The Last Minute

66

Harp , Moldova

‘Where are the girls?’ Vadim asks.

No hello. Vadim is a businessman. He has product to move. He is a busy professional with a jam-packed schedule.

Vadim and I stand in the quiet of a small cafe down from the train station. Natalia told me normally Vadim would meet the girls somewhere near the station, buy them a tea or coffee and a roll, be charming, show them their passports, offer an advance on two weeks’ pay, say idle things about the fake hotel in sunny, delightful Greece where their non-existent jobs awaited. The coffee shop is warm but empty of customers, except for us. Rain hammers down, the sky looks chopped from lead.

‘Olia and Lizaveta are in the ladies’ room. Katerina is not here yet but she will be. She wanted to say goodbye to her grandmother,’ I say. The lie is so easy. But I worry that my voice shakes. I cannot betray myself.

‘You did well. The money?’

I hand him the envelope. He opens it, peels through the bills. The cafe owner, standing and brewing a fresh pot, does not look at me or Vadim as he refills my coffee and Vadim carefully counts the cash.

‘Nelly,’ I say.

‘I’ll bring her when I come back from Israel after delivering these three.’

‘You could be lying to me.’

‘I could. But I’m not.’ He cranes his neck toward the back where the restrooms are. Eager to see the girls face to face, to take the measure of their worth to him, gauge their personalities and beauty, the gleam in their expectant smiles – and see if they’re suspicious. That above all.

I glance at Vadim’s messenger bag. The flesh trafficker carries a man purse. It doesn’t make me laugh. ‘Do you still have that DVD of Nelly?’

‘Sure.’ He flicks me a smile and I think: you really do have no soul.

‘I’d like it back. I don’t want it showing up on the internet.’

‘Ah, schoolteacher. So proper. Ha. I wouldn’t put it up on the internet.’ He laughs. ‘That stuff is free nowadays.’

The restroom door opens. He cranes his neck further – past my shoulder. He wants to see what he’s buying.

I fling the hot coffee, kindly just poured into my cup, into his greasy bastard face. He shrieks and totters back in the leaning chair. Now he’s flat on the tile floor. I stand and I fire the shot down into his knee. I thought long and hard about this in the quiet temple of the winery, discussing with Ivan how best to proceed. About whether I should kill him with the first shot or get him to talk. I decided on the knee.

A horrid tatter of a scream erupts from Vadim’s throat. The cafe owner freezes. Then he tosses me a roll of tape from behind the counter. I catch it one-handed. The owner walks to the window, puts on the Closed sign, closes all the window blinds, and he walks out the back, as though he has seen nothing, as though he is deaf to Vadim’s shrieks.

He is Ivan’s cousin and he can keep a secret.

I drag Vadim behind the counter.

He writhes on the ground, red welling from his leg in hot splatters, black fury and pain in his scalded eyes. Rage and fear, dancing together.

I push the gun up under his chin.

‘Who do you meet in Bucharest?’ I ask.

‘Bitch, I’ll kill you!’ he screams.

‘Give me the name.’

‘You shot me! You shot me!’

‘Give me the name.’ I slide the gun, like a lover’s hand, from his throat to his crotch.

‘Boris! Boris Chavez!’

I search his pockets. Cell phone. Passport. Wallet. The train tickets for him and the three girls.

‘You stole my sister.’

I stare at him, this nothing wrapped in human flesh. For a moment, the fear wins out in his eyes and I feel almost sorry for him. Then the moment vanishes. He made his choices.

‘ Tu mori,’ I say. You die.

‘You’re dead, bitch! You’re-’ and I fire the bullet into his head. I don’t pause. I don’t think about it.

Do you think I am a bad person, Sam?

I walk out the back of the little cafe. I might be trembling. I don’t stop to see if I am. I stroll to the train station. Ivan and his cousin are going to make sure that no one will find Vadim, no one will know.

I walk fast and I board the train and find a place to sit alone. An old granny perches across the aisle from me and gives me a friendly smile. I nod back. I am such a polite killing machine. I take a deep breath. I will not falter. I cannot.

As the train pulls out for Chi inau (I will change there for the train to Bucharest), I find Boris’s name in the call log in Vadim’s phone. I go onto MySpace, using the cell phone to connect to the internet. Boris has a page. He is young, biracial, with a broad smile. He doesn’t look like a slaver. But he is and now I know who to look for at the train station.

Hello, Boris. And, soon enough, goodbye.