[Russia, Moscow, Basmanny District]
When the front door of the apartment suddenly swung open, Alexandra was at the kitchen bar, her mouth full, leaning over a plastic container of Caesar salad. Richard crossed the threshold, stomping noisily with his boots, she, wide-eyed, stared at him – sullen, with a bag and a backpack. Before making a muffled sound of joyful astonishment, she tried to chew her food.
“Mmm!” she managed, throwing the fork into the container, reaching forward.
Rounding the table, she dashed towards him into the entrance hall, from the other side of the enormous kitchen living room combo.
Richard put his bag on the floor and instinctually moved towards her, embraced her. The smell of salad dressing mingled with the sweet scent of perfume, he nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes.
He didn’t warn her – and himself couldn’t believe that everything had turned out like this. He had to come to her, to Moscow, interrupting the mission, only his partner and the chiefs of the Circus – MI6 – were aware of his movements.
The dangerous trick that Richard dared to try was a relationship. In his line of work, it’s impossible to be together when desired, to be genuine and candid, impossible to be oneself thoroughly … He was trying to learn to separate his personal life and his work – but, on occasion, struggled.
They had not seen each other since March, and now it was mid-September … They met a year ago; a year ago, his alchemical path had started, the path of the Poet, the journey to himself – to finally understand who he is – behind all the masks and fictitious identities he had to act out.
Richard and Alexandra – a spy and a writer of detective novels – had already experienced incredible adventures together1 – the kind that even MI6 agents seldom do. Now another test lay ahead – and Alexandra had no idea what awaited her.
“Pack your things, we’re leaving,” Richard said into the top of her head in English, still pressing her close.
She raised her head, she was looking up at him – her smile sad and ironic.
“Just like that?” she replied, in mock displeasure. “No foreplay?”
Richard sighed, his thin lips folded into a smile.
“Yes.”
She’s not surprised – nothing can surprise her. They deserved each other – each with secrets of their own and aces up the sleeves.
“Okay.”
Alexandra kept holding him around the waist, her hands clasped around and over his leather jacket, on his back, under the backpack. He missed this tight grasp, the way she usually put her hands under his jacket if it was unzipped.
“I missed you,” Richard added.
“Me too. A lot.” She was looking at him closely, so was he. “You’re running hot.”
“Well, I did miss you.”
“I’m serious. Take your backpack off.”
Alexandra took a step back, letting go, she still wasn’t taking her dark eyes off him, Richard let out a disappointed huff – and followed her command, put the things down on the floor.
As he removed his backpack, he frowned.
“And the jacket.”
“No time.”
She raised an eyebrow, and Richard spread his arms.
“You have fifteen minutes to pack your suitcase.”
“Richard!”
He laughed, finally entered the living room, sat down on the corner of the sofa, facing her. Alexandra stood opposite him, her hands on her hips, waiting for him to explain the rush.
Richard remained silent.
“Fifteen minutes?!” she exclaimed, bewildered. “I just came home, I haven’t even had breakfa-lunch-inner yet … You hungry?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s necessary. I’ll explain everything later. Please, do as I say.”
“The fucking Circus!”
“It’s not the Circus,” Richard replied grimly.
“The fucking Bulls!”
“Not the Bulls, either.”
“I’ll kill them all!” Alexandra lamented. “I’ve got just the serial killer in my new book, he eats human hearts2 – I’ll feed them to him!”
Richard couldn’t help smiling. He loved it when she cursed – with her low, hoarse voice, grotesquely, she played with intonations and sound accents. He learned to understand her sarcasm, her odd jokes, the loud, threatening, utterly serious declarations didn’t frighten him – because he knew that even though she was capable of murder, she wouldn’t do it.
Alexandra’s books are convincing – because the reality that she makes is indistinguishable from fiction. That’s the craft of a Poet and an alchemist.
“You can take the salad with you.”
“Very funny.”
She headed to the bedroom, stomping noisily on purpose, she rustled in the walk-in closet as she pulled out her mint suitcase – that, for some unknown reason, always turned out to be extremely heavy. Richard listened to the sounds from the adjoining room, sitting still, fatigue threatened to crush him to the ground like a concrete slab.
He’ll rest when they are safe.
“And where are we going?”
