Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

I shrugged.

“No, Nashi was not good for my daughter. She did not fit in with them. She was an artistic girl. She wanted to be free to express herself, and all that experience did was alienate her from her father, from me, and from Russia.”

“I assume it was her father who made her join in the first place?”

“Of course. Like I said, he’s a fool. He never understood our daughter. He only understood what kind of daughter he wanted to have, what kind of girl he thought she should be.”

“And who was that?”

“The Chekhist’s dream girl. An Olympic hero with uncommon beauty who marries a younger version of himself.”

The notion of Iskra marrying created an opening for me. “Did Iskra have many boyfriends?”

“Too many, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course you know. You’ve been working on this case long enough, and you’re obviously an intelligent woman. George said you’re smart. He said you were smart and that I would like you.”

I wanted to make fun of her husband’s compliment by reminding Maria she’d called him a fool twice, but I didn’t dare.

“I’m trying to understand if there were any special men in her life that I don’t know about,” I said.

“She had many clients but no real lovers. Do you understand that?”

I lowered my head. “I’m so sorry…” I considered the question I was about to ask and made sure I needed to ask it. “What about women?”

Maria’s face went blank. I feared she’d fallen into her personal abyss but then she frowned. “Excuse me?”

“If there were no special men in her life, is it possible there was a special woman in her life?”

Her lips quivered for a few seconds, and then tightened. “Are you suggesting my daughter—my Iskra—was a lesbyanka ?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Please don’t be offended. I’m just being a professional, asking every possible question to consider every possible angle. You’re a professional. Surely you understand.”

She sipped her tea and collected herself. “Yes, you’re quite right. Good for you. Not ruling out the ridiculous shows how diligent you are. George was right. You are very smart. Iskra a lesbyanka .” She followed up with some laughter but it sounded forced, the creation of a mother who was in denial.

“How long did you know Iskra was moonlighting in De Wallen ?” I said.

Maria didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she kept staring into space as though she’d withdrawn from our conversation again.

“George told me he only learned of what she was doing a couple of weeks before her death,” I said.

“A few weeks ago, yes,” she said, like a robot.

“I’m sorry to ask but this may be important. Did you confront Iskra about her night job? Did you try to talk her out of it?”

“You know, this tea needs a bit of sweetening.”

“The reason I ask is if you had a mother-daughter conversation recently, you might have spoken about her life in general. She might have told you what was on her mind. She might have told you she was scared of someone. No, not scared, terrified. Did Iskra tell you that she was terrified of someone during her last few weeks? Or ever, for that matter?”

I was so focused on presenting my question in the most respectful way possible that I didn’t see what was happening right before my eyes. Maria Romanova was spooning raspberry jam into her tea. She dragged her teaspoon around in circles, licked it, and batted her eyes twice in satisfaction. Then she sipped her tea.

“Ah,” she said, “that’s much better.” Her eyes settled on me and she frowned. “Oh, hello. Remind me, dear. Who are you again?”

I didn’t know what to say. I smiled, waited three beats, and introduced myself all over again. When I finished, she didn’t respond with any sort of recognition.

“What was it you wanted to talk about this morning?” she said.

“Fear,” I said. When finesse fails, reach for the velvet hammer . “We were talking about Iskra and the person she was mortally afraid of. You were about to tell me that person’s name.”

Maria Romanova almost smiled. “Iskra,” she said, as slowly as one could utter two syllables. Then she came alive like an old engine that had finally turned over a sufficient number of times. “Fear, you say? My Iskra had no fear. None whatsoever. That was her gift. That was her tragedy. You understand, yes? Come. Let me show you some pictures.”

I wasn’t sure if she was entirely present again or not. Nevertheless, I followed her to a table by the window that contained a collection of framed photographs. The frames matched the pistachio color of the walls. Maria showed me a series of pictures of Iskra in chronological order. She supplemented each viewing with a commentary about her daughter at the given age.

I listened closely enough to comprehend the gist of Maria’s remarks but tried hard to focus primarily on the images. The circumstances at the time a picture is snapped often dictate a subject’s emotions. A joyous occasion might stimulate a smile from the most somber of people, while a comedic moment could jolt a manic depressant into smiling for a brief moment. Some people were born posers and didn’t need any help. They could primp and preen their way to hide their true state of mind regardless of the adversity they might be suffering. And others still were the exact opposite—they remained transparent and uninterested in masking their inner selves.

Iskra Romanova was clearly one of the latter and her proud mother was clearly delusional. As she framed each photo with a memory of the specific time and place, Maria seemed to be describing the sweet-looking girl that could be seen in pictures until she turned twelve. From that point on her daughter looked increasingly sullen as the years passed. I paid special attention to her eyes. Anger, resentment and ultimately, disinterest defined their expression, until I saw the most recent picture.

In that photo, Iskra stood posing with her parents and Sasha in front of the famous I Amsterdam sign near a museum. They were all smiling, even Iskra. In fact, she appeared downright joyous. I wondered if her blissful state was a function of the romantic delusion that gripped her before her death.

“Who took this photo?” I said, lifting it up for closer examination.

Maria peered over my shoulder. “A stranger. We went to the Rijksmuseum to see an exhibition of Rembrandt’s Claudius Civilis. I forced my family to pose for a picture so I could remember the moment. You know what they say. If you keep staring at a photograph, eventually you’ll see things you never saw before. I don’t remember ever seeing Iskra as happy as she was then.”

“And when was this taken?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Two or three weeks ago? It’s the most recent picture I have of my Iskra.”

Maria’s estimate suggested the picture had been taken shortly before Iskra’s murder, at the precise time when she’d fallen in love with Sarah Dumont.

“Who’s the boy?” I said, pretending I didn’t know, to see where the question led.

Maria glanced at me sharply. “You know who he is.”

My face started to burn. All of a sudden Maria sounded more than lucid—she seemed downright perceptive.

“I do?” I said, denying her assertion because I didn’t know what else to do.

“Yes, you do,” she said, narrowing her eyes as though studying me for the first time. “George told me he showed you his picture and that you asked about him…”

“Oh my God…” I said, with an expression of shock.

“And that he arranged for you to meet with—”

“Sasha,” I said, beaming at her.