Happy Christmas Oliver

by Livia Ellis

  I sat in my seat chuckling to myself as Olga fixed her lipstick.

  Oliver stared at me. What? His practically insufferable sense of propriety begs to be poked at.

  Nothing. Your shirt is untucked in the back.

  He gets all fumbling and proper as he fixes his shirt.

  Member of the mile high club are we?

  Olga smiles at me. Oliver ignores me. The seat next to me is empty. Olga comes and joins me. I’m her sweetie, her darling, her favorite gayboy.

  She leans into me and places her head on my shoulder. I’m gay so that makes me safe. This is why straight women love me. We flick through Italian Vogue together as Oliver falls asleep. I know the two of them worked into the wee hours of the morning. I try not to think about this choice Oliver made. I just hope he stays safe and ends his career before it either emotionally or physically damages him. I am eternally grateful to Olga. She watches over him better than I ever could.

  I rub my cheek against her hair. Did she tucker him out?

  She needed to do something to make him happy after the whole luggage thing. Why couldn’t he just do what she wanted? Life would be so much easier if he just did what she wanted.

  Of course it would. But what fun would that be?

  I do have a point.

  She’d be bored in a day if he always gave in.

  I am wise. Do I want to meet her friend Marcus? He plays polo and he’s from Texas.

  Is he gay?

  Yes.

  Is he hot?

  Yes. He’s a phenomenal lover.

  I thought he was gay.

  Last time she checked I was going to be a father in a few months. Not like I’d never been with a woman. Marcus is big into group sex. He’s been to a couple of The Matchmaker’s parties.

  I want to meet him.

  He’ll be at her father’s house for the wedding and the Christmas party. She’ll hook us up.

  Do. Just out of curiosity, what did she take out of Oliver’s suitcase?

  Nothing. She was just messing with him.

  She truly is a very naughty girl.

  He deserved it.

  I kiss her on the forehead. Be nice to Oliver.

  She’s very nice to Oliver. He’s her best friend.

  I’m hurt. I thought I was her best friend.

  Oliver is her best friend with green eyes. I am her best friend with blue eyes.

  I can live with this.

  Land of Rus

  The plane descends through a frosty blue sky and lands without a bump. We move seamlessly from the airport, through baggage claim, customs and finally the terminal. In the terminal we are rushed by four young women. All beautiful. All wearing ruinously expensive fur coats. All distinctly similar to Olga in practically every way.

  Oliver and I hang back.

  He looks at me. Those must be the sisters.

  Must be.

  It’s not too late to get a hotel.

  I’m not the one that has anything to worry about. I’m not the one fucking the Russian gangster’s daughter.

  We aren’t exactly certain Olga’s father is a Russian gangster.

  Aren’t we? I thought we’d pretty much agreed that any man who made a living doing a bit of this and a bit of that was probably a gangster.

  Maybe staying at a hotel is a good idea. Just to be certain we’re not creating an inconvenience.

  How very thoughtful of us.

  We both watch as three men approach the group of young women. Three large men. I cannot be wholly certain without genetic sampling, but I am fairly certain one of them must be the missing link. He must be. It is the only way to explain the prominent brow ridge and the general meatiness of him. That or he’s a hockey player. The other of the two younger men is handsome, slim, and pretty much everything that makes my heart flutter.

  Oliver looks at me again. You don’t suppose that one there is her father do you?

  The Missing Link?

  Sasquatch.

  My eyes move to the eldest of the three. A man of perhaps fifty or slightly more wearing a fur coat and hat. He looked like a bear and the other two men were clearly deferential to him.

  Yes. That would more than likely be the father.

  I don’t recall Olga mentioning her father was a large man.

  I’m just going to say here and now, that I am very happy it is you and not me that is sticking it to his daughter on a regular basis.

  Why did I join them again?

  I was invited. I’m Olga’s best friend with blue eyes.

