by Kelly Oliver
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dmitry couldn’t decide how much to tell his daughter about the paintings. He remembered when his father had bought them on a trip to Tajan auction house in Paris. His father stayed behind in the city while he and his older brother and mother visited her favorite cousin’s 17th century estate. He and Sergei ran wild through the huge castle and sprawling grounds. That was before Sergei started torturing small animals, before he killed anyone, before he betrayed their father. Now, those idyllic fraternal days in the French countryside seemed like a childhood fantasy, something he’d dreamed, or a story his mother had read to him from a children’s book.
Her cousin the Count was a handsome man a few years older than his mother. He had kind eyes and a gentle voice. At the time, concerned only with catching frogs, climbing trees, and trying to keep up with his brother, he hadn’t suspected anything romantic between his mother and her “close friend.” Now he wondered.
The Count taught him to fly fish on the river running through the estate. Dmitry gazed in wonder as the Count cast his line in a graceful loop expanding into ever larger ovals until he let it loose and then a magical pause hovered overhead at its full back extension, as if time were standing still before it would ricochet forward again.
Dmitry had especially loved the furry little flies and their funny names, Wooly Bugger, Sofa Pillow, Royal Wulff. He couldn’t imagine doing something fun outdoors with his own father. Whenever his father had taught Dmitry anything, it was more like punishment than fun. Whereas the Count was mild-mannered and compassionate, his father was gruff and scary, more Grizzly Wulff than Royal Coachman.
One afternoon, his mother prepared a picnic and joined them on the riverbank. While his brother smashed mushrooms with rocks and poked at moss with sticks, Dmitry and his mother picked wild Tiger Lilies growing along the river. They smelled spicy, of cloves or nutmeg, like his mother’s perfume.
“Dimka, those flowers have freckles, just like you,” his mother said. “Do you know how Tiger Lilies got their name?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a Chinese prince hunting in the forest. He was ten years old, just like you, Dimka,” she said.
“I want to go hunting!”
His mother laughed and continued the story. “The prince shot an arrow at a beautiful tiger but only wounded him, and the tiger cried out in pain. The regal animal was suffering, and when the prince pulled out the arrow, the tiger yelped. Ashamed, the prince cried too. The bloody arrow tip fell to the ground along the riverbank, and after the tiger’s death, it grew into a Tiger Lily. In his sorrow, one day the prince threw himself in the raging river, and the tiger’s spirit paced up and down the river looking for the prince. This is how the flowers spread along the shore.” When his mother took his hand, he carried the full weight of the story.
When it was time to rejoin his father in the city, he had mixed feelings. It was the first time he was allowed to accompany his parents to an art auction, and he was in awe when subtle movements, barely noticeable, beckoned to the rare beauties on the block and took them away forever. Dmitry had never seen anything as beautiful as the wild contrasting colors exploding off the canvas of Kandinsky’s Fragment for his Composition VII. Colors as sheer as veils. Bold shapes surrounded by thick black lines, a cockeyed mess that threw him off balance. That is when he decided he wanted to be a painter.
His father bought two paintings that day, Kandinsky’s Fragment and a Goncharova’s Gathering Apples. As his mother instructed that last night on the platform, Dmitry had waited until he got to Warsaw to open the valise. He had opened it in a bathroom stall in the Warsaw train station. He’d been stunned to see the suitcase full of rubles. But he’d cried in astonishment when he unrolled the canvas and saw his beloved Kandinsky.
“What other secrets have you been hiding from me?” Lolita’s question brought him back to the small table in the Residence Inn.
“How did you get the professor’s diary?” Dmitry asked, piling fried rice onto a Styrofoam plate.
“Jessica stole it,” Lolita replied, coyly sipping her vodka. She was up to something.
“Did it mention that I gave one of my paintings to the professor just before he died?” he asked. He poked at his eggroll with a chopstick and pushed it around his plate.
