Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Eh?”

“Obviously he was angry. And we’re in the Netherlands, not Russia. So what did George do with the Turk?”

Maria Romanova shrugged. “He did the only thing he could do.”

“Which was?”

“He paid him.”

“To do what?”

“In cash,” Maria said.

“He paid him in cash to do what?”

“Stay away from her.”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry he did that.”

Maria looked surprised. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because as hard as it is to believe, the Turk really takes his job seriously. And he took his job protecting Iskra seriously.”

Moisture appeared in the corner of Maria’s eyes. It was the first time I’d seen the formation of tears since I’d arrived. Then the vacuous look returned to her face. After a moment of silence, she smiled demurely and asked me to remind her of my name.

I told her who I was, thanked her for her hospitality, and left.

When I’d first arrived I’d noted her palpable melancholy and her undernourished state, and thought that she looked as though she’d been unhappy for a long time. My visit hadn’t shed any light on the source of her sadness, beyond her daughter’s murder, but I had a strong gut feel based on my personal experiences with him and my own deceased husband.

When a married woman is suffering from depression, the husband is always a man of interest.

The sauna occupied a nook in the middle of a commercial street no more than ten blocks from De Wallen . The proprietor obviously suffered from severe homesickness and a lack of originality because he’d named it Red Square. The entrance was sandwiched between a juice place and a travel agency, which suggested the establishment could appeal to a criminal on the lam—he could relax in the sauna, rehydrate with a smoothie, and then make arrangements to get the hell out of town.

A dilapidated sign hung over a door with peeling red paint. A doorbell no larger than a thimble protruded from the wall to the right—the bulb that was supposed to illuminate the button had either died or had been detached. The frontage was so narrow and unremarkable that one would never notice it unless she was absolutely looking for it. Given the sauna was frequented by a Russian minority that was less than cherished by the indigenous folk, I doubted its lack of visibility was accidental.

I’d called George Romanov as soon as I’d left his wife’s house and told him I needed to speak with him. I wanted to debrief him about his visit with the Turk, and ask him why he hadn’t told me about his meeting with him in the first place. I didn’t mention my motives when I called, however, so that I could study his face later when I confronted him with what I knew. Instead I told him that I’d visited with Maria, which he knew to be the truth because he’d set up the meeting, and that I wanted to confirm some facts with him. He, in turn, acted as though he really were my best friend and made himself immediately available to me. I told him I had no interest in a sauna, but he informed me that I had no choice. He was leaving Amsterdam on business, he said, and this would be my last chance to see him for several days.

You will love it. If Americans frequented the banya , he said, they would shed their aggressions more readily and there would be less war in the world. I countered by telling him that I doubted his thesis was confined to my nation. He seemed to like that, because he chuckled and told me he’d be waiting for me in the lounge in his robe. That did not make me happy, because the thought of being near George Romanov with only one article of clothing on his body made my stomach turn. I could so easily picture him finding a reason to take it off in my presence.

But I had a job to do so what choice did I have? Besides, I was the rich man’s friend and employee and Romanov knew that, right?

That’s what I told myself as I marched along a dark and narrow corridor to the barebones front desk. A simultaneously fat and skinny attendant grabbed a white terry robe and an equally worn towel from a shelf behind him.

“The woman’s dressing room is to the left,” he said in Russian, and thrust the goodies in my direction.

I snorted a laugh before I could stop myself, so humorous did I find his assumption that I was going to remove one article of clothing from my body.

He was speaking Russian even though we were in Amsterdam and I hadn’t spoken a word to him. This told me something.

“You know who I am,” I said.

He grinned as though this confirmed his membership in Mensa, continuing to offer me the robe and towel as though he knew that it was just a matter of time before I accepted them. The arrogance of these Russians in Amsterdam, I thought. And the self-delusion, too.

“Mr. Romanov described you to me,” he said.

“Oh, really? What did he say about me?”

“He said that I’d know who you were within a minute.”

“How so?” I said.

“Two reasons. When we get new guests, they’re mostly men visiting from Russia. Not too many women besides the locals.”

I knew Romanov had to have given him a more personal description of me, most likely something I’d find brutally offensive. This in, in turn, would make me loathe him even more, a prospect which brought me a certain measure of glee.

“And what was the second reason?” I said.

“He said you would ask me how I knew who you were right away.”

The attendant broadened his grin.

Son-of-a-bitch , I thought. That was a pretty good line by Romanov, which I didn’t appreciate. The last thing I wanted was to start liking him for any reason whatsoever.

I glanced at the robe and towel in the attendant’s hands and shook my head.

“No sauna for me,” I said. “George said he’d meet me in the lounge.”

“No one’s allowed in the lounge in street clothes.”

“Really?” I said. “What are you going to do, call the police to have me arrested for wearing street clothes?”

The attendant shook his head, looking completely serious. “You and I,” he said. We’re Russian. The police won’t help us so there’s no sense in calling them. Mr. Romanov said that if he sees you in street clothes, he’s going to walk out. Said he won’t talk to you at all.”

“Why?”

“Because no one is allowed in street clothes in the lounge. Club policy. You can see why, can’t you? Street clothes… it looks like business. People come in here, they want to leave business behind. They only want to be with other people who are leaving business behind.”

I rolled my eyes.

The attendant extended his arms fully, practically placing the robe and towel in my arms. His grin broadened into a full fledged smile.

I took the robe and towel and headed into to the women’s dressing room. Score one for the arrogant and self-deluded, I thought, before deciding that such a description was equally applicable to me, at least in this case.

The dressing room needed minor renovations, the way a salvage yards needs a facelift. Old carpet smell was winning the war against the room deodorizer and winning ugly. The vanity and toilets were technically clean but the fixtures were so old and rusty that the areas looked dirty anyways. A poorly aging matron gave me a disproving onceover as she gathered wet towels from a basket and stuffed them into her bin for washing. After her eyes met mine she glanced at the tip jar beside the hair drier. I ignored her and the tip jar without suffering any guilt because she hadn’t done anything special for me, and because I was from New York. The minute you crossed into one of the City’s five boroughs, someone had his hand in your pocket—picking one’s spots to express gratitude was a constant exercise in financial self-preservation.