by Kelly Oliver
Trying to catch up, Jessica tripped and her drink flew out of her hands. Its contents rained down on Donnette’s already soggy up-do. At the same time, Jack swooped in, lifted the diary from her purse, and dropped Jessica’s moleskin journal in its place. The three of them cycloned around their mark and spun off into the crowd. Later, Jessica would insist that she fell on purpose, improvising as she went.
Really, her mind had been miles away, at her dad’s memorial service years ago. Folks he’d helped had showed up from all over the state, people she’d never even met. She always wished he’d paid more attention to his own family, but he’d said it was the Christian way to help others. After God repaid his generosity with tragedy, Jessica turned to philosophy for answers, but all she found were more questions.
Jessica turned back and peered through the throng to make sure Donnette was okay. With a dazed expression, Donnette dabbed her face with a napkin and listened to the rest of the speech.
Harry ignored the ruckus and resumed his toast. “Next, I would like to salute my best friend and life partner, Fingal O’Flannery, who means more to me than life itself.” Waving a half empty bottle, he motioned for the servers to top off champagne glasses. “Congratulations darling.” He blew a kiss to Fingal disco-dancing across the room. “My dear friends,” Harry continued, “this morning, Fingal sent off a manuscript that he has been working on for the last twenty years. His first book is called Phenomenology of the Eye and the….” The sounds of glasses clinking and applause cut him off. When the noise died down, he said, “Wolfgang has big shoes—or should I say sandals—to fill, but, I know he’d be pleased if his Endowed Chair went to Fingal.”
Snickers at the joke, followed by murmurs, rippled through the crowd. The colorful birds kept on dancing and drinking while the drab fowl from the university faculty looked at each other in dismay.
No way Fingal O’Flannery would be promoted to Distinguished Professor with just one book. Endowed Chairs were reserved for renowned philosophers, not party boys, unless of course they’d published a book a year along with throwing a debauched bash at New Year’s. Odd coincidence, Fingal’s book manuscript suddenly appearing right after Schmutzig’s death. Jessica stared at Fingal dancing and shook her head. No way, she couldn’t believe he’d finally written a book.
She followed the trio of pickpockets as they scurried out the front door just as Harry was concluding his toast. Jack had the diary tucked under his wrinkled navy blazer, the only jacket he owned. Jessica broke out ahead, hoofed it to the car, and her friends picked up the pace to catch up.
Jessica knew each one of them had their reasons for wanting to read the diary. Amber wanted to know why this man had always meant so much to her mother. Lolita wanted to know what this man had on her father. Jessica wanted to know why he postdated the letter. And Jack, well Jack, just thought it would be amusing to learn the dickhead’s pathetic secrets.
As soon as she slammed the passenger door shut, Jack took off, still holding the diary tight under his right arm, steering with his left. When Jessica reached over Amber and tried to grab the notebook, his hands flew off the steering wheel and the car ran up onto the sidewalk and then bounced back into the street. Amber was riding shotgun and jerked the moleskin out from under his arm. She held it above her head and dove into the back seat. She flipped through the diary to the last entry.
“June 13th, the day of his death,” she said.
“Read it out loud,” Jessica begged.
Amber’s snaky hair bobbed up and down on her head as she read, but when she looked up from the journal, she had a single tear rolling down her cheek, and then her mouth wordlessly opened and closed. Jessica kneeled on the front seat and reached into the back and grabbed the diary away from Amber and began reading out loud.
Friday June 13th
I wish Donny would allow me to pay for Amber’s college. Although it was a moment of drunken weakness on my part that brought her into existence, she is still my responsibility.
She glanced at Amber, horrified, and wondered if she should keep reading.
My poor mother wants nothing more than a granddaughter. For Zelda’s sake, Donny should permit me to claim the girl as my own. When I get home tomorrow, I resolve to tell mother whether Donny approves or not. She stopped reading when she realized Amber was crying in the back seat. She turned around to see the back of Amber’s curly head in Lolita’s lap.