“He wrote about it hanging on his wall. And then something about finding something under the floorboards.” She peered at him over the rim of her glass.
“What?” He leapt on her words, dropped his chopsticks, and flew up from the table.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“The real pictures, Boss?” Vanya chimed in. “Or more fakes?” He was feeding Bunin BBQ pork with mustard sauce, licking off the sauce one piece at a time.
Dmitry shot him a dirty look. “Vanya, take Bunin for a walk.”
“What’s wrong?” He was pouting.
“Just take Bunin to pee so we can get back to Brentano Hall and find out what the professor did with my paintings.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As Dmitry climbed into the passenger seat of the Escalade, he noticed Lolita running out after him.
“Meet you at Brentano,” she yelled, as she stuffed her hair into her helmet and hopped on her Harley.
The sky had cleared and the air was fresh after the misty rains of the day before. Opaque hints of summer humidity formed a steamy barrier between the earth and the sun. It was just warm enough that Dmitry turned on the air-conditioning in the SUV. He didn’t want to risk Bunin jumping out the window. Lolita sped past them, weaving in and out of traffic. He had never seen her riding her bike on the freeway. He was terrified. She was fearless.
When Dmitry burst into Brentano Hall, from her desk Donnette looked up and glared at him.
“We’re just here to visit Jessica,” Lolita called to her.
Donnette waved, shooing them away. As he climbed the stairs, Dmitry noticed that the police tape had been removed from the professor’s door. He wondered if that meant he should start cleaning the office again. That gave him an idea. Unfortunately, it involved talking to that big-haired Texan Baba Yaga at the front desk.
When he got to the third floor, he spied Jessica holed up in the attic reading. She was so pale, he wanted to tell her to go outside and get some sun for a change. Instead, he glanced away as she threw a man’s suit jacket over her ripped sundress. Swimming in that jacket, with her blonde hair in pigtails, she looked like a little girl trying on daddy’s clothes, although he wondered what kind of daddy would wear a tailored blazer with dirty tennis shoes. He wondered whether dresses and high-tops were a new college fad.
“What’s going on?” she asked, staring at Vanya.
“Meet my cousin, Vanya,” Lolita said raising her eyebrows. Jessica shook his outstretched hand, and then discretely disinfected with hand sanitizer attached to her backpack.
“Where’s the professor’s diary?” Lolita asked. “What did it say about my dad’s paintings?”
Since there was only a desk in the attic, they all were standing while Jessica sat cross-legged on the desk with her sundress tucked up under her thighs. Dmitry couldn’t help but notice that her legs were covered in bruises. He wondered if she was a hemophiliac like the House of Romanov’s youngest son. He thought of Rasputin who treated the boy and later was poisoned, shot, and then drowned in the icy Malaya Nevka River with weights attached to his fur coat. The coat sunk, but his body floated to the surface in plain sight.
“The police were asking me about your paintings.” Jessica hopped down from the desk and rummaged in her book bag. “The detective said the Kandinsky you painted for the professor was missing from his office.”
“Does the professor’s diary mention anything else about paintings?” he asked.
“There is a strange entry near the end,” she said. “Here, let me find it.” She pulled the journal from her bag, and flipped through the pages, scanning them as she went, the
n stopped and read something to herself.
“What does it say?” Lolita asked.
“It says… ” Jessica started reading out loud. Mr. Durchenko doesn’t know I am aware he removed my floorboards. Much to my delight, I found a tube with two wonderful Russian Expressionist works. One by Kandinsky, but the other I don’t recognize, signed by someone called Goncharova. Either Mr. Durchenko has outdone himself on these, or they are the originals, in either case, they should not be stored in a tube under the floor. I moved them to a temperature-controlled vault for safekeeping. What will he think when he discovers the empty tube? I wish I could be there to see his face. Over the summer, I will decide what to do with these fabulous paintings. For now, I have rescued them from further damage in their subterranean tomb.
