The Little Black Cigarette Part 2 Chapter 1
The King of Keys
Click here to read Part 1.
Pierre’s understanding of laying low was opting for a loft apartment overlooking Vondelpark. Its winding paths and deep pools could be seen from the arched windows of our sixth floor, overly conspicuous, cash-paid, Amsterdam layer. White stone walls. Exposed attic beams. Maroon Afghan rugs. Fox fur stretched around an ottoman. A dark blue, satin couch. I spent most of the past few days on the couch watching film noir, Cecile’s choice due to its apparent similarity to our new reality. The good and the evil, hiding in shadows, you don’t know which is which. It really is romantic. Or so she said. Three days was a long time to spend inside.
I was permitted to go for a run in the park, but only in the middle of the night, and always accompanied by Boris and Pierre. Cecile had taken up cartography, or so it seemed. She had Boris bring her large maps of Amsterdam, all the canals and streets laid out before her on the floor. Boris had managed to find a map from before the second world war, and Cecile spent her hours in prison trying to find the discrepancies between the new and the old. I hadn’t seen Anna Pavlov since we departed Paris by train, but Pierre spent most of his day with her working on setting and perfecting The Al Thani Collection. He would return home in the afternoon, alone and begging for some time with me out on the terrace in the sun. Normally, pained by the teasing smell of fresh air, I would reluctantly join him. Until the day he came home in the evening, not alone this time, but with company.
I heard them before they reached the top floor. Pierre’s laughter boomed up the staircase until he was outside the door where his footsteps stopped. Shorter, lighter footsteps accompanied him. A rustle of keys, then the sound of them hitting the floor. The two pairs of feet shuffled behind the door, switching places as the lock jiggled. The door gave way and in came Pierre, tumbling over a man on all fours, landing firmly onto the carpet and knocking into the table, spilling Cecile’s champagne across her newest map. She screeched. Pierre rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow as if it was all part of his plan.
“Ladies, ladies please! It is my greatest pleasure to introduce the one, the only, King of Keys!”
Our attention turned towards the man on all fours, who was beginning to stand. His oversized, plaid slacks were very merely held up by a belt with a self made hole. He dusted off his knees and the lapels of his wool blazer before reaching for his hat, a deerstalker, and placing it on a table near the door. He took a drunken bow, crossing his left foot over the right and stumbling slightly.
“Witamy w Polce!” said the King of Keys, stretching his arms out wide, his long grey beard swaying between them like a Polish Merlin.
“Sorry, he is incredibly drunk. He spent all morning tasting gin while I slaved over the jewels. Though, I must admit, I joined him around noon. I believe he just welcomed you to Poland.” Pierre sat up, gleaming up at his friend, as if he had brought home another treasure.
“Please, please. Ladies, call me Mikolaj.”
The King of Keys took a seat on the ottoman and began untying his shoes and dropped his blazer directly on the floor. Then, suddenly sitting up straight, he lifted his beard from his face, peeling it away from his skin, revealing his thin, youthful mouth. He rubbed his face with a handkerchief, buffing away his disguise and slowly becoming Mikolaj.
“And where might you have come from?” Cecile asked while frantically dabbing her map, desperately trying to save the areas she had placed markings.
“Well my sweet American flower, let me tell you. I come from a cold place, deep in the Karkonosze Mountains. Ice covers everything, and the snow gives form to the wind when it is blown away from the cliffs, much like your lovely blonde hair falls around your face, mademoiselle.”
“Okay Mickey, I think I better make us some coffee.” Pierre scurried off to the kitchen and I quickly followed, leaving Cecile and Mikolaj for a moment.
“Pierre, not to be overly cautious, but what is your friend doing here? I thought we were meant to be laying low?”
“Darling, let me worry about being cautious. He is an old friend, a very valuable one. I’ll let him tell you his stories, but I brought him to make sure we were secure. He is quite handy with locks and permitted areas, normally he is breaking into them not securing them, but what is the real difference anyhow?”
Pierre took two cups and motioned for us to leave back into the sitting room.
“Wait.” I put my hand gently on his arm, “Let me handle those so you don’t cause Cecile to have another breakdown.”
“Right you are. Do you remember that diamond heist I told you about? In Antwerp?”
“The one connected to The Jeweller?”
“Yes. Mikolaj was the only one to get away. He is a master of mystery, of disguise. You can see his value, I’m sure of it.”
I began to agree, growing more curious about the skinny Polish man in the other room, but Pierre rushed out of the kitchen and back to his friend.
Cecile was coming back into the room as well, with her hair dryer and hairspray in hand. She was beaming, yet determined, as she approached Mikolaj who was kneeling over her wet map. She handed him the hair spray first, then went to plug in the dryer. Mikolaj raised the canister a fair distance from the map, misting it gently back and forth.
“It’s like magic,” whispered Cecile, handing him the dryer.
Using the dryer on low, Mikolaj stopped the running ink in its tracks. He lightly tapped the paper with his finger tips, showing us his inkless palm like the reveal of a vanishing trick.
“It is not magic, my lady, it is me. Mikolaj.”
