Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [150]
“How do you like it so far?” an artist asked his patron.
The pudgy man examined the picture—in which he stood, casually heroic, with one foot on the giant’s hand, as if he had slain the behemoth himself—and blew out his cheeks. “It’s good, but I look a little… a little too…Well, is it possible to make me look a bit more…muscular?”
“I can do that, sir. All included in the price of purchase.”
It was, after all, Moscow. And in Moscow you could get anything you wanted, so long as you could afford the price.
Kyril had set up business helping people find their homes. He stood in Mayakovsky Square, looking sharply about until he saw a gentleman dressed posh, if somewhat rumpled, and looking confused and distracted. Then he darted up and began his patter: “Good morning, citizen! You look like you’ve had an evening of it, that’s for sure. Well, so have we all, sir, so have we all. Are you having trouble finding your way home? Do you know where your home is? I’d be glad to help.”
“I, uh…” The man looked dazedly down at Kyril. “I, um, I think I know where my home is,” he said tentatively. His glasses were askew.
“Well, let me just check for you, eh? Where do you keep your billfold? Oh, it’s right here in your inside jacket pocket. Very wise, sir. Makes it much harder for a pickpocket to get at it, dunnit? Oh, you know it does! Place it in your hip pocket, it’s as good as gone. I’ve seen it happen, sir, and much worse!”
Kyril opened the wallet. “Well, look here. This says that you’re V. I. Dyrakovsky—is that you, sir? Yes of course it is—and you live close by Patriarch’s Ponds. Very nice neighborhood, if you don’t mind my saying so, and the fires are nowhere near it yet. You can go home, catch a little nap, bury your valuables, and still make it out of town in perfect safety before your house burns down. Just keep on going along the Garden Ring until you come to Spiridonovka ulitsa, go down it two blocks and then turn left. Can’t miss it! I’m sure you’ll recognize your own house.” He tucked the billfold back in the man’s jacket, spun him around, and gave him a little push. “No need to thank me, sir. I’m just doing what any citizen would.”
Kyril stood waving goodbye until the man was lost in the crowd. Then he turned away to surreptitiously examine the banknotes he had slid out of the man’s wallet in the course of examining his ID. Three hundred rubles. Not bad. And the morning was yet young!
A carriage rattled over the cobblestones and came to a stop not far away. A veiled woman leaned out the window. “You there!” she called to Kyril. “You in the green suit! Come over here.”
Kyril stepped closer, smiling. Opportunity, it seemed, was everywhere. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes, you can.” The woman opened the carriage door. “Get in.”
Kyril climbed into the coach and the woman slid over to make room for him. On the other side of her sat two dwarf savants looking alert and placid.
At a word from the woman, the carriage started forward again. But instead of saying what she wanted, she instead studied him shrewdly for a very long time. At last Kyril could not keep silent any longer. “You said I could help you, Gospozha?”
“Yes, you can. If, that is, you’re the young lady I think you are.”
“Waddaya talkin’ about? I ain’t no girl.” Kyril reached for the latch, intending to kick the door open and leap out. But the veiled woman had already seized his collar. Her grip was implacable.
“Nice try, Missie. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you’re not fooling me. I’ve read your file and I know more about you than you do yourself. How long have you been passing yourself off as a boy?”
Long years