Jack stopped the car, parked along side the road, and then reached into the backseat to stroke her curls.
In a small voice, Jessica read the last entry aloud.
Alas, Alex has arrived for our last weekly appointment, so more later. He comes bearing gifts.
“Poisonous gifts,” said Lolita.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Dmitry got back to The Residence Inn, Lolita was waiting for him, tapping her blood red nails on the flimsy hotel dining table.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
“Yes, kotyonok, when I get back,” he said. He’d only stopped by the hotel to check on his wife. Vanya was waiting for him downstairs to continue their search for the missing paintings. Besides the Pope, the only other person who could have taken them was the professor. And he was dead. Dmitry had to find out if the professor had moved the paintings and where. His stomach sank. He had a terrible thought. What if the police had confiscated them and were looking for their owner?
“I keep telling you not to call me kitten.” Lolita slipped into the flimsy chair, extended her long legs, and crossed her ankles. Her gaze pierced his heart.
“Sorry, moya lyubov. Oops.” Dmitry grinned.
Lolita gave him the evil eye. When she was a little girl, she’d loved her nickname. She’d purr, meow, and crawl around the house on all fours. He had to face the fact that his little kitten had grown up into a Siberian tiger.
“You’re not going anywhere until you answer some questions.” Sitting at the miniature dining room table, her tall frame made the table and chairs look like they belonged in a doll’s house.
“Did you say hello to your mother, milaya? She’s been anxious to see you.” Dmitry pointed towards the bedroom where hopefully Sabina was sound asleep.
“Yes, and she won’t tell me what’s going on either.”
“Would you like something to eat? Or some tea maybe?”
“Quit stalling, Dad.”
“Well, I’m going to make myself some tea,” he said.
“What was going on between you and the professor?”
“What do you mean, darling?” He busied himself in the kitchenette. He put a pot of water on to boil and rummaged around looking for tea bags. Lipton’s, courtesy of the Residence Inn. He knew he should have gone shopping.
“What were you doing in his office?” Her voice held the word doing between its fingers like a dirty rag.
He put two cups on saucers, filled them with boiling water, and placed a tea bag beside each cup, along with an individually wrapped package of Saltine crackers. He’d pocketed a couple of packets at lunch yesterday because he hadn’t had time to shop for food. A pauper’s tea compared to the Pope’s spread. He put one cup in front of Lolita, and then sat down across from her at the tiny table.
“Well?” Lolita asked. Patience was not one of her virtues.
“That, my dear, was a misunderstanding,” he said.
“What were you hiding in the professor’s office?” she asked, dunking the tea bag up and down in her cup.
“Hiding?” Dmitry asked, startled.
“In his journal, the professor wrote that he caught you in his office, hiding something,” she said.
“The professor kept a journal?” he asked, astonished. The saltine crackers he was tearing open flew out of the package. He pushed the cracker crumbs to the corner of the table, scooped them off into his palm, and then threw them into the sink behind him. Dmitry wondered how much the professor had seen that morning in the office and how much he’d recorded in that journal. What had Lolita read
there?
“Dad, I need to know what is going on.”
“Okay, milaya, okay.” He sighed, took a long slow sip of the weak brown liquid that passed for tea, and thought about where to start. “Please try to keep an open mind, moya lyubov,” he said, folding his hands and closing his eyes. It occurred to him, someone who didn’t know better might have thought he was praying.
“Don’t look so worried, Daddy,” Lolita put her hand on his and smiled, lightening the mood. He shifted on his teetering chair and drew in a long breath. It was time he told her the truth, the awful truth about her heritage. He didn’t know which was worse, the burden of carrying his secrets all of these years, or the burden of revealing them.
“I’m not proud of everything I’ve done. But I’ve tried to protect those I love.” His eyes glistened. He quickly wiped his eyes with his handkerchief so his daughter wouldn’t see him cry. He took another drink of tea to stall until he could speak without his voice cracking.
“You are twenty-one years old, a beautiful, intelligent, young woman,” he said, choking back tears. “My little kitten has grown into a tiger. And you have a right to know the truth.”
