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Corkscrew

Daria Lojko

    We’ve made it. We’re here. Open our purses for the guard. Check our coats. Nod to the somber but pleasant waitstaff. Everyone knows us here! Breathe in the familiar, solacing cigarette and smoke machine fumes. Neon lights glide on our skin. For the next few hours, we will be safe.
    We beeline to the bar where Barman Armen winks hello. We came up with that nickname for him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. How whimsical it is that his first name rhymes with his profession.
    “The usual?” he asks.
    “You know it!” We giggle.
    He’s cute. Dark, defiant curls frame the proud aquiline nose. Sparkling white smile. Impeccable white shirt. That and the popping satin bowtie make me wonder what he looks like in “real life.”
    I plop a fat pack of money on the white, gold-veined marble counter. The two-centimeter stack of 100-ruble bills should be enough for a few drinks for Tatiana and me tonight.
    “Paid a few visits to your dad’s stash?” Tatiana swipes a strand of hair behind her ear.
    “And a couple extra.” I grin conspiratorially. “We’re partying tonight!”
    Barman Armen places the tropical cocktails of sweet exotic rums directly under the spherical, gilded lamps recessing above the counter in front of our seats. The Blue Lagoon matches my seafoam-blue synthetic outfit, and Pina Colada - Tatiana’s creamsicle orange.
    Not many customers yet. The barman proceeds to wipe wine glasses with a pristine white towel. His coal eyes shift and flicker with the running news captions on the small box TV perched up in the right corner. Something about Russian troops in Chechnya again. That means yet more Chechen refugee and Russian invalid beggars on the streets.
    I notice a bouquet of lavish pink dahlias and coral roses in a cube mirrored vase. “Ooh, are those real?” I reach for it across the counter, nearly knocking down my cocktail, and inhale the delicate aroma.
    “Mmm...!” I shove the vase with the flowers under Tatiana’s nose.
    “Wow,” she agrees. “Nice new touch for the club. Can’t even imagine how much it costs to have these here fresh all the time.”
    Gingerly, I place the vase back in its place. “They could just put on floral vinyl tablecloths like the ones in our kitchens.”
    “Right? And invite my dad to decorate it with cigarette burns!”
    We click our glasses and wash down the bitter aftertaste of the joke with the icy sweetness.
    “It’s all good,” I say with resolve. “None of that will matter when you and I make it to New York!”
    “Woot-woot! How much have we saved so far? With what we’ve been spending here every single Friday...!”
    “Eh, maybe enough for a quarter of a ticket? We have tons of time. Don’t worry! At least two years before we finish school.” I squeeze my friend’s hand and add in a fervent whisper, “Coming here is an investment! If we’re going to circulate with crème de la crop in the US, we have to fit in, you know!”
    Our cocktails are bottomed out, and we’re ready. The sparse crowd parts as we make our way to the middle of the dance floor. The music courses through my body and enters my bloodstream. We sway in unison as the song’s lyrics carry us to the fantastic life we will have one day. We know that we will without a doubt. Because we’re special. This world of vivid colors and emotions is where we belong.
    Several hours later, we’re dripping sweat and barely standing when Gangsta Paradise by Coolio comes on at a lowered volume. Then the lights grow brighter. Tatiana and I shrug at each other and wobble back to the gleaming bar counter. Barman Armen places misty bottles of water in front of us and skims my cheekbone.
    “Your father again?” he asks.
    Stupid bright light. No one had noticed until now. I shoot a sullen side glance over at Tatiana, and as always, she comes to the rescue: “Hey, we haven’t seen Olga in here for a couple of weeks. Do you know where she is?”
    “Yeah!” I jump in on the distraction. “She’s a bit much, but it’s weird not seeing her here.”
    “At least you saved on her drinks! You always end up paying for her!” Tatiana says.
    “But she is so friendly... I don’t feel right when we drink, and she just looks at us.”
    “You know that’s why she’s so friendly with us, right?” Tatiana rolls her eyes.
    “She was friendly with everyone.” Barman Armen leans on the counter and lowers his head. “They found her in a ditch the other day, half a kilometer toward the seafront from here.”
    We sit quietly for a minute or so and let the silence absorb what we’ve just heard.
    “You guys be careful,” the barman continues. “I can call you a cab?” He studies our faces.
    “No need,” I answer quickly, shifting the much lighter purse on my knees. “We’re not Olga. She probably got into any car that stopped for her.”
    “We’re smarter than that,” Tatiana adds.
    My mom’s advice flashes through my mind: Don’t think about the bad. Thoughts materialize.
    “I know you are.” He pushes himself forcefully off the counter and knocks over a half-full bottle of red wine. The bottle clonks against the marble, splatters a scarlet puddle and rolls behind the counter.
    “Shit!” Barman Armen dives after the bottle, muttering curses in Armenian.
    That’s when I catch a glimpse of an unattended corkscrew. So does Tatiana. Solid brass glistens under the gilded lamps. Its heavy, polished handle conveniently faces my friend. The helix point looks so sharp, its tip disappears into the encroaching wine puddle. Tatiana and I share a squint. I know exactly what she’s thinking and send her an approving half-thought. She snatches the corkscrew and slides it into her boot. Like lightning.
