by Mary McHugh
“Ready to try a short conversation?” she asked. We all tried not to catch her eye. I felt like I was back in high school when I hadn’t done my homework.
“Come on. There must be one brave soul out there who’s willing to try,” Elena said.
“Oh what the heck,” our Gini said. “Why not?”
“Good for you,” Elena said. “OK, you meet a Russian and you want to say hello. What do you say?”
“Privyet, stranger,” Gini said.
“No, no, too familiar. Class, what should she have said?”
We all looked at our notes and weakly murmured something like “Zdra—stvooy—tye.”
“Close enough,” Elena said. “I know Russian is a hard language to learn. I just wanted to give you a little push.”
“I think we need more than a little push,” Gini said. “I think we need a shove.”
“So, Gini,” Elena said, “what if this nice Russian person asks you your name. What do you say?”
“Meen-ya zovut Gini Miller,” Gini pronounced.
“Excellent,” Elena said. “See? You’re practically fluent. What else would you say?”
“Da-svee-danya,” Gini said. “Ta-ta, adios, au revoir, and bye-bye. That’s it. I think I need to know how to say, ‘I don’t speak Russian. Do you speak any English?’ ”
“Good idea,” Elena said. “You say, Vy govorite po-angliyski? Got that?”
“Almost,” Gini said.
Elena soldiered on with “I’m hungry”—Ya khochu yest; “I need an interpreter”—Mne nuzhen pervodchik,; and she ended with what she said was the most important phrase to know in any language—Ya Vas lublyu.
“Anybody want to guess what that means?” Elena asked.
“Has to be ‘I love you,’ ” Janice said.
“Right,” Elena said. “How did you know that?”
“She knows it in every language,” Gini said. We all laughed and applauded.
“Well,” Elena said, “just remember, a smile goes a long way when you don’t know the words. That’s true in any language.”
We thanked her and headed to the Skylight Bar.
“Let’s see if there’s anything new,” Mary Louise said. “It’s still a little early for lunch.”
We stopped at the table outside the bar where there was always a hot pot of coffee and water for tea, grabbed our favorite drinks, and took them into the bar. Stacy and Andrea were sitting at a table with Pat, who was drinking a glass of clear liquid we knew wasn’t water.
“Where’ve you guys been?” Pat asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Prahsteetye,” Gini said. “Privyet.”
“Wow,” Andrea said. “Where’d you learn that?”
“A guide named Elena gave a class on Russian words and phrases,” Gini said. “It was a lot of fun. We learned basic things like ‘hello’ and ‘my name is’ and ‘I want more sour cream with my borscht.’ ”
“I wish you had told me,” Pat said. “I would have loved to learn some Russian. I don’t know any at this point.”
“We just kind of went on the spur of the moment, Pat,” I said. “Sorry. We should have told you.”
“It’s OK,” she said. “I’ve been talking to these two and we’ve been trying to find out what’s going on.”
“Anything new?” Mary Louise asked.
“Nobody will tell us anything,” Stacy said.
“That’s because nobody knows anything,” Pat said. “The Russians aren’t going to tell us, so we just have to wait until they figure out who did it.”
“What I don’t understand,” Stacy said, “is why everyone thinks the chef was such a terrible person.” She paused and looked around at us. “Promise you won’t tell Nana?” she said.
“Why, Stacy?” Pat asked. “What happened?”
Stacy took a deep breath and then said, “Well, he started talking to me yesterday when I was coming back from the pool in my bathing suit. He was really sweet. He showed me around the kitchen and took me up to the bridge to meet the captain. He was funny and nice. He told me I was pretty. We were out on deck when there wasn’t anybody around and he kissed me—he was . . .” She smiled. “It was . . . Anyway, I didn’t tell my grandmother about it. He asked me to have a drink with him in his cabin. Nana doesn’t even know I drink, so I said no. You won’t tell her, will you?”
