Elliott Holt - You Are One of Them

“In theory,” I said. “We’ve got our share of joiners, too.” I could feel how flushed I was. No doubt I looked awful.

As if reading my mind, he said, “Ty krasavitsa.” You’re a beauty.

“Ya?” I said. I still wasn’t used to hearing that I was beautiful. People started telling me that in college, when I had apparently completed my transformation from ugly duckling. When I got to college, I was considered sexy for all the things that had been held against me when I was younger. You’re hard to read, said one guy. You’re disarmingly cool, said another. And when their exploring fingers found their way inside my pants, they said, like metereologists describing tropical weather zones, Here’s where it gets really warm and wet. I didn’t trust those guys, with their undiscerning hard-ons, with their fumbles and grunts. One boyfriend fondled my breasts with the clinical detachment of a doctor looking for lumps. Their lust was fickle, careless. They were greedy. They would take what they could get, use you up, spit you out. But I liked the reductive nature of sex: in the moment’s heat, affiliations fell away like clothing. You were left with skin and sweat, humanity’s sticky essence.

“Ty,” he said. The informal you. He took my hand, then turned it over and studied my palm. “A long life,” he said in English. “Many adventures. All over the world.”

“I don’t believe in fortune-telling,” I said.

“The American who doesn’t believe in anything. Come on,” he said. “If not God, you must believe in democracy. Or the stock market. Or Coca-Cola.”

“I’ve always been loyal to Coke,” I admitted. “I’ve never liked Pepsi.”

“Aha!” he said. “She believes in the Real Thing.”

“I don’t know what’s real,” I said. “And what isn’t.” It’s not that I didn’t believe in anything , I thought; it’s that I regretted believing too much. I believed in too many people. Like an idiot, I believed in forever .

“I have something for you.” Svetlana materialized next to me and yanked me up off the floor. Then she pulled a white envelope out from under her sweater.

“What’s this?” I said.

“A special invitation,” she said.

“You can’t come all the way to Russia and not visit a dacha,” said Andrei as he stood up.

“Your chance to see typical Russian country house,” Svetlana said. “You will be our guest. We will have shashlik!”

“Shashlik is kebabs,” Andrei said.

“Unfortunately, my family’s dacha is only for summer,” Svetlana said. “But we will go to our friend’s house. Her dacha is ready for winter.”

“Winterized,” Andrei said.

“Da,” Sveta said. “Andrei will drive you.”

“When?” I said.

She just pointed at the envelope in my hand. I opened it. Inside, the card read, “Sunday. 12 o’clock . Our friend is expecting us.” The words swam before me.

“I think I’m drunk,” I said. “And I don’t like being drunk. I need to go home.”

“To USA?” Andrei said.

“Eventually,” I said. “But right now to Corinne’s. To the apartment I’m staying in.”

“I will escort you,” Svetlana said. “I am ready to leave.” She touched Andrei’s arm. “Do zavtra.” See you tomorrow. She went to get her coat.

“What are you guys doing tomorrow?” I said to Andrei. I was surprised to feel a jealous pang. Not of the sexual sort—though I did wonder if he and Svetlana had ever slept together—but the familiar sense that alliances were forming around me, that while I remained alone, others were teaming up. I felt comfortable with Andrei because his English was so good, because he had lived just a few blocks away from my childhood home. But he and Svetlana obviously knew each other very well. They were in league somehow.

“She meant Sunday,” Andrei said.

“She said tomorrow,” I said.

“She thinks today is Saturday,” he said.

“If you say so.”

“Eto ya znayu.” I know so.

“What else do you know?” I looked at him. He had a narrow, elegant face and short, reddish brown hair. His smile was tempting. I had a sudden urge to kiss him. I leaned in and let my mouth meet his. His lips were chapped and dry. I pulled back.

“I know you are very beautiful,” he said.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I said.

“Nyet,” he said. “Of course not.”

“Sarah,” Svetlana called from across the room. “Davai!” Come on.

IN THE CAR ON THE WAY back to the center of the city, Svetlana asked the driver to turn up the radio; it was techno music, and I could hardly hear myself think.

“It’s so loud,” I said. I could feel a hangover brewing. The night’s events jostled in my head, and I was already having trouble separating fiction from fact. Did I really kiss Andrei? Did Svetlana really invite me to a dacha?

“I do not want him to hear us,” Svetlana said.

I turned to look at her. I couldn’t get a read on her face in the dark. “What?” I said. “Are you actually going to give me some real information? Or do you just like creating a sense of mystery?” I could smell the smoke from the party on my clothes and I couldn’t wait to take a long, hot shower. “Smoke and mirrors,” I said. “One-way mirrors.”

“What did you think of our consumer research?”

“Sorry if I messed it up,” I said. “But you promised me a surprise. I thought I saw Jenny in that room.”

“Well, Richard thinks you are crazy, but it went exactly as I planned,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You did see Jennifer. I wanted to get you in the room with her.”

“What?”

“I wanted to see if you would recognize her.”

“Zoya?” I said.

“She was not ready to see you, but I knew she would come to focus groups. You recognized her, she recognized you.”

“I thought Zoya was Andrei’s friend,” I said.

She paused. Then she said uncertainly, “He told you that?”

“Yes,” I said. “He said he introduced her to you.”

“That is good,” she said. “Jennifer would not want him to—how do you say?—blow on her cover.”

“Blow her cover.”

“Da.”

“She recognized me at the focus groups?”

“Yes, but she could not say anything. Not in front of Richard.”

“That was really Jenny?”

“Eto pravda,” Svetlana said.

“But where is she?”

“She is living in dacha,” Svetlana said. “Provided by KGB.”

“I want to see her.”

“This is why I arrange meeting. This is why we go to dacha.”

“We’re going to Jenny’s dacha?”

“You must call her Zoya in front of Andrei, ponimayesh? ”

“He doesn’t know the truth?”

“He does not know that you know. He will report her.”

“To whom?”

“She needs her father’s KGB pension. It is not much, but she has nothing else, understand? If they think she wants to return to America, they will take it away. She will have nothing. She must be loyal to Russia because Russian government is supporting her. I told her perhaps you can help her.”

“Does she want to return to America? Can’t she just waltz into the embassy and repatriate?”

“She is always under the surveillance. She will explain to you. But remember: It is secret from Andrei. Promise me. You cannot tell him. He cannot be trusted.”

“Was his father in the KGB?” I whispered.

She leaned close to me and placed a hand to my ear. “Da,” she breathed, as if blowing up a balloon with her secret. “Yes. Of course.”