Hotel Moscow (20 page)

Olga let out a plume of smoke from the side of her mouth. “I admire filial loyalty—our Soviet regime glorified children that turned in their parents; it broke the crucial bond of a core family in any healthy society. But I am deeply disappointed to see you leave. Look how easily you’ve just figured out the scheme with the nickel and copper. You have so much to teach us.”

Brooke felt the pull. “I apologize for leaving you in the lurch.” She bent a little to hug Olga. “Thank you.”

Olga pulled back and punched the timed light switch. “We’ve said everything we can say. Viktor will drive you back to the hotel. Wait here. He’ll come right down.”

After Olga walked up, the light went out. Brooke did not punch the button again.

B
ROOKE WOKE UP
on her last day in Moscow to spokes of sun spraying through the window. In the morning light, her initial urge to help Olga investigate the mafia seemed like sheer lunacy. Vera had shown her their methods. Establishing a fund for women would be a much more reasonable way to help—if she could bring herself to defile the memory of her relatives.

She held the matryoshka and admired the delicate brush strokes. The symbolism of motherhood moving back through history, one the product of another, would forever remain with her. She wrapped her silk nightgown around it, then placed the one remaining piece of Irina’s broken ashtray between two sweaters.

“Are you all packed?” Amanda asked, walking in from the bathroom. Her glance took in the suitcase still open on the bed. The collection of plastic bags and gifts of lipstick, aspirin, con
doms, and music cassettes Brooke had brought was piled on the desk.

“I’m going down for breakfast,” Brooke said. “The chef will probably have bagels and lox for us, and Aleksandr will have bought the Sunday
New York Times,
right?”

Amanda put her arms around Brooke. “I’m sorry to see you leave.”

Brooke returned the hug, glad that their friendship would survive her departure. “I have till the afternoon to join your trip to the arts and crafts market.”

In the dining room, Aleksandr was nursing a cup of coffee. Brooke stopped by his table. “What’s the news today?”

“About what?”

“The parliament. Have you heard of the almost-war that’s been going on there for over two weeks?”

Aleksandr shrugged. “Nothing’s new, yes?”

“No news is good news.” Jenny chirped from the next table, where she sat with two strange men.

“Are the roads to the airport clear?” Brooke asked Aleksandr.

“You shouldn’t worry.”

“Aleksandr.” She forced her tone to remain pleasant this last time she must deal with him. “It’s not for you to decide what I should or shouldn’t worry about. It’s your job to keep us informed.”

Aleksandr blushed and pulled a newspaper clipping from the pocket of his leather jacket. As he did so, a wad of papers fell on the floor. Quickly, he bent to retrieve them, but Brooke stomped her foot on them.

“Hold it.” She picked up the papers and stared at the top
one. “My faxes are here. You were supposed to drop them off at EuroTours on Friday.”

Aleksandr stared at his shoes. “I didn’t get to the office.”

“Any reason you didn’t tell us that in the forty-eight hours since then?” Brooke’s father hadn’t known before their phone conversation that she was here—nor was Hoffenbach made aware of her whereabouts. She studied the papers. Among them was a list of the group members’ names in English and their respective room phone numbers. She was astonished to also recognize the numbers for her office phone in New York along with her unlisted home phone. On the margin next to her name was a note in Cyrillic. “What does it say?” she asked Aleksandr, pointing at the scribbles.

She hadn’t noticed that Judd was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, until she smelled his cinnamon-and-wood aftershave. “May I?” he asked. Gently, he extracted the list from her hand, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.

“It’s mine!” Aleksandr protested. “This paper is mine.”

“Not any more,” Judd replied. He handed Brooke her faxes. “You want them?”

Unnerved by Aleksandr, baffled by Judd, Brooke took her faxes. Thankfully, she was about to go home. She stepped away and settled at a small table behind a paneled column. On her plate, the now-familiar measured quantities of sliced hard-boiled egg, cucumber, yellow cheese, beet, salami, pickled red cabbage, herring, and radish must have been set out last night and had since dried up. She poured herself kefir, preferring it to the alternatives, borscht or a “coffee-flavored drink” that looked and tasted like brown dishwater.

Judd took the chair across from her. Light streamed down through the tall windows. A ray of sunlight illuminated the gray of his eyes. His long fingers played with a piece of bread. His nails were filthy; even the creases of his skin seemed to have caked-in dirt.

