Author: Jacqueline Kaufman

Jean of Arc takes her meds, swallowing carefully. “Delicious,” smiling, almost all her teeth intact. The voices have gone somewhere in the whiteness, gathering strength. In Russo-Amerique, meds are treasure, and she has been selected. Regularized. She has a home, concrete gray blocks that hold wind at bay, tuck in the heat for hours, even after the coal is turned to ash, and sparks behind the metal grate jump like fireflies.

She lives on the corner of Esperance and Eagle. A train rumbles at odd hours, signaling a fresh shipment. Footsteps now from the hallway. Boots covered with snow. Crunch-thud, crunch-thud. Vlad- James has brought a new pal. Always a good girl, she bows her head when asked to get on her knees, performs a benediction with her mouth, and draws the word hope with her tongue.

It’s not all bad. Sometimes a new pal proffers a stem, and she jettisons towards the sun before splashdown, seconds later. Vlad- James tells her she’ll star in a movie soon, a thousand riders behind her. She’ll lead each one to private victory.

She can leave at will, Vlad- James says, pointing towards the direction of the train. “That way is Kyiv.” For a moment, she smells onions sizzling in butter, hears the hiss of oil spattering the air. He points in the other direction. “And this way, Camelot.” He laughs when she looks confused. He promises a helmet soon, payment for her work. “The visor will be lined with pure gold.” In the wilderness once called Siberia, the sun swallows the snow inch by inch, exhales to create scorched landscapes, fields of blackened trees. Its glare brings blindness to those who venture unprotected.

“When?” Joan asks.

Vlad-James lights a cigarette, takes first drag, hands it to her.

“Soon.” She savors the sound. She will open her mouth then, pretend to swallow, unearth the meds from her cheeks, and bury them in the snow. A day, a week will pass. At first, the voices will whisper sounds, not words. The beginning times. But she will listen carefully. Good girls are patient.

For now, she draws on the cigarette. Smoke rises upbetween her and the Vlad-James, between her and everything else, encircling her head, drifting upward, a halo.