11-14-2013, 07:42 PM
This part of Zamoskvoreche was not kind to the eyes. The buildings had seen revolutions, wars, and decades of Soviet management and post-soviet despair. If there was anywhere to remind an outsider that Moscow belonged to Mother Russia rather than the CCD, it was here.
The sun dipped below the crest of the buildings overhead, leaving lengthy shadows creeping across the street to where Jensen sat watching. After dark, the chill of night began to seep through his clothing, and he buried his hands deeper in his pockets, wishing he could draw his knees up closer to his chest than what these cement steps allowed. A wind had kicked up too, burrowing cold through his clothes and carrying on it the scent of car exhaust and urine. The latter namely from the homeless gentleman that had kicked Jensen out of his stoop the next door down. There was a code among the homeless, and apparently Jensen had overlooked the obvious, do not trespass, signs. He glanced down the sidewalk, and noted with a deflated sense of disgust, however, that the rats could go where they pleased.
He'd spent the better part of the last hour checking for messages: from John or Jessika. John he knew was involved in escorting his antiquities to their new home. Jessika... well she was probably snapping her fingers and hailing a cab right then, intent to shoot straight here.
Lights were starting to glow here and there in the black height of the building across the street. The small window that had been his was on the other side, but craning his neck backward, he tried to imagine which one housed young Katya and her family. A young girl in a neighborhood like this, she had to be tougher than she looked.
The roar of an approaching bus drew his sights down the street. No, Jessika would not be caught dead taking the bus, and she'd not have a single clue how the system worked either. The metro was out of the question too. Like he, she was a born and bred country girl used to wide open spaces. The closest she came to public transportation was a hired limousine. She'd arrive in a cab. Jensen would stake his life on it. His, but not hers.
As the sounds of the bus labored on, the exploding noise of street kids followed. He quickly made to black out the screen of his old wallet so it wouldn't light up from his pocket if a message came through. Then pressed as far back as he could while the homeless man that kicked him off his stoop ducked completely out of sight.
He recognized the kids, of course. One of them called the building home. A pimply faced kid who barely looked like a sixth grader but had the bulging arms of a steroid-shooting professional athlete lived on the first floor with his parents. Or at least, an older male and female that Jensen assumed were relatives. A second kid he recognized only by association with the first. They were together so often, Jensen originally assumed them brothers, but the identical t-shirts and shaved mullets gave all the boys the same contemptuous sneer. They all looked alike. Three more rounded the group out to five. Jensen turned up his collar, huddled over his knees, and kept an eye on them.
Body tight with alert, Jensen was suddenly aware he was not the only one laying low. A lady with a bundle across her chest like a tightly swathed baby started to turn onto the block, then quickly rerouted herself to go the other direction. A bolder gentleman in an ankle-length puffy coat cut across the street and continued on Jensen's side of the road. The kids meanwhile had gathered onto a bus bench, a couple draped over the back, a third laid out on the seat while another was coloring in the legs with what looked like a can of glow-dark paint. The fifth, however, had noticed someone who seemed quite undisturbed by their presence. He tapped his buddy on the arm and pointed out a half-humped old Babika lady with a scarf tied around her head, carrying a zippered dog carrier, and heading straight toward them.
The dog yelped a high-pitched little bark as she strolled on by the men, any one of whom more than capable of stripping her of every valuable she had without breaking a sweat. Unconcerned, or maybe she simply couldn't see well enough to know her proximity to danger, she strolled on by without a second glance. The yip of the dog, a chihuahua by the sound of it, was enough to turn a couple more heads, but to Jensen's relief, she almost made it without drawing their attention.
But she had a Wallet on her, and the second a cutsy little tune rang out, Jensen's heart leaped in his throat, cringing at the sound. That drew five long faces. She pulled it out of a pocket and answered in ... something not Russian or English ... and Jensen bit his tongue to stay where he was. A wealthy foreigner old lady in this part of town might as well walk with a target on her back.
She turned the corner, chattering on, oblivious that five guys were following in her wake.
It did no good, though. He didn't know what, but he had to do something for her. A moment later, Jensen was on his feet, and though physically smothered by the darkness of inner city night, he turned to the light that burned on the edge of his senses and drank it in. He was half way across the street when the subtle vibration of an approaching car turned his head, in time to view the pivoting beams of two headlights.
A cab pulled up just as he got to the sidewalk, and he knew in his heart that it was her.
He stared, heartbroken in the direction the old lady had gone, but the spilling sound of his name and the sudden attack of hugging arms plastered around his body kept him from chasing after.