“Alright, King of Keys, keep it together.” I laughed and handed him his cup of coffee.
“Mickey, I was just telling Anna about the many stories that you have. Perhaps while we sober ourselves up you can tell her a bit more?”
“Mais oui, bien sûr.” He sat down on the couch, crossing his dangling legs, and took a long, audible sip of coffee before beginning.
Picture a young boy. Age six, black hair, ghostly skin. But courageous, yes. The mountains had hardened me from the day my skin met the violent wind of winter. I was out after dark, having lost track of time in the snow, and rushing across a ridge close to home. You see, from an early age I was told of the dangers of the mountains through stories from my father. Aside from the chills, the avalanches, the black ice; there were bears, wolves, lynxes, and even the bison could cause a devastating blow. As I am winding down the ridge I spot two dark figures. Four legs, thick coat. Whether a bear or wolf it was all the same to me. They were directly between me and the smoking chimney of home. I stop, getting low down to the ground trying to find cover but their heads turn my direction. They were on my scent. I knew my father had built a brick shed some meters to the right of the clearing where the beasts stood. I arched my descent, running as quickly and quietly as I could in breaking snow. I tried to keep an eye on the animals, but as I turned around for a third time I lost them in the white. I could see the brick structure, on its door a padlock. I quickened my pace. In my coat pocket I had a small box my grandfather had given me, a box full of tricks he had taught me out of fun. When I reached the door my feet stopped, but the cracking of snow continued. I could hear careful, calculated steps in the earth behind the trees. I knew I was being watched—no, not watched. Hunted. My heart raced as I opened the box and retrieved a lock pick from within. Having only used it once before, on the lock of my sister's diary, my confidence was low. But adrenaline prevailed. As the pounding of paws against the snow grew louder, sweat began to pour down my cheeks, maybe it was tears, of this I cannot be sure. But suddenly there was a click, then a pop, and the lock gave way. I pushed myself inside. It took all my strength to close the door and slide the interior wooden block lock into place. I could hear the noses of the beasts sniffing around the perimeter. And it was there, inside a small brick box, that The King of Keys was born. My talent, my gift, was all in the name of necessity. I laid there all night, waiting until the first sun to make my escape.
“Well, what happened? Were they bears or wolves?” asked Cecile. She sat criss-crossed in front of the storyteller, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Bears, wolves, bleh! I am here, that is the story. I made it.”
Mikolaj took another long sip of coffee.
“And, now that I am here, I can share my gifts with you. You see, I have many people in my life close to me, many that I have the pleasure to call friends, but most know me as a poor writer trying to live like Dostoevsky, or a pregnant woman that seems to keep losing her baby, or my most exciting: an old man with magic fingers.”
“Are you saying that people actually believe the old man charade?” I gawked.
“Are you saying it didn’t work on you? Why! It worked on Pierre without any difficulty for almost six months! Though, I cannot give him all the credit. I fear that I liked him too much and became rather casual in my application.”
All of our attention was on Mikolaj when Boris walked in. He cleared his throat with a loud boom, asking Pierre if he could talk to him out on the terrace. They both left outside. Mikolaj reached into his bag of disguises and pulled out a pair of old specs and began to clean them incessantly.
“So,” Cecile rubbed the palm of her hands together, “When will we be fitted for our new disguises? I’m thinking I could curl my hair, Marilyn Monroe style. Hide in plain sight if you will.”
“No, no this is no good.” Mikolaj didn’t lift his gaze from his lap as he spoke, “This is not hiding in plain sight as you say, this is simply playing dress up. What you need to do is create a character, create something that could both exist and not exist without anyone noticing. Plain sight is the market, it is the bookstore on the corner, it is the girl collecting flowers in her bike basket on the way to Sunday brunch. This! This is the art of disguise.”
He huffed matter-of-factly.
“Oh. I see. So I shall not be Marilyn. Well then, I would very much like to be the girl collecting flowers! That sounds magnificent!”
“And you, Anna. What will you be?”
I sat for a moment, knowing I had no answer that would satisfy the mind of a magician, until thankfully the phone rang. There was only one person who knew the number to our lone phone. I rushed to grab it from the table.
“Hello?”
“Anna, Darling! So happy it was you who answered and not Pierre. How have you been fending? Feeling a bit cooped up I’m sure.”
My mother’s voice sounded like smooth Russian velvet over the crackle of a landline.
“Yes, I’m happy to hear from you. Pierre is outside, I’ll go tell him you’ve called—”
“Wait! I don’t need to talk to him. In fact, I think it would be best if he didn’t know I called at all. I was thinking you could join me tomorrow morning, avec Cecile ou seul, comme tu veux. You can leave just after Pierre, he won’t suspect a thing. You will be safe, of course, I promise that. Meet me on the bridge just in front of the Rijksmuseum, I’ll be in the water.”
Anna Pavlov hung up abruptly.
“Was that your mother? What did she say!”
Before I could answer, Cecile turned to Mikolaj.
“Anna has the most exquisite mother. Really something out of a fairy tale.”
He just nodded and continued polishing his lenses.