  The group can only ignore us for so long as they have their reunion. We are introduced to the sisters. Ana, Tatiana, Maria and Xenia. We are introduced to The Missing Link and Foxy. The Missing Link is for all intents and purposes, a henchman. Foxy, it turns out, is the very same Marcus Olga told me about in the airplane. Thank you Olga. I’m very interested indeed just as he is based on the looks I’m getting.

  Sasquatch is in fact Olga’s father. I’m too busy being charming to give much thought to the fact Oliver is dancing from foot to foot under the withering gaze of Vladimir Lenin. Yes. Vladimir Lenin. He was even bald. If only he sported the same sort of Van Dyke the Russian Marxist revolutionary wore then he would truly be terrifying. I hope to get friendly enough to the man to suggest some facial hair.

  I watched as one watches monkeys in a zoo as Olga introduced Oliver to her father and sisters. The girls looked ready to gobble him up. The father looked ready to devour him. I watched until I could take no more. Then I turned to Marcus.

  So. Polo? Why?

  Vladimir thinks it’s classy. He wants people to think he’s classy. He has his own polo team. It’s classy.

  Is he classy?

  Have I ever met anyone in my life that was classy that felt a need to prove they were?

  I can’t be certain, but I think I fell in love at that moment.

  A Break in the Interview

  L.E. Can I stop you?

  E.S. Can I stop you from stopping me?

  (Prolonged silence)

  L.E. You met Marcus at the airport?

  E.S. I met Marcus for the first time at the airport. He wore jeans, a heavy black waterproof coat, a marled gray ski cap, an atrocious orange scarf, and Sorel snow boots. He also needed a shave and a haircut. But then again he always did. Why?

  L.E. Oliver writes in his memoirs that the first time he spoke with Marcus was at the cocktail party that evening.

  E.S. This is a question I have been meaning to ask you. Clearly Oliver’s memory is failing him. Why are you relying on interviews with him to construct your opus?

  L.E. I’m not relying on interviews with Oliver to construct my opus. Good word by the way. I am relying on interviews with everyone else that knew him at the time and his diaries.

  E.S. Then why do you spend so much time speaking with him?

  L.E. I enjoy his company. He’s charming and often very lucid when speaking of the past. Besides – I need the Countess’ cooperation. She has instructed me to involve him in the process. There really is no saying no to her.

  E.S. No – there is not. Just as long as you are mindful that because Oliver recalls an event in a particular way or even recorded it in his musings, doesn’t necessarily mean what he recollects was as it happened. Before you ask, I am quite certain. Marcus and I were lovers by the time the cocktail party started.

  L.E. You work fast.

  E.S. Marcus and I weren’t particularly known for our discretion. Marcus especially. He was the definitive man-whore. If you ever want to do a sequel there’s a story for you. The Disastrous Tale of a Doomed Love.

  L.E. I’ll keep that in mind.

  E.S. Lots of sex – you’d like that – swinging, some bondage, and lots of man on man fucking. You wouldn’t even have to bother with the emotional and psychological elements.

  L.E. Because there weren’t any?

  E.S. Because you’d never get me to talk.

  L.E. That’s all right. I’m scheduled to fly to Ar
gentina in two weeks to meet with Marcus myself.

  E.S. Are you now? Whatever do you think he could add to the discussion?

  L.E. Who knows? What I know is that he was a part of the story.

  (Prolonged Silence)

  L.E. I will tell you that his husband is very happy to have me visit. Charming man. But then again I suspect the man that got Marcus to finally settle down has to be very special. I’ve never been to the Andean foothills. I hear it’s supposed to be beautiful. Shall I give them your best?

  E.S. Oh please do. Considering we haven’t spoken since we broke up that wouldn’t be awkward at all. But – I think we can safely say enough water has flowed under the bridge. Do tell him hello from me.

  L.E. I will. So you met at the airport.

