The Garnet Bracelet

The Garnet Bracelet

Wet rag of the sea pounded the low white sands of the deserted beach. During out drive the familiar flatness of the Baltic has changed unexpectedly. The calm waters turned into the roaring bottle-green waves smelling of salt and something pungent, disgusting yet strangely comforting.

This is the smell of the person you are falling out of love with.

I was falling out of love with G., tired of his jealousy, spiralling drunkenness, and preference for semi-automatic assault rifles. I mentally calculated the retreat strategy. He knew my address and my phone number but both could be changed in a matter of a day.

I just needed to collect my meagre belongings and move back to my parents. G. had no idea where they lived and had never shown any interest in them. He could not have found me even if he tried.

I thought about it during the uneventful drive in the G. new toy, delivered on the ferry from Germany. He had a penchant for buying the cars made in the year of my birth.

The white leather seats now bore the whiff of the G. cologne, flat champagne and a strong aroma of weed. G. used to be a light smoker but recently he turned into a heavy user, claiming business problems. He assured me that everything is fine.

“Or I am about to find the information to the contrary,” he said enigmatically, “this trip will clear the air.”

Nothing else was said during the four hours of the boring highway between two gulfs of the Baltic Sea. The spring was in the very beginning. The melting snow on the sides of the road was painted a particular shade of smoky black, the combination of the exhaust pipe residue and the dirt. Few naked wet trees perched at an endless plain.

We went through Russian towns at first, the ugly constellations of the industrial concrete, with peeling propaganda constructions at the main entrances, with lines of people waiting out in the freezing twilight of the dawn. Having noticed an especially long line to the wooden pavilion with the “Flowers” sign, G. snapped out of his habitual morning stupor. Not being a lark he usually spent the first half of the day in bed rising only for a late lunch always accompanied by a few vodka shots.

This early trip was a concession to some, as G. has put in, business acquaintances of his. He explained that we need to be in the city by midday.

“Otherwise I would never think of waking you up so early,” he added apologetically “but you can sleep in the car”.

In the end, I was the one wide awake and he occupied the back seat, half-dozing, half, I supposed, daydreaming.

G. incredulously inquired,

“Why would anyone queue for flowers on a damn Saturday morning?”.

One of the Adidas twins, driving the car, politely replied,

“It’s March 8, boss. International Women’s Day. We can stop at the pavilion if you wish”.

The twin shot a glance in my direction. I immediately put a grimace of horror on my face.

‘I suppose you despise communist junk,” said G. quite good-naturedly, “point taken. Anyhow, we need to hurry,” he consulted his watch, “these people do not care for one’s tardiness.”

I did not want to receive a sad cheap bunch of provincial flowers, frozen and thawed countless times but was disappointed nevertheless. G. was usually lavish with his gifts. I guessed I needed to detach myself from the style of life I became so accustomed during the past year.

“We have to make a detour,” G. ordered quite unexpectedly “to a shop.”

I was surprised since he was the one insisting on driving way beyond the speed limit, claiming we were in a particular hurry. After careful study of his determined face, I’ve allowed myself just one curt remark.

“I thought you said those people appreciated punctuality.”

G. looked at me with his customary mix of admiration and amusement. I decided that this time the latter prevailed. Rarely, if never, I’ve tried to venture into his business deals.

“They do,” he smiled, “but there are more important things for me right now.”

Keeping my usual unperturbed face, I nodded, “I see”.

And so was it, until the car hit the low, windswept, piny dunes until the narrow strip of the sea on the horizon became a loud beast at our feet.

The gulf continued raging in the evening when G. deemed it to be suitable to finally take me outside.

Oh, he has been to his business encounter and returned with the slightly amused grin on his already quite ragged face. He was still at the younger side of forty but sometimes in the end of the day I saw in his features the man he was going to become in couple of dozen years from now. That is, if he was to live that long. Not being entirely sure in the latter I preferred not to think about the future.

Even exhausted, G. never allowed himself to plop down in the nearest available chair. Moving with the graceful gait of the desert predator, he occupied the quite ugly Soviet-style sofa in the best suite of a best hotel in the tiny Estonian beach resort we have found ourselves in. G. preferred to mix his own drinks.

“Not that I don’t trust you,” he would say, winking at me, “but the man of my position ought to be cautious”.

I did not care much since the only drink I took at those time was champagne. Pouring his favourite illicitly produced brandy, G. sucked on the lemon.

“My dear darling”, he said melancholically, “the dive is still the same.”

I recognized one of his beloved poems. G. quite elegantly waved his hand with the vintage silver cigarette holder.

“The junk adorns the walls. The prices have not changed. Has wine at least improved?” he smiled again,

“I don’t think so. It’s neither good nor bad. The progress”, he suddenly jumped to his feet, “is not here yet. But this is good,” he tenderly lifted me from my armchair, “that means we can relax”.