    Twilight still drowns the streets of our port city when Tatiana and I leave the nearly empty club. Tonight, we feel especially cool because we were the last ones left dancing! We step out from the club’s embrace into the flickering light of the single lamp post. The frigid air hits my nostrils. Tatiana glides the corkscrew from her left boot to the right pocket of her parka, and we hurry around an unlit corner to get to the big road. We step over the broken glass. The stench of urine and waste. Our heels echo off the damp stone walls.
    “Dumb chickens!” Raspy obscenities explode from the heap of military rags on the left. We leap a few steps ahead.
    “I guess that’s where Vasiliy sleeps.” I pick up the speed but deep-breathe to still my heart rate.
    “I’m glad he sleeps somewhere.” Tatiana pounds the asphalt with her boots right beside me. “I was seriously starting to think he hops around the city twenty-four-seven with his crutch like a one-legged Energizer Bunny.”
    We’re also cool because we’re not afraid in situations like this. Maybe from the gust of wind or maybe because we know two girls shouldn’t be out at this hour in the city center, we shiver as we start down the deserted sidewalk. In any case, we keep on walking.
    “It’s gonna start now,” Tatiana says.
    “Only fifteen minutes to home,” I reply.
    “No one so far today!” I say hopefully.
    “I know where my dad hides a fake gun,” Tatiana throws out an idea picking up an ongoing conversation between us two: how to defend ourselves better on these walks.
    We speed down the hill as the sidewalk turns a corner along the two-lane road. Our legs totter from the night of dancing. We stumble a few times when the stilettos of our boots pull on the broken asphalt.
    Just as the road curves and the first rays of sunlight begin to sift through the slate fog, we spot a gray van. It passes us at first but then reverses to stop a couple of meters ahead of us. This time there is no cat calling. No “Hey girls, you need a ride?”
    Something is grotesquely different.
    We freeze our chatter but don’t change the pace. Instead, we march on, looking firmly ahead. Me on the left, Tatiana on the right, closest to the road. We don’t even look at or utter a word to each other. If we ignore them, will they go away?
    We hear the van door creak open and a barely audible: “Just grab ’em.”
    Tatiana peeps at the scruffy van. “There are no windows,” she says glumly.
    The driver stays in the vehicle, and a gaunt-looking guy in a leather jacket heads toward us. Hands in the pockets, he slumps and darts prickly glares at us and around.
    I can’t tell if our feet are moving any faster, but my heart is racing. I think I can hear Tatiana’s heart thumping as furiously as mine, too loud to think. Our heels slam the pavement in synchronized blows. I can almost feel our bodies as one: pressurized in panic and sliced with dread into a million lacerations. Pressurized, even-paced, and silent, we forge ahead and align with the van.
    The Leather Jacket is just a few feet away when Tatiana halts. So do I. I study her face in puzzled admiration as she stares deadpan at the thug. He pauses with one foot on the sidewalk border and glowers at her from within bluish, sunken eye sockets.
    As if in slow motion, Tatiana makes a small, deliberate move. She slides her hand into her right pocket and keeps it there. She says, “I wouldn’t,” in the same firm, low voice I heard her use to stave off a group of delinquents who had brawled us behind the school once.
    The Leather Jacket shifts his weight back and spits out at the driver, “The bitches are packing.”
    A moment, and the other thug spits back, “Make it quick. We need two more...” He trails off.
    The Leather Jacket eyes Tatiana up and down. He’s scrawny. Probably a junkie. Her athletic body in a solid stance, both feet firmly on the ground, Tatiana stares him down. I take a step forward and level my shoulder with hers. The guy hesitates but then lunges at us. At the very same instance, Tatiana’s right hand shoots out downward and jerks back.
    The Leather Jacket howls and doubles over, squealing. We gape. The other thug shouts something. He opens the van door and rushes out, stumbling toward us.
    “Fast!” I pull Tatiana away and down the hill by the elbow.
    We run. Damn heels. I look back. One thug is shoving the other into the van. When I look back again, the van with no windows screeches away.
    Legs numb. Can’t breathe. Phew, that was a close one. We slow down, back to hurried walk.
    “Oh my God!” I see Tatiana’s right hand. She’s still holding the corkscrew.
    The helix is now burgundy from the point to the handle. Part of the smooth handle innocently reflects the spotty streetlight against Tatiana’s stained fingers. Black or red stains, I can’t tell. Bile comes up to my throat. Her eyes are the size of the moon.
    “Ditch it! Now!” I urge her.
    “You stabbed him in the balls?!” I almost yell, panting, in a mixture of shock and wonder.
    We never stop walking.
    “I think so!! Oh my God!” She finally exhales and add, “I hope they don’t come back looking for us.”
    “They may.”
    Tatiana and I continue on in silence for a few more minutes.
    “Newspapers write about girls disappearing all the time,” she says after a while.
    “Do you think you can steal your dad’s fake gun without him knowing?” I ask.
    We’ll be ready to protect ourselves even better the next time. Nothing bad happened today. Nothing bad can ever happen to the two of us. Don’t think about the bad, and it will go away.

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