Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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for the first time since arriving in Lviv, he was actually being a tourist. He chained his bike to a black wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. Knowing he was late for the church service, he sheepishly climbed the steps to the platform in front of the imposing bronze-plated doors. These had been wedged open to allow the summer breeze to mix with the incense-laden atmosphere inside. To his further surprise, the church was actually packed. Despite this being the second or third church service of the day, it was a standing-room-only event. Yarko worked his way to a comfortable corner, and leaning against a wall he began scanning the countless icons on the walls. An older priest, with thinning white hair and equally white bushy eyebrows, was reciting the Divine Liturgy.
Yarko didn’t pay much attention to the Liturgy. He was using this time to run a mental inventory of everything that he would need for his treasure quest. At least shovels wouldn’t be hard to find. The trunk of the blue Lada contained two of them. He would also need a block-and-tackle setup, including at least fifteen metres of thick rope. That would give him the leverage, he thought, to lift the floor-plate by himself. But would he be able to carry the treasure up the stairs? How could he transport it on his bike? Any way he looked at it, he would still need Dzvinka’s stolen blue Lada, but the thought of working with her bothered him.
There were things that simply weren’t adding up. The flight from the police on High Castle Hill made no sense. Today’s incident with the two criminals being arrested was an even stranger coincidence. What would such crooks be looking for in that slum? Why would they be carrying shovels? Certainly not for pilfering cabbages and onions from some poor slob’s garden, he thought, as another of his sarcastic smiles creased his face. Even the bit about finding car keys on the ground beside the Lada seemed somehow way too fortunate. The echo of the gunshots still reverberated in his ears. Things just didn’t add up – or perhaps more accurately, they were adding up too easily.
These thoughts played and replayed in his head while he leaned on the wall in the corner of the church. The mass had finished and it was the general flow of the hundreds of faithful towards the exit that finally snapped him back to reality. He found himself exiting the church among the very last of these. He was in no hurry, so he stood on the steps and admired the view around him. He could see a hotel called Arena; he scanned the buildings of the Ivan Franko Lviv University. Parks and grassy boulevards were interspersed with steep and narrow cobblestone streets, centuries-old buildings, and historic monuments. He was finally enjoying the beauty of this city. He could spend a month here and not just the handful of days that he had left. Instead, he was chasing some ancient family treasure.
At this very moment, a friendly hand touched him on the shoulder. Yarko turned to see a young priest. With dark, stylishly trimmed hair, a closely cropped beard, and a youthful face, the man before him didn’t seem to fit the image of a priest. Tall, but far from willowy, he had the build of an athlete, not of some monk.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here. First time in Lviv?” asked the priest.
“Yes, Father, I’m from Canada,” replied Yarko.
“Here for a vacation?”
“You could say that.”
“You seem to have some worries, son,” said the priest. “If you find that you need some help, some advice, don’t be afraid to come to me. My name is Onufriy – Father Onufriy if you prefer. Here’s my phone number. Call me any time.” He squeezed Yarko’s hand as he handed him his business card. It was a simple card – just a cross and a phone number.
“I’m Yaroslaw. Thank you, Father. Who knows, I just might find that I need your help some day.” Yarko tried to feign calm that was far from a reflection of his emotional state. But he was not one to ask for help. Getting Dzvinka involved, he figured, would be the last of that kind of mistake. Yarko left the steps of the cathedral, and, unchaining his mountain bike, headed in a direction away from his old Hotel Ukrayina.
Unseen by Yarko, the young priest flipped open a cellphone, clicked a single key, and spoke at length while watching the mountain bike shrink away in the distance before finally disappearing into a side street.
* * *
Yarko wanted to explore the city. On a mountain bike he could ignore the map. The Ratush could be seen from most of the old city and served as a beacon that could always lead him home. He passed the monument to Ivan Franko as well as the majestic classical Ivan Franko Theatre that together with Saint George’s had come to symbolize the very best architecture that this city had to offer. He ate at the Lviv Restaurant on the street named for the 700th anniversary of Lviv. Re-energized by this lively bike ride through history, he returned to his hotel.
He had water! And hot water at that! Yarko stripped to his boxer shorts and started doing his laundry in the bathtub.
4
YARKO SPLASHED away in his bathtub. For the first time since his arrival he could actually take a hot bath. He just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by. He took great pleasure in this chance for relaxation. He had hung his clean laundry on a rope above his head. Pants, shorts, underwear, and shirts formed a wrinkled fringe above his tub. He sank his head under the surface and blew bubbles as he relaxed every tired muscle in his body. When he lifted his head above the surface, he heard knocking at his hotel-room door. He ignored it. Then he heard Dzvinka’s voice from the hall.
“Are you there, Yarchyk? Open up. Let me in.”
Yarko didn’t reply, but stood up in the bathtub and tried drying himself with an undersized hotel towel. He heard Dzvinka call him a second time. He searched for a dry piece of clothing. He had none. Everything had been freshly washed. He put on the first thing he laid his hands on, a wet pair of white boxer shorts, and opened the washroom door. Stepping out, he was stunned to see that Dzvinka was already in his room. She had her back to him and was bent over in search of something by her purse beside his bed. On his bed lay the bolt and ring.
“What the …” began Yarko in surprise.
Dzvinka jumped, no less surprised by Yarko’s presence. “But, but, I had no idea you were here! Boy, did you scare me,” she stammered. “I decided to open the door myself to wait for you to return …Wow! Are you ever wet, my friend!”
She examined him hungrily. Her gaze flowed down slowly over his wet body. From his towel-tussled hair, it followed the drips running down to his lips still wide-open in surprise, down rivulets curving over a well-muscled chest, then down that dark strip of hair that separated his abdominals before disappearing beneath the translucent white of wet boxer shorts, and finally dripping to the rock carvings of legs, well streaked with wet black hairs. Slowly raising her eyes, she lapped up this view in reverse order.
While Yarko stood motionless, she stepped forward and pressed her lips to his, wrapping her arms around his body. She held this kiss for a long time. One arm explored his back and the other pressed his hips tightly to hers. Stepping back, she undid button after button down the front of her white dress that now clung to her body in diaphanous wetness. The dress split apart. Underneath there was nothing but the briefest of lace panties. Her nipples had hardened to the touch of his wet skin. Dzvinka stepped away to sit on the edge of the bed with her back to Yarko. The dress slid down her back from under her blonde hair. She hooked both thumbs under her panties and bending forward slipped them down in one smooth motion to the floor beside the bed.
She sat up straight and began to turn towards him. Her right hand held a gun. “My gun. My treasure,” she said, and then finished in ironic Russian, “Zdrastvuy.”
At that moment, the door to the room burst open to reveal a uniformed figure holding a pistol with both hands.
“Stop! Militsya!” the man commanded.
As if in a slow-motion movie, Yarko watched as Dzvinka, without so much as a flinch, pointed the gun at the stranger.
Ba-bang! Yarko heard the explosive reply. He saw a simultaneous muzzle-flash from both guns. The thunder of the shots echoing off the walls slammed his ears. The stranger in uniform remained standing with both hands outstretched and the gun barrel now safely pointed upwards. Yarko saw the