THE BARGAIN, Part 2
TRANSFORMATION
JACKIE THE POODLE
It was the dog. He sat up on his behind, like a munchkin, grabbed the bottle, drank out of it, wiped his mouth with the back of his paw and said, “Jesus! You guys.” At this point, he changed his color to charcoal black.
He spoke English but didn’t sound like a human. I heard at least five voices speaking in unison: a male, a female, a child, someone very old, and, either a robot or a parrot (each one with an accent.) This was the most disgusting, disturbing voice I have ever heard in my life. I let go of my “IN” balloon. Far away the thunder murmured. A pigeon cooed. The sky darkened.
“Oh, come on,” said Jackie. “You all are somewhat educated. Or, rather, informed. Or so you say. You don’t imply that the thought of my diabolical nature has never crossed your mind, do you?”
He turned to Adam and Eva.
“You, dear master, spoke to me many times in the privacy of our miserably minuscule apartment about selling your soul for riches and power. Allow me to remind you of your job interview the other day. What did you promise to me if I would make that happen? I took a mental note. And you, sweet Eva? Covent Garden? We have a deal, love. You belong to me. You know it.”
Jackie got up, walked to Usupov and sniffed his crotch.
“Ah, do I recognize this scent. Your noble ancestor! A delight! Rasputin and him, my good friends. I have to admit, though, they were more fun. The passion! The grandeur! The hubris! The luster of the old palaces! The homemade cyanide… There was more at stake if you will.”
He lifted his hind paw, peed on Usupov’s shoe and turned to Gabe.
“And you, my dear communist,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. Your kind has the most potential. A joy to play with. Your moral indignation, lack of self-reflection and humor, your rage along with your inferiority complex and narcissistic injuries! Mmmmm… A perfect material for dictators. You start with being rejected by a pretty woman and you drown your grief in the national and social idea, righteous as Catholic Inquisition and revengeful as Sicilian mafia. Next, you are sending your subjects to concentration camps. You are the apple of my eye. We will talk details with you soon, comrade.”
I knew Jackie had to be my delirium. Maybe all of it was: Brexit, Count Usupov, Princip, the Buckingham Palace. Europe. My throat hurt. My temples throbbed. The green of the lawn swam before my eyes.
Yet, I really didn’t want Jackie to turn to me. I had my dreams of fame and Oscars, too. I used to walk along the canal on Venice Beach and around crossroads in the Mojave Desert on the full moon, mumbling Goethe and Pushkin, ready for anything.
But fulfilled fantasies suck. I wasn’t in the mood.
The poodle walked towards me, slowly, with a swagger.
“How you doin’?” he said. “Not so easy, honey. You think I’m going to offer you some Faust deal, don’t you? Dream on. Art is not in my department. Novels, violins, blues — not me. I take responsibility for Rasputins, Princips, Gretchens, Fausts and Hitlers only. Paganini, Goethe and Robert Johnson are on their own.”
“You don’t believe me?”
He winked.
“Where do they get it? Don’t look at me. Hell if I know.”
My “IN” balloon was far, far away, a blood-red dot in the sky. I wished I were flying away, too.
“I can grant that wish,” said Jackie.
He scratched behind his ear and started to grow and shift shapes. First, he blew up to the size of a bear. Then he turned into a camel with a disfigured hump, long ears and a revolting mug.
He kept growing — the size of a hippo, then an elephant, a woolly mammoth, rather —
Darkness condensed around him, shady patches of black fog and fuzzy glow — and he kept growing until he turned into a dragon the size of the Buckingham Palace. His eyes burnt.
OFFER
“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the appalling creature. “A little excursion to Europe! Free of charge!”
Orange flames fumed out of his nostrils. The stench of sulfur filled the air. He now had a pig face.
“Shoo,” said Usupov. “Go away! Dissolve!”
The monster slapped his gargoyle wing on the forehead.
“Oh please. Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think it was an incident that you all came to the Westminster Abbey today at 3 pm, right? There are no incidents, oh the honorable offspring of murderers and criminals. You’re here because you called for me and you know it. Listen! I offer each of you a good bargain. Career. Fame. Riches. Power. Immortality. Fun! What do you have to lose? International accounting?”
He scratched behind the leathery ear with his sharp talons.
“You all will go, like Usupov, Princip, Rasputin, Tsar and everyone else. Brexit, shmexit, lovelies, it all is predetermined. Free will is nonsense. Follow your own interest.”
Eva crossed herself and whispered a prayer.
“Lord?!” said the beast. “What, now you remember what they told you in your Catholic school? You believe in God? But if you do — it’s all in God’s will, isn’t it? And if it is — it’s not your fault even if your choice is wrong. Hurry up!”
He stared at us.
“Go to hell,” said Usupov. “I am afraid of heights.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Adam. “I just got a job.”
“I can’t go without him, and I need to rehearse,” said Eva.
Gabe looked at her and said nothing.
“I will see you guys later,” said the monster. “What about you, travel writer? Are you in?”
I couldn’t believe what happened to me next. I could never say no to any adventures but I don’t like roller-coasters and jumping off cliffs… I was on my assignment to write about Europe, yes. But this creature didn’t even exist!
