Dinner Reservation

Anastasiya was grateful that her favorite restaurant had not changed much in 100 years. Run by the same family since 1922, it could only be described as a quaint Italian hole-in-the-wall and she fondly remembered attending the grand opening. The owner, back then, was an older immigrant gentleman with a warm smile and a raspy voice painted in a thick Sicilian accent. Her own Slavic tenor was still very noticeable and always made the Americans do a conspicuous double-take. During its’ early years, the bistro itself, was lit by a multitude of soft candles decorating the handful of tables and ceiling candelabra. Photographs of the family across generations and beautiful paintings of Sicily adorned wooden shelves and deep maroon walls, scattered bits of history displayed like an ancestral museum. Over the years, she watched as the photographs of the original owner were added to the walls when he passed. Then his wife. His children. Now, grandchildren and great-grandchildren shouted and laughed together in the kitchens, cooking the same recipes Anastasiya had been eating for almost a century. She was eternally grateful the arancini had stayed the same through it all, even when the decor changed. Even when business slowed to a snail’s pace.

She ordered some red wine with Dante, who had recognized her immediately when she had walked in and sat her at her favorite table: tucked away in a corner booth where there was a view into the kitchens and through the panoramic windows facing the city’s streets. The dark cushions were slightly worn, but one could tell they were attended to with great care, and the same could be said for the beautiful round oak table. Even without the ‘quarterly’ reservation, she still frequented the restaurant once a week to savor the taste of the past that she longed for. No one that worked there ever seemed to take notice that she hadn’t seemed to age or that she spoke in a way that seemed ethereal and timeless. The family just continued to serve her with consistent warmth and appreciation. Her and her companion met here every quarter century, to chat and catch up, discuss how the world has changed. There wasn’t anyone else who understood her circumstances better than the gentleman who gifted her immortality. It was always in Sasha’s nature to arrive earlier than him, so she watched cars and pedestrians pass by outside in the glow of street lamps and a rising full moon, as she recalled the day she met him, at this very table.

It was a busy night, only a couple years after opening. She was drinking the same glass of merlot, which costs hundreds of dollars today; at the time, it was much less expensive and much younger in its taste. But she sat there, watching and reveling in the vigor that engulfed the room. Sasha loved the feeling of life. She hated being the center of that life but loved to be surrounded by the exuberance of others’ joy. She peered over the rim of her glass, relishing the taste of cherries and aged wood when their eyes met. His were a startling crystalline hue. From a distance, they seemed to disappear into the sclera, leaving behind widened abyssal pupils staring back. His black hair was slicked back fashionably and contrasted with the ghostly color of his skin; chiaroscuro come alive. He was beautiful in the way a Caravaggio painting was: sepulchral and staggering. A slender hand raised a glass of whiskey in her direction in acknowledgment, giving rise to a soft flush up Sasha’s neck. She couldn’t help but raise hers in returns and sheepishly smile at him. The gentleman took her reciprocation as an invitation and prowled through the crowd from his seat at the bar, until he was asking if she was alone here tonight. She couldn’t help the show of surprise in her brows at the mirroring Slavic intonation in his voice.

“Da.” He grinned widely and sat himself on the other side of her in the booth, not bothering to ask if he could join her.

“Why do you sit alone, hidden in a corner?” His Russian was smooth like butter, and it shocked her to hear her native language for the first time since she emigrated from Rostov. Most of her people aimed to assimilate and would rather speak through broken English.

“I like to watch. It fills me with joy to observe others’ joy.”

He hummed in response and took another sip of his whiskey, as a server brought out Sasha’s order. The smell of beef and cheese and creamy fried risotto warmed her chest with a deep inhale, leaving even her unwitting guest intrigued.

“That smells delicious. May I try a bite?” She was hesitant to let even one ball from her grasp, but out of a sense of solidarity in their heritage, Anastasiya offered him one.

“You’ve sat with me, drank with me; now you have eaten my food, and yet you have not even asked me my name before doing so,” she glibly stated, not a drop of hostility in her voice. Although most Slavic languages sound hostile without even meaning to.

“I suppose you’re correct,” he licked bits of beef ragu off his fingers as he spoke, “What might your name be then?”

“Anastasiya. You can call me Sasha. And what shall I call you?” she chirped back, feeling the pleasant heat of wine in her chest slowly beginning to spread to her limbs.

“You can call me Veles.”

“Mm, it’s not often you find someone named after the God of the underworld.” Which is true; it was uncommon in their culture to bestow names of darkness, for they bring bad fortune.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m named after him.”

