by Nikki Harmon
Savvy slides the bag into her purse and nods at me, but her gears are already spinning.
“Savvy? Thank you. And listen, you should backend your research so these look like they came from you ok? Don’t speak my name at all, not even once.”
“Don’t worry. I’m very good at this kind of thing. You should know that.”
“True.”
“You be careful with this guy ok? He seems well connected, but clean. It’s weird.”
“I’ll be fine. I hope that works out for you.”
“Thanks.” Savvy smiles one more time at me, nods at Sujatha then leaves, not sparing a single glance at the singer on stage.
“I’m tired,” Sujatha says resting her head on her palm.
“I’m tired too. You ready to go back?”
Sujatha nods. “We have to get your car back to Philly though, and us.”
“There’s no way we can just make that happen? You know like twitch our noses or something?”
“I wish it worked that way. Let’s get a taxi back to the car.” We haul ourselves up and out of the cozy café and into the brisk night.
∆∆∆
After an uneventful taxi ride back to the car, we survive the excruciatingly boring ride up I-95 back to Philly by reading the papers Savvy gave us. We have to memorize the information to take with us. Some of it is in Russian so we have to download a translator and try to interpret the information. Most of it is standard biographical information – educational history, awards won, a brief resume, a scant mention of family. We search for something we can use as leverage, or blackmail, or influence but it is all pretty tame. We repeat it and repeat it and repeat it so that we can carry it across with us. Our only break from the monotony is a delightful rest stop at Chesapeake House where they had just cooked a fresh batch of Cinnabons for the early morning truckers.
I drop Sujatha off at her parents’ home in South Philly, then drive myself to my parent’s house where I fall asleep as soon as I hit the bed.
Before I awake I can hear my sister complaining to my mom about her curfew. The house smells of coffee, bacon, and pancakes, and I want to stay here, in this moment, listening to my mom and sister have the same argument they have had fifty times before. But duty calls or rather, my hand itches. Half asleep, I scratch it but it keeps itching. I look at it, and the tattoo brings me right back to the mission. I think of Savvy’s face last night and pray the information she gave me is correct.
I get up and stuff the envelope in my bedroom closet, under boxes of old report cards and certificates. I don’t think I’ll ever need it, but if I do, maybe I’ll be able to find it again. I repeat the biography one more time and try to visualize the words on the page. Then I take a big breath, close my eyes, press my thumb into my tattoo and seek out mySELF. Resting on that wave I send myself back and back and back to the warehouse.
Chapter 32
Sujatha is already back. Her chair is empty and I hear her talking with Amy in the next room. On a whiteboard across the room, she has written the information we memorized. I walk up to it, correct a couple of things, add a line she missed and stare at her translation of his family history. It isn’t quite what I remember, so I write my version underneath. I step back … everything else seems fine. Over my shoulder, I can see Amy and Sujatha come in the room.
“Well,” says Sujatha, “What do you think?” Amy reads over the board.
“It’s great except it tells us nothing except where he came from. There’s nothing else that we can leverage, at least as far as I can see. What do you think, Kim?”
“I think we need to go to Russia, the Sverdlovsk Oblast to be exact. Should we get ready?” I look at Sujatha who smiles back at me.
“No,” Amy steps forward, “I should go with you. I know some Russian. I used to be obsessed with Pussy Riot. You know them?” I shake my head no, annoyed at my disappointment. “I’ll play you some on the plane. They were very radical back in the day. Marched topless, spoke out on women’s rights, artists’ rights, gay rights.”
“And then what happened?” I ask.
“They disappeared, one by one. They never found the bodies though. Anyway, I want to go. I’m pretty good at detective work and … I will probably blend in better.” Sujatha and I exchange a look, both of us too brown to blend. She had a point.
My mother called me the next morning to tell me that Lil’ Walter was out of the coma and recovering. She sounded so exhausted that I didn’t bother to tell her where I was going, only that I was with friends. That sufficed.
