— Ah.
— Ah, what?
Temerity leaned back on the wall, crossing her arms. —The Hydra. Greek mythology. It’s the basis for all civilization, all our stories.
— Zmei Gorynich is ancient. Slavic.
— Yes, I know. And it comes from the Greek myths.
— No, it doesn’t.
— Heracles and the hydra, cut off one head and two more grow back. Greek mythology is where it all begins, Kostya.
He rolled his eyes. —The story is Russian. Just because Britain thinks civilization began with the ancient Greeks, no one else’s history matters?
— That’s not what I said.
Each turned from the other, frowning.
Then Temerity ran more cold water and this time pressed the compress to a welt on his back. —Zmei Gorynich, indeed. Well, you’ll never take Saint Dzhordzh from me.
— Nadia, the old coat of arms for the city of Moscow was Drzhordzh and his shield fighting the dragon, yes? You have no claim. Oh, save me, Saint Dzhordzh, save me from my captivity!
He found this quite amusing, and, despite the pain in his back and face, he laughed.
Listening to Kostya’s laughter, Temerity considered the sound of names. Dzhordzh in English: George, a beautiful name, steady, certain, oak and stone. A variant of the same name in Russian, Yury, made her think of a dragon’s tail coiling. The sound of the name Kostya: soothing. Oh, not as reliable as George, to be sure, but the very meaning, the roots of it: constancy. She laughed, too, as the absurdity of her own name pricked her. Temerity Tempest West, because my Russian mother liked the sound of it. God’s sake, who am I?
— Nadia, Nadia.
Kostya ran his fingers through her hair, invading the curls.
Temerity let him. Even his calloused trigger finger felt pleasant against her scalp.
— Nadia, how did this happen?
A curl caught on his fingers.
— Ow. Kostya…
— Sorry. I wish…
His pause felt deliberate, some snare of language and time, something an interrogator might try. Yet it also felt genuine. Desperate.
— I wish we could just stay like this.
Temerity untangled the curl. —Not quite like this, surely. We’d have to get out of the bathroom at some point.
— A language school. If I could be anything else, I’d become a teacher. We could open a language school, and teach everyone how to communicate, yes? Pretend we’ve got a map of the world on this wall, here to here. I’ve got my finger on Moscow. Now, I’ll close my eyes and point at another spot, and that’s where we’ll set up our language school.
His finger landed far west-southwest.
Recalling Neville Freeman’s isochronic map, Temerity smiled. —The British Empire.
— The sun never sets.
— Newfoundland, to be precise. We’d have our work cut out for us. I understand they don’t even speak English terribly well.
— We’ll start with Esperanto. I don’t know a word of Esperanto. But we’ll get everyone at ease in Esperanto. Equal footing, everyone must learn the new language, no conqueror’s tongue imposed, and then, once we can all invite one another to supper and figure out what we all like to eat in Esperanto, we can start learning one another’s languages, and share the poetry.
Temerity kept still. He’s serious. She took a breath to speak and almost told him about her plans for Kurseong House, decided on the steamer to Leningrad: a modern language school for girls and women, and one generous with scholarships.
— Nadia, imagine if one could not tell a lie in Esperanto. One can always lie, of course, even drawing figures in the sand, but imagine if one could not.
— I think it’s better if we can choose not to lie.
— And you run from the discussion again. Choice, choice, choice. When we enjoy choice, we fail.
— No, we don’t.
He shook his head. —Let me tell you a story. It’s a winter day, completely foul. Sleet falls. You can’t get warm. So you move to the hearth, or the stove, where someone cooks, oh, I don’t know, a roast of pork.
— I love roasted pork.
— Do you, now? Good. Then my example will mean something. So you’re cold, you’re hungry, and you’re safe indoors, not a big house, no mansion, but two storeys, three bedrooms, a parlour, a dining room, a kitchen, a sewing room, and a library.
— Not a mansion, you say.
— No, not at all, just a nice tidy house. Strong walls, good roof. Sleet rattles the glass and irritates everyone, because they’re already hungry and impatient for dinner. A knock on the door. Some adolescent. You’ve encountered him before and consider him a troublemaker. He says he’s cold and hungry. Do you choose to invite him in?
Recognizing the story, she hesitated. —It depends.
— Horseshit. You drive him away.
— No, it depends. Is he alone? Is he hungry?
— He says so, but you’ve got only his word for it. And he’s not had a bath in weeks. He stinks. He’s confused. He looks so angry. He’s misplaced all the good manners he’s learned, all the courtesy, yet he does not want to be vicious and bestial. He wants to be a man. Can you see that?
— Kostya, wait.
— You enjoy a full and open choice here. Let him in, and the consequence is you have less to eat. Turn him away, and the consequence is nothing at all. Will you let him in to share your meal?
— Yes.
— Liar.
Her cheeks burned. —Yes, I would.
— His eyes glint like limestone. Perhaps he’s dangerous.
— He’s tired.
— His nose runs like an infant’s, and you wonder, is he too stupid to wipe?
— He’s got no handkerchief. I’ll help him clean up.
— He smells like a goat, his feet wrapped in rancid socks and crammed into leather boots too small for him, and your father orders you to turn this filthy little bastard out of doors. Do you still think you’d let him in?
— Don’t shout at me!
He smirked. —It is you who shouts, Nadia. I’ve not raised my voice. Now, do you turn him away?
— I just…
— See? You try to deceive me, and you try to deceive yourself.
— No!
— You’re unable to answer the question right away. No obedience to either your instinct to drive him away or to your conscience to let him in. And therefore, chaos.
— Kostya, please.
— I thank you for proving my point.
She strode past him into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. The holster lay in easy reach; she ignored it.
Kostya followed her, then knelt before her. —Nadia, you look like you’re about to be sick.
— How did you do that? How did you make me feel so guilty over a boy who…
— Who doesn’t exist?
— Stop!
She sounded like a prisoner pleading in a cell.
Kostya looked to the floor. —Nadia, I only want you to see how far more than choice influences our lives. There is also chance, or design. So much of it. I’m never sure what to call it.
— Right. Chance. Like Apollo chanced to see Daphne?
— Who the barrelling fuck are Apollo and Daphne?
— You want design? Bernini got it right in his sculpture. Chance has nothing to do with it. Apollo’s fingers sink into Daphne’s flesh. She twists away and screams, and her hands and hair are already transforming into twigs and leaves.
— Nadia, you’ve lost me.
She was weeping now. —Apollo is stronger and faster, and he chooses to rape Daphne. To prevent that, to try to save her, Daphne’s father chooses to transform her into a tree. A God damned tree! She’s not changing; she’s being changed. Where is the chance or design for Daphne when Apollo and her father choose to do these things to her?