  E.S. We met at the airport. We are taken in those obnoxious fossil fuel earth poisoning Humvee limousines to the house. At the time, Vladimir lived in a one-hundred-fifty year old petite palais which had once been owned by a member of the Romanov family. The place was positively cavernous. An inferno wouldn’t have warmed it. Oliver probably felt right at home. He was used to living in a home that would never be warm regardless of the exterior temperature.

  The House That Vladimir Lenin Bought because it was Classy

  We are dropped at the door to the home of Vladimir Lenin – Russian capitalist gangster who loved money and obvious signs of wealth the way a child loves toy shopping. If ever there was a man incorrectly named, it is Vladimir Lenin. We are ushered into this enormous home with its French façade and fading glory. The girls disappear. Marcus goes off with Vladimir. Something about horses. Vladimir turns us over to The Missing Link who turns us over to a butler. A very proper very English butler who I am fairly certain is not English. I’ve lived amongst the English for more than half of my life. There is a twang to his accent that doesn’t sound right to my ear. He addresses Oliver as ‘My Lord’ and is appropriately deferential. We are escorted through the house to what we were told was our bedroom.

  I try to walk in step with the butler who moves exceptionally fast through the busy hallways of the house. There is much ado occurring.

  What does he mean share a bedroom?

  Space is at a premium because of the holiday and the wedding. His instructions from Mr. Lenin are to put us together.

  Oliver, who seemed to have more sway with the butler, points out the obvious. He expected to be bunking with Olga.

  The butler doesn’t slow for a moment. Mr. Lenin was very clear. Us gentlemen would be sharing a room. If there is an issue, we are at our leisure to discuss it directly with Mr. Lenin.

  Double white doors are flung open by the butler. We follow him in the bedroom. Our luggage has been left so we know we are in the right room.

  My eyes are assaulted and my senses are punished. We have entered what could only be described as a girl’s bedroom as envisioned by someone on acid. It is enormous. It is a cavern. It is the sum total of every dream every little girl ever had in what a bedroom should be. It is so incredibly pink.

  It’s pink, Oliver gasps in horror. It’s all pink. It’s like being in a womb. A glittery, frosted womb.

  Along one wall are five beds. Five girl beds made to look like Cinderella’s enchanted carriage. Five glimmering white and silver pumpkin carriage beds covered in a layer of cushions and stuffed toys.

  The butler informs us it is girls’ bedroom.

  No shit. Neither of us assumed we’d walked into the billiards room.

  This is where we are staying.

  Where are the girls? I ask the obvious question.

  They have their own bedrooms now. Xenia, the youngest, moved out in anticipation of the room being needed for the guests. If we need anything (the butler points to a sparkling princess phone) just ask. Cocktails begin in an hour. Dress is formal.

  Oliver raises a hand. Where is Olga?

  Probably preparing for the cocktail party in the salon. Which begins in one hour sharp in the ballroom. Dress is formal. He leaves, shutting the double white doors which are gold from the inside of the room.

  I look at Oliver. I can’t sleep in here. I’ll have nightmares. I’ll dream I’m being drowned in Pepto Bismol.

  Oliver examines one of the five pumpkin carriage beds. He is fairly certain we are both too tall to fit into the carriages. He lies down on the bed. We are too tall to fit into the beds. His feet dangle over the end. He reaches in his pocket for his phone. Olga took his phone. Do I have my phone?

  It’s already in my hand. I call Olga. She answers after four rings and the sound of a hairdryer buzzes in the background.

  What?

  We have been taken to a pink bedroom and we are being made to sleep in frosty white carriages. She must do something.

  Stop being such a baby. She’s getting her hair done. Don’t bother her. The call ends.

  Well? Oliver sits up and looks at me.

  She hung up on me.

  Fuck. Is it too late to get back to the airport and fly to Cuba for a week?

  Probably. Besides, think of what Olga could do to him when she caught him.

  Excellent point. What next?

  Get ready?

  Might as well.

  After testing several doors and finding a mini cinema, a room sized doll house, a closet filled with a wardrobe to suit the needs any female between birth and young adulthood, a compact salon complete with hair washing bowl and stand hairdryer, and, at last, a bathroom.

