Julia Gousseva - Gray Shadows - Russian Historical Thriller

“What deal are we talking about?”

“He’ll tell me more about it when he gets here, but you know what’s interesting? That attack on him happened the day after his refusal to sign whatever it was. I don’t think it was a coincidence.”

“Somebody is trying to get rid of him?” Nikolai said.

“If he’s replaced with a more agreeable person, the deal can go through, that’s how I read this,” Anatoly said. “Anything I need to know from your end?”

“There was one unusual incident that ended with a security guard getting killed, but it was over a woman, not business-related from what I can tell.”

“Any details I need to know about?” Anatoly said.

“Not at the moment.”

“All right. Thanks. Keep me informed.”

When Nikolai walked back into the office, Pyotr Alekseevich was handing papers and brochures to Natalya, and she was putting them into her bag.

“The boss says we’re done for the day,” she said to Nikolai. “Computers have been slow all afternoon, so Oleg’s coming to check things. And that means I can’t type any translations.”

“What are all these papers for?” Nikolai said.

“I need to read them tonight so I’m better prepared for the meeting tomorrow. All this technical information is pretty complicated,” Natalya said.

“Thanks, Natalya. I appreciate all your efforts,” Pyotr Alekseevich said. “I promise that your computer will be in a much better shape tomorrow. They tend to slow down once in a while, but Oleg knows how to fix them. They are lightning fast after he does his magic. You know where the hotel is, right? Or do you want me to send someone with you?”

“Thank you, but we’ll be fine,” Nikolai said. “Natalya and I can walk over there on our own.”

“Sounds good. Just don’t expect much. It’s a small town, you know. The hotel used to be a dorm for the construction workers.”

“Yes, Oleg already warned us about it,” Nikolai said.

Outside, the only light came from the lit windows and industrial-style lamp posts that marked the paths between the buildings. Everything off the path looked completely dark, and Nikolai could not even tell how deep the snow was around them or how far the hotel was. He felt like he was walking into a black hole. Then, suddenly, the path stopped.

“We’re home,” Nikolai said, pointing to the nondescript entrance with a plain-looking sign, Hotel , a bright spotlight shining on it.

“I see what he meant when he said not to expect much,” Natalya said.

Nikolai pulled the heavy door open. “After you.”

The reception area consisted of a desk behind which an old woman sat on a chair. Her head was covered with a scarf, and only the top button on her coat was unbuttoned despite the relative warmth of the building. On the wall next to her was a plywood board with room keys hanging on it. All keys were attached to what looked like huge wooden chess pieces. Pawns, probably. Nikolai chuckled to himself. Freud could write a paper or two about the subliminal messages these pawn-shaped key rings sent to the Soviet construction workers who used to live here.

“Are you the ones who wanted a suite?” the woman asked them. “Oleg told me when he brought your bags. Your room is on the second floor. All the way to the right. Room twelve. And you’ll even have your own shower. Only five rooms in this whole hotel have their own. Most use the hallway shower. You’re lucky.” She stretched her arm to the board with keys, took one off, and handed it to Nikolai. “Make sure to turn in the key when you leave the hotel every morning. That way, you can’t lose it, and I’ll keep an eye on the key and on your room.”

Nikolai and Natalya climbed the steep and narrow staircase to the second floor. They walked on the well-worn institutional-style brown carpet to the room, floorboards creaking and squeaking with each step. Room twelve was at the end of the dimly lit hallway, all the way to the right, just like the old woman told them. Nikolai put the key in the rickety lock, jiggled it a little, and opened the creaky door. The suite was more than modest, by anybody’s standards.

A small antechamber was equipped with a metal coat rack and a single light bulb hanging down on a thick black cord.

“Lenin’s lamp,” Natalya said. “How frugal.”

Nikolai chuckled. He had not heard this expression for a long time, probably because he had not seen this type of lighting for a long time. The words “Lenin’s lamp” used to refer to the official propaganda of Lenin’s efforts to bring electricity to villages and small towns after the 1917 socialist revolution. Later, as Russian people got disillusioned with the dream of socialist heaven on earth, Lenin’s lamp became a symbol of the ultimate simplicity and frugality of the new way of life that Bolsheviks brought to the people of Russia: even a simple lampshade was considered bourgeois, so the pear-shaped lamp hung free on its cord, casting harsh light on its surroundings. That was the way of life Bolsheviks advocated for the masses, reserving the finer things in life for their own use. So much for a classless society.

The antechamber had four inside doors, all open at the moment, that led to two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The furniture and the decor looked simple and minimalistic: a couch, a table, a few chairs, plain-looking wallpaper, a table lamp with a green plastic shade, thread-bare rugs, and faded curtains. Just the necessities.

“Pick your room,” Nikolai said.

“I’ll take this one,” Natalya said and walked into the one closer to the kitchen. “It has a larger radiator. I get really cold when I sleep.”

“Fine with me,” Nikolai said. “Mind if I jump in the shower first?”

“Go ahead. I want to read the brochures anyway.”

The hot water felt rejuvenating and refreshing after a day of traveling and being in the cold. As the hot water released the tension in Nikolai’s muscles, his wounded leg immediately felt better, the last of the ache quickly disappearing. Standing under the steaming water stream, Nikolai tried to convince himself that this assignment would not be as boring as it was shaping up to be. There were definite positives. For one, he wasn’t stuck in his apartment doing nothing. Two, Pyotr Alekseevich seemed like a nice man, and even Natalya was not as bad as he first thought. Being an interpreter, and a good one, was not an easy job, so she must have put a lot of effort into her studies. Maybe, her dad was too hard on her. Nikolai turned off the water, dried off, and got dressed before he stepped back into the room. He already felt better.

Natalya was in the kitchen, bustling around.

“I’m making tea,” she said. “Oh, some girl called. I told her you were in the shower.”

“You told her what?” Nikolai grabbed his phone from the kitchen table.

“That you were in the shower.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Olga, I think.”

Nikolai shook his head, suppressed a wave of anger towards Natalya, and dialed Olga’s number. She was not picking up, as he had expected. She was probably really mad by now, and for what looked like a good reason. More Othello and Desdemona-style jealousy and suspected affairs, just like in Vanya’s crossword. Another misunderstanding. There seemed to be a lot of that going around in Upper Luzinsk.

Last time Nikolai talked to Olga, he failed to mention that he and Natalya were sharing a suite. He thought he was doing what was better for everyone. That was a mistake. Now, Olga will not want to talk to him at all.

Frustrated, Nikolai stuck the phone into his jeans pocket and turned to Natalya. “And why are you even picking up my phone?”

“Oh, I am sorry. Did I say something wrong? Is Olga your girlfriend? I was just trying to help.”