∆∆∆
Two days later, Amy and I are on a plane, eating turkey and stuffing and practicing Russian phrases with a language app. The plane is filled with mostly Russian businessmen in suits and American students with long beards and duffle bags. There are few other women – mostly older, well-heeled and meticulously well-mannered – but the men outnumber them at least five to one. Together, Amy and I stick out like sore thumbs, but I get the most stares. I realize they think I am either a singer or a basketball player. I’m kind of short but I try to look sporty anyway. It would be way too easy to call my bluff as a singer. Amy had done her research and made sure that she is wearing the popular style, which is basically feminine but very conservative. She looks like the librarian from “It’s a Wonderful Life”, glasses, long skirt, frilled white blouse, and sensible heels. I am relaxing in my comfy lounge pants, Old Navy sweatshirt, and sneakers. But it all works out in the end.
When we finally get through the long line at Customs, I am accosted at baggage claim by a couple of young men asking me if I am going to join the Ekaterinburg UMMC team. I try to play it off by saying I’m tired and nothing is certain but one of them is persistent and asks for an autograph. He shoves a team picture in front of me. I am trying to give it back to him when a familiar face catches my eye. Meer. Disbelieving, I pull it closer and read the names underneath … Amira Clarke, forward. I smile at him, trying to mask my reaction to this new information, sign the picture and give it back to him. He thanks me and the two bounce away to find their party.
Amy is looking at me, amusement all over her face.
“Really? We are supposed to be keeping a low profile and here you are signing autographs! Are you serious?”
“You are never going to believe who is here right now.”
∆∆∆
Though we tried to pick non-descript, mid-range accommodations, our hotel is luxurious. The linens, the towels, the carpeting, the cleanliness, and the service are so indulgent that I keep asking Amy to show me the rates again and again. But as we drive through the city I can see that the standard of living is the same all over. It is a big metropolitan city but there is no dirt, no trash, no graffiti, and no homeless people. In fact, the city is so sterile and well-kept that I become suspicious. Where are the poor people? It reminds me of apartheid South Africa when Sun City was the jewel of Africa. But that distinction came at the price of the poor, the colored, and the immigrants who were all cordoned off and kept out. Stuck in slums outside the city, they suffered so that the “city” could appear flawless. Looking out onto Yekaterinburg’s streets, I keep looking into the negative spaces and wondering where? Where? Where? Once I run into a cleaning person who, though tidy and mannerly, cowers and scurries and refuses to speak in more than a whisper. The dullness of her skin and hair make me think of a hospital patient, one who hasn’t been outside in months.
Amy, secure in her disguise and fledgling Russian, ventures out into the cold every morning to research Wasserman’s life. She finds and tours Wasserman’s old schools and past addresses trying to find some link or connection that we can exploit. I stay inside trying to get in touch with Meer. It turns out that all basketball players, even the female basketball players are treated like A-list celebrities in Russia. They have personal assistants and press people and bodyguards and are hounded by the paparazzi. Nobody believes me when I say I know Meer from high school. Apparently, I am not the first to use that line
. After three days of getting nowhere, I come up with a rather obvious plan.
∆∆∆
The arena is small but packed with fervent fans. Meer is a rookie on the local team. She backs up the aging but still very popular Australian 6’9 superstar, Jane Smith. They are playing a team whose fervent fans tend to follow them to every game, so half the crowd is dressed in the Ekaterina gold and black, while the other half wears bright green and purple. It is quite dizzying and we are lucky to get a seat. Amy is not a basketball fan but is happy for the distraction. I spend the whole first quarter studying the security, which is incredibly tight. I spend the next quarter focusing my non-existent psychic powers to make Meer look at me while Amy munches away on popcorn. The game is pretty good but “our” team is down and the coach is apoplectic. I remember her from Meer’s college basketball scouting sessions. She coached for Baylor but was let go after some well-guarded scandal. As the half winds down, I watch fans approach the tunnel to the locker rooms. The guards stay close but they let the fans, mostly young girls, get close enough to get autographs. The bench players, which include Meer, enter the tunnel first while the stars linger to give quick autographs and interviews.
