David Duffy - In for a Ruble

I waited.

“I shouldn’t tell you this.”

Intuition—often a spy’s best friend—said don’t push it.

“I can’t force you.”

She took another drink. “I lent him some money, years ago. Fifteen thousand. Six, seven years ago, I don’t remember. He was frantic. I had the cash, he needed it. He kept promising to repay, of course, and I chased him for a couple of years without success. My husband was furious when he found out. Threatened to go to Sebastian. I urged him not to. It was family, what could I do? It was my problem, I said I’d deal with it. Eventually, it went the way of all things… subsumed by time and other concerns. He came to me one other time. Right around the time… I guess it was four years ago. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I was stunned. I had no idea.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No. I didn’t have that kind of cash this time. And I realized something was wrong, badly wrong. I urged him to get help.”

“How did he react?”

“Badly. We were in the city, at a restaurant. He called me a horrible name, loud enough for the whole place to hear. We fought and he walked out.”

“And he hasn’t asked again? Recently?” I was thinking of the $35,000 he’d paid off in November.

“No. I don’t see Thomas much these days. I’ve… I’ve had my own problems to worry about.”

“Would he have gone to your brother or Julia for a loan?”

“Not Sebastian. They argued over money before. You know about his temper…”

I nodded. “What about Julia?”

“Maybe. They’re not that close. And he’d have to get her attention.”

“Meaning?” Although I knew the answer.

“Julia is what people politely call a workaholic. She never leaves the office. Barely has time for her own family.”

“What about her husband? Would he have gone to him?”

“Oh no.” The answer came fast, too fast, not as if she were trying to head me off, but a knee-jerk response, as though the idea itself was preposterous.

“Why not?” I said as innocently as I knew how.

She shook her head. “He just wouldn’t. That’s all.”

That wasn’t remotely all, but intuition intervened again—don’t press it, move on. I took a shot at another question, half expecting it to bring the interview to a close.

“What happened to Sebastian’s first marriage?”

She shook her head and looked out the window.

I waited.

She shook her head again and started to cry. I’d lost her.

“You know… You think your problems are the worst anyone could have. Then…”

She balled her fists and hit the table again, grabbed the cup, and emptied it.

“Maybe I’ll join you,” I said, and went to the cabinet. I poured her a healthy shot, found a cup that looked clean, and gave myself a finger and half.

I put the cups on the table and she reached for hers hungrily. I took a sip from mine. Presidente burned, not unpleasantly, on the way down.

“We don’t talk about it, you know. We never have. Unwritten rule. Forbidden subject. Taboo.”

I waited again. Booze versus taboo—I was betting on booze, and the need to unburden.

“It was four years ago now. Sebastian had two kids with his first wife, Pauline—Andras and Daria. Daria was twelve when…”

The fists balled once more, and the head fell on top. Her whole body heaved with sobs. She tried to talk in between. I had to lean forward to make out the muffled, tear-and-brandy-soaked voice.

“She… she had… she had a gun and… she shot… shot herself… in her room. She… she laid down a plastic drop cloth first so she wouldn’t make a mess. Oh dear God, why? It was so horrible. We were all there. We all saw the body. Thomas… poor Thomas he got there first, he was in the upstairs bathroom. He… hasn’t been the same. None… None of us has.”

I waited until the sobbing subsided.

“Does anyone know why she did it?”

She looked up, eyes wet and blurred. “No. Daria… She was always such a happy girl. Her brother’s the moody one, Andras. Daria was always smiling, laughing. I can still see her—those big blue eyes, blond curls…”

She broke down sobbing again. I didn’t try to intervene. Several minutes passed before she looked up again.

“It devastated Pauline. She suffered some kind of breakdown. Spent time in an institution. Sebastian stuck by her until she announced she had to leave. She moved back to Minnesota, where’s she’s from.”

Had to leave. Does a mother have to leave her family, her kids? My mother held me until she died on a train somewhere in the Urals. Polina abandoned Aleksei. But I always figured that was my fault.

“Was there an investigation?”

“The police came, of course, questioned all of us. They ruled it a suicide. She’d taken the gun from a friend’s house a few days before.”

That indicated some degree of premeditation on the girl’s part, but I didn’t need to point that out. I said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up painful memories.”

She nodded and looked into her cup. “Like I said, we don’t talk about it, but it’s always there, you know, like an ache you can’t get rid of. Sometimes it’s good to acknowledge it, put it out in the open.”

“Your brother—Sebastian, I mean—he doesn’t agree with you?”

“No. I mentioned Daria once, about six months after it happened. He got so angry, he totally lost it, threw things… I thought he was going to hit me. I never tried again. Neither has anyone else, so far as I know.”

Her cup was empty. I went to the cabinet and poured another shot. I caught my refection in the window as I returned to the table and turned to ignore it. Aleksei wasn’t wrong in his digs—you learn to be a bastard in the Cheka.

“What’s Andras like?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“As a kid. You said he’s moody. He must have been affected by his sister’s death.”

“Of course he was. But…”

I waited once more.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t see that much of him. He went away to school.”

“You see him at Christmas?”

“Yes… I guess so. Sebastian had the usual family get-together. He was there.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine, I guess. I didn’t really notice, to tell you the truth.”

That was probably true. The booze would have had an impact. But I also sensed there was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Have you met his girlfriend?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t know he…”

“Girl from his school. She lives in New York. Irina’s her name.”

She shook her head again. The name didn’t register. Her eyes blurred again. The booze was working its will.

“I have to ask one more question,” I said. “I’m sorry. Your husband. What happened?”

She clutched the cup in both hands and looked up, eyes open wide and angry.

“What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? He fucks every woman he can sweet-talk into bed, that’s what. TWAT, TWAT, TWAT! THAT’S ALL HE CARES ABOUT! Not me, not the kids, just…”

She threw the cup across the kitchen. Brandy splattered on the wall, but the cup rolled to the floor, unbroken.

“GET OUT!”

I’d found the line and crossed it, in best Cheka fashion.

I picked up the cup and wiped down the wall with another dish towel.

I put the cup in front of her and said good-bye. She was crying again and didn’t look up.

When I walked out to the car, I looked back to see her watching me from the door, cup in hand—hers or mine, I wasn’t sure. I had the distinct impression she was making sure I really left. But she could have been waiting until I was out of sight to pour another drink.