Immortality is a Disease
The Killer and her Stepping Stone
The thing about Major Ivan Braginsky that made him so difficult to kill was that he was a terribly boring person.
Elizabeta had opened the file to find a completely unfamiliar face, despite it being clear that Braginsky had been invited to the New Year's party. His rank suggested that General Beilschmidt would probably have greeted him sometime during the fest, and Elizabeta prided herself in her ability to remember faces, but apparently, he had turned down the invitation.
Honestly.
Apart from his complete lack of love for fun, he had no wife or any relationship past his known family of Generalissimo Winter—of whom there were no information whatsoever—and his half-sister. The only exciting piece of information was that his hometown was the exact town she was staying. What did not help was that he only came back every four months, and stayed for less than a week before returning to whatever army base he was serving in.
His dedication to the army was astounding, and frustrating.
However, it only took two days to gather information on Irunya Chernenko; the file was in her hands by the third morning. It was a simply file, yet awfully detailed, but there were two pieces of information in particular that stood out.
One was the name of a bar that Irunya Chernenko frequented every Sunday night.
The second was her photograph.
Elizabeta waited in The Far West, a small, clean place that was preferred amongst more controlled and respectable bar-goers. She ordered the same light drink and sat in the same corner as the last time she had been here, by a little round table with two armchairs on each side. She nursed the drink, taking burning, relieving sips once in a while, but only enough to help her relax, settle down, and wait.
She kept an eye on the clock. Irunya was late today. When a blonde-haired woman entered silently, a ghost slipping through the door and around the cheering drunkards and brooding drinkers, it was over a quarter past nine, and Elizabeta had been sitting past half an hour, drawing attention to her corner with her constant glances and barely-touched drink. More than one man had approached her already, but a fierce stare was enough to drive them and keep others away.
Irunya collected a glass of some kind of vodka, turned, but faltered when she saw Elizabeta sitting on her usual chair. Then, she continued towards the corner and sat down carefully on the second armchair, opposite of where she usually sat—and Elizabeta. She set her cup down slowly and cautiously, as if afraid to make a sound. For several minutes, the two women were silent, minding their own businesses, letting their surroundings fade into a buzzing background.
Elizabeta could guess what Irunya was thinking. She couldn't be too sure, but there was the likelihood that it involved a Western soldier who had sat in this exact spot five years ago. He had been a spy, a quiet, near-invisible Canadian man who spoke several languages to perfection, Russian included, and had been sent here three years into the war. He had lasted for a fairly long time, accomplished enough for Elizabeta to be thoroughly impressed by him. He had a courage beneath his gentle disposition—so rare among Northern men—which must have attracted Irunya when they had met in this bar. His final mistake was making her acquaintance. Her mistake was falling in love. Less than a year later, Irunya's half-brother himself put a bullet in the man's head, shattered Irunya's heart, and stranded her in the loop of wandering back to this place every week.
Elizabeta sat back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. She mentally went through Irunya's file again while the woman picked up her own drink but merely cradled it in her hand. This was clearly a woman who had seen too much in too little time, and everything she had seen was noted down in that file.
The problem with the North was that the memories you made were rarely your own.
"Um, hello."
Elizabeta looked up from her drink to see Irunya peeking at her shyly through a thick curtain of pale lashes. She offered a small smile. "Hello."
"You were here two weeks ago, weren't you?" Elizabeta's smile seemed to relieve the tension in Irunya's body, and she became a softer, kinder version of the woman who had stared down a man and warned Elizabeta of the night the first time they had met.
"Yes. You helped me get rid of a flirter. Thank you for that, by the way."
"No, it's nothing." A pale pink dusted Irunya's round cheeks. She began fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "You were doing fine yourself. He was just annoying, so…"
"Either way, thank you." Elizabeta kept her voice warm. She gave a survey around the bar and inquired, "Do you come here often?" Every Sunday, nine o'clock.
"Yes, it's a relatively nice place compared to some others around here. Cleaner, and the drinks aren't half bad." Except Irunya hadn't even touched her drink. She spent most of her time in the bar just sitting there, reminiscing a time when she had sat across a different kind of soldier from a different kind of army.
Elizabeta gave a tiny sound of agreement and sipped at her drink again. A comfortable silence draped over the corner where the two women sat, each in their own thoughts, but both thinking of the same man. While Irunya remembered the Western soldier, Elizabeta imagined that he was like the soft-spoken woman, all gentle slopes and lovely shades of white. He probably had the same timid voice that masked a certain kind of quiet strength. Sometimes opposites attract; sometimes the contrary. The only problem with love between those who are the same was that they balanced so perfectly and completely that when one becomes lost, the other will never find stasis again.