After using the restroom (also scrupulously clean), Amy and I take the long way back to our seats and luck into the one bar selling alcohol. We are sitting at a high-top table, grinning at each other and toasting our good fortune when Amy freezes. She ducks her head and swears under her breath.
“What?” I ask, too nervous to look for myself.
“Shhhhhh! Drink your drink, laugh, act natural,” she whispers.
I sip my cocktail and conjure up my best fake laugh and Amy responds in kind. She flips her hair down and pretends to rummage in her purse as a couple of men pass us heading back to the game.
“That was him!” she says.
“You are kidding me. Wasserman?”
She downs her drink and shakes away the sting of it.
“Shouldn’t have done that. Uh … Anyway, yes. I can’t be sure if he would know me or my face. I didn’t want to take the chance though.”
“What do you think he’s doing here?”
“I don’t know. It probably depends on who that other guy was.” The buzzer sounds signaling the beginning of the second half. We leave a tip, hope it was adequate and hurry back to our seats.
Meer gets some good playing time at the top of the half – she scores 6 points and steals a ball to the delight of the crowd. I watch her and try not to fall back in love. It was so long ago but watching her play brings it all back. I allow a tiny part of myself to be proud of her. Who knew she would have the courage to come to Russia to follow her passion? I really didn’t think about what she would do after college basketball. While I contemplate Meer’s life, Amy spends her time scouring the crowd until she finds Wasserman sitting behind the visiting team's bench. He is sitting with two little girls and an older boy. Amy is thrilled.
“Gotcha.”
A second later the Jumbotron features the smiling face of the other guy. The announcer says something in Russian, of course, I pick out the word spasibo … thank you. The guy smiles and waves and sits down.
“I think that’s the owner of the other team,” said Amy.
“I think you’re right. What does he have to do with Wasserman?”
“I don’t know, but most of these teams are owned by big businessmen looking for good publicity.”
“Hmm … I’m going to try and follow him.”
“The owner?”
“No Kim, Wasserman! We’ve been here three days and nothing. I’m not going to let this opportunity get away from me.”
“I don’t think it’s safe, Amy.”
“No, but he has his kids with him, so I’m betting that he’s going home and I’m hoping if he does see me, he wouldn’t do anything in front of them.”
“Seems very risky to me, Amy.”
“Do you have any better ideas?” she asks. I didn’t.
“I’m just going to try and tail him in a cab. I want to know where he lives so I can do better snooping, ok?”
“Ok.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I plan on getting my program signed. Hopefully, they let me up there. I thought I might try to get going when there’s about ten minutes left in the game.”
“Ok, so we’ll leave at the same time.”
Fifteen minutes later we hug goodbye and head through the concession tunnel in opposite directions. I head down towards the tunnels, trying to guess the right entrance back into the arena. I find it with only a minute to spare. The score is close but our team pulls it out at the end with a dunk from Smith in the last five seconds. I position myself behind a group of pre-teens in team sweatshirts. They seem like they would be naturals to get some attention. I am only about five feet from the exit route. After the obligatory team high-five line, the teams start towards the tunnel. My heart rate speeds up when I spot Meer. The girls start waving their pens and paper and I realize that I am about to be lost in the sea of arms. I move to the left, and squeeze in between the girls’ team and a young man with a Hornets baseball cap. The team is walking too fast and Meer is busy talking and joking with one of her teammates. I yell out.
“Meer!!!” She disappears under the overhang and I think I blew it until I see her sneak back along the wall against the current of players and coaches.
“Kim?” Eyes locked, a million memories fly between us. She starts to walk towards me but a security guard steps in and shakes his head. She speaks to him in halting Russian and points at me but he just shakes his head again. She holds up a finger signaling me to wait. I nod, find a seat and wait. A scant fifteen minutes later, the crowd has thinned, the reporters are packing up their laptops, the crew coil their cables and the maintenance people begin their night shift. I’m trying to figure out what to say when I hear a throat clear behind me.
