Mitch Silver - The Bookworm

Lara sat down on the broad granite steps of the House of Chess and pulled out her trusty iPad. She’d let her brain stew over that one while she quickly caught up on her mail.

The most recent message was from Lev, except there was no message at all, just a bunch of attachments. Pictures of an oil field, and others of an abandoned carnival somewhere, all empty tents and stuff. She’d have to call her brother later and find out what the story was.

The next thing down was a three-hour-old reply from adler01, who turned out to be a German restaurateur named Ulrike Preisz. The news was decidedly mixed: Yes, we still have Hitler’s Bible here at the Kellsteinhaus in Bavaria, but no, we have no thought of selling, as it’s “an integral part of our presentation.” Sure enough, when Lara Googled “Kellsteinhaus,” the first thing visitors saw on the restaurant’s virtual tour was the Bible in its place of honor in the foyer.

With a sigh, Lara headed for the Metro. There was still the little matter of a conspiracy to control the world’s energy, and therefore the world.

Half an hour later, Lara was walking up the steps from the Kitay-gorod stop. At Moscow’s latitude the sun, having dropped below the horizon, still managed to illuminate the late summer sky above her head with two hours to go to midnight. So, a block from home, Lara was easily able to see the extra-long, late ’90s Russian Army cargo van, the insignia inexpertly painted over and the rear doors wide open: Viktor’s.

And there was Viktor coming out of their building, several jackets on hangers in one hand and their living room floor lamp in the other. Their floor lamp. His and hers.

Gerasimov, Kasparov, an antique Bible, and all the carefully worked-out plans tumbling around in her brain were replaced by the latest image, of Katrina, leaving the building with her own rolling suitcase, the one she’d originally shown up with, and handing it to Viktor, who put it in the truck. So that’s how it was.

There was no light or crosswalk, so Lara had to wait for a break in the four lanes of traffic. Viktor and his new girlfriend—Lara’s behind-in-the-rent tenant—were back in the building by the time she made it across.

Lara looked inside the open rear doors. They worked fast. Her floor lamp and the carved wooden wall clock… the one she’d haggled over that time at the Izmailovo flea market… were already stowed in the old van’s cargo area. He was taking everything. She closed the truck’s doors, hurried around to the driver’s side and looked in. Damn, no keys. Okay, she’d wait.

It wasn’t that comfortable leaning with her back against the rear doors, blocking them. The handles met in the middle of her spine. She tried just standing in front of the doors, but after five minutes that was uncomfortable too. To make matters worse, it was starting to rain.

Then Viktor and Katrina appeared again, carrying his old Army footlocker between them. He was facing the street and saw her first. In his surprise he dropped his end of the trunk. “Lara, what do you think you’re doing? Stopping us?”

Katrina let go of her end, and the footlocker dropped with a thump.

Lara didn’t budge. “What do you think you’re doing… with my stuff?”

“Our stuff.”

“Okay, our stuff. Not yours. Ours.”

Katrina wasn’t saying anything. She just stood there with her mouth hanging open.

Viktor marched up to Lara. Was he going to hit her? She flinched, but he was reaching around her, trying to open the truck doors. Lara pressed back against his hands, pinning them.

Viktor said, “I’m taking half of our stuff and all of my stuff to Trina’s new place; she found a studio right near the store. I thought you’d be happy we were going.” With that he walked deliberately back to Katrina and picked up his end of the trunk, motioning for her to do the same.

They came toward her and stepped down into the street. At a signal from him, they dropped the trunk an inch from the toes of her shoes. Now Lara was pinned.

Gerasimov’s Alfa Romeo chose that moment to pull up behind Katrina, boxing everyone into a two-meter space between the vehicles. He approached the group on the run. “Is there a problem, Lara?”

It was Katrina who spoke first. “Who the hell are you, gorgeous?”

Gerasimov acted as if he didn’t hear. “You must be Viktor Maltsev, the about-to-be-ex-husband.”

Army officer Viktor Maltsev stepped up to go chest to chest with the taller broadcast executive. It was no contest; Viktor’s chest won. ”So this is the druga, ” he sneered, dragging out the first syllable of boy friend.

Still backed against the van, Lara asked, “Grigoriy, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve been calling you about tomorrow. When you didn’t pick up, I thought something might be wrong. So here I am.”

“I was in the Metro.”

Ignoring the intruder, Viktor turned back to his wife. “Lara, step out of the way.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m doing what you asked me to. I’m taking my woman and going.”

That last bit was too much. “ Your woman? You’re still married to me.”

Viktor reached for something in his jacket pocket. “No, I’m not. Here, I signed it.” He threw the divorce decree at her.

Lara sat down heavily on the footlocker, the breath knocked out of her a little.

Viktor sneered. “Oh wait, here they come, the one-eyed tears.”

“Stop it, both of you!” It was Katrina, who was in the process of dropping down onto the trunk alongside Lara. “I want to be with Viktor, Lara, and you don’t. And unless I miss my guess,” she nodded toward Gerasimov, “you want to be with Ivanhoe here. Can’t we do this like adults instead of fighting in the street?”

She was right, of course. But fighting in the street felt a lot better.

The floor lamp was back in its place next to the couch. The clock was back on the nail in the wall. Viktor was packing the last of the things from his side of the dresser in an Army duffel bag and giving the stink eye to Gerasimov, who was booting up the iPad borrowed from Lara.

Katrina had tuned out. Instead, she was watching the week’s last contestant on Fabrika Zvezd , Russia’s Star Factory —a talent show that was a lot like the American show, The Voice —when she interrupted the staring contest to ask Gerasimov, “As the Director of Broadcasting, do you approve everything before it goes on the air? Do you already know who’ll win tonight’s Factory ?”

Grateful to stretch his legs, Gerasimov got up and walked toward the kitchen. “I only see the work we produce ourselves, not the other stuff.” He took the carafe of coffee Katrina had just burned and started filling the four cups set out on a tray. “ Fabrika ’s a live show; it’s this Conception Day thing that takes all the work ahead of time.”

Now that he was on his feet, Lara could look over and see what he was working on: her iPad screen showed the log-in box for the Conception Day extravaganza set to air tomorrow night.

At the dacha he’d told her how teams of video artists, music directors and sound mixers labored for much of the summer to supply the recorded content for the three-hour show. And that, as each segment was finished, it was posted online at a password-protected site so the various bigwigs could sign off or suggest changes wherever they happened to be around the city or country. Gerasimov, as the boss, had the final okay. “It’s one of the reasons they gave me such a nice media room,” he’d said.