“I’ll always be your kitten,” she said, eyes watering. She briskly wiped under both eyes with the knuckles of her index fingers.
Sabina appeared from the bedroom in her pink bathrobe and slippers, so lovely with her wavy black hair loose and sleep on her face. “What’s going on out here?” She yawned. She pulled up a mini-chair, and sat down on at the mini-table. The three of them were so cramped that their knees were touching. “What happened? Did someone die?” she asked. “Why are you crying?”
“Sabina, moya lyubov, our daughter is no longer a little girl,” he said. “It’s time to tell her the truth about her grandparents.”
“No, Dimka. Ignorance keeps her safe,” his wife said, eyes wide open. “Please, moya lyubov, she can’t be hurt by what she doesn’t know.”
“Mother, I demand to know the truth about my grandparents.” Lolita pounded her small fist on the table. The teacups jittered and their saucers filled with brownish water.
“Three things cannot be hidden long: the sun, the moon, and the truth,” Dmitry said. For emphasis, he waved his hands over the remaining cracker crumbs and water droplets in front of him, wishing all the messes he’d made could be cleaned so easily. “This might be a good time for that bottle of vodka in the freezer,” he said with a heavy sigh.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dmitry wiped the soggy crackers and puddles of tea off the tabletop, and his wife replaced the teacups with chipped Residence Inn glasses and poured them each a splash of vodka.
“Okay, out with it you guys,” Lolita said. “What’s the big secret? Am I adopted or something?”
Dmitry chuckled. “You’re too much like your grandfather to be adopted. And you’re a double of my mother as a young woman.” He tried to put on a good face, but his heart was sad. He hadn’t seen his mother in decades, and not a day went by when he didn’t think of her. Nothing could replace her calming presence.
A pounding on the door startled Dmitry, and he jolted up, sending the tiny table with him and their vodka and glasses flying. The table was lying on its side and the glasses were rolling around on the floor. He went to the door and peeked through the peephole. It was Vanya dancing from foot to foot with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Dmitry had forgotten that he was waiting for him in the Escalade. When he opened the door, Bunin ran in and jumped on Lolita, tail wagging.
“Hey Dima, where have you been? Bunin and me have been waiting thirty minutes, Cousin. Where’s the toilet?” Dmitry pointed towards the bathroom.
“Who’s that unsavory character?” Lolita asked under her breath.
“That, my dear, is your cousin, Vanya,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m really related to that little creep?”
“Do you still want to know the truth about your family?” Dmitry grinned. “Vanya is just the flower. The berries are yet to come.”
When Vanya returned, they moved into the sitting room. Sabina poured more vodka and brought out some mixed nuts. She must have figured they needed a stiff drink to bear the weight of what they were about to hear. Vanya took a comb from his pocket and smoothed his thick greasy hair. He flashed Lolita his golden smile. Dmitry shook his head. Here we go again. Vanya didn’t take his eyes off of Lolita, and she seemed to be basking in the attention. She stretched her long legs out in front of her and crossed her ankles again. “Cousin Vanya” she purred, “can I bum a cigarette?”
Dmitry exchanged a worried look with his wife.
“’Course, Miss.” He did his cigarette trick. The Marlboro magically traveled from the pack to Lolita’s lips and was aflame in one single movement. She batted her eyelashes and smiled up at her newfound relative. Dmitry squinted and shot him a warning glance.
“Tell the story, Cousin,” Vanya said. At the sound of his voice, Bunin ran to him, wagging, and put his head in his lap.
Dmitry started his story. “Once upon a time in Russia, there was a little boy born into a very wealthy but very corrupt family known as Bratva, the brotherhood. His father was Godfather of this organization. Like God, he was feared and obeyed, and like a father, he took care of his children. That is, until they betrayed him with disobedience.”
Lolita interrupted. “My grandfather is the Pakhan of the Bratva Syndicate?” As she walked across the living room, Vanya’s gaze pursued. She returned with two saucers, and handed one to him and flicked her ash into the other.
