Re: (Before Ninja: The Cat)
She was not stupid. She could count, eh? But if you asked Svetlana why she looked ten, twenty years too young she would laugh. Is stupid question. If Cat was too young, she was too young. Answer as to why she was too young, ask question, get no answer. Not ask question, you have asked for nothing and no one has denied you. It was Cat, this was certain. She took whiskey now, because the past running bar in town she had heard was only place to drink was not news that went down without whiskey. Past was not charade, past was barely chained behind the door. Past could hit you where you were weak. Cat, Svetlana assessed with cool blue eyes ringed in black that said nothing, judged nothing, did not like past returning either. They had been locked in, locked down, made weak. Now they were strong. No one liked reminder of self from before.
She thumbed strap from her bra away from sliding down her shoulder and back under her shirt. Was attention-seeking gesture, refocus attention from words to action for nearest man drinking close-by. She looked at him, slanted over glass as Cat explained bar above complaints, bar in small town only place worth drinking unlikely to be big on complaints. Complainers found other places to drink, eh?
The blue eyes were very clear and direct when Cat spoke of dead girl Sveta was sure had never been buried. But "OK." It was not her problem, Cat buried girl in past. Bodies dug below the soil emerged, bodies sunk below the water emerged. Bodies were not gone unless they were in pieces, bleached with lye and acid until they were nothing but bone. Sveta looked at the solid curve behind plaid: this woman was not bone. She shrugged, a small gesture that lost war with bra-strap, skated down arm. So what, if Cat wished to be dead? Dead was nothing.
And it was good bar. There was buzz, good feeling in people here. It was not ...impersonal, like city. City would not do kitsch but for small town, it was good bar. It was landing on feet, if Katya had fallen. It was business, thriving and Svetlana drank her whiskey in one long, fluid swallow and set glass down. Vanity to pick after name, but was good name. Another shrug.
"It will make money. I will look at things you say." Liquor and tea, perhaps. Samovar was modelled after past, memory of men who sat and ate fresh pastries and little glasses of tea for hours and hours. Perhaps problem, to find past in present. But not just her problem. "I wish to find baker, to make pastries." A pause. A smile that poured through plush red. "Даже если я должен сделать чай с дерьмом в лесу и убедить молодых и глупых подростков они пьют наркотики, а не гра." There were law men in this bar. It did not make Svetlana flinch but she had years to pretend, eh? Years learning how to be businesswoman, not whore.
"Business owners. Ah. We have become upstanding citizens. Is this what we are?" This smile was as blunt as question, eyebrows arched.