“Mikolaj,” I inquired, “How quickly could you get Cecile and I our disguises?”
“Oh, if I make a phone call or two I should have them ready by morning. But, Pierre said we won’t be needing them for a couple more—”
“Never mind Pierre. Can you get them to us first thing in the morning? Before Pierre goes to the warehouse?”
“Sure. I can do all things,” said The King of Keys, as a crooked upwards smile grew on his lips.
Two palms landed on my shoulders and I looked up to see Pierre towering over me. His hair, wind blown. His cheeks rosy from gin. His eyes, a deep pool of green, heavy like one of his precious emeralds. I had to admit, he was growing on me. He returned my smile, then looked up at the rest of the room.
“Boris has just informed me that we finally have a timeline to look forward to.”
“What a relief! Does this mean we can finally go shopping?” Cecile was holding onto one of Boris’s biceps. Mikolaj watched intently.
“Let’s hold off on the shopping for now. I need just a day or two more with the collection. But, this weekend there is an underground auction taking place in the red light district. I had Boris inform the host that the complete missing Al Thani Collection can be made readily available for bidding.”
“An underground auction, as in black market?” I interjected.
“Yes, I realize it sounds like more danger. But Anna Pavlov wants to be done with it, and while it is hard to part from, it has only grown more dangerous to hold on to. Now, we must assume once this information finds its way to the right people we will become targets once again, and that is where Mickey comes in.”
The next morning when Pierre got up to his alarm, so did I. He said nothing, but gave me an inquiring look which I shrugged off by kissing him softly on the forehead. I slipped out of my silk pyjamas, and felt his eyes follow my naked body into the bathroom where I turned on the shower. Pierre took two towels from the cabinet and placed them on the heated rack.
“Are you joining me then?”
“Oh but Darling, isn’t it you who is really joining me? You’ve decided to have an early start to the day have you?”
I sighed timidly, laying my head against his warm chest. The water fell from around his jaw, trickling down the back of my neck. Pierre ran his fingers gently up and down my spine.
“I know you’re worried about our next adventure, but I promise you Mickey knows what he’s doing. I’ve seen him change character three times in one night and approach the same people without the slightest suspicion. If there is danger following us, if there is danger at the auction, I can certainly say none of us will be acted against specifically. It will be hard for us to even recognize each other, let alone a stranger attempting to make that call.”
“It isn’t Mikolaj I worry about, Pierre. What happens next? After the collection is gone, what purpose will you have with me?”
“What purpose will I have?” Pierre lifted my chin, kissing me lightly with his wet mouth, “This is not a question you can ask me while standing in front of me naked. How am I able to give you an answer you will believe? Any answer is tainted by your soft skin.”
He kissed me again and I realized I didn’t need an answer. If this was what I had to look forward to after the auction—uninterrupted shower time with a criminal—then what honourable objections could I make?
We got out of the shower and shared an espresso or two on the terrace in our robes. Cecile and Boris joined, and eventually the boys set off towards the warehouse for another day of tedious work. When I returned to the bedroom there were two briefcases placed by the door, one addressed Anna, the other Marilyn. I called out to Cecile and popped them both open on the bed.
“Look at this skirt!” Cecile held up a black and white polka dotted poodle skirt, fitted with a light pink belt. She placed it against her waist and twirled in a circle. “It’s like a dream!”
“Sure, a dream. Go put it on before we are late!” I ushered her into the bathroom and shut the door.
I picked up my clothes. A tailored pair of beige pants with a matching blazer. A sandy blouse and white, pointed toe heels. Beneath it all was a black wig, long thick hair, and a wide brimmed, maroon fedora. I put the clothes on and stood in front of the mirror. Boring. It’s like Mikolaj was trying to rid any life my pale skin had left to offer. I added the black wig and watched me wash away entirely. My reflection reminded me of someone, but I could quite place it.
“No!” I heard Cecile yell behind the door. “There is no possible way he expects me to go out in public like this!”
“What do you mean? Come out here, let me see!”
The door to the bathroom slowly opened and out stepped Cecile’s new identity. Black, open toed heels exposing her painted toes. The skirt hung at her mid calf, a black lace blouse sat on top. Her wig was a perfectly bright Monroe replica. And on her head, which was pointed down towards the floor, sat a felt cloche hat, pink like the belt around the skirt.
“I don’t see the problem. It all looks exactly how I would expect you to want it.”
But then Cecile looked up. Beneath the dainty fold of her hat, between her perfect icy blonde curls, was the largest prosthetic nose I had ever seen.
“Holy shit,” I managed before breaking into hysterics.
“Holy shit? This is a bit more than holy shit! He can’t be serious!” She was running her finger along the large dorsal hump of the nose. “I look like a witch.”
“You have to admit, no one would be able to recognize you.” I said, trying to keep a straight face. I could see her starting to cry and was worried the nose might fall off amongst the tears.
“I guess so,” she replied, falling to the floor defeatedly.
“Come on, no time to think about it now.” I took her by the hand and forced her out the door, without letting her stop to look in any mirrors. We had no time to waste if we were going to spend the day with my mother.