  We each take in the whole of the bathroom then look at each other simultaneously.

  There is no shower but there are five bathtubs, five sinks and five pink doors each with a name in purple scrolling writing in Cyrillic.

  Oliver looks at me. Is he the only one that finds something very creepy about all of this?

  There is something very creepy about it. They’re like the seven dwarves, but there are five of them.

  Oliver tries every door. Five little toilets behind the five doors. The final door is to a walk in linen closet. There is no shower. What are we supposed to do without a shower?

  We bathe.

  Renata & Marcus

  I can’t tie a bow tie. I can’t. I’ve never been able to tie my own bow tie. This, amongst many other reasons, I keep Oliver around.

  Here we stand. In our pink bedroom in which all contents are repeated in a pattern of five without variation.

  The door opens and Olga enters. She’s wearing a silver sequined Versace gown that is as elegant as she is with her black hair pulled into a pile on top of her head. I recognize the sapphires in her ears, around her neck and on her finger. They were Oliver’s grandmother’s and probably a few other old countesses down the line before her. If Oliver had been a true mercenary, he probably could have literally sold the family jewels, paintings, furniture and assorted chattel to save his bacon. This was not him. He held on to his treasures like a drowning man held on to a hunk of wood.

  Why are we not ready? We annoy her. Oliver is swatted away and my bow tie is tied with two flicks of her fingers. I’m done. Marcus was looking for me. Go find him. They need five minutes alone.

  I’m pretty well pushed out the door which is closed and locked behind me. I will never understand their relationship. It is clear Olga’s father has money. But there is something more to it. If she really wanted Oliver, she could just marry him and wipe away his troubles with her dowry. Yes – old fashioned for certain, but in essence that was what Oliver was looking for and clearly Olga’s father had some money. So what was the problem? I had no idea. For whatever reason she persisted in working as an escort. Oh I’d heard many a tale of her retched father and his criminal leanings and her desire to punish him for making her admit she needed his money. But there was more to it. Another reason. Tied to that reason was her motivation to let her relationship with Oliver continue as it was. A casual sort of thing that could end without warning on either person’s part. I just didn’t understand. It was as if at times they circled each other like a couple of pugi
lists in the ring waiting for the other to flinch first. That’s it. They were mutually trying to starve the other out. But to what end, I could not fathom.

  This is what I ponder as I wander in search of the source of the music which fills the house. This and the fact that in no less than four months I will be the father to an ill-conceived child currently baking in the belly of that moronic Renata. Damian sprung from a better gene pool than my sexless and nameless bastard. I give a fleeting thought to Renata. I realize I have absolutely no idea where she is. If she so desires, she could just disappear from my life forever with her bundle of cells brewing in her uterus. How convenient that would be. I am more than a little convinced she refused to terminate the pregnancy so that she could have something to forever bind us together. Like herpes. Not for a moment do I believe that she didn’t realize she was pregnant until she was four months along. No. It’s not possible. Not even she is that obtuse.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I find a quiet corner then pull it out. Renata. It’s like she senses I was thinking of her. I take the call.

  What does she want?

  Can’t she call to say hello? We used to be friends. Let’s be friends again. She’s very sorry about that little falling out we had which is truly neither of our faults.

  I’m not convinced.

  It’s that awful Olga that started it.

  Started it how? I was there. I witnessed her trying to grind up Olga into a paste and Olga fighting back.

  How is it her fault Olga can’t take some good-natured teasing?

  That was not good-natured teasing by anyone’s standard.

  Whatever. Are we going to have a civil conversation or no?

  Fine. Where is she? I tried to contact her before I left. We need to discuss some things.

  At an undisclosed location.

  We need to have a conversation about what she plans on doing about her fetus.

  Our fetus.

  It’s not our fetus. Decisions must be made.

  Decisions such as?

  Where will the child live? How will she support the child? What does she presume my role in the child’s life will be?