks at me from the clearing and laughs, the noise reverberating up through the trees. Hack. Hack. Hack. She raises her finger and I see the brothers follow it until they are looking at me. Confusion crosses their faces before they raise their guns and start to run.

I take a breath and start to yell. My feet kick out to run but I’m awake now.

There’s a thump on the door of the hotel room.

I relax, realising where I am and see Mordino sprawled out on the floor. The sight of him seems safe. There is a second thump on the door and the voice on the other side shouts something familiar. It’s in Russian.

Russian.

‘Shit,’ is all I can say as I head for the window.

Hotel bar, part the first

The place is just the right kind of dim… shouting distance of gloomy, but to a connoisseur it’s much more nuanced. Green shades on the lamps, hamming up the Irish angle, and the regulation scratched wooden bar with half-inch of varnish. Scuffing over to said bar I’m inclined to think that this could work out better than expected.

Spatsman is in situ and I’m in a good enough mood to consider talking to him. It will have to be mulled over however… the appearance of a good mood is not something to be trifled with, especially coming out of such previously inhospitable territory. With this in mind I lollygag at the opposite corner with one shoulder to the back of him and take an inventory; goodness of mood is augmented when it turns out that, in furtherance of hammy angling, the place stocks the dozen paddiest beers the country has to offer.

It’s not long before Spats has sidled over to intrude on my rumination. He comes on like an old friend and starts in the middle of a conversation about absurdist theatre. It seems I look the type.

“Will we sit down,” he says, “and have an old cupán tae?”

I gesture at the bar.

“Oh,” he says with a wink, “never too early to get the few pints in you.” He nods, pleased with his drinker’s wisdom.

The good mood holds up as a buffer and I find I don’t mind letting him drone. I tell him I’m here with “the bould George Fournier,” continental gadabout and giant of letters, and this is far enough from his area of expertise that he spends the guts of two hours changing the subject. At no point does he notice how many rounds he’s paying for. Gentlemen, I have still got it.