Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

Before we approached the buffet, something Valeria had never experienced, she prompted her bewildered son to present Anna and me with gifts he’d made in school.

“Lovely, how thoughtful.” I held something made from glued together slices of walnut shells that looked like a cranium. In English, to Anna, “What is it?”

“I do not know. Something for collecting of dust, maybe.” Anna replied in English.

Valeria glared at her, declaring, in Russian, “I have also been studying English. It is necessary for life in America. If my dear son’s heartfelt gift of love does not measure up to your high Russian standards, perhaps you will find this more to your liking.” She told her son to present the next offering. A mosaic of crosscut twigs glued to a frayed scrap of burlap.

Puzzled, we looked at each other and thanked the little boy. My guess was we’d been given a decorative, delicate porous bowl — the cranium — and a hot pot holder — the burlap and twig thing. I didn’t know what to say.

“They are for the boat.” Valeria beamed.

“Boat?” I said.

“Yes, my uncle told me all about it. I will cook, and clean, and work hard on your boat on the way to America.”

“America?”

“Yes, USA, on the boat. Is it not arranged? You need a cook, crew, hardworking and strong for the big ocean.”

Anna glared at me.

“Alexi! What a bastard.” I growled.

“My uncle?” Valeria asked in her comical soprano.

“Your uncle, da.” I sighed. “There is no boat. I told him I wasn’t getting a boat and we aren’t going to America. I thought you were here to sell your passport.”

“Sell my passport? Nyet. I need my passport for America.” She turned to Anna. “Without a passport, one can not go to America. One can only go back to Russia where they came from.”

Anna shoved her chair back into the curtains and stomped to the buffet.

I told Valeria about her uncle’s plans to sell us her passport and why we needed it. She thought about it, discounted her uncle as an idiot, and changed tack. “Why Anna? She is rich, she has dangerous criminals after her, she has no child, and she has no passport! You should not help this Russian; you should help my beautiful son. My God, look at this child. He has no future in Ukraine. He can only grow up to be a criminal here.”

“Well, let’s try that delicious buffet.” I attempted to break into Valeria’s hysterical imploring. I was ignored.

“You are American. My son and I have a passport. I am not a criminal. I will cook and clean and work in your home as long as you want if you give my boy a chance at a decent life. It is nothing for you to save us, to save him. Change in your pocket. Please.” Valeria’s shrill pleading was affecting me like fingernails on a blackboard.

“Listen, I am not saving anyone. I know your situation is bad and I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“But you are a rich American.” Valeria wailed. Her son tugged at her elbow, “Mama?”

“Your uncle has lied to you and I feel bad about that. I am not rich. I am not even American, and I certainly had no plans to take you or your son there.”

Things cooled down, and Valeria took very little time getting the hang of the buffet. She was polishing off her third or fourth heaping plateful when Alexi strutted into the dining area and tore into her with very course Ukrainian. Hotel security men rounded the corner, and I knew it was high time to get my entourage out of the Windsor Arms. Valeria and Alexi snatched at fruit, buns, tiny jars of jam, and tea bags while leaving the table. Passing the buffet, Valeria steered her son toward a small mound of pastries, slipping several into his school bag on the way out.

Alexi was relentless. On the sidewalk outside the hotel, he demanded ten thousand dollars for Valeria’s passport. When I protested that his niece and Anna looked nothing alike, he dropped the price to five thousand. Valeria yelled that she wouldn’t sell her passport. Then Alexi told us both to shut up. After a pause, he promised to doctor the passport by pasting Anna’s picture into it for a mere one thousand dollars.

A mock Beefeater doorman was on the approach. His sour expression clearly conveyed his opinion that our squabbling ought to be conducted away from the hotel entrance. His expression changed when I asked him to, “Please hail a taxi for my friends.”

“Right away and with pleasure!” He raised a white glove, and a rusting black and yellow Lada sedan materialized almost instantly and seemingly out of nowhere.

Valeria, her son, Anna and I, pretty much overloaded the taxi. There was no room for Alexi. Mercifully, it was the last time we’d ever him. “The train station, and please hurry.” I told the driver as we pulled away from the curb.

The next train leaving for eastern Ukraine was full. Even first class was jammed. I sure as hell wanted them gone, so I bribed a conductor to give mother-and-son his personal staff cabin. It worked. We stood, kind of shell shocked, watching the train accelerate past the platform and out of our lives.

The platform was deserted, mercifully quiet. We stood there a few more minutes. Finally, I put my arm on Anna’s shoulder. “Well, that should take care of them, but we’re right back where we started when we first got to Odessa.”

She put her arm around my waist. “The train station?”

“Nope, square one, and it’s high time to stop screwing around and get serious.”

A week at the Windsor Arms had cast a dangerous spell on me. The place is like living history. Dating from the 1830’s, and having miraculously survived the horrific wars and upheaval of the 20th century, there is a feeling that once one is surrounded by the building’s intricate stone facade, time is irrelevant. Disconnected from the 21st century, it was just too easy to slip into complacency and give in to a powerful urge to never leave.

We’d taken to commemorating our evenings by ensconcing ourselves in the Windsor Arm’s casino for a nightcap — or two. Anna was mellowing into yet another glass of something new to her when she asked, “Jess, am I doing something wrong?”

It caught me off guard. I was expecting a critique on Grand Marnier, Anna’s latest adventure in fine spirits. “What do you mean? Sniff it like cognac, swirl it slowly in the glass…”

“Not the liqueur, but going against my parents. I can’t help but feel I’m betraying my entire society. Betraying Russia.”

“Really? How is that?”

“Not doing what they want, Mother especially. Does that make me a selfish person?”

“Holy kapoosta — you’re twenty-seven, an accomplished engineer and you’re asking me if it’s selfish not to live with your parents in a two room flat?” I gave it a little more thought. “Where I come from, being an adult living with your parents isn’t exactly something to brag about.”

“That’s not what I meant, it has nothing to do with living with my parents. It’s about not doing what they want me to, not making them proud. They want me to have a husband, to have children and a home. Only then can they be proud of me. If I don’t have this, I am worthless, a disgrace to the family… a weirdo, or worse.”

“Wow, what can I say? You’re an adult. You can do what you want.”

“Don’t just say that — support me. I need a whole new foundation, the old one is collapsing. My family squabble must look silly to you, but it isn’t funny for me. If I went home, and managed to stay alive, I wouldn’t see the light of day again. You know, my best friend told me to stop being an idiot and go back to Mikhail. She says, ‘I am dead to her,’ after running away and doing who-knows-what liberated crap here. You know, she actually phoned my parents to express her condolences and offer her help getting me back?”