Emily Rubin - Stalina

“My dream is to have Berlin, Connecticut, become the short-stay capital of the East Coast,” Nadia added with great confidence.

“Yes!” her gentlemen all cheered.

Bacco was spitting and grumbling and hesitating to go outside.

“Go on, Bacco, clean the pine needles off the boss’s windshield.”

“I will serve your ambitions well,” I said, and then I turned to Mr. Suri.

“I had no idea Nadia ran the other motels, sir.”

“Please don’t call me sir, especially now that you’re the boss. Maybe that’s what you wanted all along.”

“Mr. Suri, please, don’t. What was it? Was it the drawings?” I asked Nadia.

“It was the drawings,” Bacco said.

“Shhh, Bacco, you talk too much. Go out and clean the boss’s car before I smack you,” the gentleman with the pinky ring said as he boxed him on the side of the head.

“Who saw them?” Mr. Suri asked.

“Go ahead, Bacco, tell him,” Nadia said.

“Alfredo from the Kiwanis Club owns a cesspool company. He’s my brother-in-law. He scoped out the site for the septic system you wanted to install and saw your drawings under the trees. Progress you wanted. Well, Frank told me that leach field would have made the other motels’ cesspools obsolete, and the zoning guy would have to close them down unless they upgraded.”

“You’re going to have to upgrade at some point,” Mr. Suri added.

“The cost, the taxes—business was slow. We never would have survived,” Nadia said.

“This place was starting to depress me anyway. I’m going to open a laundromat in Tempe. Everything clean, that’s all I want,” Mr. Suri said under his breath.

“Mr. Suri, please, I have good feelings here,” I said.

“Hey, this place provides an important public service,” the gentleman with the pinky ring said.

“I am proud to provide such service,” I added.

“Stalina, you are a very unusual woman. I will miss you,” Mr. Suri said.

My eyes still stung from the bleach and pine scent, and the inside of my throat swelled as I held back tears.

“Anything else, Mr. Suri? You need to be on your way,” Nadia said.

“What about Svetlana and the crow? Did you speak with your veterinarian friend?” I asked.

“Who’s Svetlana?” Nadia asked.

“She’s a kitten who lives here. She’s being weaned by a crow under the pine trees.”

“Yes, I spoke with him,” Mr. Suri said. “It’s most unusual, and the behavior should be documented.”

“Take photographs?” I asked

“Photograph it, film it. It is a freak of nature and would be invaluable for research.”

“A scientific oddity, like King Kong!” Bacco said.

“Like Jojo the Dog-Faced Boy. Will it make me famous?” Nadia interjected.

She had not changed at all since we were children. She was still an arrogant, self-serving megalomaniac. Jojo was born in Leningrad and was exploited his whole life by his father in the hands of P. T. Barnum. He spoke German, Russian, and English, but he only barked and growled in the sideshow where they exploited his unfortunate deformity. It was strangely comforting to know that Nadia had not changed.

“That cat is going to be famous, and hopefully a good mouser,” Mr. Suri said.

“She’s gotten lazy with the crow feeding her,” I said.

“Worms won’t satisfy her for too long. Soon she’ll be wanting real meat. Stalina, take pictures before it’s too late,” he urged.

“Amalia has a film camera. I’m sure I can borrow it.”

“You live with Amalia, don’t you?” Nadia said.

“I do. How did you know?” I asked.

“She’s the dispatcher for the Majik Cleaning Agency. I’m surprised she did not say anything about me. I got this from her,” she said as she reached inside her suit to pull out the strap of her brassiere.

I recognized the pink embroidered flower on the small metal ring that joined the satin strap to the elastic adjustable band. This was one of my bras.

She continued in Russian. “It’s hard for me to find a bra that fits well and is pretty. Amalia got these from Russia. Most people have no idea what great lingerie we have at home.”

I was devastated. How dare she touch my things and help herself to those bras. Those were mine to sell.

“That’s strange, we were just talking about you. She never mentioned anything to me,” I said.

“She gave me a great price for it. I heard about her husband’s death from my sister, very sad. It was good to see her. I was always jealous that she got to wear makeup when we were young. My mother would not let me wear any until I was twenty years old,” Nadia said, guiding the strap back into place under her suit jacket.

“My bras…she stole my bras,” I said in disbelief.

Nadia acted as if she did not hear me.

“The stupid Soviets made her feel like her husband betrayed her and the whole country,” Nadia said. “We all had to leave; life is better here.”

Russia betrayed Amalia, and she betrayed me. It was all very Russian.

“They were my salary, my hard-earned…things. She stole from me. Sometimes I miss Petersburg,” I said.

“You won’t need those bras, Stalina. We’ll make money; things will be better.”

“Better?”

“We have a short-stay empire to run. Stalina Folskaya, manager/designer. How does that sound?”

Mr. Suri had been silent, but he pulled out a red gift box from the desk drawer and said, “Stalina, remember this? I found it when I was clearing out my things.”

“Yes, I do.”

It was the box Mara found unopened in the room. He handed it to me.

“I think it’s the same as what she is wearing,” he said, indicating Nadia’s bra.

I opened the box. It was also one of my bras.

“Boss, we’ve got a lot to do today,” interrupted the fellow with the pinky ring. He was looking at his watch again.

“Don’t rush us,” she said. “Let me see that, Stalina.” She turned to me and spoke in Russian. “Is it my size? I have these boys mesmerized by my money and my boobs.”

When she said the word boobs in English, her red lips pursed. The sound of the word made me laugh and her fellows uneasy. My own breasts swelled slightly.

Mr. Suri faded into the background as he prepared to make his exit. He took his jacket off the hook and then grabbed an uneaten apple and one of the Statue of Liberty postcards from the front desk. He held the suitcase of money between his legs as he put his jacket on. I don’t know how much they gave him, but I hope it was enough at least to replace his failing automobile. We held hands for a moment before he walked out the door.

“I’ll write, Stalina.”

“I have much to thank you for, Mr. Suri.”

“I’ll miss you, Stalina.”

As he walked away, I watched his elegant long legs carry him across the gravel. There was a steady rhythm to his gait, but with a slightly defeated tempo. When he pulled out of the driveway, his Delta ’88 coughed and gagged. The drowning gurgle of the car reminded me of how my mother sounded when I left her in Petersburg. They say Arizona is a good place for such human ailments. Mr. Suri and his car disappeared down the hill.

“Is your mother in Brighton Beach like the rest, Stalina?” Nadia asked in Russian as she took the bra out of the box.

“No, actually, she’s dead in Petersburg.”

“I’m so sorry. This brassiere is not my size. Maybe it will fit you. It’s very pretty, but too small.”

“Not my size either. It’s very small, like Amalia. I’ll take it back to her,” I said, laughing.

Nadia laughed too. Her dark suits were restless. She gave an order in English.

“Bacco, take Stalina home so she can get her things.”