I giggled,

“The last verse is not by Joseph Brodsky.” G. kissed me.

“I have taken a liberty of adding my own words,” he looked at the watch, “hurry up, people are waiting. Put on the bracelet”, he called to my back, “I am glad you’ve liked it.”

I decided not to inquire about the mysterious people, assuming that G. wanted to parade me in front of his local business associates. I did not bring a lot of clothes to this impromptu outing but I knew that G. would appreciate something, as he put it, fancy. For someone, who spent almost ten years incarcerated, he was surprisingly elegant, having a penchant for bespoke suits and vintage watches.

The bracelet he gifted me in a cluttered, dusty second-hand store was also vintage, of a blackened silver with a scattering of garnets. The pomegranate colour of stones was troubling, almost menacing as if at some point the trinket was spluttered with blood. The liquid dried, leaving only the faint trace of bygone death or murder, the almost undetectable whiff of something illicit.

The shop on the outskirts of the Estonian capital where G. purchased or, maybe, just picked up a bracelet, was also of a questionable variety, piled up high with the jumble of old kitchenware and broken appliances. Leaving me at the entrance, G. disappeared behind the rails of mismatched, boring clothes. He emerged with the bracelet, lying in the pale palm of his papery, dry, almost artistic hand.

He has not bothered to ask my opinion of the gift. As with any royalty, the honours, bestowed by him, were to be accepted with gratitude and his choice was not to be questioned. On the other hand, he has always given me the objects of infinite beauty. Once he has noted that only such offerings were worthy to accompany my aesthetic perfection.

I put on the short black dress of vintage silk and dangerously high heels. In the living room, G. nodded approvingly. His grey eyes were already slightly bloodied by liqueur. His gaze was wondering but he still managed to help me into the softest black cashmere coat. I have steadily refused to wear fur and he did not insist. His lips brushed my neck, I caught the powerful smell of whiskey mingled with the aroma of weed and the poignant salty wind of lost desire.

“Time to go,” he opened the door for me, “people are waiting.”

I have attended such gatherings many times before. Women were usually banished to a side table, but this evening G. has asked me to stay with men. The deserted summer café was boarded up and badly lit. Even now he wanted to boast, to show me to his business, as he called them, acquaintances. I realized he wanted to cement whatever victory he has reached in the afternoon, by parading in front of them a rare bird of paradise, the desired creature that he has managed to catch and tame.

Suddenly bile rose to my throat. I could leave there and then but G. was notoriously unpredictable in his moods. I did not want to end up a corpse in a still raging sea of early spring, pounding the wooden promenade just outside the shaky shack of the café.

I have caught a side glance of the stocky man of peasant appearance on the other side of the table. His milky-blue eyes followed G. with a visible gleam of pure hatred. The sweaty flaxen hair was dishevelled, he took off his tie and unbuttoned the shirt collar. I have smiled fleetingly, imperceptibly. I have found the vassal hoping to become a king but having to deal now with the crush of his dream and public humiliation in front of his enemy. Such man would never refuse revenge, especially of the sweetest nature. I looked at him briefly, moving my head ever so slightly. His nod was visible only to me.

“I shall go to the ladies,” I whispered to G. but he hardly had paid any attention to my words.

I only had to wait a couple of minutes in the bare, functional toilet just next to the café entrance. The tap water dripped into the chipped enamel sink. I smelled the whiff of the sea wind, the door creaked. The nameless man pinned me to the white tiles of the wall, muttering something in the locally accented Russian. The black silk was torn, stockings slithered down my thighs. His strong fingers found the warmth inside me, I have bitten my lip.

In the dull mirror on the opposite wall I caught a glimpse of the familiar, elegantly thin silhouette.

The gunshot deafened me, the tile next to my ear exploded in the spray of sharp edges. G. had aimed for his head but missed. I had enough time to remind myself that he is not likely to miss twice. Screaming, I crouched in the corner. The nameless man was younger and quicker than G.

The second shot has found the target. G. doubled, clutching his stomach, moaning with pain. The dark ruby of blood turned his white shirt into a ripe pomegranate. The glistening pool on the floor widened, G. fell to his knees. The stream of bullets from Kalashnikov broke the mirror over the sink. The nameless man’s head cracked under the fire, he lifelessly plopped to the tiles, smeared with blood. Darting past the Adidas twin, who was clutching a rifle, I shot through the commotion in the café.

The while sand cooled my bare feet, the droplets of icy seawater hit my face. The bracelet on my wrist was spluttered with fresh blood. Tearing it from my hand, I threw the trinket into the black beast of the night storm.

Breathing the clean air, I went to the lighted bus stop nearby.