“Yes, and your uncle was the Kassir until he started embezzling,” Dmitry said.
“I have an uncle! He’s a bookie?” She sat up on the sofa. “What’s his name?”
“His name was Sergei,” Dmitry said. “But everyone called him Sly.”
“Was?” Lolita asked.
“Yes, he died,” Dmitry interrupted. He looked away. Only fools and madmen tell the whole truth.
“What are you telling me?” Lolita rose up from the couch, walked back into the kitchenette, filled her glass with vodka and downed it in one gulp, then gasped, whether from the drink or the shock, Dmitry didn’t know.
“My father expected me to go into the family business,” he said. “He was going to make me Sovietnik the night I left Moscow.” He grimaced remembering the terrible scene.
“You were going to become the Consigliere to the most powerful mob boss in the world!” Lolita exclaimed. “What are you saying? That I’m a daughter of Bratva?”
Dmitry downed the rest of his vodka and held out his glass to Sabina. “Sweetheart, could you pour me another?”
“No. You’re our beloved daughter,” Sabina said. “That’s why we left Russia, for you, moya lyubov. So we could have an ordinary life.”
“Like many young lads, I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps,” Dmitry continued. “I wanted to take a different path. “He put his chin in his hands. “I wanted to become an artist. You can imagine how that went over with my father.” He sipped the cold vodka, careful to avoid the jagged chip in the glass.
“Your grandfather is one mean súka blyad,” Vanya said. “A year ago, he took my father, his own brother, to the Hospital and shot him. But first, he cut off…”
“We don’t need you to paint us a picture, Vanya,” Dmitry interrupted. He shuddered to think of the gory dismemberments, brutal torture, and coldblooded assassination his father’s Kryshi performed in the operating room.
“Hospital?” Lolita asked.
“An abandoned maternity hospital where the Oxford Don disposed of his trash,” Sabina said in a harsh tone.
Lolita raised her eyebrows. “Oxford Don?”
“Your grandfather is known as the Oxford Don because he has an advanced degree in economics from Oxford. See, you come by your brains honestly.” Dmitry tried to make a joke.
“How did you get away?” Lolita asked. “I thought the only way anyone left Bratva was in a pine box.�
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“Or, in Ce-ment overshoes,” Vanya added. He stopped chuckling when no one else joined him.
“Aren’t they still looking for you? Won’t they hunt you down?” Lolita was upset. “How can you be so calm?”
“This is our fate, milaya. No one can change fate,” Dmitry said with a sigh, leaning on the table with his head in his hands. Lolita came to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m the child of Bratva and there is no changing that.”
“Come on, Dad,” Lolita said, “Bratva may have formed you, but that doesn’t mean it determines who you are.” She put her arms around his neck. “Daddy, as you always tell me, a wolf is not beaten for being grey, but for eating a sheep.”
“Let’s get some Chinese take-out,” Sabina said. “I’ll call and order it from the place next door.”
Once lunch was delivered, he told the rest of his story while they ate. He left out the pain and anguish of his relationship with his father and brother. He didn’t mention what he’d seen in the Hospital.
He couldn’t describe what had happened to Sergei. The words would only cut his throat. His only brother’s gruesome battered face. The smell of bergamot mixed with fear. Sergei shouting at him to kill him, spitting in the face of death. The distinctive crack of Yuri’s Makarov pistol ripping through the frigid night. The sound of those two shots ringing in his ears for the rest of his life. Some things are better left unsaid.
He told her about her grandmother, her elegant dress and demeanor, her Russian sayings and sound advice, her love of art and music. He told her about their trip to the Count’s estate at Caën, the story of how her grandmother’s favorite flower, the Tiger Lily, got its name. Wiping his eyes on a damp napkin, he told her how as a teenager he’d been forced to leave his mother behind forever. For all he knew, his father had killed her for helping Dmitry escape. By the time he told her that she was named after her grandmother, even Vanya had tears in his eyes.