Someone told me long ago, There's a calm before the storm, I know, it's been comin' for some time
"Have You Ever Seen the Rain", Creedence Clearwater Revival
For Syl, the line between love and hate was very fine, especially when it came to painting. She loved it just as much as she was enslaved to it.
She painted just as she breathed–automatically, but dependently.
It had all started the day after her parents died and Syl was sent to live with her aunt in Worcester, England at the age of ten.
The journey marked her very first train ride, which was terrifying in and of itself, not to mention she was being shuttled to a different country.
When the crowded locomotive made its first stop at Paddington Station, everything changed.
Syl remembered sitting at the front of the train, her knobby knees sticking out from under her dress, a weathered suitcase full of her belongings sitting on her lap.
She didn't know any English then but knew just enough about survival to have her wits about her. She knew that, once this train departed, its next stop would place her in the unrelenting trap that was her Aunt Alyona in Worcester.
First, she wondered why adults always thought it was best to uproot an orphan from their home, their culture, and send them far away where they would be even more scared and more desolate than they already were.
Second, she decided that adults were no longer in charge of her future, so she got off the train at Paddington Station and vowed to never set foot in Worcester as long as she lived.
In the three months that followed, Syl experienced hunger as she'd never felt before. She slept beside rats and humans that were as good as rats. She nicked bread and coins where she could but was hardly skilled enough to do it often without getting caught.
That was when she started selling her paintings. Whenever someone bought one, it was less because of its brilliance and more because of the beanpole Russian girl who was selling it.
Ever since then, there was a desperation in Syl's craft. It was silly, she knew, but there was a subliminal frenzy in her mind telling her that if she didn't sell her work, she'd go back to being that little girl again.
Once she had gained enough talent to earn the name "that art girl on Hackney", she started submitting her work to auctions. She only got less than a quarter of what the bidders paid, but it was enough.
As she learned more English, her bartering skills grew sharper.
That was when she met Pearlie Fedorov.
He frequented the auctions and soon took notice of Syl's work. He had approached her, asking if she'd like a job and Syl, in her naivety and excitement over finding a fellow Russian, said yes.
She hadn't realized Pearlie was an underground gang boss. She hadn't realized she'd tied herself into a world of Soviet violence and crime by working for Pearlie.
And she hadn't realized that, once she was in, it would be very difficult to get out.
For two years, she painted for Pearlie under the pseudonym "Euphradora", after the ancient Grecian artist.
She worked like a slave, day and night, all for a measely pension and a place to sleep.
Even now, Syl had to remind herself that that life was in the past. Now, she was safe. Now, she made honest money and spent it on the things and people she cared about.
She was free.
Syl refocused on her canvas, absently mixing two colors on her palette as she scrutinized her work.
She didn't even notice Bash lingering in the doorway.
He watched for just a moment, half in awe of her intensity.
There was always an elegance surrounding the persona of an artist. A peacefulness that came with gentle brushstrokes.
This did not apply to Syl Krista.
She painted the same way she did everything: dangerously. She could stab a man's neck with the same motion she used to paint a flower and there would be no difference.
Eventually, Syl felt his presence and said without turning around, "Something is on your mind."
Her accent was always thicker when she was focused.
"You're starting to look pale," Bash replied. "You know we can move your studio upstairs, right?"
"Where the seagulls can peck at my work? Pah!"
"You're still scared of seagulls? I thought you got over that."
Now Syl turned around. "I'm not scared. They're bad luck. Now tell me why you're bothering me?"
Bash raked his hand through his hair and shifted. "I called a meeting on deck as soon as the radio winds down for the night. Smiley's about to play the last song."
On any other day, Syl would have said to go on without her and give her the notes from the meeting afterwards, but she noticed the shadow in Bash's brown eyes.
When he wore a frown, it looked even more unusual than when he wore shoes, so Syl put down her palette.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Did something happen with The Big Man?"
From the way he avoided her gaze, Syl had her answer. Her stomach twisted as a million different scenarios played through her head.
She'd never trusted The Big Man, after all, and knew that it was only a matter of time before he'd sink their ship.
She gripped her paintbrush in her fist. "I will kill him."
"What?!"
"Tell me where he is, Bash, or so help me–"
Bash held out his hands. "Calm down, we don't need to add murder to our list of illegal activity."
"It will be quick and quiet. No one will know."
"Syl."
She rolled her eyes. "Well then, tell me why he doesn't deserve it."
"I'll tell you upstairs."
Before she could protest any further, Bash made his way up the steep set of metal stairs and into the evening sunshine.
Once they were both standing on deck, Bash put a hand on her shoulder and gestured to the ocean. "In England, this is what we call na-ture. You might have heard of it?"
"Na-ture," Syl repeated. "That is funny, because in Russia we pronounce it you-are-being-an-arse."
"Last song!" Smiley announced from his chair.
Like moths to a lightbulb, they all gathered near the soundboard and listened. As Jim Morrison played his solo, there was a reverence that fell over The Crumbs that went beyond all their questions and Bash's heavy mind.