“Are these the paintings you’re looking for?” she asked, closing the journal.
“Yes, my copies of Kandinsky and Goncharova,” he replied glancing around the attic. “Does it say which vault?”
“That’s all it says.” Jessica hopped off the desk and slid the journal back into her pack.
Under his breath, Dmitry said, “I just have to wait for the sack to slip the anvil and float to the surface.”
“Float to the surface of what?” Jessica asked.
“We have to find that vault,” Lolita said. “There must be a key or a receipt or something somewhere. Maybe in his office, but how can we get in now that your key doesn’t work?”
“Got a credit card?” Vanya asked, smiling his golden grin.
Jessica’s face turned red and blotchy. “How did you… ” her voice trailed off.
“I have a better idea,” Dmitry said. “Let me go talk to the witch.”
“The witch?” the girls asked in unison.
Dmitry marveled at the difference between the two girls. At 5’ 10”, with her silky black hair and ivory skin, Lolita could have walked off the pages of Vogue magazine, whereas with her oversized jacket and messy blonde hair, Jessica was a bright-eyed unkempt urchin who’d be adorable if someone would just clean her up.
“Mrs. Bush,” he said. “If I’m not back in 15 minutes, come looking for me.”
“Don’t mention the professor’s journal,” Jessica whispered after him. “Donnette thinks she threw it in his grave along with her three shovelfuls of dirt.”
Dmitry scooted down the hall to fetch his janitor’s cart, took it down the elevator to the first floor, wheeled it up the hallway to the main office entrance, and then watched Donnette Bush through the door, steeling himself for the upcoming confrontation. She was standing at a filing cabinet with her back to him. He dreaded asking her for the key to the professor’s office, but since his master key no longer worked, he had no choice if he wanted to enter legally. He tiptoed into the main office and came up behind Donnette. When she turned around and saw him, she let out a squeak.
“Heavens to Betsy, Mr. Durchenko, you scared the living daylights out of me. Can I help you?”
“Do you have the key to Professor Schmutzig’s office?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” she answered.
“May I borrow it so that I can clean his office?” he asked.
“No, you may not.” She tugged on her skirt, pursed her lips, and stared at him without blinking.
“How am I supposed to clean the office if I can’t get in?” he asked.
“I’ll let you in,” she said. “But I’m watching you like a hawk, Mister.” She turned with a huff.
Wordlessly, staring straight ahead, they shared an awkward elevator ride to the second floor. She led the way and he followed after her with his cart. They stopped in front of 24B. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the key, and with much ceremony, unlocked the door.
“Clean away, Mr. Durchenko.” When the Baba Yaga waved him into the room, he walked into the office and glanced around, unsure where to look. Plus, she was still standing in the doorway.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Donnette pulled at her skirt again.
Dmitry moved towards the wastebasket and picked it up, surveying the room at the same time. The basket, of course, was empty, but he went through the motions anyway, carrying the empty basket to his cart, tipping its phantom contents into his black garbage bag. He glanced at Donnette who hadn’t budged, and then reached into his cart and pulled out his Liberon Repair, Revive, Renovate Kit. He carefully unrolled it and went over to the wooden desk, pretending to polish it.
“Really, Mr. Durchenko,” she said. “What do you think you’re up to?”
He realized that he couldn’t properly search the room for receipts or safety deposit box keys with the Texan witch hovering over him. He would have to come back later with Vanya. “Thank you Mrs. Bush,” he said. “I’m finished.” He left the office and closed the door behind him. She removed the key from her pocket and relocked the door.
“You will never get this key, Mr. Durchenko,” she said. “Do you hear me, never.” Donnette held up the key in front of his face.
That’s when Dmitry saw it. On the ring with the key to the professor’s office door was another much smaller key, the key to a safety deposit box.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jessica stumbled backwards. She was expecting Lolita, but Alexander Le Blanc was standing in the hall holding two cups of Starbucks coffee, wearing his usual preppy outfit, and smiling at her, which made her suspicious. He seemed too darned happy, like a weasel in a henhouse.
