Nikolai Pakhomov : Movie Night

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He never watched movies.

Sure, he rented them from time to time, preferring the old VHS to DVD, even when others pointed out the benefits of the newer technology. Occasionally, he went so far as to make popcorn, dragging out the thrift-store air popper and catching the fresh kernels in a chipped mixing bowl. He never salted them. But when it came time to actually sit down to watch, he could never keep still.

No matter what he watched, be it horror, action, documentary, or—God forbid—romance, he never saw the film all the way to the end. Going to the theater was out of the question. If he were even interested in what was playing, there was no feasible way to coax the seven-fifty out of his tightly closed wallet.

So, she really shouldn’t have been surprised when he, sitting cross-legged on her sleek leather sofa, looked up from his book and began to swear. The Russian words grated against the flowing Japanese of the movie. Despite herself, she jumped. Horror movies normally did nothing to faze her, but the darkness of the apartment and the sudden, irritated words did nothing to help the mood.

“The hell’s your problem?” she asked, automatically hitting the pause button. The sounds of the heroine’s screams instantly ceased.

He didn’t answer, just shook his head and turned his attention back to his reading.

“Nikolai,” she growled. One sock-covered foot prodded his hip. He scooted away from the contact, giving her even more room to stretch out across the couch. Nik, if it bothers you that much, pull your nose out of the damn book and tell me, would you?”

“It’s stupid,” he informed her, dryly. “If this… grudge thing, is as corporeal as it appears, why don’t they just… I don’t know, smack it upside the head?”

Jordan groaned. She should have known this was a bad idea. “It’s just a movie,” she said. “It’s just a lame American version of a Japanese legend. All right? Chill.” She flicked the movie back on.

About three more minutes of death rattling passed before she spoke again. One could really only take so much of that sound before more than broken vocal cords were rubbed raw. “And besides. It’s a curse. Curses aren’t corporeal anyway.”

Amber eyes flickered in her direction. “Then how is it touching them, hm?” he asked. One messy eyebrow arched. “How did it grab the girl in the beginning?”

“It’s part of the curse!”

He snorted.

She chucked some popcorn at him. “How the hell am I supposed to know, huh?” Jordan asked. “Do I look like Shimizu here?”

More of the movie passed, predictably enough. He kept swearing, paying less attention to his book and more attention to directing the rapidly declining cast of characters. Finally, she turned it off again. He didn’t seem to notice. Even as the screen froze, he kept up his litany of insults and questions. Some in English, some Russian. When it finally clicked that nothing had changed since he questioned the costume designer, he turned to her, glaring accusingly.

“I’m not saying it’s cinematic genius or anything, Nik,” Jordan moaned, exasperated. “But I paid six bucks to watch Buffy get smacked around by something other than vampires. And I swear to God, if you cheat me out of that six bucks, I will fucking grudge your ass.”

Blonde brows furrowed, their owner trying to work out what she had just said. Abandoning that pursuit, he spoke again. “It has to be a psychological ‘curse’,” he told her, nodding, as if that statement solved everything. “This woman is imagining everything that’s happening, and it’s driving her insane.”

Now it was her turn to be confused. “No, Nik, it’s not.” Her head fell back against the headrest, one black-nailed hand massaging her temples. “It’s a real curse. You walk in, the lady haunts you until you die.”

“But why?”

“She’s pissed.”

“Because you walked into her house?”

“No, because her husband killed her.”

“So… why isn’t the husband the one with the ‘grudge’? Why are the wife and son… er… cat… the ones who kill other people?”

“I don’t know. It’s just how this goes.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Instead of a few kernels, Jordan threw the entire bowl of popcorn at him. The bowl froze midair, hanging inches from his nose, while the popcorn itself sprayed everywhere, most lodging comically in his unkempt hair. Slowly, it lowered itself to his lap, revealing his bemused expression. Jordan glared. “Ghosts don’t have to make sense, Nikolai,” she said. “People don’t make sense half the time when they’re alive.” She shook a finger at him, indicating Nikolai was one of said confusing people. “Why the hell should they when they’re dead?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Jordan.” He looked exasperated now. “We of all people should know that.” The bowl lifted into the air again, spinning slowly for emphasis. Behind his amber eyes lurked a pale glow.

She shrugged it off. “Yeah, I know. God wouldn’t let people wander the earth like that.” One hand rubbed at the back of her neck. “This chick’d be in Hell faster than you can say ju-on if this was real life.”

When he didn’t say another word, she looked over at him. His eyes were cold as he gazed down at the cover of his book.

The Antichrist. Nietzsche.

He would be reading that at the exact moment she brought God up. Again, she poked him with a toe, harder this time. He flinched. “Nik,” she sighed. “I… Sorry, okay? Forget I mentioned God. Just this once. I’m not in the mood.”

“Just watch the movie, Jordan.”

She stared at him.

“You did pay six dollars for it, right?” A trace of humor lit his face. “You shouldn’t waste money losing a debate.”

“Who says I’d lose?” She felt a devious grin on her lips.

He peered at her over the rims of his glasses, then returned his attention to the television. “Why don’t they try a Buddhist purification ritual on the house?”

A new wave of irritation surged up. “So you’ll buy into Buddha, but not God?” she exclaimed. “What the hell?”

He shook a finger at her, imitating her earlier gesture. “Siddhartha never set himself up as a god,” he replied, smug. “He was simply a wise man with good ideas about how to live life and attain peace.” The book was once again opened. “It’s much easier to like a man who is humble, rather than one who claims to be the son of an all-powerful god.”

Jordan stood, abruptly, collecting the bowl and striding into the kitchen. Surprised, Nikolai watched her leave, glancing from the still-running movie to her retreating back, unsure of what had just transpired. “Are you getting more popcorn?” he ventured.

“No,” she said. Her voice echoed in the darkened apartment. “I’m putting the bowl away so I don’t break it on your face the next time you say something so damn stupid.”

“How considerate of you,” he replied.

Anything he was going to say next died on his tongue as she emerged from the kitchen, carrying both a dish of walnuts and a very large, very heavy nutcracker. She sat down beside him again, proceeding to noisily shell the nuts, watching the action onscreen with an intensity bordering on enraged. Nikolai wisely refrained from further directing.

It was the first time he ever watched a movie through to the end.