Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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were also ideal for traversing city landscapes. In Vancouver, they had long become the favourite of its business-area couriers. Such couriers delivered packages from one office building to another, traversing parks, sidewalks, roads, alleys, and entryway stairs with unequalled ease. Judging from the state of Lviv’s roads, bringing a mountain bike here was a stroke of genius.
As Yarko studied a map, kneeling on the floor and using his bed as a table, he was pleasantly surprised to feel the warm touch of sunlight on his shoulder. Even the limited view from his window now seemed to promise him a tour more akin to that displayed in travel brochures. Lviv was a city founded in the thirteenth century as a bulwark against Mongol intrusion. Like other parts of Ukraine, it had been ruled by various empires; however, it was the Austrian period that left the most beautiful architectural legacy. Often compared to Prague, it certainly matched it in beauty, but fortunately it still had some way to go before matching it in price.
Yarko changed into his shorts and his bicycle jersey. He threw a knapsack over one shoulder, while lifting the bike by the frame with his free arm.
“Idu na Vy,” he said, quoting the warlike challenge of tenth-century Prince Svyatoslav the Conqueror. “I go (to war) on you!” was the news feared most by the foes of Rus′. Now Lviv was about to meet its bike-mounted match, thought Yarko. But the first order of business would be a coffee, and a nice light snack.
Across from the hotel, at the beginning of a very wide boulevard, stood a monument. A bronze figure, long covered in a green patina, with some equally green winged creature descending upon it, occupied the very end of this grassy boulevard. It was the memorial to the Polish writer Adam Mieckewicz. Next to this monument stood a structure that must have been a fountain, but this being Lviv, it was silent. Rather than spraying water, the fountain, having been wetted by the rain, was surrounded in a haze of evaporating moisture.
Riding north along the Prospekt Svobody, or Liberty Boulevard, Yarko stopped at a cobble-stoned square. His attention had been captured by another monument, much smaller than the previous, yet much more accessible. Atop a rock pedestal was a black-metal, cylindrical cartoonish head of a moustachioed kozak with a long scalp-lock hanging before his left ear. On a level below it was an equally cartoonish cannon or mortar next to a pile of cannonballs. The sign on the rock had the name “Ivan” above a horseshoe. This was the monument to a kozak warrior by the name of Ivan Pidkova, or, translated into English, Johnny Horseshoe. Yarko smiled as he thought of this literal translation.
Ukrainians knew that their kozaks were the fierce frontiersmen of the steppes, living as free men on the no-man’s land beyond the reach of three empires. It was centuries later that the Russian Empire would draft such frontiersmen into serving as the dreaded shock troops of the empire, known today as cossacks.
Yarko placed his hand on this rock and looked into this kozak’s fiercely huge eyes, which gazed out from under a furrowed brow. He felt a renewed energy flowing into him. There was courage, pride, and a sheer ferocity that revitalized Yarko’s spirits. He forgot about his hunger. Mounting his bike, he turned eastward towards the Rynok, the historical market square.
The Rynok was a square of cobblestone streets walled in by buildings on the outside, with the historic city hall and its tower, the Ratush, inside. The tower was topped by the waving blue-and-yellow flag of independent Ukraine. This view gave him particular satisfaction, because it matched photographs of events on November 1, 1918, when Ukrainians seized their opportunity to declare an independent Western Ukrainian Republic as the Austro-Hungarian Empire collapsed. The view had been no different on June 30, 1941, when Ukrainians caught Hitler by surprise by declaring independence in a land freshly cleared of Bolshevik rule. These had been the short flashes of freedom that kept those embers of national independence glowing throughout the last century.
Closing his eyes, Yarko could see crowds of people singing and shouting, and he imagined the staccato crack of gunfire that always seemed to signal the end of such revelry. The history of the century-long liberation struggle was now speaking directly to him. Gunfire echoed from the walls of the buildings, and the acrid smell of cordite and gunpowder penetrated his nostrils.
