AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE BLACK VOLGA
It was after three in the morning in Chicago, probably a Thursday, when that vintage Soviet car pulled up alongside me, its exhaust sweet with sulfur. I knew the old tales from Eastern Europe during the Cold War: the Black Volga swallowed up those wandering alone at night, and visited upon them horrors known only through legend. Some believed its operators stole blood and organs for the sickly children of wealthy families abroad; others, that it was driven by the Devil himself, and used for his private errands. At some point it must have crossed the ocean, seeking new territory for its infernal duties.
The Volga’s interior was obscured from view by a curtain of white satin. There was no kidnapping party in balaclavas, no bag over the head, just an invitation from a stilted, feminine voice as the rear door opened. “This is the car you think it is. We know where you’re staying. We do not mean that as a threat. We would like to give you a ride back to your hotel, if you would hear a proposal from us. Otherwise, you are free to go.”
"Just a proposal?"
"Yes."
The risk was obvious. “I only have to hear the proposal? I don’t have to accept?”
“That is correct.”
It was a terrible idea, but I felt the sudden cold of being in the shadow of God, and realized I was perhaps safer in their custody than with whatever else was emerging on this strange night. “Very well.” I peeled back the curtain and climbed inside.
There, I was greeted by a pale woman in black velvet so tall that she barely fit into the space allotted. She shook my hand with fingers so long that they curled all the way around my palm. Every surface was white as chalk. The curtain wrapped around the entire backseat, preventing me from seeing the driver at all. “We will not be giving you our names, and we already know yours.”
I wondered which of my names she knew, if any, but offered none. “That’s fine.”
“While we are here, we cannot leave this car.” She motioned toward where the driver presumably was. “We do not know the stories that people tell about us, anymore, what we are to them in this place. We would like for you to tell a story of us. That we are generous, and mean no one harm. The war is over. As you can see, we are transporting you safely, as agreed. You can even tell your audience of only this, and we shall reward you modestly, in ways you will never fully know.”
“Is that true, that you mean no one harm?”
“It is a story we would like told.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“We are indifferent to your choice, and simply have a preferred outcome. You have as long as you need to make it. We will not exchange any more words with you.”
"Wait, that's it?"
She remained silent and still for the rest of the ride, save for her breath, staring at me with eyes that did not agree with the size of their sockets. When the car finally stopped, I emerged from behind the curtain into cool, pre-dawn air. I watched until the Volga exited onto the highway again, and vanished into the distance. Then, I laughed wildly with relief from what had just transpired.
I'd never been happier to be dropped off at the wrong hotel.