Playing to the expectations of those around me ruled my life, and I switched to my broken Russian in an attempt to prove I did as I should, I was as human as I appeared to be, and that there was nothing unusual about me or my wolf who masqueraded as a husky. “Stanislav Dmitrijevich Morozov, I was about to leave for the mill. Is something wrong?”
The dance began, and I waited for Stanislav to correct me. He did, although I’d done better than usual, mangling only one word, so he didn’t plead for me to speak in English rather than continue to butcher his beloved mother tongue.
Continuing in Russian, he said, “You’re doing much better. You’re a quick study, and you have been practicing. Good. I came to tell you that the mill will be closed for the rest of the week. There has been an unfortunate accident, and the ved’ma wish to cleanse it. We are being paid for the work they know we would do. I volunteered to bring yours to you, for you don’t have a phone.”
“One day,” I replied, and we both shrugged, knowing that day wouldn’t come soon. “Thank you. It’s a long way to have come.”
Eventually, Blagoveshchensk would grow, and the powers-that-be would bring telephone lines and electricity my way, but until then, I used a gas-powered generator for the things I needed electricity for. I’d planned my cabin well, prepared to use wood to get me through the winter while the generator handled my few modern luxuries.
Every night, I chopped more for my supply, and I’d built an awning over it, which led to my porch, offering me a way to access it when it snowed. I’d been promised by the residents not much snow fell in the area, but I would be prepared if the weather surprised me.
The local Russians had a dry, biting sense of humor, and I’d learned to be prepared. If I did fail to prepare properly, men like Stanislav would surely show up, correct me, and hover until I did things in the proper Russian way, after which they would offer vodka in copious quantities. Sometimes, the vodka came out before they finished correcting me.
My ability to handle their liquor had won me more than anything else, and the wise had stopped attempting to win against me when their drink of choice was involved.
I still made stupid choices when drunk, but it took a lot of vodka to get me to that point.
Stanislav regarded me with somber interest. Initially, I’d found Russians to be disconcerting and standoffish, until I’d learned they only smiled when they meant it, rather than Americans, who smiled because it was expected of them.
“Coming here is an appreciated escape from the city’s noise. Did you hear the wawkalak sing last night?”
Every month, he asked a similar question, and my answer changed little by little, accounting for the new things I learned. I wondered if—or why—he tested me, but I’d given up making guesses. He remained a mystery. “A little, but then I slept. I’ve grown used to their song.”
“This is good. It is important that you feel welcome among us.”
It took me a moment to realize we both spoke in Russian. “I do, thank you.”
“Do you like it here in our Blagoveshchensk?”
In truth, I longed for America and its comforts, familiarity, and luxuries, but I doubted I’d see my homeland for a long time. In a few years, Sergei Sokolov would become real enough to pass scrutiny when the Russian government issued cards for me, my subterfuge finally working its way through the system. Then, with the right care, I could travel again, leaving Declan McGrady and all my other aliases behind.
One day, I might be able to live a life that wasn’t a lie. “I do. I enjoy when I visit the city and work, but I more enjoy the peace I’ve found here.”
I spoke the truth, almost. Some days I forgot about the death, the guilt, and my regrets when hidden deep in the woods from prying eyes
Stanislav approached, holding out an envelope, which I accepted. I considered if I needed to invite him in, decided I’d have to in order to be properly welcoming, but I hesitated when the man stared at the hated talisman hanging on my door. “Did I do something wrong? I wasn’t sure what else to do with it,” I confessed in English, hoping I hadn’t made some sort of error destined to end with a brand on my face.
“No, not at all. I’m surprised is all. It is a good place to hang it. You’re respectful of our customs. This is good.” The handshake I expected came along with the oddly friendly scowl the local Russians made, since they believed smiling should be reserved for rare and special occasions. Even laughter in Blagoveshchensk had rules, a time, and a place.
One day, I would figure it out, just like I’d figured out higher ranked men led off any handshaking.
“Thank you for bringing my wages,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” Once again, Stanislav hesitated. “Perhaps I should tell you more of why.”
Interesting. I took that as my cue to play the next stage of host. “May I invite you in? I’ve drink to share, although my home is small.”
“I believe it would be wiser if I showed you some of it, or we walk somewhere quiet while we discuss.”
His request worried me, but as I saw no reason not to go about my normal day, I replied, “I could use a day in the city for supplies and studying. Where should I meet you?”
Stanislav’s gaze focused on my cabin. “The mill. Your trim needs work. We’ll appropriate scrap that would otherwise be wasted, so should someone ask, you came to the mill at my suggestion.”
By implying intrigue, Stanislav skirted a dangerous line, a game many in the area enjoyed playing with each other and the local police force, the politsiya among most, although I’d heard some whisper and call them the militsiya. I wasn’t sure what the difference was, but I opted to use the more common politsiya if I needed to reference the police at all. I wondered what the city’s mayor, who valued order and controlled how werewolves were branded, would think of Stanislav’s attitude.
The oddity reminded me, yet again, I needed to take care, make certain I kept cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg close at hand, and drink teas smelling strongly of spice, so no one could detect I was more than I appeared to be.
I had enough problems without Stanislav adding to them.
“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll meet you there.”
With a nod, and his usual scowl fixed in place, Stanislav turned and marched away, disappearing into the woods following the packed dirt road. The engine of a big truck roared to life, and only when I heard it fade did I go to mine, a far inferior vehicle. I would squeeze every last kilometer out of it I could before resurrecting it with parts salvaged from some junkyard and beginning the process all over again.
It kept me busy.
Over an hour later, I parked in the employee lot to discover an alarming number of government vehicles and military present, and they swarmed me the instant I killed the engine. My employee badge would help somewhat; it marked me as a residential transient of Russian heritage, explaining why I had only part of a Russian name.
I regretted having not understood the importance of patronymics when creating my identity, although I held some hope the frequent dance about it helped give credence to my charade.
The questioning started with the basics, but my answers didn’t satisfy the uchastkovyi, someone of importance within the politsiya, although the specifics baffled me. As far as I could tell, he didn’t count as a police chief, but he wasn’t a standard officer, either.