Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Yoghurt, granola, wolfberries,” he said.

The waitress noted his selection on her pad and turned to me.

I had no idea what wolfberries were but I liked the sound of them. Plus the insatiable hunger in my stomach had died the moment Romanov had criticized America.

“Just the wolfberries,” I said.

The waitress started to write and stopped. She raised her eyebrows. “Just the wolfberries?”

“That’s right. Just the wolfberries.”

She jotted my order down, slipped her pencil behind her ear and left.

Romanov studied me with a condescending smile. “You are such Nazis.”

That was a new one. “I beg your pardon?”

“First there was Napoleon, then Hitler, and now there’s America. You want to corrupt the entire world for the sake of your own interests. That’s why you fight the subversive war against Russia, trying to poison our youth with your message of homosexuality and pedophilia.”

“Excuse me?”

“And when our president stands up to your imperialist ways—who are you to tell Russians how to manage their region—you punish our country with economic sanctions. The only question is how long it will take for your society to crumble. You have no family values, you have no childbirth, you have no future.”

It sounded to me as though Romanov’s cable television was set permanently to the Russian channel, except I’d never heard the bit about pedophilia.

“That’s not the question, Mr. Romanov.” I softened my voice so it was barely audible. “The question is are you going to help your daughter get justice, or am I on my own?” I shifted in my seat and placed my leg in the aisle as though I were preparing to leave.

Romanov looked away as though contemplating whether he wanted to answer my question or vanish before his yogurt arrived. He looked back and forth into space and at me, and exhaled in one long, massive breath. He didn’t look particularly relieved, just fortified enough to converse with the American whore.

“Growing up in Russia, she was a perfect child,” he said. “I was an alternate on the Russian national diving team so I had certain privileges. She went to good schools. She painted, studied ballet, and was a member of Nashi .”

“ Nashi ?” The word meant “ours.”

“It’s a grass roots organization of young people who love Russia. President Putler started it after the Orange Revolution in Ukraine to make sure that subversive American interests never manipulated the people of Russia into doing the same.”

Of course, I thought. Whenever any country did something that threatened Putler’s expanding empire, he blamed America. “What did Iskra do for Nashi ?”

Romanov chose his words carefully, the way a man does when’s trying to withhold information. “She organized rallies… created internet sites… campaigned for politicians and the like. She was a lovely child.”

“And then?”

“And then we moved here.”

“When was that?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“Why did you move here? You seem to love Russia.”

“Of course I love Russia, just as I’m sure you love that decrepit pit you call home.” Once again, Romanov paused to consider his answer. “It was time to leave. For business reasons.”

That meant he probably had to leave Russia to avoid prosecution for some offense, real or imaginary. This suggested he’d fallen out of favor with the people in the Kremlin, who may have been prepared to support his competitors’ attempt to have him jailed, or were intent on subduing him themselves.

I was curious to know more, but I knew better than to pry into his business affairs. Tap a Russian’s heart, and it might come pouring out. Inveigle yourself in his business affairs and he might give you an up-close and personal tour of his company’s waste disposal equipment.

“How old was Iskra when you moved here?” I said.

Romanov thought about the question. “I’d say she was about nine or ten. She was a good student. When she turned seventeen, she was accepted into the modern theatre dance program at the Amsterdam School of the Arts. Her mother and I were very proud. We rented an apartment for her and gave her space. We kept our distance even though we live close by in Oud-Zuid— old South Amsterdam. Her mother insisted we not interfere in her life. I knew it was a mistake. She fell in with a bunch of liberal types at school and became an experimental child.” He looked at me and nodded. “Probably just like you.”

“How so?” I said. The only thing I’d ever experimented with outside of school was a microscope my parents gave me for my ninth birthday.

“Sex, drugs, rock and roll. It was all born in America, wasn’t it?”

“Rock and roll, I think so. The other two may pre-date my decrepit homeland. I know this is a sensitive topic, but I have to ask you. How long did she work a window in De Wallen ?”

“Spare me your false sympathy. You’re a mercenary. Act like one.”

“How long had Iskra been working as a prostitute?”

“Not long. Three months. She worked part-time, weekends only.”

“Did you know about this from the start?” I said.

“No.”

“How did you find out?”

He considered the question. “The second worst way possible.”

I made the obvious deduction. “A friend?”

He shrugged. “We asked her to stop, we begged her… I threatened to cut off all financial support but she said she didn’t care. She said she wanted to make her own money and this was something she wanted to do. That if other girls from Russian were doing it, she could, too.” Romanov shook his head.

“And the mystery lover wasn’t her only customer?”

“I wish,” he said.

“Did Iskra have a boyfriend?”

Romanov’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Obviously she had a boyfriend. That was the reason you prostituted yourself.”

“I don’t mean the mystery boyfriend, I mean, was there anyone else?”

He shook his head.

“There had to be other boyfriends.”

“There were many boys,” he said softly, “and a few men. But she never brought anyone to our house for dinner. If there had been someone serious, she would have brought him to dinner. Do you have leads on the identity of this mystery lover?”

“I’m working on it. Are you conducting any kind of inquiry of your own? Because that would not be helpful…”

“The police warned me to stay away, and these days, a Russian in Amsterdam must listen to the police. Besides, Simeonovich has insisted to my wife that you will get to the bottom of this. And regardless of how much of a hypocrite he is—if a hand were to fall on his shoulder, it would release a mountain of dirt from beneath his Brioni suits—I have never known him to give compliments where they are not deserved.”

“I agree.”

Romanov nodded hopefully. “That you will get to the bottom of this?”

“That he doesn’t give compliments. Do you have any enemies that might have done this?”

“I sold my business when I left Russia. There is no reason for anyone to hate me. Besides, if a Russian wanted to get even over something that happened in the distant past, he’d come after me first.” He paused and looked me over. “Your last name, Tesla. What is the ethnic origin?”

“My parents were full-blooded Ukrainians.”

I braced myself for a derogatory response, but instead the sun burst on his face. “Ukrainian? Why, that is fantastic,” he said.

“Why is that fantastic?”

“Because that means you’re a full-blooded Russian, too.”

The temperature in Stout! seemed to rise. “I… I don’t understand. I told you my parents were Ukrainian.”

He shrugged good-naturedly, not a patronizing or condescending note about him.