Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 10)
As for that strange, recurring incident, Oz still hadn’t given me a straight answer, brushing it off as another one of my memory lapses.
Every time I felt like I was on the verge of understanding—of remembering something—I’d end up back in the lake. Eventually, it became automatic. I’d just swim out calmly, no panic, no struggle.
"I love the quiet here," the kid rubbed his ear, still smeared with a streak of lime-green paint.
The entire time I'd been fixing up the place, Oz had been helping me. That restless little runt couldn't sit idle for even half an hour. So when it came time to paint, he'd insisted on picking the color for his own walls and joining in.
He wasn't exactly a natural at it. His brushstrokes were uneven, some patches darker than others. But then it hit me—it looked better this way. Like the kid was just starting his journey as an artist, and this was his first stab at impasto.
"I've noticed most folks around here are pretty meek," I said.
"Wrong," Oz kept scratching his paint-stained ear. "Wouldn't call 'em meek. Just… calm."
"I envy that," I plucked a dry maple leaf from the pile we were sitting on and dropped it into the lake, watching it drift away.
"Save your envy for Kurt," Oscar snorted.
"Don't bring him up."
I still hadn't let go of the idea of tracking that guy down to talk about the motorcycle—the one we needed to reclaim from those shady mechanics.
"In silence, you hear more," Oz said, eyes following the floating leaf. "We keep quiet so we don't miss what matters. No point wasting attention on the same noise looping over and over. And we always remember the golden rule."
"Which is?"
"Noise is contagious," Oz shrugged and sprawled across the dry leaf pile, staring at the sky. "It only takes one loud argument in a crowd before the dissonance infects everyone, turning cognitive."
I immediately remembered my bar fight (one of many) and felt uneasy. Trying to "drown" in loud crowds to avoid being alone with my thoughts in silence had always been my default.
"Do you know where that Vance lives? The one the illusionists mentioned?" It suddenly came to me.
"Yeah. Why?"
"Frank mentioned his wife left him for some Vance. We should pay them a visit. Maybe…" I reasoned.
"No way. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh," the kid jumped up, ruining the neat leaf pile.
"What's got you so worked up?" I asked, surprised. "Maybe she could help us find Frank and Glenn."
"Maybe you're right and the woman knows something," Oz shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words. "But Vance won't let you anywhere near her. He's explosive. And jealous."
"I'm not going there to propose marriage," I smirked.
"And Vance owns guns," Oscar reminded me. "Multiple ones. His ranch is huge too. Step foot on his property, and no one can protect you."
"You're actually scared," I observed, watching Oscar. "I'm not asking you to come. Just show me where it is."
"Your funeral," Oz muttered, staring at the lake for a long moment. "But remember – if you can't find common ground with Vance, I can't guarantee you'll walk away in one piece."
"Maybe we should've bought a bulletproof vest?" Oscar fretted nervously as we approached the ranch gates.
My foot sank into the damp earth with a careless step. A muddy puddle seeped through the clumps of clay and sand, mixing with the soil before splashing across the toe of my boot.
I lifted my foot with a grimace, producing a wet, sucking sound from the mire. A few dirty droplets flew off—one landing on the wooden sign nailed firmly to the ranch's handmade gates.
"We can still turn back," the kid whispered, adjusting the saucepan he'd strapped to his head as a makeshift helmet before we left—a choice that had amused me the entire walk here.
"Oz, go home," I sighed. "I'll come back once I get what I need."
"I won't be able to sit still until you do. We go together."
"And if you're right about this farmer being unhinged?" I asked skeptically. "What if you get hurt?"
"If
Oscar adjusted his saucepan and hopped over the sturdy log fence.
"Why are we sneaking in like thieves?" I muttered, following him. "This is exactly how we get shot faster."
"Our goal is to reach the porch as quietly as possible," Oscar explained, veering off the well-worn tire tracks leading to the house. "With luck, he won’t be home, and his wife will let us in."
"Christ, this place is wrapped in horror stories," I muttered, shaking my head. "Does
"Did you
"Got it. So, what about the grounds? Think there are landmines buried here?" I tried to lighten the mood, but Oscar didn't appreciate the joke and started carefully examining every bump in the ground.
"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"
We both startled and turned to see a woman holding a woven vegetable basket, her amber-brown eyes drilling into us. Oscar instinctively raised his saucepan like a weapon.
"I doubt you came here for salt," the woman remarked, nodding at the kitchenware. "You don't strike me as culinary types."
"Apologies for our manners, ma'am," I recovered first. "We're looking for the wife of a man named Vance."
"Well, you've found her," she said, shifting the basket.
She was tall with refined features and a slender frame. She appeared about forty-five, but the wisdom in her slightly wrinkled eyes suggested she might be older. Her well-manicured hands held the basket with an elegance that seemed out of place on a farm – not a speck of dirt under her nails, while even we'd gotten filthy crossing half the property.
Her golden hair was neatly bobbed and styled. She wore an elegant green sundress with black rubber boots similar to Oscar's – though decidedly more fashionable.
She followed my gaze and smiled again: "You could use some boots too, young man, if you value those shoes. It's easy to get stuck in this mud."
"Already learning that the hard way," I sighed, shaking another clump of dirt from my sole.
"Come inside. We'll talk in more civilized surroundings."
The woman marched toward the house, and we wordlessly trailed after her. Oscar continued looking in all directions, as if waiting to be "taken out" by a sniper.
The interior of the farmhouse was exceptionally cozy. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows made the already spacious living room appear even more expansive, flooding it with light. We could clearly see the path we'd taken just minutes earlier.
"These are portes-fenêtres. From French, it means 'door-windows'," the woman said as she set the table with appetizing homemade cheeses and pickles, pouring us cherry compote that disappeared into our stomachs instantly. She discreetly refilled our glasses from a crystal pitcher.
"I love the feeling of freedom and the option to leave, even through a window," she remarked, carefully returning the pitcher to the table. "So, you were looking for me. To what purpose?"
"How should we address you?" I asked, settling into a rattan chair beside Oscar.
The hostess took her place on a two-seater rattan sofa with cream cushions. She placed one behind her lower back and laid the other across her lap, covering it protectively with her hand.
Her manner was so refined that her very presence made one recall all rules of etiquette. Even Oscar dabbed his mouth with a napkin after each sip, as if afraid of accidentally staining the furniture. His "armor" had been kindly washed and placed on the drying rack by our hostess.
"Justina," the woman inclined her head in greeting, and we followed suit. "I know Oscar – his grandfather is wonderful. I've also heard about your arrival, young man. Your name is Constantin, if I'm not mistaken?"
"That's what they call me," I replied.
"Now you may proceed to business," Justina gestured permission for questions. "I dislike dancing around bonfires."
"Where is your husband?" the boy asked cautiously.
"He's at the far end of the ranch, near the horse stables. Marila – our fast girl – recently gave birth to the most adorable foal. Now Vance spends entire days there."
"It seemed to me the woman said this with melancholy, but I wasn't sure. One doesn't get jealous of pets, that's what I always thought, but then I remembered how hard it is for women to accept that for men they're not the first priority, but represent only a certain percentage of time that men are willing to devote to them. And here it's just a matter of luck. The particularly unlucky ones get pennies in the form of thirty percent and assurances that this should be enough. Hence, ultimately, so many women who keep their hundred percent to themselves, betting on loneliness."