Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, it’s my first time.”

      “Are you alone?”

      “Alone,” he replied, then decided to add, “but what happened to your friend?” before realizing too late that he had given away the fact that he had been admiring her previously.

      “That? That was my uncle. A little presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” Keeping Yarko off balance, she continued, “My name is Dzvinka.”

      “And I, I am Yarko,” he stuttered. “Yaroslaw,” he added as if by way of explanation.

      “American or Canadian? I hear a bit of an accent.”

      “Canadian. But my grandparents came from here.”

      “First time?” asked Dzvinka breathily, leaning just a little closer as she seated herself across from Yarko.

      “Here you mean?” he replied, a little flustered, not sure where to look.

      “Is this your first time in Ukraine?” Dzvinka clarified while adjusting her sweater.

      Yarko refocused on her eyes. “First time in Ukraine.”

      “It can be very confusing without a tour guide. You’d have no idea where to look.”

      “But it also gives me more freedom.” Yarko had to force his eyes not to stray below the neckline. “And I hate nahliadachi.” He used the word for overseers, not knowing the Ukrainian word for chaperones.

      “So have you planned everything out for the day? And do you know what you’re doing tonight?”

      “No plans for tonight. I wouldn’t have the greenest idea where to go,” answered Yarko in idiomatic Ukrainian.

      “Okay, Yarko Yaroslaw,” she teased, “this evening, you could come to the club called Vezha. We’ll have nice music, dancing, some drinks. Here, let me show you on the map.”

      As she spoke, she bent low over the table to study the map. A pair of rounded breasts swung before Yarko’s eyes from above the décolletage of the knitted sweater. He could see where tanned skin met delicate whiteness. The rest was just barely shielded from his gaze by the happily overburdened СКАЧАТЬ