"Jess,"
he whispered despite himself, face nestled in loops of soft hair.
Edited by Jensen James, Nov 14 2013, 07:55 PM.
The sun dipped below the crest of the buildings overhead, leaving lengthy shadows creeping across the street to where Jensen sat watching. After dark, the chill of night began to seep through his clothing, and he buried his hands deeper in his pockets, wishing he could draw his knees up closer to his chest than what these cement steps allowed. A wind had kicked up too, burrowing cold through his clothes and carrying on it the scent of car exhaust and urine. The latter namely from the homeless gentleman that had kicked Jensen out of his stoop the next door down. There was a code among the homeless, and apparently Jensen had overlooked the obvious, do not trespass, signs. He glanced down the sidewalk, and noted with a deflated sense of disgust, however, that the rats could go where they pleased.
He'd spent the better part of the last hour checking for messages: from John or Jessika. John he knew was involved in escorting his antiquities to their new home. Jessika... well she was probably snapping her fingers and hailing a cab right then, intent to shoot straight here.
Lights were starting to glow here and there in the black height of the building across the street. The small window that had been his was on the other side, but craning his neck backward, he tried to imagine which one housed young Katya and her family. A young girl in a neighborhood like this, she had to be tougher than she looked.
The roar of an approaching bus drew his sights down the street. No, Jessika would not be caught dead taking the bus, and she'd not have a single clue how the system worked either. The metro was out of the question too. Like he, she was a born and bred country girl used to wide open spaces. The closest she came to public transportation was a hired limousine. She'd arrive in a cab. Jensen would stake his life on it. His, but not hers.
As the sounds of the bus labored on, the exploding noise of street kids followed. He quickly made to black out the screen of his old wallet so it wouldn't light up from his pocket if a message came through. Then pressed as far back as he could while the homeless man that kicked him off his stoop ducked completely out of sight.
He recognized the kids, of course. One of them called the building home. A pimply faced kid who barely looked like a sixth grader but had the bulging arms of a steroid-shooting professional athlete lived on the first floor with his parents. Or at least, an older male and female that Jensen assumed were relatives. A second kid he recognized only by association with the first. They were together so often, Jensen originally assumed them brothers, but the identical t-shirts and shaved mullets gave all the boys the same contemptuous sneer. They all looked alike. Three more rounded the group out to five. Jensen turned up his collar, huddled over his knees, and kept an eye on them.
Body tight with alert, Jensen was suddenly aware he was not the only one laying low. A lady with a bundle across her chest like a tightly swathed baby started to turn onto the block, then quickly rerouted herself to go the other direction. A bolder gentleman in an ankle-length puffy coat cut across the street and continued on Jensen's side of the road. The kids meanwhile had gathered onto a bus bench, a couple draped over the back, a third laid out on the seat while another was coloring in the legs with what looked like a can of glow-dark paint. The fifth, however, had noticed someone who seemed quite undisturbed by their presence. He tapped his buddy on the arm and pointed out a half-humped old Babika lady with a scarf tied around her head, carrying a zippered dog carrier, and heading straight toward them.
The dog yelped a high-pitched little bark as she strolled on by the men, any one of whom more than capable of stripping her of every valuable she had without breaking a sweat. Unconcerned, or maybe she simply couldn't see well enough to know her proximity to danger, she strolled on by without a second glance. The yip of the dog, a chihuahua by the sound of it, was enough to turn a couple more heads, but to Jensen's relief, she almost made it without drawing their attention.
But she had a Wallet on her, and the second a cutsy little tune rang out, Jensen's heart leaped in his throat, cringing at the sound. That drew five long faces. She pulled it out of a pocket and answered in ... something not Russian or English ... and Jensen bit his tongue to stay where he was. A wealthy foreigner old lady in this part of town might as well walk with a target on her back.
She turned the corner, chattering on, oblivious that five guys were following in her wake.
It did no good, though. He didn't know what, but he had to do something for her. A moment later, Jensen was on his feet, and though physically smothered by the darkness of inner city night, he turned to the light that burned on the edge of his senses and drank it in. He was half way across the street when the subtle vibration of an approaching car turned his head, in time to view the pivoting beams of two headlights.
A cab pulled up just as he got to the sidewalk, and he knew in his heart that it was her.
He stared, heartbroken in the direction the old lady had gone, but the spilling sound of his name and the sudden attack of hugging arms plastered around his body kept him from chasing after.
"Jess,"
he whispered despite himself, face nestled in loops of soft hair.
Edited by Jensen James, Nov 14 2013, 07:55 PM.