As he opened his eyes, he found another smell penetrating his nostrils, but this was the smell of coffee, not gunsmoke. Turning around, he realized that he was standing mere steps from one of Lviv’s cafés, the Café Pid Levom, or, literally, the Café Under the Lion. Above him he saw the gargoyle of the lion that this café was under. He chained his bike to a lamp-post and entered the café.
It was lunchtime, and the café was full. He found the very last vacant table and sat down, his back to the wall, and his backpack beside him to discourage anyone from joining him and engaging him in conversation. Yarko preferred to keep to himself just now, and any attempt to exercise his Ukrainian language skills would simply be too painful. He ordered coffee and two sweet rolls, and made himself comfortable. The background music was some pop song. Yarko listened to the words: “… all week I walk and live among the lions, no wonder they call this city Lviv.” This song about the city of lions, along with the sweetness of the honey-glazed roll, momentarily rekindled that rush of energy that he had felt at the monument to Ivan Pidkova.
He enjoyed a good view of the patrons from this location, so he took advantage of it to satisfy his talents in applied anthropology. He eyed the young waitress who just now was serving coffee on the opposite side of the room. She had short brown hair, a confident smile, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She was slender, but far from frail – hers was more of an athletic, or more accurately, a gymnastic build. Smallish breasts, and long legs under dark nylon completed this look. Her rear-end must have been just a bit fuller than her seamstress had expected. As a result, her black tunic tended to lift a touch as she bent to serve another coffee. A dark strip of shadow on her thighs confirmed that she wore stockings, not pantyhose. The shimmer of dark nylon smoothly accented the muscled contours of her legs. This view held Yarko’s attention like a beacon in this turbulent sea of people.
A shiver ran down his spine when he realized that she had caught his gaze and was calmly looking back at him. Taken aback, he briefly lowered his eyes to check something in his coffee. When he looked up, the young waitress was gone. In embarrassment, he wiped a crumb of white honey glazing from the corner of his lips. Frustrated, he decided to continue with his anthropological studies. Momentarily a new beacon caught his eye in this sea of lunchtime patrons.
Yarko, like all young men, had an extremely well developed sixth sense that allowed him to instantly home in on any attractive example of the opposite sex. Far to his left sat a long-haired blonde, a beauty quite worthy of his attention. Long wavy blonde hair framed the smooth skin of her face, accenting her blue eyes and pouty lips. Batting her long eyelashes, she was flirting with a middle-aged man sitting across from her. But Yarko’s attention was drawn lower, to full breasts trying to tear through a sleeveless sweater that was somewhat too tight and somewhat too short. Lower still he could see a strip of bare midriff, then a short red skirt supported by a black belt that hung low on her hips. The blonde and her friend got up and headed for the exit. Yarko had a brief opportunity to examine her legs and rounded rear-end, which rocked with every step as she walked by.
Damn, thought Yarko, now I’ve lost them both. Saddened by this turn of events, he lowered his gaze and went back to studying his map of the city. He was looking for the old suburb of Zamarstyniv. There he would have to search for Koronska, the street where his grandparents had lived. With every wave of history that had changed the rulers of this land, the street names were changed too, so the likelihood of finding a Polish-era name in this time of Ukrainian independence seemed slim. He had been studying the map with some degree of frustration when he heard a pleasant female voice.
“Are you visiting Lviv for the first time?” It was Ukrainian with a somewhat softened accent. It expressed a genuine friendly interest. Yarko lowered his map. He saw before him a navel and the tanned skin of bared midriff, and below, the black belt and red skirt. Yarko held his breath as he slowly raised his eyes to take in the skimpy knitwear, then the rounded contours of firm breasts that mercilessly stretched the white yarn. Finally, he met the friendly gaze of the young lady with wavy blonde hair. He stared back much too long before attempting a reply.
“No … but, but yes, yes … it’s,