“Have you been planting trees all night?” Brooke asked.

Unruffled, he sipped his kefir. “I spilled this goddamned liquid shoe polish all over the place. Lemon will clean it.” He called over a waiter, and, using his pocket Russian dictionary, said, “
Leemon.
”

“What was the deal with that paper you confiscated from Aleksandr?”

“I didn’t like the information he was gathering.”

She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms. “So you read Russian.”

“I’d rather everyone not know that.”

She glanced at the tourist dictionary he’d just used with the waiter. She thought of their meeting with Tkachev, and of the restaurant, where Judd had pretended not to know the language—or the owner. It was easy to connect the dots. He had been raised by grandparents who never assimilated. She knew such families, and they spoke Russian at home. Judd was merely one of the gold rush opportunists, those who often blurred ethical lines when laws didn’t exist—

She rose from the table, still hungry. “I hope that whatever brought you to Russia will pan out for you.” She lifted a slice of brown rye bread to take along. “I’m leaving today. At five.”

“I’ll be in touch in a few months.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

T
HANKS TO JENNY,
the morning in Izmailovo art and craft market was one of the most exciting adventures Svetlana had ever had. Jenny’s chatter, her quick eye for merchandise, her way with the vendors, and her brazen bargaining left Svetlana breathless.

“I’m glad you’re hanging out with me.” Jenny looped Svetlana’s arm though hers. “Let the other interpreters take care of these tootsies.”

Svetlana giggled, reveling in the feel of Jenny’s plump arm, as though they were old school friends, equals. Jenny was the only plump woman among the Americans, but her voluptuousness was feminine, like that of a sexy Russian. Today she was striking in her turquoise kimono jacket, embroidered with cranes and water lilies, so unlike the all-black Amanda often wore, or Brooke’s interchangeable pastel-colored shirts. If Svetlana had their money, she would dress like Jenny.

Jenny stopped in front of an artist’s easel that displayed a
painting of two fish in bright blues and aqua. Their dark eyes were thoughtful, human. “Aquarius. My sign.” Jenny kissed the tips of her own fingers. “Ask him how much.”

“Two hundred dollars. First price,” Svetlana translated the artist’s words, almost choking. Two hundred dollars was her entire yearly salary.

“Twenty,” Jenny said.

“Twenty? You want me to tell him only twenty?”

“Didn’t he say ‘first price’?”

Of course, no one ever paid the price quoted. Svetlana always bargained, yet a counteroffer at 10 percent was insulting; she would have offered at least 50 percent. When Svetlana hesitated, Jenny said, “This is how supply and demand points meet. It’s the fun part of selling, or business would be boring.”

To Svetlana’s astonishment, Jenny ended up buying the painting for only fifty dollars. While the artist wrapped it in newspaper, Jenny said, “This place reminds me of Little Italy. That’s where I grew up, in New York City. Promise me that one day you’ll come visit. It has the best food in the world outside of Italy.” She looked around. “Can we grab a bite?”

Svetlana shook her head. “They don’t sell food here.”

“It’s a market. There must be something. A snack bar, a kiosk—”

“We don’t waste food by eating it fast, in the street.”

“Oh, well. I’m dangerous when I’m hungry.”

Svetlana giggled.

Jenny smacked her own forehead. “Whoopsy-do. I almost forgot. Have the artist sign the painting and print his full name on the back.”

The artist shook his head. “It’s not a good idea,” Svetlana translated.

“Why? Artists should be proud to sign their work.”

“An old Communist law. Art is the intellectual property of Russia, not to be exploited by the West. The artist can get into trouble.”

“Russia has nothing better to do than chase after poor painters who try to make a living?” Shaking her head in disgust, Jenny resumed strolling, toting the painting by the string of its wrap. “I can’t wait for the customs officer to stop me—” She halted mid-sentence and clutched Svetlana’s arm. “Look at those!”

“What? Where?” All Svetlana could see were peasant blouses hanging from a bar on top of a stand. “These are just proletariat shirts. Not worth much.”

“The embroidery! Look at the rich, colorful, dense patterns. Fabulous. What fine handiwork.” Jenny pulled Svetlana over to the stand.