We looked at each other. It seemed that Chef Allgood’s love life was more tangled than we’d realized. We all remembered secrets we kept from our parents.
“No, we won’t tell her, Stacy,” Pat said. “But I think it’s a good thing you didn’t have that drink with him.”
“Me too! Or whoever murdered him could have murdered me too.” She shuddered.
“Stick to dancing, honey,” Gini said. “It’s a lot safer than drinking with a chef who was probably gay anyway. He certainly seemed to be coming on to Brad.”
Stacy drew back in shock. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “A gay guy couldn’t have kissed me like that.”
“Maybe he was bisexual,” Pat said.
“Is that really possible?” Stacy asked.
Pat looked as if she was going to say more but stopped. This didn’t seem to be the right time to go into bi-sexual versus gay versus heterosexual. Way too heavy for a discussion with this sweet seventeen-year-old. Although, these days, she probably knew more than we did.
We watched our teenagers run out of the bar. Pat said, “Come on, let’s get one of their crazy drinks—today’s special is called Between the Sheets. I asked the bartender what was in it. He looked it up in his little recipe book and said brandy, triple sec, Bacardi, and lemon juice. Want to try one?”
“It’s only eleven-thirty in the morning, Pat,” Mary Louise said. “And it looks like you’ve already had a drink. Are you going to have another one?”
“Why not?” Pat said defensively. “We’re on a cruise. That’s what you do on a vacation.”
“It’s a little too early for me,” I said. “But go ahead if you want one.”
“I just might,” Pat said, and walked over to the bar.
“Is it me or is she drinking more these days?” Mary Louise asked in a low voice.
“I don’t think it’s just you,” Janice said. “She’s always liked a drink, but now—I don’t know. Maybe I just imagine it.”
“She’ll work it out,” I said. “Pat is very smart. She’ll know when it’s time to slow down or get some help. We have to let her get there by herself. She’s a therapist, after all.”
“I hope so,” Mary Louise said, looking over at her friend ordering a drink at the bar. “Sometimes therapists are better at solving other people’s problems than their own.”
“There’s Alex,” Gini said, her face lighting up. She waved to him and he joined us.
“Anything new about the chef?” Gini asked him.
“No, now they’re concentrating on Brad Sheldon,” Alex said, reaching over to take a sip of Gini’s coffee. “They’re trying to find him so they can question him, but nobody has seen him.”
“Do they think Brad killed Allgood?” Janice asked.
“Well, the bartender and Tina and Gini and lots of other people saw them together last night, so it doesn’t look good.”
“I just can’t believe that boy could kill anyone,” Janice said. “He seemed so gentle.”
“Then where is he?” I asked. “The police must have searched every inch of the ship. He couldn’t have gotten off without someone seeing him. You can hardly steal a lifeboat and row away.”
“Maybe he jumped overboard and killed himself after he murdered the chef,” Pat said.
“Then they would have found his body too when they were dragging the river,” Gini said.
“Well, I hope he turns up soon,” Janice said.
“Isn’t it time for lunch yet?” Pat said, coming back to the table with her drink. “Let’s go find out. Heidi said the crew was going to put on a show for us—but not until two o’clock.”
We took our usual table by the window in the dining room. It was too early for the rest of the passengers to arrive, but Tatiana walked over to us. She was in her usual black and white: a white silk blouse with tiny gold buttons down the front and tight black pants that showed off her flat stomach and slim hips. “Would you mind if I join you?” she asked.
“We’d love it, Tatiana,” I said. “Come sit here next to me.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m feeling a little nervous because of—you know—because of Allgood. I don’t know why they can’t find the person who killed him.”
“It’s not so easy, Tatiana,” Alex said. “There are a lot of people who disliked him.”
“Enough to kill him?” she asked.
