The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw

business?’ he said.
    â€˜I wasn’t aware that a missing bag was business,’ I said sharply.
    â€˜Ah, there you go, you see,’ said Jonas, a lop-sided grin disfiguring his face. ‘You have a need, the bag, I have a way of satisfying your need. That is business. That is what we have been learning from the West, isn’t it? Capitalism!’ He raised his small glass. ‘To the West and capitalism,’ he laughed.
    I did not lift my glass. ‘Are you telling me that you have the bag?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to business, no time for chit chat. Here we are then. I know where your bag is.’
    â€˜You know where it is?’
    â€˜Yes!’ he said, the same idiotic grin twisting his face.
    â€˜And where is it?’
    â€˜Ah!’ He tapped his nose. ‘I don’t actually have the bag. If I did, of course I wouldn’t be here bargaining with you.’ He paused. ‘However, the person that does have it says that if you want it so bad then you’ll be happy to pay for it.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if such logic was alien to him.
    â€˜How much?’ I sighed, reaching for my wallet.
    â€˜One hundred dollars,’ he said without hesitation, fixing me with his eye. He downed his vodka and shuffled out of his seat. Indicating the empty glass he limped off to the bar. I leaned back in my chair. When he returned, he raised his glass to toast me once more, cheerfully, as if his bargain was the most reasonable that could have been expected.
    â€˜You are expecting me to pay one hundred dollars for a plastic bag and some paper?’ I asked, incredulously.
    He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘I tried to argue him down, but that was his final price,’ he said, reasonably.
    â€˜Who has it?’ I demanded.
    â€˜Ah, well, I can’t tell you that,’ he said. ‘Wish that I could, but he said absolutely not.’
    â€˜Tell me!’ I said, my voice rising to a shout, blood rushing to my face. ‘Tell me who has it, Jonas.’
    He grinned. The barman glanced over, cleaning glasses, not too concerned.
    â€˜You don’t need to shout,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to go behaving like that.’
    â€˜I’ll be doing more if you don’t get me that manuscript back,’ I hissed.
    He shook his head, the sly grin slipping uncontrollably across his face. ‘You should be careful getting so worked up at your age,’ he smirked, ‘it’s no good for your heart.’ He got up to leave. ‘Call me if you’re interested in getting the papers.’
    Boarding the trolley bus on Gedimino, I sat down heavily. I ran a hand through my hair. My anger at Jonas was tempered only by my anxiety over Jolanta. My concern for the manuscript was not as strong as the fear that I would never see her again. The trolley bus crawled through the morning traffic. Rain patterned the windows and wind tussled the trees. Two women talked quietly, moaning about prices. Crossing the river, the trolley bus climbed the steep hill between the grass banks. At the Karoliniskiu stop I got off and trudged slowly to the bench outside her apartment block.
    For an hour I sat in the light rain, until it began to soak through my jacket and I worried I might catch a cold. She did not appear. I travelled up the lift to the top floor and stood for a few minutes staring at the four blank doors that opened off the top landing. Not a sound came from behind any of them.
    The trolley bus made its way back into the Old Town and I walked home slowly in the rain, head buried deep in my upturned collar. Cold, miserable and confused.
    I kept two hundred Litas in a tin in the kitchen; that is about fifty dollars. In my wallet there was a little more. Carefully I laid all the money out on a table and sat down by the window. The rain had begun to fall harder. I poured a large brandy. The telephone did not ring