“Don’t spend good money on them,” Svetlana said. “They aren’t made of silk or cut in a Western style that’s hard to get. They’re common, like potatoes.”

“So what? It’s the people’s art. Notice the cross-stitching? How the red and black play off each other? The white on white? See how exact the workmanship is? It’s exquisite.” Jenny’s fingers traced the stitches, the seams. “Beautiful things are part of everyday life. Art is part of life.”

In the next hour, with Jenny’s guidance, Svetlana understood for the first time the beauty of things that had always surrounded her: the intricate designs in the Persian rugs, the enchanting simplicity of painted ceramic plates, the nostalgia of war memo
rabilia, the spirituality of antique icons. Jenny’s discerning eye stopped at a handsewn fur hat, an exotic stamp collection, a Chinese vase dating back before the 1917 Revolution—and she bought them all.

Jenny’s verve lit a spark that had lain dormant in Svetlana. She felt inspired, pushed through the boundaries of her own skin. Then she remembered: Emulating Jenny had been a mistake. A painful recollection of Sidorov passed through her. Without warning, he was behind her. Her nipples stung from his pinch. Her insides recoiled from his flesh.

Stop it! Attitude Is Everything,
Svetlana chided herself. She must force herself not think of him. She must ignore her fear of their next encounter.

“Hey, are you with me?” Jenny snapped her fingers in front of Svetlana’s face. “Help me put these on.”

A Communist official’s hat rested on Jenny’s rust-colored curls, the hammer-and-sickle emblem shining in red and gold. Svetlana helped wrap a hand-crocheted shawl around Jenny’s satin jacket and pinned it with a miniature ceramic vegetable bouquet. Jenny grabbed a five-foot wooden staff with writhing snakes carved into it, her face shining with pleasure.

Svetlana thought they couldn’t carry any more packages when Jenny asked her to negotiate for a magnificent life-size doll. The doll wore a straw hat strewn with rose petals and a beautiful white lace dress with pink ribbons. The merchant wanted ninety dollars, but Jenny concluded the bargain by paying thirty.

To Svetlana’s amazement, Jenny handed her the doll. “For your daughter. What’s her name?”

“Natasha, but—” Svetlana’s heart leaped with excitement. “It’s too . . . too much.”

“Nonsense. Every girl should have a beautiful doll. As you say, ‘it’s feminine.’” She imitated Svetlana’s accent.

Svetlana clutched the doll to her chest. “Thank you so much.” But Jenny marched away, heels clicking, her staff punching the packed earth, her purchases banging against her legs. Svetlana hurried behind her, carrying more packages, still disbelieving this most extraordinary gift.

“Let’s call it a day.” Jenny adjusted the rope handle of a bundle containing a hand-knitted bedspread. “Too much schlepping.”

The waiting bus was empty. The driver listened to a radio station that, strangely, broadcast Red Army Band songs instead of the American pop music Russians were now permitted to listen to. The music grated on Svetlana’s nerves, reminding her of the heavy decision she must weigh. Should she proceed with Dr. Olga Rozanova’s request to get the Economic Authority’s files? Could she do it without Katerina’s help? Svetlana regretted failing to invite her friend to join them today. Two hours in Jenny’s company and Katerina might finally leave her brute of a husband—and be inspired to obtain the files.

Svetlana glanced at Jenny, who had removed her shoes and was massaging her toes. “I’d like to ask your advice,” she finally said.

“Shoot.”

“There’s this situation. Uh—the attack at my factory.”

“I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“Well, I was asked to help get information about it.” Svetlana explained her predicament and her conversations with Brooke
and Dr. Rozanova. “I might get caught. What would happen to my factory and to the workers? What would happen to my daughter?”

“Look.” Jenny raised her finger and put it up against the sky, squinting her left eye. “With one finger you can block out the whole big mighty sun.”

Something weightless rose in Svetlana’s heart.

“Don’t chicken out,” Jenny continued. “Go for it. Do something important. Life is too short. Where d’you think I would have been with what little God has given me? A fatso nobody, like a zillion others. Never mind that I built a great business that has made me rich. I’m still ugly. But I act as if I am a goddess, so I feel beautiful.” Jenny touched the “Attitude Is Everything” button on Svetlana’s lapel. “Don’t wait for life to happen. Make it happen.”

Inside Svetlana, a small butterfly spread its wings.