As long as my hands are bound, I’m trapped here.
Masked Guy stomps up the stairs—wow, Russian mobsters are brattier than I would have thought. But he doesn’t shut the door behind him. Instead, Paul descends the steps, returning to my side.
“He didn’t bother you?” he says.
Still protecting me. “No. I’m all right.”
The door overhead swings shut with a clang. Paul glances upward, eyes narrowing in irritation, or anger. Maybe he and Masked Guy have clashed before. At any rate, he didn’t fully trust the guy with me. “If he ever says or does anything that scares you, shout for me. Or scream. I’ll come.”
Like this whole scenario doesn’t scare me. But I nod, and Paul turns away, ready to go upstairs and tell Masked Guy to watch his step. I ought to be glad about that, but instead, I’m desperate not to lose contact with Paul again. The word comes out of my mouth almost before I can think about it: “Stay.”
He stops. “Why?”
“It’s so quiet down here I can’t stand it much longer.”
After a moment, Paul says, “I meant to talk with you anyway.”
Don’t overreact. Be casual. You have an opportunity here. “Okay. Good.”
He folds his arms across his chest as he leans back against the far wall. “You trust me. And you shouldn’t. Why?”
“You’re not like the others.” Should I risk it? Might as well try. “Not like your father.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t disagree.
In my own dimension, Paul will never talk much about his family. Finally I understand why—but even when he learns I know the awful truth, he’ll resist telling me more. I’d already realized how ashamed he was of his family. Not embarrassed. Ashamed. Like it kills him a little every time he thinks of it. When he told me his parents were “bad people,” I thought they were alcoholics or maybe even abusive. Now I see how they actually failed him: Paul’s parents never even gave a damn. If you love your kids, you don’t live a life of total corruption. You don’t expose them to violence. You don’t try to shove them into following your own wretched example instead of going after their dreams. Mr. and Mrs. Markov did all that to Paul and more. His good heart had to be so strong to survive that intact, but it did. In my world, and in so many others.
Has he always thought I’d hate him if I knew?
Maybe this is my chance to find out the rest of the story. Then I can tell Paul I’ve discovered it all, and I love him even more.
“What’s your mother like?” I ask him.
“Why should you care?”
“I’ve been down here too long. I’m bored. Is she in the family business too?”
“Family business?”
“What else should I call it?”
Paul doesn’t provide another term, probably because most of the alternatives are worse. “She’s not directly involved.”
“Does she, um, approve?”
He laughs softly, in contempt. But only when he speaks do I realize the contempt isn’t for me. “My father’s word is law, for all of us. My mother insists on that even more than he does. She worships him.”
“Did she want you to work for your dad?”
“Insisted on it.” Paul shakes his head at some scene in his past that must be playing out in his mind. “She even gave me my first tattoo.”
Okay, that took a left turn. “What does a tattoo have to do with, um, this life?”
For a long moment Paul stares at me, like he can’t understand why I’m asking or why he wants to answer. But he does want to tell me; I can see it in his eyes. Finally he says, “In Russia, members of ‘this life’ are always tattooed. The images reveal the crimes they’ve committed, the time they’ve served in prison. Or the things they believe.”
“What tattoos do you have?” He can’t have done terrible things like his father, or those awful men upstairs. Paul’s not like them, and never could be. Yet I see the lines of ink at his open collar, testament to a divergence between this Paul and my own.
Paul notices my gaze on his skin. He says, “This is just to show you. No other reason.” And then he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Once again I remember the day Paul posed for me as my model. Not what I need to think about right now. Instead, I concentrate on the fact that he told me not to be afraid, that he’s trying to comfort me as much as he can.
He doesn’t strip off his shirt, doesn’t even open it all the way. But the top half of his chest is mostly exposed now and I can see the tattoos for myself. They’re simple, drawn only in blue-black ink, but artfully done. The largest tattoo is in the middle of his chest, a surprisingly devout image of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus. On one shoulder is a rose that looks withered, or dried; on the other, a dove perches on a twig.
In my mind I hear Lieutenant Markov whisper, Golubka. He called me his little dove as he held me in his arms.
“You like this one?” Paul gestures toward that shoulder. “It means ‘deliverance from suffering.’ The rose, that says I would prefer death to dishonor. And the Madonna tells anyone who understands that I was born into—what you call ‘this life.’”
The Madonna requires no explanation. The meaning of the rose doesn’t surprise me either; Paul’s sense of decency and kindness holds true even in a reality where he didn’t escape his parents’ corruption. But the dove . . .
I look into his eyes. “What suffering were you delivered from?” I ask as gently as I can. “Or are you still waiting for deliverance?”
Paul stiffens. Immediately he begins buttoning his shirt. “You ask too many questions.”
“But you want to answer me. Don’t you?”
He pauses for a long moment, and I know he feels it too—the electric connection between us that spans the worlds. Yet Paul can’t understand why he has this bond with a stranger, why he felt the need to show me the secrets inked on his skin, or why I reach out for him even now. Baffled, almost hurt, he simply goes up the stairs without another word.
As the door shuts and locks again, I take a deep breath and realize I’m shaking. I trust him so deeply, but this scenario is unlike any I’ve ever faced while traveling between the universes; I could make the wrong move at any moment and upset a very delicate balance.
Getting closer to Paul in this dimension means playing with fire.
17
WHEN THE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR DAY IS SOMEONE GIVING you a fresh bathroom bucket—it’s not a good sign.
Masked Guy hauled the old bucket upstairs. He seemed about as thrilled with his errand as you’d expect, but I was still sort of sorry to see him go. After so long in this featureless underground cell, seeing anyone—even him—was fuel for my understimulated mind. But by now he’s been gone for a while, however long a while is, and I feel the room shrinking around me, sealing me farther away from the real world.
My sense of time has all but collapsed. I have no idea how long I’ve been down here. More than three hours since they brought me food, though, because I’m hungry. Beyond that, I can’t tell.
I’m exhausted. At this point, this world’s Marguerite must have been awake for more than twenty-four hours straight.