Once it was over, however, and the station was put away from the night, the group sat in their lawn chairs around the fireless fire pit and waited for Bash to speak.
"As you all know," he began, rubbing his palms together while trying to sound nonchalant, "I met with The Big Man today. Our numbers are just fine. We've been getting revenue. The station's not shutting down this month."
A collective sigh of relief followed until Bash continued, "But I do have some bad news. First, he said we should hold off on trying to reach Manc."
"What?" Smiley cried, leaping to his feet. "But we've already got the listeners. It wouldn't even be a risk to expand. All we'd have to do is buy better equipment. Between our savings and Syl's painting, we–"
Bash held up a hand. "It's not because we're not capable of expanding, Smiles. That brings me to the second bad news. There's another youth pirate radio in town, docked in the middle of Burrells Wharf. They call themselves the Mad Teddy's."
Shock swept across the three astonished faces in front of him. For a moment, they couldn't speak. And when they could...
"They'll have ten times the listeners from that location!" Smiley said.
"How are they allowed to drop anchor there?" Syl asked.
"I wonder if they're nice," Kathy sighed.
Bash did his best to answer their questions, even though he had more than a few of his own. He told them that the Mad Teddy's weren't a threat yet. It just meant they had to step up their game even more so they could beat out the competition before it started.
"They don't have to be our enemies," Kathy offered.
Everyone looked at her.
Kathy shrugged. "It was just a thought."
Syl tapped her finger on the edge of her knee to emphasize her point as she leaned forward. "This is our business. And businesses have competition all the time. But the difference between us and those zasranets is that we are the best."
"Hear, hear!" the group cried, though it did little to disperse the tension in the air.
"Do you think The Big Man already likes them better than us?" Kathy asked, creasing and uncreasing the material of her skirt as if it were a letter she didn't want to open.
"That's one commendable thing about The Big Man," Bash replied. "I don't think he cares much for anything but money. So if our numbers and revenue stays ace, then we'll still be operating ahead of the Mad Teddy's, which means we'll be the ones still in business."
"And if they have better numbers and revenue?" Smiley asked, even though it was a rhetorical question because everyone already knew the answer.
A moment passed, then two, as the questionable future weighed heavy on the Crumbs.
"Alright, that's quite enough gloom, I think," Bash said. "There's no use worrying about things that may or may not happen. Now how about that solo earlier? I'm not exactly sure I like where Jim Morrison is taking The Doors nowadays."
Syl knew just as well as anybody that Bash only said this to spark a discussion. Or, most likely, an argument. Either way, the mission was accomplished and soon the conversation was back to normal.
Bash had a special way of making things feel okay, even when they weren't. He'd had his fair share of practice, after all.
But Syl was still deeply troubled.
Being threatened flipped a switch in her brain that, for most people, would be a fight or flight response. Unfortunately, Syl's flight response had broken long ago.
If this was a matter of winning or losing, she was determined to come out as the victor.
She caught Bash watching her, his gaze scrutinizing. Sometimes she swore he could see right into her brain.
He came to sit beside her as Kathy and Smiley battled out their opinions on the latest Doors album.
"We don't need to take action yet," Bash said. "Who knows? If they're a bunch of rich boys on a fancy boat, they won't last long in this industry. They won't have the guts."
"And if they do?" Syl asked.
"If they do, then maybe we could somehow work together. We could learn from each other, even."
They looked at each other.
Syl blinked, wondering at first if Bash was actually serious.
Then they laughed.
When Syl Krista laughed, it was like a single ray of sun peeking through a gloomy day. At least, it was to Bash.
"I'm being serious, Sylvette," he tried to scold, even though the corners of his mouth were still smiling. "Maybe we can exchange information. Like Kathy said, maybe they're nice."
"So we go over to Burrells and what? Trade karty retseptovs like straya zhenschinas?"
"What?"
Syl snapped her fingers, trying to think of the words. "Oh, never mind! I can't make jokes in English."
"It's alright, Syl, take your time."
"The–the cards, where you write the ingredients for a meal?"
"A recipe?"
"Yes!" she cried. "We will be trading re-ci-pes with those radio imposters, like old women. That was what I was trying to say."
Sometimes Bash didn't quite understand Syl's humor, but he laughed anyway, mainly because it made Syl laugh too. It felt good after the day he'd had.
Kathy came to stand in front of them, her fists propped on her hips. "I propose we forget about the radio for the rest of the night. Let's just play some music–I have an idea for a new chorus, Bash, that'll match the lyrics you wrote the other day."
"Let's do it," Bash said, jumping to his feet and grabbing his guitar.
Syl looped her bass strap over her shoulder.
Once everyone had their respective instruments in place and they began to play, there was an unspoken feeling of ruling the world coursing through their veins in spite of the news they'd received.
That night, they played louder for all the sky and ocean and birds to hear as if daring the universe to challenge them.
Perhaps the Mad Teddy's had money. Perhaps they had a better spot for broadcasting. Perhaps they even had better equipment and better talk show voices.
But they didn't have what The Crumbs had and, perhaps, they never would.
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