At that moment, Elizabeta couldn't help but pity the other woman; Irunya was very likable. But often times it were these too-kind people who receive the most scars.
Elizabeta made a show of checking the time, picked up her coat and abandoned her drink. She smiled again at Irunya as she stood. "Well then, it was nice meeting you again, Miss…?"
"Chernenko. Irunya Chernenko." Irunya stood as well, offering a hand. Elizabeta took it, noting the firm grip and calloused fingers.
"Eva Novák."
"Hungarian?"
"Slovakian." Elizabeta lied. She had been to Slovakia once and spoke Slovakian. Barely.
"Well, nice to meet you too, Miss Novák."
They shook their hands, and parted with a brighter air.
Elizabeta visited The Far West Wednesday afternoon to avoid suspicion about her seemingly coincidental meetings with Irunya, just in case she was being watched.
On Saturday, after dining in a restaurant, she returned home to find a note in her coat pocket. It was unsigned, the handwriting was foreign, but the content of the message was enough to tell her who it was from.
Ivan Braginsky was going on leave in one and a half weeks. He will most likely be returning to his hometown to visit his sister. Elizabeta grimaced. She would have to pick up the pace.
The next day, Sunday, she entered The Far West at twenty past nine, later than Irunya.
The same drink, the same corner. She plopped down across of Irunya with a smile, which the other woman returned.
They began chatting about trifling matters. Irunya's file said that she was a kindergarten teacher in a local public school, but it was from Irunya herself that Elizabeta learned that she taught music and art and sometimes dancing. Elizabeta knew that she had a Russian mother and a Ukrainian father, but Irunya told her that she had not seen her father since she was eight and had only visited Ukraine twice even though Ukrainian remained her first language.
On the other hand, Elizabeta spun a tale about how she had taught Russian at a primary school in Slovakia, but, wanting a change of scenery, had moved to this town. She was currently still searching for a job, and Irunya was delighted, stating that perhaps she could help Elizabeta ask around in her school and circle of teachers. Mildly uncomfortable, Elizabeta could only smile gratefully and sip at her drink. She told Irunya about her parents, both of whom were still thriving in Slovakia, and of her imaginary little brother Dávid, who was still finishing high school and thinking of enlisting in the army.
At that point, Irunya happily announced that she also had a brother, named Ivan, although they only shared a mother and he had a Russian father. He was in the army already—quite a high ranking despite his young age too!—and he was coming back to visit in about a week.
"That's exciting," Elizabeta commented.
"It is," Irunya agreed. "He rarely comes back. Perhaps I can introduce you to him?"
"I wouldn't mind." The two women shared a small grin, although Irunya's was a tad mischievous. Elizabeta wondered what the other woman was thinking about.
Although it did not matter much. What she needed had already been accomplished. The conversation carried on, and although Elizabeta met it with the same enthusiasm, there was less conviction.
This time, it was Irunya who checked the time. It was just past ten, but she said, "It's getting late. We should be going."
"It's hardly late," Elizabeta remarked. "Nobody else is leaving."
Irunya seemed suddenly anxious, wringing her hands and crushing her coat and purse to her chest. "They don't understand the risks of the night. It is best not for us to stray out too late."
"Last time you told me there were kidnappings?" Elizabeta also gathered her things and began to follow the other woman out of the bar.
"Disappearances," confirmed Irunya. "Strange cases. Women vanishing from the streets, their companions killed. They are being investigated, but according to Ivan, they do not have enough leads. It is a frustrating and frightening mystery."
"I see." It is a problem, but not hers to concern herself over. "Is it common?"
"It has been happening all over the country. Not in high rates, but enough for it to become a worry."
The unforgiving Russian winter felt like a slap in the face after the warmth and cosiness of their little corner in the bar, but while Elizabeta snuggled deeper into her coat, Irunya was just throwing hers over her shoulders.
"Thank you for bearing with me tonight." Irunya smiled somewhat shyly. "It is nice to have someone to talk to."
"Thank you as well," Elizabeta replied graciously. "It was my pleasure."
"I'll see what I can do about your job."
"I am grateful." She truly was. Even though she didn't actually need the job as she was being supplied by the rebel groups, Irunya's pure and kind intentions were enough to make Elizabeta appreciate the woman before her, even if she was using her to get to her brother.
"Have a safe trip home," Irunya bade her farewell.
Elizabeta gave a quick wave before stuffing her numbed fingers back into her warm pocket. "You too. Safe journey."
They parted ways, the killer and her stepping stone.
The next Sunday, they met again. Irunya was brimming with excitement, and the moment both of them were seated with liquor on the table Elizabeta was overwhelmed with the sheer amount of good news Irunya had decided to bring to this meeting.