“What are you doing here, Alexander?” She stepped into the hallway and closed the door to the attic so he couldn’t see inside.
“I came to get my paper,” he replied. “I brought you a Cinnamon Dolce Latte, your favorite.” Alexander held out the cup.
“That’s really considerate of you, but I’m not allowed to accept gifts from students.” With everything going on, she still hadn’t written comments on his paper. She resolved to do it first thing tomorrow morning.
“It’s just a coffee for cripes sake,” he said. “Call it a peace offering.”
She took the cup. “I’m really sorry, but I haven’t had time to retrieve your paper from Professor Schmutzig’s office with the police barricade and all.”
“Yes, a tragedy.” He was staring at her with an impenetrable look on his greasy face. “Aren’t you going to taste your coffee?”
She put the cup to her lips. “Hmmm…delicious. I promise that I’ll read… have your paper for you tomorrow. For sure this time. I swear. Just come back tomorrow afternoon.” She had her back to the door and her right hand on the doorknob. She wanted to slam it in his skinny face and disappear inside.
If only she’d been more responsible with her grading, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She didn’t mean to be such a screw-up, but somehow she always managed to float into the rapids. Her stomach bunched into a ball and she thought she might hurl.
“Until tomorrow then, my lady,” Alexander said, turning on his heels.
She was so relieved her sigh echoed through the stairwell. She retreated into her attic nest, sat the latte on the windowsill, and began rifling through the stack of papers piled in the corner of the room. She found Alexander’s paper, “Beyond Common Morality, Raskolnikov as Übermensch.” Raskolnikov as nuisance, more like. She tucked it into her book bag and went back to preparing for the Red X party at Tau Kappa Epsilon Fraternity. Lolita had told her to wear something sexy. That meant breaking out the little black dress. She texted Lolita and reminded her to bring some shoes.
According to the plan they’d made at Blind Faith, they were going to meet at the Brentano attic before going to the fraternity party to give those assholes a taste of their own medicine. She wasn’t sure of the exact plan, but it involved catching the most notorious fraternity on campus in the act of slipping date rape drugs to unsuspecting girls. Personally, she planned to find that friggin’ quarterback Kurt and make him drink some of that date-rape drug.
Wriggling into the dress, she noticed a hint of Cinnamon Dolce. She fum
igated herself with vanilla spice body mist until coughing from the vapors, she opened the windows to let in some fresh air.
The sounds of spring floated in on a magnificent evening breeze. For some reason, she was in good spirits. She knew she shouldn’t be. Her dead advisor thought her thesis was crap and her new advisor wanted her to write about menstruation. The other faculty member qualified to serve on her committee had seen her passed out in his pajamas, and she was living in a musty attic without two dollars to her name.
She was almost looking forward to going home to backwater Montana to face her depressed mother for the first time in almost a year. Alpine Vista trailer park with its dumpy doublewides. She sighed and rolled her mind’s eye.
Jessica took out her braids to emulate her grandmother’s wavy hair from faded photos where she was wearing those magical dresses with her hair done in neat finger-waves. Next, she went downstairs to the bathroom to shave her legs in the sink. Hiking up the dress, she lathered her legs with liquid hand-soap from the dispenser, then shaved and swished, shaved and swished. She lifted her dress to wash under her arms with paper towels and then splashed water on her face. She was overdue for another shower at the student rec center.
When Jessica got back to the attic, Lolita was waiting for her armed with a whole arsenal of shoes, dresses, make-up, and jewelry. She was wearing her signature black leather pants and a pink baby doll top under her motorcycle jacket.
“Why so many dresses?” Jessica asked.
“Amber,” she answered. They both laughed.
Once inside, she handed Jessica some black patent leather platform shoes. “Here, try these on.” She did as she was told, stood up, and tottered back and forth across the room.