“Kim?” Startled, I turn to see a silver-haired man in a neat black suit.
“Yes?”
“I am Sergey, Meer’s driver. She said to fetch you and have you wait in the car for her. She will be out shortly.” I sit there for a minute trying to be sure I understand him through his thick accent. He clears his throat then begins to repeat himself but this time with hand gestures.
“I am Sergey. I drive Meer, your friend, yes? She plays basketball, yes?” He makes dribbling moves with his hands. “You will wait with me …”
“… in the car.” I complete the sentence for him. “Yes. I’m sorry. I understand. I’m just … surprised. Thank you so much.” I stand up. He nods and motions for me to follow him. Meer has a driver?!?!
∆∆∆
Twenty minutes in the warmed butter leather seats of the car is enough time for me to realize that I need to come up with a plausible excuse for being in Russia. Luckily, Sergey helps me. As soon as we get in the car, he begins to chat about the game, the traffic, the weather, and all the English that Meer is teaching him. Then he asks me why I came to Yekaterina. I open my mouth to make a bathroom excuse when he answers his own question.
“You look very smart. I bet you are here to study, am I right? You have a very serious face, like a scholar. I had a scholar in here once. I forget what he said … fullback, fulfill scholar or something like that. Very serious fellow, that one. He made me nervous, actually, to tell the truth. Ahh, here she is, Amira, love that name, don’t you? The way it rolls off the tongue …” Before I can answer, he jumps out and opens the car door for her. She slides in grinning.
“You really are here. Hot damn!”
“I am.” She throws her duffle bag on the floor and reaches over to give me a quick awkward hug. Sergey jumps back in the driver seat and pulls into traffic.
“Ms. Amira, where would you like to go? Home or would you like to go to restaurant, get something for your friend to eat?”
She turns to me. “You hungry?” Eyebrow raised, she waits for my answer. I bite my lip, ignoring the flutters in my stomach.
>
“A little I guess, but I know you’re tired. We can relax …” I realize that besides finding her, I have no plan at all.
“How about we pick up a little take out? Some fine Russian cuisine? How about Puccini’s, Sergey?”
“That place again? Amira, you really should eat better, you’re an athlete, and your friend, she should have some good food, she needs to study!”
“Study?” Meer turns towards me. “Of course! What are you studying here in Russia, Kim?”
“Um actually, I was thinking of applying for a Fulbright here in Russia. I‘m here to do a little research and then I saw you on a flyer.”
“You saw me? What one of those promo flyers? I look so stupid.”
“Yes, and I didn’t think you looked stupid, I thought you looked good. Anyway, that’s how I found out you were here.”
“Happy coincidence.”
“Yeah, just a lucky coincidence.”
“So, you hungry?”
“Take-out is fine with me.”
“Good,” Meer replies. “Sergey, my guest would like the finest pizza in Yekaterina.”
“Fine,” Sergey growls. “Puccini’s it is.” He reaches in the glove compartment, pulls out a menu and thrusts it at us, grumbling under his breath. We spend some time deciding what to eat. The menu is in Russian but the pictures are clear enough. Meer decides to order a pasta dish for herself. I order a cheese pizza and Pelmeni on the side (Sergey insisted). Sergey orders something too. I have no idea what it is but when we pick up the food, it smells like sauerkraut.
During the ride, we keep the conversation pretty casual. We talk about the game, her team, her crazy life in Russia, the cold, cold weather and she tries to teach me a few Russian words to no avail. Sergey drops us off in front of her building and we bid a hasty goodbye with the wind stinging our faces. Inside, Meer nods to the doorman, the receptionist at the front desk and we whisk ourselves into an open elevator. It is black and gold and mirrored. I turn to tell her I am sorry for just showing up but she raises a hand and a finger to her lips.