“Rubik’s Cube,” he says. “We used to love them. We would race.”
I pause. Another trick. I want to finish it. Red squares are where blues should be. The green, the red. It pains me not to finish it.
“Go on.”
I set it aside. “Another life.”
“Don’t you want to know, Tanechka?” He lies down next to me now, on his belly, head propped in his hands. “You used to be curious as a cat. It would sometimes get you into trouble.”
His nearness gives me an unruly feeling—so much feeling. My impulse is to sit up, so that the feeling might shake out of me. But such a sudden movement would reveal far too much. I stay. I pretend to be unaffected.
“You always loved stories and mysteries.” He takes hold of a bit of fabric from my sleeve and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger—unconsciously, it seems. But nothing this man does is unconscious. Best to remember.
“I remember once we had a ring that somebody lost—a ruby ring. So beautiful, with an unusual pattern. Celtic, you thought.”
He doesn’t touch my skin, only my sleeve. Still, he has such a gravitational pull. He continues to speak. The velvet of his voice seems to sweep against my skin. This man who would die ten times to take my pain, admiring and enchanting me. He’s too rich for my blood, too everything, just like the honey cake.
“You called on scholars to identify the unusual design, then you researched designers and stores. You had endless ideas for finding the owner.” He goes on about my quest, praising the inquisitive and resourceful side of me.
I remove my sleeve from his grasp and pretend to study the clouds. It doesn’t matter; he overwhelms me even when we aren’t touching. “What happened?”
“We found the person.”
“From just a ring?”
“Yes. Nobody thought we could do it, but you were tenacious. You and I found her house, just from the ring.”
Something tugs at the corners of my mind. “Was she happy to have it back?”
A pause. “Who wouldn’t be?”
The sun comes out from behind a passing cloud, and I close my eyes, basking in its warmth, basking a little bit also in his admiration.
That’s when I feel him touch my cheek.
I turn and scowl at him, and he withdraws his hand, smiling.
“You’re not doing it right. Keep them shut.”
“What?”
“Come on. It’s a game we used to play.” He pushes my chin, makes me turn my face back to the sky. “Close your eyes.”
I feel happy, and I don’t know why.
“Close them. Do this one thing for me.”
“Fine.” I close my eyes. Again he touches my cheek—so lightly I almost can’t feel it. Unbidden, my lips curl in a smile. I don’t remember this game, but I remember the happy, pure feeling of it. The excitement of it.
“Pomnish?” he whispers. “Remember?”
“It’s no use, Viktor.”
“Keep your eyes closed,” he says.
I feel his fingertips graze my cheek once again.
“Pomnish?”
I smile again because I know he’ll kiss me there—I need for him to kiss me there just as day follows night.
Then I still. This is the game—touch the place you’re going to kiss.
I should stop the game, but every molecule in me is waiting for his kiss, craving his kiss on my cheek, as if I need to finish this thing we have started.
It’s as if he’s communicating with my body, bypassing my mind completely. Is this what it’s like to be hypnotized?
I feel him near.
My breath speeds as something soft presses to my cheek, lightly, quickly, then gone. I open my eyes.
He pulls away with the strangest look—a mixture of grief and joy. “You remember.”
His gaze falls to my lips. He lifts his finger, but I’m too fast—I grab it, bend it, threatening to break it. I know four ways to break this finger, and they array in my mind in order of pain. I squeeze, feeling the delineation of bones, horrified at the knowledge inside me.
Now he just looks happy. “You remember.”
A dark feeling comes over me. “What happened after she got the ring back? What’s the rest of the story?”
He breaks eye contact.
“No.” I squeeze his finger. “Tell me the rest.”
“Will you break my finger, Tanechka? Do you feel it? Just a twist.”
“Tell me.”
“Or you could break it at the middle joint.”
I push away his hand. “Tell me the rest.”
“You found the owner. She was happy to get it back.”
“There’s more.”
“Do I look like a psychic? I can’t predict people’s futures.”
“The woman who owned it—is she…okay?”
He gets a helpless look.
Everything in me clenches like a fist. “Tell me the rest.”
“Tanechka,” he whispers.
“Did I hurt her?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Please,” I beg. “Please.”
His look tells me everything.
I hurt her. Maybe killed her.
A seasick wave rolls through my belly. I dive my hand into my pocket, fumbling for my prayer rope. I clutch it like a lifeline.
“I need to know.” My voice is gravelly, as though dredged up from the rocky depths. “Tell me!”