Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Why?” I said.

“Because his texts have been declared outdated by the central government. As of the next school year, new texts will be distributed by someone else, a company that specializes in appliance repair manuals. And my friend’s company is under investigation for illegal business practices.”

“What kind of illegal business practices?”

“Bribing government officials,” Simmy said.

“Of course. I should have guessed. Did your friend make it out of the country?”

“No. They arrested him four hours ago. The press were there when they took him away—they were stalking him since he complained about Valery so of course they were—and he did something… he said something…” Simmy shook his head gravely.

“What?” I said. “What did he say?”

“He said the country needed a change in leadership. He said it was time for a man of integrity to take over the country. A man like Simeon Simeonovich.”

I remembered what Simmy had told me about oligarchs getting involved in politics in Russia—it was suicidal.

“You have no interest in politics,” I said. “And your friend knew the mere suggestion that you’re interested could cast a shadow over you or worse—but he said it anyways… which is why you just referred to him as your ‘former friend.’ And his motive for doing this to you was?”

“He asked me to intercede with Valery on his behalf, to apologize and tell him his emotions got the better of him. He thinks Valery and I are such close friends, like father and son, as the press likes to say. But the truth is, we don’t have those kind of friendships in Russia. And if I had stepped up for him…”

“Putler would have become suspicious that you share your friends convictions…”

“Which he almost certainly thinks now,” Simmy said.

I wanted to do something to cheer Simmy up or at least distract him, so I segued into the case and told him about everything that had transpired since I’d last seen him. He was, after all, my client, and I needed him to arrange a meeting with Iskra’s mother. She and I had spoken only briefly when I’d first arrived in Amsterdam because she’d been out of town the night Iskra was killed. But I considered her an invaluable source of background information regarding Iskra, her friends, and her lovers.

Simmy called her from the table and arranged for us to meet at breakfast. Then we enjoyed a scrumptious dinner. We talked about his soccer team, his gigayacht, and my business. The one thing we didn’t discuss was the deliciously wrapped box. The longer the evening went, the more its contents intrigued me.

After he paid the bill, we walked to the hotel entrance. One of his bodyguards went ahead to retrieve his car, while the other one remained ten paces behind us. Simmy thanked me for my company, and I told him it had been a lovely evening. Then he handed me the box.

“This is for you,” he said, “to help you understand the mind of a Russian man.”

I took the box in my hands. It felt surprisingly light, no heavier than a roll of paper towels.

He bowed and started toward the circular door.

“This is very mischievous, Simmy. That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

He glanced back at me. “All will be clear when you open the package.”

Simmy left. I took the elevator to the second floor and walked into my room. I wanted to take a shower, and the thought of delaying the opening of Simmy’s present carried great appeal. I could lie on the bed in a crisp terry robe with the TV on and order a cup of tea from room service. Some gratification, however, simply could not be delayed.

I tore off the wrapping paper to expose a brown cardboard box. Inside the box was a wooden figurine in the shape of an enormous salt shaker. A girl’s face was painted on one side. She had a golden bun for hair, pink balloons for cheeks, triangular blue eyes with black lashes, and silly pink lips the size of a child’s kiss. Beneath the face was a colorful bouquet, an impressionist’s rendering of pink, burgundy, green and yellow flowers. The figurine’s dome was painted steel-blue, the bottom crimson.

I’d grown up with Ukrainian objects of beauty in the house. The matryoshka , the nesting doll, was a distinctly Russian creation. I’d heard of them and seen pictures, but I’d never actually held one or played with it. In this instance, I was less interested in the doll, and more curious to see if Simmy had inserted something inside.

The doll came apart in the middle. A twist of the wrist removed the top half and revealed a similar doll inside. My hands trembled as I continued to pull one doll out of another. The sixth doll was half the size of my thumb. I picked it up in my hand and shook it. Something bounced around its interior walls. I pictured Simmy substituting bauble in place of the final doll. Not that gifts or material things mattered much to me. No, they didn’t, I reminded myself. Not at all.

I held my breath, removed the cover from the sixth doll, and pulled out the contents from within.

It was a seventh doll. This one, however, was painted yellow, and its face didn’t belong to the girl depicted on the other dolls. This face belonged to a little boy.

A pang of disappointment hit me, though I never would have admitted it to anyone. I studied all the dolls again. They had no false bottoms or tops, they contained nothing else inside, and the last doll didn’t open at all. All the dolls seemed to weigh proportionately less than the one that had contained it. The smallest doll, the yellow one, didn’t unscrew. It felt as though it was made out of air.

It was certainly an object of beauty and a lovely gift. The largest doll’s bottom contained a signature and a date. No doubt it was a collectible. But that wasn’t why Simmy had given it to me. He’d told me that the doll contained knowledge that would help me understand the mind of a Russian man.

The obvious implication was that a Russian man was a complex amalgamation of multiple personas, at the core of which was a child. If I wanted to understand him, I had to understand each one of his personas. Perhaps one doll reflected how he acted in matters of business, another how he behaved with his children, a third how he made love to a woman. Such a conclusion seemed simple enough.

Simmy was obviously playing a game with me. He’d just challenged me to discover something about him by studying a doll, and that was fine with me.

I was always up for a new challenge.

Iskra’s mother looked more like someone in need of salvation and less like a colonel in the army. Granted, just because the Salvation Army used a military hierarchy didn’t mean its officers were supposed to look like George Patton or Joan of Arc. Still, I was stunned when Maria Romanova opened the door to greet me at her palatial home by the ubiquitous Amsterdam canal. She welcomed me with a smile but her eyes looked vacant, like the view of a long stretch of desert through a pair of binoculars. Her sweater hung so loosely on her frame I feared she’d misplaced her shoulders. Iskra had been murdered less than two weeks ago, but her mother looked as though she’d been struggling with life for far longer.

I wondered why.

The Romanovs’ home was decorated in an opulent French style. The living room reminded me of the most beautiful salons in New York City hotels where I’d attended more than one corporate presentation through the years. Elegant gilding surrounded pistachio-colored boisere. Antique furnishings enhanced the sensation that one had just entered a wealthy Parisian home. Some people might have scoffed at the extravagance of it all, but there was no doubt that the room had been meticulously appointed with impeccable taste.