by Sophia Henry
It’s true. I’ll never heal from Kirill while I’m with Dmitri. And it’s not fair to either of us.
We have a good life. All I can think about is how different the two men are. And how much passion Kirya and I had.
“Maybe you need to step away while you can when you don’t have the guilt hanging over you.”
My grandmother always gives me the best things to think about.
Is a life with Dmitri so bad that I should walk away? Is being alone a better option?
And the biggest question of all: am I strong enough to do it?
7
Stasya
The Present
“The past is never dead. It's not even past.”
~ William Faulkner
21 January 1994
Sometimes it’s so cold in New York, I feel like I’m back in Moscow for a moment. The buildings on each side of the West 57th Street create a wind-tunnel effect. Just breathing as I plow through them feels like it freezes my nose hair despite wearing a scarf that covers half my face.
I tug the scarf down to my chin before opening the door to the Russian Dining Room, my favorite refuge from the cold. Even after three years here in a city known for culture and diversity, I still feel very much like a foreigner.
Once inside the warmth of the restaurant, I unwrap my scarf and tug my gloves off. Sergei, the head waiter, greets me with a steaming glass of oolong tea.
“Spasibo,” I whisper gratefully, as I take the podstannik from him carefully. I’m doing well with English, since I use it daily at the store, but it’s easy and comforting to slip back into Russian.
“How’s Prekrasny today?” Sergei asks as he follows me to my favorite spot.
If I’m alone, I sit in the same place every time, a small two-person table in the back of the restaurant. It took me a while to feel safe anywhere, but the lessons Kirill taught me are always swirling through my mind. I never sit with my back to the door or people. Be vigilant—not paranoid.
“It’s very busy. I’m not complaining,” I add quickly. Because I don’t want to jinx the success, I turn my head and mimic the sound of spitting over my left shoulder.
Sergei doesn’t even blink—which is another reason I love being here. Everyone understands Russian customs and superstitions. It’s wonderful to not have to explain every single thing.
“I’m glad you set up Veronika with that hockey player,” Sergei says as I remove my coat and drape it over the back of my chair before sitting down. “She used to hit me up for money so she could afford her addiction to your clothing.”
“It’s a weird cycle, right? Your sister pays me and I pay you. But I’m glad to help you save money,” I tease. “I’d give her the clothes for free if she stood in the window like a real-life mannequin. I’d sell out of everything in one day.”
“Don’t tell her that until they break up. Take his money for as long as you can—just like I take yours.”
I laugh.
It’s true. Veronika is the perfect model for my clothing. Everything she puts on looks flawless. Someday, when I have a catalog, I will use her.
That day will come soon, I believe. My clothing store took off faster than I could have ever imagined. Retail and restaurants in the city come and go. It’s not easy to keep a successful business running, but women have taken to my designs. Profits have increased every year since I opened.
I’m removing my sketchbook from my bag when I look up and notice someone familiar entering the restaurant. My brother strides toward me with a huge grin lighting up his face.
Normally, the only time I get to see Vanya is during the summer since he splits his time between New York and Moscow in the off-season. Because his team, the Detroit Chargers, are in a different conference, he only gets here once during the season. I look forward to the Detroit game so much; I know exactly when it is. There is definitely not one tonight or tomorrow.
Someone once told me that separating twins is like losing a part of your heart, and I would agree back when we were growing up together in Russia and he’d leave for hockey. But I can’t say I feel it now.
Maybe we lost some of our bond because of the way Vanya left—defecting to America without even telling me and then barely speaking to me for months afterward. Or maybe it feels that way because I still hold on to that betrayal in my heart. Though I’ve forgiven him, I haven’t truly let it go.
Over the years, we’ve discussed everything that happened when he defected at length. Since hashing it out, our relationship has been almost back to normal. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust him again, but I love him and I won’t ignore the only family member I have here.
As he approaches my table, I stand up to greet him. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answer right away, he pulls me in and kisses my cheeks. “I am an All-Star, Stasya,” he says with exaggeration. “You knew I was coming into town for this weekend.”
“Ah, yes,” I say, touching my forehead. All-Star weekend completely slipped my mind. There’s so much going on, I barely remember my own name. “Don’t you have press conferences and a skills competition to be at?”
“I do. But all of that is later,” Vanya says, removing his gray pea coat and throwing it over the chair across from me.
“You act like you own the place,” I mumble, plucking my tea off the table quickly so he doesn’t spill it with his hasty actions.
My brother looks at me, grinning like an idiot. “I do,” he says. Then he looks around as if confused. “What are we doing at this table? We should be at one of those banquets.” He nods behind me.
His answer surprises me. “Wait? You what?”
“Let’s move,” he says, picking up my bag and grabbing both of our coats.
“Well, I didn’t expect you—” I stammer as he moves everything to one of the huge red booths. I carry my tea to the table and slide in after him.
Vanya leans back into the soft cushioning and says, “Much better.”
