Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“Is this about modeling?” the woman said.

“No,” Nadia said. “Super modeling.”

The woman gasped. “Iryna lives with my daughter’s friend. Please hold. I give you phone number.”

Nadia called and left a voice mail. Iryna called back three minutes later. She spoke good English but with the same accent. They agreed to meet for drinks at 8:00 p.m. After Nadia hung up, an investment banker called with a job proposition. His client needed a forensic securities analyst fluent in English and Russian. He wouldn’t reveal his client’s name. They set up a lunch for tomorrow. The prospect of a paycheck energized Nadia. She called Johnny, told him what she was up to, and took the subway to Brooklyn.

There was a saying that Brighton Beach was conveniently located near the United States. Immigrants arrived en masse from the Soviet Union in the late 1970s. In the 1980s Brighton Beach became headquarters for the Russian mafia. A man named Marat Balagula was its leader. He had a kind heart with a soft spot for educated immigrants who couldn’t find jobs in America. He also made a fortune through shell companies that distributed gasoline but kept taxes for themselves. When word got out he was in business with the Italian mob, Russian hit man Vladimir Reznikov put his 9mm Beretta against Balagula’s head at a nightclub and demanded $600,000 for not pulling the trigger. Reznikov returned to the club the next day for payment. A Gambino crime family associate shot him dead.

Much had changed in Brighton Beach since then. The ghetto was torn down and replaced with luxury condominiums. Afghans, East Asians, Mexicans, and Pakistanis joined the mix. If there was still a Russian mafia presence, it never made the papers.

Nadia marched from the subway stop toward the Atlantic Ocean. The wind whipped her hair. The air smelled of salt. Nadia wasn’t worried about her safety but she still felt as though she was entering enemy territory. She was the daughter of Ukrainian immigrants walking into a Russian enclave. Ukraine had suffered for centuries under Russian oppression. The Soviet Union was a Russian creation. Stalin did his best to starve Ukraine. Brezhnev tried to eradicate all traces of its culture.

Nadia learned to speak Ukrainian before English even though she was born in Hartford. When she was recommended for Russian language classes in junior high school by the Spanish teacher, her parents were initially reluctant for fear it would pollute her Ukrainian. They hailed from Western Ukraine, where nationalist pride ran deep. The further East one travelled, the more Russified the Ukrainian population. In Kyiv, Russian was still more prevalent than Ukrainian even though the country had been independent since 1991.

Bobby was from central Ukraine. His Facebook page said he was fluent in Russian. That infuriated Nadia as it hinted at his past. It was an exercise in mindless self-indulgence. His Facebook page didn’t mention he spoke Ukrainian. That irked her. If he was boasting he spoke Russian, why didn’t he mention he was fluent in his native Ukrainian? It was as though the latter didn’t matter.

His girlfriend’s Russian ethnicity also troubled Nadia. That ethnic bias, in turn, disturbed her. The end result was a continuous loop of distrust, apology, and acceptance. In Iryna’s case, however, Nadia seemed stuck on the distrustful part. She feared the girl was an opportunist who figured out Bobby might become a professional hockey player. She also worried Iryna might be older than seventeen.

The name of the restaurant was Gogol-Mogol. Nadia expected an elegant dining room that morphed into a rowdy scene at midnight. Instead she walked into a small café serving coffees and pastries. Pink walls featured elegantly stenciled recipes. Macaroons, Baba Au Rhum cakes and chocolate bombs filled the display cases. Crumbs littered the shelves behind the counter. They were empty except for four loaves of bread.

An old man sat reading a paper and drinking coffee at one table. A middle-aged couple shared an éclair at another. Music accompanied dessert. It arrived in muted bursts from speakers in the ceiling. Rap music. With Russian lyrics. Something about diamonds and disrespect. Sung by dueling women.

A lithe girl stood behind the register in a pink shirt and white pants. Nadia recognized Iryna from her picture. She was about five foot seven with an oval face, enormous blue eyes, and perfect alabaster skin. She wasn’t the Russian girl next door. She was what the Russian girl next door aspired to look like.

“Iryna?” Nadia said.

She spoke so softly Nadia barely heard her. “Yes.”

Nadia introduced herself and extended her hand. Iryna smiled, shook it, blushed, and dropped her head. The sequence was so sweet and genuine it took Nadia’s breath away. In the time it took to say hello, Nadia found herself questioning her preconceptions about the girl, her ethnicity, and her motives.

“Would you like to talk in the kitchen?” Iryna said. “More privacy.”

Nadia followed Iryna through a door into the kitchen. Four stainless steel ovens lined one wall. A matching stove, refrigerator, and sink filled another. A heavyset woman wearing an apron was rinsing utensils. The center island contained a mixer and various pans covered with flour and remnants of dough. The appliances looked new, except for the microwave oven elevated on an old wooden table near a pantry. It was a child’s toy, made of red plastic.

A woman with pronounced cheekbones entered from a back room. Her skin suggested she was about thirty but the wear around the eyes said the years hadn’t been easy. She wore a chef’s uniform and carried herself with an air of authority. She stopped beside the toy oven.

“Galina, do me a favor and take the register for a few minutes,” she said. She spoke perfect English.

The heavyset woman shut the faucet, grabbed a hand towel, and left.

“I’m Tamara,” the young woman said. “Iryna’s roommate. And cousin. You must be Ms. Moss.”

“No,” Nadia said. “I’m not. My name isn’t Cynthia Moss. And I’m not in the modeling business.”

Tamara reached inside the toy oven and pulled out a gun. She aimed it at Nadia.

“We know you’re not. There is no Lauder Modeling Agency. Who are you and what do you want?”

Nadia stepped back. She’d miscalculated. She was expecting a verbal confrontation once she admitted she’d lied. Not a gun.

“My real name is—”

“Usually it’s men who try to take advantage of Iryna. They say they run their own modeling agency or they’re film producers but they’re really after one thing. You’re the first woman ever. Why did you lie? What is it you want? I got robbed last month. I could shoot you right here—”

“Don’t.” Nadia raised her hands in the air. “Please. Let me explain.”

“What do you want from Iryna?”

“I want to ask her some questions.”

“About what?”

“About a boy she’s been seeing.”

“What boy?”

“His name is Bobby Kungenook. Iryna knows him.”

“Of course she knows him. I know him, too.”

“You do?”

“Sure. He’s been here four or five times.”

“He has?”

“He’s a fiend for my fruit tart. How do you know Bobby?”

“He’s my… I’m his… I’m his guardian.”

Tamara’s eyes bugged out. “Oh my God. You’re Nadia Tesla?”

Nadia nodded.

Tamara put the gun back in the oven. She rushed to Nadia and hugged her. When they parted, they laughed. Nadia’s laughter was more a function of relief than any sense of humor in the situation. Iryna stood to the side looking more grateful than anyone.

Tamara insisted they start over. She and Iryna brought in three cups of coffee and three raspberry-chocolate macaroons. Nadia hadn’t eaten dinner yet but she didn’t care. There were only two chairs in the kitchen so they stood at the center island.