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Past imperfect. Aderin Bran
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Marco cursed out loud, slammed his fist unnecessarily hard into the pillow, and tried to lie down on his stomach. After all these thoughts, lying on his stomach was uncomfortable. Marco cursed his stubborn body, which did not want to eat starvation rations, and declared it in every possible way.
Marco realised that he would not be able to sleep. He got up, grumbled through his teeth, and – naked – went back into the living room. He picked up a glass, drained it in one gulp, and poured himself more wine. But it only made things worse. His brain, clouded by alcohol, refused to obey and gave him a series of images of a red-haired temptress one by one.
After two hours of fruitless attempts to distract himself with TV, wine, music, or anything else, Marco gave up and went to take a shower. Standing in front of the transparent wall, he wondered if he could act like a true stoic and stand under cold water. His second option was to stop acting like a moral idiot and get into a warm shower and solve the problem as a real warrior. In other words, as some poor guy who was quite an adult but didn't have access to women in the flesh. Ignoring his ego, Marco turned on the hot water.
The image of the hated witch didn't leave his mind, and Marco stayed in the shower for much longer than planned. He wasn't able to get to bed until four in the morning, drunk and exhausted.
He dreamed of a red-haired witch. Naked, she lay on a white rumpled sheet, shamelessly spreading her legs, beckoning to him and smiling invitingly. The reflections of the flames danced on her white skin, her hands reached out to him, stroking his flushed face and pulling him closer.
She asked him for something softly and tenderly, clinging to him like a cat. She kissed him and whispered something tender in his ear. Her accent drove Marco crazy, and he tossed and turned in his sleep unable to calm his newly awakened excitement.
And then the flames burst into his dreams again and Marco woke with a muffled cry. Marco did not see the tragedy that happened to his parents personally. All he found was the black, sooty and gloomy parental remains of a house that looked like a cemetery crypt.
His recollection of the process of identifying of his parents was poor. Of course, they showed him what was left of them, but he would not have recognised those charred remains as human had he not been told what they were. Since then, he had often dreamed about fire.
For two years now, fire had been preventing Marco from getting a good night's sleep. Almost every night, the ubiquitous flames penetrated his dreams and woke Marco up mercilessly. They did not take pity on Marco even on New Year's Eve. Marco went to bed at four and at five, the nightmare awakened him. Then, Marco tossed and turned for an hour before finally falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
And at eight, his assistant Vincenzo called. Marco's head throbbed and his body still ached from the previous day’s exertions. Marco was ready to get mad and tear up the contract but then he remembered the size of the penalty and answered the phone.
"I hope you have an important reason for waking me up at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day on my legal free day," he said gloomily instead of greeting.
Vincenzo was cheerful and radiant, to the point of making Marco grind his teeth.
"Ma-a-arco, dear! Buon anno!"
"So far, it's not a good start," Marco growled.
"Don't get angry, Marco!" Vincenzo continued undeterred. "Do you remember that we start filming 'Russian' scenes tomorrow?"
“Tomorrow, Vincenzo! So why a hell are you calling me today and at such an early hour?!”
“We were lucky, my dear friend!”
“Really?!” Marco growled again.
"Quite by chance, an interpreter from Moscow is visiting Rome right now," Vincenzo almost sang. “This girl just yesterday taught my uncle Giuseppe to make wishes when the clock strikes. It is demanded to drink prosecco with the ash of a piece of paper where the wish is written!”
“What kind of nonsense is this? Vincenzo, are you drunk?”
“I’m totally serious, Marco! Honestly! My uncle told me that his entire staff burned paper at night. The residents of the upper floors have almost called rescuers and firefighters!”
“What a folly!” Marco snorted, desperate to get rid of his assistant.
“So, about the interpreter. She kindly agreed to help you with your text at a reasonable price. And she’s ready to do it today.”
"What makes you think I need help?” Marco muttered.
“Because, Marco, you've only heard Russian language in American action movies and this is a not really good study guide!” Vincenzo replied quickly.
“I trained with an e-translator!" Marco got angry.
"I'd prefer you to get a consultation with a native speaker." the assistant insisted.
"And I’d prefer to sleep!" Marco barked, losing his temper.
"In this case, you are not paid to sleep. If they have to reshoot scenes with your Russian text, the penalty may be higher than your fee. Do you need it?"
Marco howled like an enraged beast; Vincenzo burst out laughing.
"Come on, come on my friend! I've set up an appointment with your interpreter at Largo di Torre Argentina at eleven. You have three hours to make yourself presentable and get there."
Vincenzo hung up, and Marco barely resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. This was absolutely not how he had imagined a successful start to the year. Grinding his teeth, he finally dragged himself out of bed. The icing on the cake of his anger was the discovery of an empty coffee tin. Marco somehow forgot that supplies tend to run out and had not bothered buying more.
Marco arrived at the meeting five minutes before it was due and decided he could finally satisfy his need for coffee. The interpreter was late and this did not improve his mood at all. He was inspecting the menu when a woman broke noisily into the cafe and began asking for Signor Guerriero. She was led to him, and Marco reluctantly looked up from his menu to see who the hell his assistant had sent to punish him for his sins. As he looked up, a red fog covered his sight.
The same split-tail from the restaurant was gliding towards him. So that was what the accent had been! She was Russian. In daylight, she looked even younger, like a teenager. Her pale blue silk dress elegantly emphasized her slender figure, making her look like a mermaid. She wasn't wearing makeup, and her red hair was tousled.
She looked as if she had just jumped out of bed, where she had been sleeping very restlessly. Or didn't sleep at all. Her full lips formed a surprised "o" and her eyes became wide open. Marco finally saw their colour. Bluish-green, like the shallow waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
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