“Thank you,” I say as Sergei sets a steaming bowl of borscht in front of me. I lay my napkin across my lap and pick up my spoon before looking at my brother. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
“You are looking at the Russian Dining Room’s newest owner. I just signed the papers.”
“You bought this place?” I can’t help the shrill tone of my voice. The news is surprising. I didn’t realize Vanya was in the market to own a restaurant in New York City.
“I bought into it.” He raises his hand to grab Sergei’s attention before he walks away. “This is my retirement, Stasya.”
The waiter is back at our table in two point five seconds. “Mr. Kravtsov, welcome. What can I get you?”
“A bottle of Stolichnaya. We’re celebrating.”
Sergei nods. “Very good, Sir.”
Does Vanya think I can just skip out of my responsibilities? “Work is not a wolf, Vanya. It doesn’t run to the woods.” As soon as I say it, my brain begins to recall my never-ending to-do list.
“Not today, Stasya. You will take this day off and celebrate with your brother.”
It’s just after noon on a cold Friday in January. Technically, it wouldn’t be a problem to have Debbie take care of the store for the rest of the day. But I’m more interested in how Vanya’s going to play hockey after a liquid lunch.
“You really think you should be drinking when you have the skills event tonight?”
“That’s nothing. It’s all fun.” He assures me. “Do you think I forget how to skate and shoot after a few drinks?”
“I don’t think you’ll forget, I worry your aim will be off. Someone might lose an eye.”
“Would you like me to aim for Dmitri’s head?” he asks. “Or lower?”
Dmitri and Vanya have been friends for almost ten years. They are more like brothers than just former teammates. Especially since Dimitri and I are together. It feels like the old days, with more forgiveness and communication.
“Don’t give him any r
eason to be even more temperamental. He has enough mood swings during the season.”
“Dima has always been intense.”
Sergei returns to the table with the Stolichnaya and two glasses. Vanya waits as the waiter pours the vodka for us before setting the bottle down.
“He will be in a good mood tomorrow, I promise you this. I’ve invited everyone back here after the game to celebrate before we all go on our way again.”
“Everyone?” I ask, lifting my eyes from my spoonful of soup.
“Not everyone,” he clarifies, picking up both glasses and holding one out to me. “Just the Russians.”
“Where do the Americans and Canadiens go?”
“Fuck if I know,” he says, slamming his drink. Well, it’s his first of this particular bottle. He’s probably been drinking since he was signing contracts to become an owner. He pushes the glass toward me. “Come on, Stasya.”
I shake my head. “I told you I have too much work to do today.”
“You’re so serious all the time. One of these days you will let loose and enjoy yourself again.”
Emotion overtakes me and tears spring to my eyes.
“Let me know when that day will be, Vanya. I’ll look forward to it.” A tear slides down, and I wipe it away quickly.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. When I drop my cheek onto his shoulder, he kisses the top of my head. “You will get through this, Stasya. You are strong and resilient.”
Strong and resilient. Are those the terms for people who mask their pain every day.
I wonder what words he used to describe me while I was sitting in Dmitri’s apartment all day crying, wondering why Kirill threw himself in front of bullets meant for me?
When he lets me go, I take a deep breath and say, “Pass me that drink.”
One shot with my brother won’t put me over the edge. I can still go back to my store—the one thing that makes me feel strong and resilient.
8
Stasya
22 January 1994
By Saturday night, All-Star weekend, and all the media coverage surrounding it, is over and the Russian players who came into town for the game descend on the Russian Dining Room hungry for a celebration. Though many of them played against each other, there’s nothing but happiness and comradery between them.
Vanya and Zhenya both played for the winning team, the Western Conference, but they only won by one goal. Dmitri didn’t seem too upset with the loss since the game is meant to be more fun than it is competitive. Before the weekend, his coach told him to take it easy, to lessen the risk of injury, but the warning didn’t stop him from giving his best.
Exhaustion hits me like a brick. I took most of the day off to be at the game, but I’m still tired. Every day as a business owner is a draining day. I rest my head on Dmitri’s shoulder. He kisses my hair and squeezes my knee.
We’ve been here for three hours and we’ve gone through I-don’t-know-how-many bottles of vodka. Every time I set my glass down, someone is making another toast. It’s normal Russian custom, I’m just out of practice.
This time, it’s Zhenya standing up, raising his glass, and addressing the entire table. “To Pavel Viktorovich Myshkin! For without him none of us would be here!”
The toast is met with a mixed reaction: a chorus of groans with a few laughs peppered in. Myshkin was the revered head coach of the CSA when most of these guys left. Though they respected as the coach, many players disliked him as a person. Instead of earning his position, he was appointed to it and many didn’t think he deserve d it. He had a strict coaching style and demanded full control over his players lives. It was so bad a few players, like Vanya, chose defection over playing for him anymore. Myshkin feared his players would defect so much, he cut the ones—like Dmitri—who had been drafted by the NHL.
Still, Zhenya is right. Without that experience, some of these guys might have stayed with the system, rather than make the leap to a better life in North America.