Big Ben clock struck six. The dragon glared at me.
“Scared?” he asked.
“Never,” I answered.
And as if in trance I climbed up his wing and sat between the spikes on his back. It smelled like hot rubber and bounced a bit. The dragon shook like a motorcycle, roared and took off.
FLIGHT
We were flying. Inexplicably, swiftly, awesomely — just like in my dreams. Since I could remember myself I flew at night: sometimes, on my bed, over the brightly lit cities and seas; other times just lying on my stomach, arms stretched out, like a seagull, stars zooming by. I never flew as fast, though. My lips got dry and chapped. Crazy whistling deafened me. My hair blew back with such force that for once it was straight. Yet, despite the speed, we lingered — motionless, almost weightless.
And, we were invisible. No one looked our way — but I could see everyone and everything. The blast of warm wind blew away my glasses and yet I could see so sharply as if my nearsightedness disappeared. Below I saw the white path, the sparkling fountain, two fighting pigeons, flying newspaper sheets, a green lawn, Adam and Eva kissing, Gabe smoking, Usupov texting.
London flickered far, far behind but I could still see the red ant climbing inside my abandoned paper cup and a bruised blueberry in the grass. I could see with diabolical precision every fleck of the sun on the ant’s legs. I could see the whole city…
Furious, fast, the dragon carried me forward and onward. My ears burnt. Down below I could still see London but something was changing.
Flames now raged in the squares and alleys. Houses and churches cracked and fell with a terrible noise. Streets turned into blazing coals.
“What’s happening? Speak!” I screamed.
The dragon turned his head sideways and answered, “With pleasure, Mistress. We just penetrated space and time and pierced the boundaries of mind! We are in all dimensions at once. London, 1666!”
The odor of burning tar choked me. Boats overloaded with furniture, sheep and children sped up and down the Thames. I saw two pigeons hover around an open window until their wings got burnt and they fell down. Two men carried a bed: on it squirmed a woman in labor.
“Off to Europe!” announced the dragon.
He sounded like London tube train. We glided over rocky cliffs and gray waters of the Channel.
CONTINENT
I looked right and left: rain here, a lightning there, snow, sunshine and rainbows — all at the same time. The shadows of clouds ran over the forests and fields. Down below I saw troops: toy soldiers on toy horses, galloping, rising dust storms down the village roads. Dead bodies in red, blue and white spread out on the green fields between smoking cannons. A tiny man in a triangle hat rode in the midst of it all, with an arm reached out, towards the East.
We kept flying, parallel to the golden corn, almost touching the empty village road.
Cows stopped grazing and stared at us with their wet brown eyes.
We made a loop over a sleepy town: peasants drank in tavern yards, in the shade of brick arches, on crumbling stairs and narrow streets.
Amber beer foamed in thick mugs. Lazy flies buzzed over greasy sausages. Dogs slept on the cobblestones of the square. Dark-green canals lay still under weeping willows.
Flags flapped in the wind on castle bastions. In the courtyard, on a stake, in black fumes, writhed a naked pink body. Inquisition soldiers and monks, in hooded robes, stood around, torches and crosses in their hands, singing a psalm. The sweet odor of burning human flesh made me gag.
“Away! Away we go! Now!” I screamed.
The dragon rushed upwards and forward, tilted to one side, and soon the right wing swept over the tops of the domes and cathedrals of a big city.
Brussels danced. It was a carnival, with flags and marching bands.
Circuses and luna parks, rainbow flags and angels flew by.
Women twirled bright skirts in narrow alleys. Drums beat; tambourines jingled. Toddlers ran around fountains. Musicians shook long hair on a stage in the shade of a Gothic cathedral.
A line in front of the open air urinal sang. Sweet steam rose from a sugar waffle stand. Soldiers smoked in a military truck by the chocolate store, faces tense. A big camouflage truck blocked the street.
Invisible, we soared above the main square and hovered over the heads of two security guards. They searched inside the purses of Spanish tourists and I could see the sunlight reflected in euro coins, keychains and the crinkled foil. German shepherd dog sniffed under a woman’s burka.
A waiter with spiky hair fussed around with a tray of Duvel beers.
The crowd danced, laughed, and sang along with three tall women in white bikinis.
A scrawny hipster with a pheasant feather on his hat ran outside from the vaulted door of a pub, shouting something and waving.
Then, the whole square erupted.
Fire gushed over the walls. Flames shot up into the sky. Heat scorched my cheeks. Blood dripped from my lips, salty and hot.
The dragon thrust and lifted. I saw a Duvel apron, blood on a white bikini, arms and legs, and a pheasant feather swirling slowly, all disappearing down below.
We sped up. The ruins merged into a bloody flurry.
(to be continued. Read part 1 here, part 3 here, part 4 here. )
Netta Yampolsky is a staff writer for WanderingStars.com and a freelance travel blogger based in Venice Beach, California. When she is not busy exploring the unknown, she drinks too much gas station hazelnut coffee, smokes Vogues, reads Goethe, Dostoevsky, Kundera, and works on a film script “The Fall of Empire.” When she doubts her destiny she meditates on her last tattoo: “I do not bargain.” You can reach her at neya666@gmail.com.