Apparently, she had found several job opportunities for Elizabeta, and promptly handed her a list of school names and everything one might need to know about each of them and what they were looking for in teachers. Elizabeta was nothing short of amazed.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" she couldn't help but tease. "Or are you simply so dedicated to me?"
Irunya had flushed, but was beaming at the same time, clearly proud of herself. "It really isn't much. Just what I've managed to ruffle up in my spare time."
"Then you must have quite a lot of spare time." Elizabeta shuffled through the three pages, each packed full with words. It was nearly as impressive as the files from the rebel groups.
"Well." Irunya shrugged. "It's not like I have any papers to grade."
The two shared a quick laugh, and then Irunya decided to address the next piece of news she had.
"I told Ivan that I would like to introduce to him a friend—,"
Elizabeta's heartbeat quickened at the mention of Irunya's half-brother, but she also beamed, inexplicably happy that Irunya had called her a friend. There was just something about the Ukrainian woman that made it seem like a huge honour and accomplishment.
"—and he said that he was very excited to meet you. He's arriving Thursday afternoon, so maybe on Friday we can go out together to grab dinner?"
Elizabeta voiced her consent, and Irunya began to tell her about her plan for that evening while Elizabeta took notes on her phone.
Dinner was going to be at a restaurant named The Cossack Dance—probably the most Russian thing Elizabeta had heard since her arrival—but Irunya proposed that they meet up at The Far West before heading there together. Elizabeta was grateful: that way, she didn't have to go seek out this restaurant herself.
"It works for me," Elizabeta informed Irunya, and so it was settled. She had dragged out this mission for far too long. She missed Hungary.
It was time for Ivan Braginsky to die.
Elizabeta wasn't sure what to expect on Friday evening.
She had dressed nicely for the occasion—or as nice as she could with her minimal amount of outfits since she hadn't thought when she packed that she would be going on a dinner outing. She also hadn't thought that she'd be staying for nearly two months and couldn't help but think that she would be very grateful once this was all over and she could leave this god-forsaken place.
She was also running late, so if she had to be honest, she didn't care that much about how well she dressed, considering how her hair had already been blown into wild disarray and her coat was awry from when she hastily wrapped it around her before hurrying out of her apartment.
The Far West was a twenty minute walk from her home. If she ran, she might be able to make it in seven—except it wouldn't matter how quickly she could get there; she had been late even before she set foot out into the bitter cold.
When she arrived, huffing and panting and loosening her scarf, no doubt looking like a mess, there were two people poised outside the bar, chatting amiably. Irunya was the first to notice Elizabeta, cutting their conversation short with a cheerful wave. Her brother finished his sentence and turned around just as Elizabeta reached them, breathing heavily and gasping apologies, all of which Irunya was happy to dismiss and accept.
She was clearly in a good mood, a fact that struck Elizabeta somewhat oddly. All three present knew who had killed the Western soldier, yet Elizabeta seemed to be the only one who remembered that such a thing had happened.
Except she wasn't supposed to know, which was why she hid all her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of foreign pleasantness as she turned to greet Irunya's brother.
Ivan Braginsky was disarmingly tall. He towered over the two women, his wide stature casting both of them in shadow; Elizabeta had to tip back her head and back up two steps to face him properly. His visage was already familiar to her from all the time she had spent studying his file—she had practically memorized the prominent nose and child-like roundness to his features—but there was still something vastly different about it when she finally met him in person. It was softer perhaps, now that he was out of his army uniform, but the smile that curved his lips sent a chill skittering up her spine.
She offered a hand and a tight smile. "Eva Novák."
"Ivan Braginsky." Ivan's hand nearly completely engulfed Elizabeta's. She briefly wondered how much poison it might take to kill such a man, but then quickly pushed the thought away. Thoughts were dangerous at the wrong times; they showed up in tiny hints across your face, flickers of darkness in your eyes, a nervous twitch to your smile—these were the things that give you away, and Elizabeta had no intention of being caught like the last spy who had befriended Irunya Chernenko. "You are Hungarian?"
"Slovakian," she corrected smoothly, in a manner that suggested that she was well-used to this kind of mistake.
Ivan nodded his understanding, inclining his head to Elizabeta as an apology, and then suggested, "Shall we get going? Best not to stay out in the cold too long, and the dark will be coming in soon."
He had a peculiar way of talking, not just because his voice had a childish, almost saccharine tone to it, but also the way he pieced his sentences: oddly formal yet still not, not exactly militaristic, not exactly structured, not exactly normal.
"Yes," Irunya agreed. "Let's go."
The sun had begun to set.
This was originally a much longer chapter (which is still not finished), but in our attempt to update a bit faster, we decided to cut it off here. The rest will simply have to be Chapter Five, where hopefully, Ivan Braginsky dies. Regardless, thank you for reading and please Review.