Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“What’s in the box?” I said.

Simmy smiled. “Knowledge.”

The restaurant at the hotel was called 5&33 Flavors and it drew inspiration from a traditional Italian tasting plate. Simmy brought his fresh attitude, the mysterious box, and infinite possibilities to the table. I offered gamesmanship, wit, and a challenge for the man who had everything.

But that wasn’t enough . No man had ever approached me to make amends over behavior he regretted. No co-workers or bosses, not my brother, deceased father or husband. No, I thought. I would do more than be my finest self. I would try something novel this evening. I would try to channel grace and forgiveness, if he really meant what he said.

My assessment of the prospects for the evening prompted me to make the obvious observation after we sat down at our table and received our menus from our waiter.

“Where are your bodyguards?” I said.

“Where they’re supposed to be,” Simmy said, without taking his eyes off the menu. “Where they can see you but you cannot see them.”

I scanned the dining room. Twenty tables filled a narrow rectangular space. Solitary men occupied three of the tables. Waitresses with golden hair and tossed-back shoulders chatted up two of them. Various couples occupied six of the other tables. None of them resembled Simmy’s protectors. A rectangular fire pit provided a barrier between the dining room and a separate lounge area. I spied the bodyguards’ reflection in the stainless steel structure that housed the fire and savored the moment.

Perhaps Simmy was right. Maybe I was in possession of some kind of investigative arsenal.

“You’re right,” I said. “I can’t see them.”

“Of course you can’t. That’s why they’re my bodyguards.”

I knew he liked to study the menu and then ask me to order for him. But he also liked to peruse the wine list with an expert’s eye, and that selection he would make himself after I chose his entree. He liked to do this in silence, I knew, because the wine was the most important part of dinner for him, providing him far more pleasure than the food. I never intruded on his study of the wine list with small talk. I sensed that he appreciated my comfort with silence, and that it had been a key element of our instant chemistry.

As soon as I knew what I was going to order for both of us, I set the menu aside to signal I was done. Simmy caught the waiter’s attention and motioned for him to come over. We’d followed this routine during our prior dinners, but it wasn’t until this evening that I realized how much I enjoyed this private dance. We are often unaware of our most sublime pleasures until faced with the prospect of their extinction.

“The gentleman will start with the goat cheese ravioli with aubergine, pinenuts and basil,” I said to the waiter. “I’ll have the endive and beetroot salad—no parmesan, please. And we’ll have the grilled sea bass for entrees, the one that’s for two to share.”

Simmy ordered a fabulous-sounding French Chablis and the waiter left.

“Frankly,” Simmy said, “I’m disappointed.”

I shook my head slowly in an exaggerated fashion. “I don’t think so.”

He chuckled. “I love it. There is only one Nadia, isn’t there? I think I’m disappointed, but you know better.”

“Of course I know better. That’s why you have me order in the first place.”

“Please explain.”

“You think you’re disappointed because I picked a fish that goes best with a light white wine. By selecting sea bass, I ruled out the chewy reds you love, and the juicy whites you crave, the Montrachets and Meursaults. Am I right?”

He lifted his hand from his chin and twisted it open, palm-up. Obviously , he was saying.

“But by foregoing the nectar of the gods, you’re practicing delayed gratification. Like me—I wanted the tagliolini with truffles but I won’t splurge until I solve this murder—you get to enjoy a nice meal but look forward to something even more special some day soon.”

“Something even more special. That’s interesting.” Simmy lifted his eyebrows. “And we are both practicing this… what was it you called it?”

“Delayed gratification.”

“That’s a new concept to me. Russians are avid practitioners of instant gratification. In fact, it’s a national obsession. And since we’re both practicing this delayed gratification, we would enjoy this… this grand feast together, am I right?”

“Theoretically,” I said. “I suppose it depends on what happens between now and then.”

Simmy cleared his throat, placed his hands on the table and sat up straight. I reached for my water to hydrate and appear nonchalant. Simmy typically carried himself in a relaxed manner that was carefully cultivated to belie his true intensity. Now he looked stiff, formal and awkward, as though he had something serious to say.

Even the water couldn’t wash away the bitter-sweet anticipation on the tip of my tongue.

“Then in the spirit of turning the theoretically into the actual,” he said, “let me get down to the business at hand.”

As I wondered what he was talking about, the extravagantly wrapped box of knowledge caught my eye on the ledge behind him.

“What exactly is the business at hand?” I said.

“Making amends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Me… I…” He struggled to find the right words. “I must make amends to you for my poor behavior.”

I sat there mute for longer than I should have. It was one of those moments comparable to finding a long-lost treasure in a long-forgotten hiding place based on sudden inspiration. It’s almost always a figment of one’s imagination. But this—this was really happening.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said.

“No, I most definitely was not. I shouldn’t have criticized you for pretending to be a window prostitute. I should have praised you for your ingenuity. I should have insisted you were fed that night I picked you up in jail. I should have told you from the start that my men were watching Iskra Romanova’s office and made you aware that this meant that they might end up watching you, too. Above all else, I should have put your good health and comfort above my own. I didn’t, and for that I humbly apologize.”

I started to form a witty response. That was to be expected because repartee was the magnet that drew us toward each other. But then I remembered my pledge to be graceful and forgiving. Simmy was trying like no man had tried before. He deserved some respect and compassion. He deserved the sentiments I barely knew how to express.

“You’re my client,” I said, “and you never need to apologize. But given the spirit of what you say, apology accepted.”

He took a breath, not too deep but audible enough for me to know my words meant a lot to him.

I considered changing the subject to save us both any further embarrassment. But that would have been weak, I decided. That would have been my strategy with my deceased husband, to always defer, to look for a way to appease his ego. Simmy had apologized. He had humbled himself. This was my opportunity to shine a flashlight into his eyes and see into his soul.

I spoke as gently as I could, which was to say, I chose the flashlight with the dimmest possible light, albeit one whose brightness I could crank up on demand.

“This was… this is not something I would have ever expected, Simmy. I’m just curious. If you don’t mind my asking… What brought this on?”

“Not what,” he said. “Who.”