Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“I understand that you are, or were, pregnant with his child, my grandchild. I would like to help raise this child.”

Yanna’s face began to crumple with anguish, but she held on, turned away, biting back her tears.

“There is no child. I was never pregnant.”

Disappointment rolled through Gromov, his thoughts taking him away from the restaurant to someplace as cold and dark as a tomb. Several beats of silence passed before he realized that Yanna had started telling him things he did not know about his son.

“I loved Fyodor. I miss him terribly,” she said. “We’d met in a bookstore. We liked each other very much. He was so kind and altruistic. He had a gentle strength about him. He loved hearing about my university years in America. We became good friends and started seeing each other.”

Yanna could clearly read on Gromov’s face that he was misinterpreting things.

“No,” she said. “It was not like you think.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Your son was goluboi. He was gay.”

Gromov closed his eyes.

Before she died in the cancer ward all those years ago, his wife had tried to tell him about Fyodor, but he’d refused to listen. Now he found himself nodding at this young woman’s confirmation of what he had long felt to be true. But it had never changed his love for Fyodor, and he was condemned to live with the regret of never having told him that.

“Yes.” Gromov cleared his throat. “I know.”

“You should also know that I am rozovaya, a lesbian.”

Gromov lifted his hand slightly from the table, in a gesture of acceptance, inviting her to continue.

“I wanted a child,” Yanna said.

She then told Gromov how months before Fyodor was killed, she’d asked him to be the donor father of her baby.

“In my eyes, he was the best human being in the world,” she said. “I was over the moon with joy when he agreed.”

Yanna and Fyodor kept the matter secret and went to a clinic in Moscow.

“The procedure failed. I never became pregnant.” She paused. “Then he was killed.”

A long sorrowful moment passed as Gromov sat there absorbing the revelation. With each passing second he grieved what he’d lost, refusing to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. Again and again Gromov told himself that it was impossible to go back in time and erase his sins. He could not undo the past.

No, he thought, but it was still within his power to shape the future.

“Tell me, Yanna, what is the name of this clinic?”

She hesitated, but not for long.

“The Rainbow Clinic, off Leninsky Avenue.”

Gromov reached for his phone and began making a series of calls.

Soon, he would know all he needed to know about the clinic to ensure they would not refuse his request to cooperate.

Moscow, Russia

Dr. Irina Aprishko removed her glasses and massaged her eyes after reading lab results at her desk in the Rainbow Clinic.

Looking forward to the weekend and the start of her vacation, she exhaled, replaced her glasses and saw that Olga Kotov, her assistant, was at her doorway, bag in hand, ready to leave.

“The others have gone for the day, Doctor. You’re the last one here.”

“I’m still expecting that late appointment.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Ryazansky. So insistent when he called. Would you like me to stay?”

“No. I’ll meet him then I’ll close up. Thank you, Olga. Good night.”

After her assistant left, the doctor locked her reports in one of the steel file cabinets against the wall then went to the window. The clinic was in a yellow two-story building on a quiet tree-lined street not far from Leninsky Avenue, a busy artery in Southwest Moscow. As she gazed at the street the doctor grew curious about this Ryazansky.

Why was he so insistent to meet now, simply to discuss the clinic’s services? She’d offered to tell him over the phone, but he rejected that. She’d offered to set up a formal appointment with other staff, but he rejected that too, insisting on meeting now with her, given that she was the only executive member of the clinic at the office today.

Who was this Ryazansky? She’d checked the clinic’s files. He was not a donor or patient. Was he a potential investor? She had to admit, business from the clinic’s operations, had been very good.

Or was he a cop?

She hoped he was not a cop-that would not be good. It could get complicated.

She removed her glasses, tapping one arm to her teeth to help her think, when the front door security bell sounded. She went to the empty reception desk and on the small video monitor saw two men in suits. Using the intercom she asked them to identify themselves.

“Gennady Ryazansky, with my associate, Viktor Zhulov, here to see Dr. Aprishko.”

She buzzed them in. Seconds later, two men were standing in the reception area where the doctor greeted them.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me at the end of the day,” Ryazansky said.

“My pleasure. Let’s talk right here. The sofa’s comfortable, and since the other staff members are gone for the day, our privacy is assured.”

“Certainly, but first, is it possible for Viktor to use your restroom? It was a long drive from downtown.”

“Of course.” The doctor smiled at Viktor. “Down the hall, to the left.”

Watching him leave, she noticed the scar on his cheek and the tentacle of a tattoo creeping above his collar. Then she turned back to Ryazansky, who seemed to regard her with a degree of iciness. Who were these men? Usually she met with young couples, or a young woman, or young man.

“So tell me, again, Mr. Ryazansky,” she said as they sat, “what’s your interest in our clinic? I’m a little unclear about your situation.”

“Before I go into specifics, I’d like to know about your policies and procedures concerning your services.”

“Very well.”

Aprishko gave an overview of how the experts at the clinic treated patients for infertility, using state-of-the-art technology. How the clinic also offered surrogacy arrangements and full services concerning surrogate motherhood with a global network of legal services. The clinic also offered in vitro fertilization and sperm donation services.

“Above all, our most important policy is absolute confidentiality.”

“Thank you.” Gromov reached into his chest pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper for the doctor. It showed the colored copies of driver’s licenses of Fyodor Gromov and Yanna Petrova, along with neatly printed dates.

“My name is Pavel Gromov,” he said.

“I thought it was Ryazansky? I’m not sure I can help you under this-”

“Please, stay seated,” Gromov said. “Let me continue and it will all become evident. The man pictured here is my son…the woman is his girlfriend. You’ll see dates noted-they are the dates they visited this clinic to use his sperm to impregnate her. Unsuccessfully.”

Aprishko looked at the sheet.

“I believe, from my understanding of your procedures,” Gromov said, “that this clinic would have preserved and still possess my son’s sperm. My son is now deceased and I want his sperm to make further attempts at a grandchild.”

The doctor blinked several times. “Mr. Gromov, my condolences for your loss. It is a terrible thing to lose a child. But I’m afraid I cannot help you. First, as I said, patient confidentiality is absolute, so I cannot even confirm that these two people were patients. Second, it is stated in our contracts that, for clinical purposes, sperm becomes the property of the clinic but is not used other than for the purpose intended by the provider.”

Gromov’s face registered nothing. He said nothing. His eyes shifted from the doctor, who suddenly wondered why Gromov’s associate had taken so long. When she turned her head she saw Viktor standing behind her. He’d removed his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster and the grip of a gun. Aprishko’s jaw tightened when he passed her wallet to Gromov. She’d left it in her bag, in the drawer of her desk. This man had gone into her office and stolen it.