“Well, think about it. Anyone in the kitchen could have finally had enough of his abuse and incompetence and hit him without meaning to kill him. Or Heidi might have underestimated her own strength and knocked him down and killed him. Or Sergei . . .” He stopped, remembering that Sergei was Tatiana’s friend.
“Absolutely not Sergei,” Tatiana said heatedly. “I’ve known him all his life. He could never kill anybody.”
“Well, I hate to say this, Tatiana,” Alex said, “because I know he’s your friend. But somebody in the kitchen did hear Sergei say he would get Allgood after the chef pulled a knife on him.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
Alex was about to answer when Olga came to take our order. She was actually smiling, and her white-blond hair was swept up in a neat bun.
“How are things in the kitchen, Olga?” Janice asked.
Olga’s puzzled expression told us she didn’t understand what Janice said. She answered, “Yes. Today caviar with blini for lunch. Sergei fix. Much better.”
“Oh, I have to have a couple of those,” Mary Louise said. “I love caviar.”
We all ordered the blini. While we were waiting, we looked out the window where the police were still dragging the river.
“They must be looking for Brad’s body,” Pat said.
“Oh, Pat, don’t say that,” Janice said, tears in her eyes. “I can’t bear it if something happened to him.”
“You only met him yesterday,” said our sensible Pat.
“But I liked him,” Janice said. “You can like somebody right away if they’re simpatico. Well, I can, anyway. Maybe you can’t.”
“I didn’t mean I didn’t like him,” Pat said. “I just meant that—oh, never mind.”
“Not to change the subject or anything, but do you believe that dead people can send messages to the living?” Janice said.
“Oh yes,” Mary Louise said. “The night my grandmother died, I woke up. I knew she was there in that room saying good-bye to me. I don’t tell many people about it, because they’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Why did you ask that, Janice?” Pat said.
“Well, I know this will sound nuts,” Janice said, “but last night I had this vivid dream about Brad.”
“What was it?” Mary Louise asked, leaning forward.
“I dreamed that he came into my room and sat on my bed.” Janice hesitated, looked around. “And Brad said, ‘Don’t believe anything you hear about me. None of it is true. When you get back home, please tell Maxim that I loved him.’ And then he was gone.” Janice stopped. “I know it sounds crazy, but I have this really strong feeling that he’s dead and he was trying to tell me so.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Janice,” Gini said hesitantly. “I used to think all that stuff was just mystical thinking, that we make it up to comfort ourselves after we lose someone we love. But then something happened after my father died that made me change my mind.” She paused, looking embarrassed.
“Tell us,” Janice said. “What happened?”
“Well, my father was a really sensible, down-to-earth kind of person—sort of like you, Pat—”
“Yeah—thanks a lot,” Pat said.
“It’s not an insult,” Gini said. “Cool it, Pat.” She took a deep breath and then said, “I loved him a lot. One time we were talking—he was in his eighties then and had some health problems—and all of a sudden he said, out of the blue, ‘What if I tried to communicate with you after I die?’ I was so astounded to hear him say something like that that I didn’t answer for a minute. Then I said, ‘What do you mean, Dad?’ He looked away and said, ‘What if I whistle like I always did when you were a kid when I wanted you to come in for dinner?’
“I was stunned,” Gini continued. “I mean, it was so unlike him to say anything like that. Then he said, ‘After I’m gone, and you’re out here on the porch on a quiet night, and you hear a sound like’—and then he whistled the musical notes C-A-C-F—‘you’ll know it’s me saying hello.’
“Well, I just broke down. I couldn’t bear the thought of him not being here anymore. But after he died, wherever I was, I heard those notes when the wind was blowing through the trees. C-A-C-F. I just knew it was my dad saying hello.”
She looked up, a shy expression on her face, so unlike Gini.
“I know it sounds like I’m making it up,” she said, “but it’s so comforting. I love thinking that he’s still getting in touch with me.”
We were all quiet, hearing those notes in our heads.