So here she was, a century later, waiting to see him again. The wine tasted older, though, and the fixtures more modern. Instead of a candelabra, there hung a warmly lit chandelier, and the paintings of Sicilian landscapes were replaced with contemporary artwork. Anastasiya loathed anything post-modern and beyond; there truly was nothing that could compare to the beauty of the artwork she idolized in her youth. She was mulling over her favorite Goya painting when she felt him walk in. Between the liquor and the radiating body heat of people packed into the small restaurant on the night she met him, she never noticed how the air grew cold when he was near. The goosebumps traveling up her neck had her looking towards the door where he had just floated through and now made his way to their table. His attire hadn’t changed much: crisp and black from his pinstripe suit to the windsor knot of his tie, the elegance accentuating his sharp lines and lean frame. He looked monotonous. All shades of black and gray and white. Except for those cold blue eyes.

“Sasha, you look well,” he moves in to kiss her cheek, and she leans up and into it, accepting his frozen lips.

“Velichik, you look the same as always.” He laughs gruffly, huffing a lukewarm breath on her face.

He still smells like whiskey and bergamot.

Veles sits down in the same spot he did back in 1924, right across from her, where both can gaze into each other’s eyes and bear witness. He clasps his hands under his chin and smirks,

“Is that the same bottle as the first night?”

“It is. It’s been 100 years, hasn’t it? It felt like something worth celebrating,” she said bluntly as she took a sip. They still speak in crisp, fluent Russian; the language acting as an esoteric bond between them.

“It has, hasn’t it. I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re far too busy collecting souls to keep track of something as trivial as time. I, however, have only this to look forward to these days,” she retorts. Veles hums in commiseration. Sasha watches him, his apathetic and empty stare searching her for something. What, she doesn’t know yet. Dante walks over shortly after and takes Veles’ order for a glass of his oldest, smoothest whiskey, neat and an order of arancini. They take their time. They sip their poisons of choice, nibble on fried risotto, and banter about the state of the world: the decline in taste and literacy. The ugliness and horrors. They discuss her increasingly garish pleasure in fantasy novels and how they ‘romanticize’ immortality. The distinctive but beautiful joy she finds hidden in small places. How humanity has a short, short memory

“It hurts sometimes. To appreciate the beautiful things alone. To watch a sunset without anyone to share it with,” deep grief reverberating through her voice, “How is he? Is he at peace?” She looks down into the empty glass in her hand as she speaks.

“You know I can’t tell you that, Sasha. The answer will remain the same. Don’t tell me you’re regretting the deal we made all those ages ago.”

“Ha. I started regretting it the day my love died and my heart with him. And since then it has only grown. Immortality, the blessing of eternal life. The curse of watching every person you have ever loved die around you. You and I are old friends, Velichik. Let’s not act like your presence isn’t a consequence of your gift,” she lifts her face to his, “One can never truly outrun death, can they?” A grim smile emerges on her lips.

When Anastasiya was still a young woman, only a few short years after she met Veles, they made a deal: immortality…so long as he had a companion for a standing dinner reservation at their favorite establishment. Naive and already weighed down by existential fears, she accepted, longing for an eternity of pleasure and beauty and the effervescence of life. But nothing was ever eternal, and death was always nearby. Pleasure turned to war and then back again over and over. Life begets death. Love begets heartbreak. Choices beget regrets. Over and over. Sasha had lived many lifetimes, but only the first ever brought her meaning. Now she was but an overflowing vessel of memories and lamentations.

“I suppose you’re right. But at least we have arancini, whiskey, wine, and each other.” He raises his glass to her, finishing the last of his drink.

“Not for much longer, it seems.” Sasha stands, slipping a coat over her lean figure, covering the dark crewneck sweater as she prepares to walk out into the cold night. They are the last patrons at this point, with 25 minutes left until the restaurant closes. The streets outside are emptier and the moon has risen up, up, up into the sky. Veles rises as well, no jacket or coat to speak of. The cold isn’t a bother to the God of the Underworld. He scratches his immaculately trimmed beard, speckled with salt and pepper.

“Well, as always Anastasiya,” her name melting into a purr on his tongue, “It was a pleasure.” Taking her hand, he lays a gentle to kiss to the top of her knuckles. Veles opens the door for her and she steps out, looking up to see the banner displaying the words CLOSING SOON in bright, red lettering.

“See? By our next reservation they’ll be gone and so shall I.” But there’s no response from Veles, for as soon as he shuts the oak door to the establishment for the last time, he vanishes into the eastern wind, and so does she.