Chapter Fifteen:

The falcon spots the field mouse

On my way to the boathouse I had encountered Dinkle’s man on the narrow, sand-and-gravel road linking Tesoro to his boss’s estate. We passed within feet of one another, but even from a distance I’d have recognized him by his military gait. He didn’t so much walk as march—head up, shoulders back, elbows locked as his arms swung like pendulums through precise arcs. He’d nodded at me, an elegant gesture that made me feel as if I should salute. I didn’t. Years later, when I was in uniform, such a response became instinctive. But in 1934 I was ten years old with armies and war and salutes far off. Hence, I merely lifted my chin, scarcely slowing as I pedaled on to the boathouse. Meanwhile, Dinkle’s man negotiated the last quarter mile to the mercantile and went inside, the bell dangling from the door handle announcing his entry. Fiona Littleleaf was behind the counter, sorting mail with her back to the door. She turned and greeted him with a smile.

She is lovely, Yurievsky thought, a woman the Grand Duke might have pursued. He instinctively scowled. He had seen too many old men of the Russian Imperial Army, officers all, made silly by attempts to recapture their youth with someone’s niece or daughter. Yurievsky had no such inclinations. Olga might turn up one day, expecting faithfulness even after so many years. Should that miracle come about, he did not wish to disappoint his wife. She had suffered enough disappointment; left alone to raise Irina, his sweet Myshka, for months at a time when he was off soldiering, his returns marked by moodiness and troubled sleep.

Fiona—the young woman Irina might have become—waited for him to approach the counter, framed by the cash register and a basket filled with pastries. She wore no makeup, and was quite beautiful despite little effort to make herself so. Yurievsky admired her disdain for pretension, her subtlety. It stood in sharp contrast to Dinkle’s Chirpy Boop, a woman who wore her carnality like jewelry. Behind the mercantile proprietor was a den of cubbyholes, the top row reachable by a ladder that slanted against the shelving. Most of the compartments were empty, a few filled with a letter or two. Names were below each box. Yurievsky recognized only a few. None would have recognized his name; indeed, the young mercantile proprietor, the lawyer, the tall midwife, and the crazy woman’s son were the only people in the village who spoke to him at all.

“Good morning, Mister Yurievsky,” Fiona said.

“Miss Littleleaf,” Yurievsky replied, his dignified manner worthy of a knight addressing his queen.

She cocked her head, offering a wry expression.

“When will you start calling me Fiona?”

Yurievsky shrugged. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said.

She laughed. “I’m going to hold you to it.”

Fiona turned away to retrieve Dinkle’s mail from one of the open cubicles. Unlike the villagers’ boxes, there was a good deal of mail for the old man: business envelopes with impressively embossed return addresses, a couple of thick Manila packets. She took a few moments to bind the correspondence with twine, uncharacteristically prattling as she did so. “Big goings on around here these days,” she finished up, handing over the bundle. “I imagine you’ve heard about the letter we received from back east.”

“I did.”

“They’ve offered so much money. It’s hard to believe.”

Yurievsky didn’t answer. It was part of the game they played. Fiona tried to pull words from him; he resisted. She offered him pastries; he declined. She teased; he allowed merely a smile. An outsider might have thought her too kind for such a stone-faced fellow, but there was lightheartedness and familiarity in their exchanges, even affection. Yurievsky had once played similar games with Irina, always ending with his daughter’s arms around him, her lips pressed against his cheek, her whisper in his ear: “Ya ochen’ lyublyu tebya, Papa.” I love you ever so much, Papa.

His response had been equally scripted: “I ya tebya, moya sladkaya Myshka.” And I, you, my sweet little mouse.

Fiona suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

“I bet Miss Lizzie I could get more than two words at a time out of you, Mister Yurievsky,” she said.

Yurievsky took Dinkle’s mail from her outstretched hand, the unmistakable trace of a smile gracing his lips.

“You lose,” he said.

He turned to go, her laughter trailing him.

“See you tomorrow,” she called out as he opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.

Yurievsky headed back toward the estate, unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss. Fiona’s demeanor had been too breezy, too casual. A woman typically efficient with words, her idle chatter was unusual, the pitch of her voice too high, the flow of words too rapid. Indeed, her behavior had seemed altogether affected; perhaps calculated. Yurievsky had a nose for such things. One of his previous employers—a notable Manila gangster—had more than once sent him to gather information from someone not inclined to provide it. The unfortunate fellows always began with lies but ended up telling Yurievsky the truth. Their voices, like Fiona’s, had been high-pitched, words tumbling from their lips, their attempts at nonchalance exposing them as liars. The young mercantile proprietor and postmistress had not told him a lie, but there had been artifice in her manner and his curiosity was piqued. Worse, he was suspicious and Yurievsky did not want to be suspicious of her. He had spent decades at the mercy of his suspicions. There had been little peace attending such vigilance and he wanted desperately to believe that Fiona Littleleaf was guileless, a true innocent.

Yurievsky approached the gated entry to the estate and stopped. To the west, he could hear the waves of the Pacific Ocean as they slammed onto the beach at high tide. The sound was comforting, and for a moment, he was convinced that his suspicion was unwarranted. At the same time, a falcon dove earthward from overhead, sweeping close to the ground and then soaring upward, a field mouse in its beak, the poor thing’s tail whipping about like a streamer. Yurievsky sighed. She has something to hide, he thought, the nervous pitch and rhythm of Fiona’s voice too fresh a memory. Something she wants hidden from me…and from Dinkle.