“Why not?” Pat said. “You know, one of the laws of physics is that energy cannot be destroyed, it can only be changed. So why couldn’t your father’s energy live on in the wind?”
“You’re right, Pat,” Gini said. “Why not?” She smiled at her friend, our mother hen, our wise counselor.
Olga appeared with a tray full of caviar blinis and we took our first bite of heaven. I can take caviar or leave it, and New York blinis are a little heavy. But this dish was light and intense all at the same time, mouthwateringly delicious, but not too sweet. It was just right.
Mary Louise could not stand it one more minute. “Tatiana, could you please ask Sergei how he did this?” she said. “I have to make these blinis when I get home.”
“I know how he does it,” Tatiana said. “He taught me because my daughters love blinis so much.”
“Please tell me,” Mary Louise said, taking another bite.
“You have to allow about three hours,” Tatiana warned. “Are you willing to spend that much time in the kitchen?”
“I’d spend all day and all night to cook something like this. Go ahead, please.”
“I’ll write it down for you,” Tatiana said. “So you’ll have all the ingredients right.”
“Tatiana, I love you,” Mary Louise said. “I think I’ll take you home with me.”
“Maybe you should take Sergei, to be sure you do it right,” Tatiana said, laughing.
We polished off the blinis and wished we really could pack Sergei in our suitcases.
MARY LOUISE’S RECIPE FOR CAVIAR WITH BLINI
¾ cup buckwheat flour
¼ cup all purpose flour
1 teaspoon instant yeast
½ teaspoon salt
1¼ cup warm milk
2 egg whites whisked until stiff
2 eggs
½ tablespoon sugar
2 tablespoons melted butter
1. Mix the flours together with the instant yeast and salt.
2. Add warm milk and stir until it’s smooth. Cover and keep at room temperature for an hour and a half.
3. Add the beaten eggs, sugar, melted butter. Fold stiffened egg whites into the batter. Cover and let stand for half an hour.
4. Cook the blinis the way you cook pancakes—in a frying pan in butter. Use a heaping tablespoon of batter for each blini.
5. Put some cold caviar on each blini, spoon some melted butter over the caviar, and serve sour cream on the side.
Makes 25 to 30 blinis.
Naslazhdaites! Enjoy!
Tina’s Travel Tip: If you’re bored on your cruise, try to find someone who can do an impression of bacon frying.
Chapter 8
Wake Up and Smell the
Bacon
As Olga refilled our coffee cups, Mary Louise smiled and turned to Tatiana.
“Are you going to perform in the show the crew is putting on today, Tatiana?” she asked.
“Actually, I am,” she said. “One of the stewards and I are going to do a Russian dance with traditional costumes. Then I’m going to sing a Russian folk song called ‘Dark Eyes.’ ”
“Oh, Tatiana, sing it for us,” Janice said. “Please.”
“I’ll just sing you one verse—I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
We fell quiet. In a rich full voice, Tatiana launched into a song so sad and sweet it could only have been Russian. People at the tables near us stopped talking to listen to her.
When she finished singing, we were almost in tears at the beauty of her voice, the sadness of the song.
“That was beautiful,” I said when I could speak. “What is the song about? It sounded very romantic.”
“That’s right, Tina,” Tatiana said. “The song is about dark and passionate eyes, the eyes of a lover, the eyes of a brooding dark soul who has captured a woman’s heart. She is afraid he will disappear, taking her love and her heart with him.”
“Please sing another verse,” Janice urged, but Tatiana demurred.
“Ah, no, my friends,” she said with a sly smile. “You must wait until our performance to hear the rest.”
We all applauded our Russian friend. Tatiana laughed. “Cheer up, my dear Hoofers. Are you going to dance tonight?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Mary Louise said. “We have to find out from Heidi if she still wants us to perform—you know, because of the police and the investigation and all. Nobody really knows what’s going to happen around here. But we’re thinking of volunteering Tina to do her impression of bacon frying.” She giggled.