After the toast, Dimitri excuses himself to use the bathroom and my brother stands up.
I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t take another drink,” I plead with him.
“You can sit this one out, Stasya.” Vanya winks at me.
Karina, the beautiful blonde at his side, is a well-known Russian tennis player who made international headlines after winning her first championship last year at sixteen-years-old. I thought she and Zhenya were dating, but she’s been glued to Vanya’s hip all night.
Her relationship with Zhenya made American news because of their age difference. Here, the media vilified him because she is so young. In America, a twenty-five-year-old man dating a seventeen-year-old woman is seen as disgusting or perverted.
But our culture is very different. It’s not uncommon for Russian women to choose older men. We want stability and someone who has been through life and understands things—something an older man can give. There’s also the fact that some women, like me, grew up with horrible fathers. It’s normal for a woman to pursue paternal-type guidance and protection in a relationship.
Her fingers are bare, so he hasn’t proposed. Proposing to someone he just started dating is totally something Vanya would do. Either that or a secret wedding. Like many Russian men, when Vanya falls, he falls hard and fast. There is no certain length of time to date before there’s talk of marriage. When you know you know—and you make it official. His romantic heart reminds me of Kirill’s.
Dmitri comes back from the bathroom with a silly grin on his lips. I scoot out of the booth to let him in, feeling light-headed when I stand up. He grabs my waist, pulls me into his arms and plants his lips on mine. I fall into him, clutching his shoulders to keep myself upright. When he lifts his mouth from mine, I’m dazed.
“Wow,” I whisper.
He gently brushes the hair away for my face. “It’s been a magical night, yes?”
“It has,” I agree, looking into his eyes and smiling. The vodka has gone straight to my head and now my brain is swimming with nostalgia and pride. “It’s wonderful to have everyone together like this. You all went from being the brightest stars in the International hockey world to taking over the NHL.”
“Nothing can break the Red Machine. Not even moving us to a different continent.” Dmitri laughs. “I’m so happy you are here to share this. It wouldn’t feel real without you.”
We hang out with our Russian friends during the summer, but tonight feels extra special. It reminds me of the old days when we would all celebrate an important Central Scarlet Army victory by going out afterward. Age wasn’t a factor at some underground bars in Moscow. There was always a place that welcomed hockey players and their friends.
Vanya and Dmitri both started with CSA in 1985. While doing the math quickly in my head, I tap out the number of years we’ve known each other on his shoulder using the pads of my fingers. “We’ve known each other for nine years! Think about all we’ve been through since we first met.”
“Almost a decade of excitement. There’s only one thing that could make this night better.”
When he lets me go, I sway on my feet. I clutch the back of the chair to keep steady.
Suddenly, he sweeps a glass of champagne from the table and drops to one knee.
I bend over, concerned he may be hurt. “Dima! Are you—”
He lifts his head, looking in my eyes as he raises the flute.
“I’m sorry, I can’t drink any more tonight,” I say.
“Look inside, Stasya,” he whispers. The only reason I hear him is because everyone around the table has gone silent.
Confused, I peer at the drink and notice something at the bottom. There’s a diamond ring sparkling among the bubbles.
“Oh my god!” I whisper to myself.
My breath catches in my throat and I cover my mouth with my hands. There’s still some chatter, but the volume in the room is considerably lower. Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I find my brothe
r first. Between one raised eyebrow and a smirk, his face holds no trace of surprise, which tells me he knew this was coming.
“Anastasiya,” Dmitri begins.
My gaze shifts back to him. My heart thumps in anticipation of the question. Heat rushes to my cheeks, uncomfortable being the center of attention. Anxiety has me frozen in place.
“Will you marry me?” While his hand shakes, a speck of confidence sparkles in his eyes. It’s the only noticeable hint of hope peeking through the fear on his face.
My stomach swirls and my heart races with mixed emotions. I’m happy, but cautious.
We’ve never even talked about marriage. I don’t know if I want to be with him forever. He is a hockey player—and that will always be his first priority. I understand his career is important, but there are times when it’s as if I don’t even exist. I’m a roommate and a trophy for his arm.
Then there’s the biggest reason for my hesitation.
My heart still mourns for Kirill.
Yet, this is what he wanted for me—safety and stability.
And Dmitri’s doing this in front of all these people—our family and friends. How can I say no?
My silence must last longer than I realize, because Dmitri’s smile falters and he squeaks out, “Stasya?”
“Sure,” I say nodding.
Everyone at the table cheers as Dmitri slams the champagne and fishes the ring from the bottom of the flute. He grabs my hand and slides it on my finger. Then he stands up and pulls me into his arms. His lips hover above my ear. “I love you,” he whispers.
There’s no need to worry. Engagement is just the beginning. We can talk about all of our issues before we get married. There’s no rush.
As soon as we let go of each other, the toasts begin again.
“To Dima and Stasya!”
“To a beautiful life together!”
“Let the tables break from abundance and the beds break from love!”