by Mary McHugh
Tina’s Travel Tip: If you can’t dance, watch someone else do it—preferably the Bolshoi Ballet.
Chapter 20
Sugar Plum Fairies and Snowflakes
For our dinner that night, Sergei had prepared an exemplary chicken Kiev that even Alex approved of. He and Gini were talking earnestly to each other at the other end of the table. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I did hear New York mentioned several times.
“This is really good Kiev,” Mary Louise said. “I wish I could take Sergei back home with me to cook for George. Maybe he wouldn’t complain so much about my dinners.”
“You’re a fantastic cook,” I said. “George should be grateful to have you cooking for him.”
“Well, it’s just that he’s very fussy about food,” she said. “When we got married, I wanted to make great meals for him every night. I cooked all these complicated recipes by Julia Child and Jacques Pépin and Lidia what’s-her-name—the Italian chef. Lidia Bastianich. We would have beef bourguignon one night, veal marengo the next, venison, duck confit, rabbit. It would take me hours to make dinner—all that chopping and simmering and burning myself. Sometimes I just got sick of it—you know?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of Chinese takeout or pizza delivery?” Janice said.
“Of course,” Mary Louise said. “But George wouldn’t eat any of that stuff. It was either my cooking or some good restaurant. It’s my own fault—I spoiled him.”
“You think?” Janice said.
“Well, he’s still there, unlike—”
Heidi rang a little bell and stood to make her farewell speech. She looked majestic in her crisp white shirt and tailored blue uniform, her hair twisted into an elaborate braid.
“Saved by the bell,” I said to Janice.
“Ve hope that you have not been put off our Russian river cruises by a little murder or two,” Heidi said, and there was some nervous laughter. Our serious-minded Heidi had actually made a joke—possibly the first in her life. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think it was all that funny. “Inspector Gregarin assures me that his detectives have searched the ship from bottom to top, looked in every closet and possible hiding place. The man who murdered Chef Allgood is positively, definitely not on this ship. You can relax. Most of the time, everyone comes back home alive from our cruise, and the food is excellent. Next trip, I make sure Sergei cooks for us from the beginning of the cruise.” We all cheered and Sergei appeared from the kitchen, smiling and blushing.
“For those of you who are still alive—oh, I mean still awake,” Heidi said—her second joke!—and we all groaned, “ve vill take you to the theater tonight to see our famous Bolshoi dancers. They dance Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. It is very very beautiful and if you can possibly go, you should.
“I vant to thank especially the Happy Hoofers, who not only danced their tootsies off for us”—here Heidi smiled modestly at having mastered another English idiom before continuing—“but Tina Powell risked her life while she was on board. Here’s to the Happy Hoofers, with the wish that they will come back and dance for us again.”
“The day after never,” Gini muttered.
We got a standing ovation.
“And now, I have a special surprise for all of you. Because of the unfortunate occurrences on our cruise, you could not get off the ship and see some of the sights that were included on your trip. Ve are prepared to make that up to you. If you vish, you may stay on the ship as we sail back to Moscow. You may accompany Andrei on a tour of the city, see our fabulous circus, with tigers and bears and trapeze artists. Ve vill get you to your plane the next day. Ve vill take care of changing your flight reservations.”
There was scattered applause. We looked at each other. Did we really want two more days on this cartoon cruise ship with inept service, two murders, one disappearance and bad memories?
“What do you say, Hoofers?” I asked. “Do we stay or go?”
Gini looked at Alex. “I vote to stay,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Janice said. “I think I’ve had enough. I want to get back to New York to see my daughter.”
“Oh, come on, Janice, it’s only a couple of days,” Mary Louise said. “Just think, we’ll get to see Moscow—and the circus. You don’t want to miss the Kremlin, do you? Or the dancing bears?”
“When will we get the chance to come back?” Pat asked.
“Never!” I said. “At least, I hope not. I think we should stay. Janice, what do you say? It won’t be as much fun without you—but we do understand if you want to get back to see Sandy.”
Janice knew we really wanted her to stay. “It does seem too bad to come all this way and not see Moscow,” she said. “And I’ll be with Sandy in three days. OK, I’m in too.”
We all cheered.
“Are we going to the ballet?” I asked. “We don’t have to dance tonight, so we might as well watch someone else perform. Want to go?”
In a nanosecond, Janice said, “We have to. When will we ever get the chance to see the Bolshoi dancers in Russia again? Come on, gang.”
As usual, when Janice turns on her powers of persuasion, we couldn’t turn down this great opportunity.
Sergei brought us our dessert, a chocolate soufflé, and we told him how great his cooking was.
“When I come to America, Ms. Temple,” he said to Mary Louise, “you will invite me to dinner? I want to see how you cook my recipes.”
“You have to come, Sergei.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her card. “This is my address and phone number and e-mail and everything else. I would love to cook for you.”
“And this is my last gift to you,” Sergei said, handing her a piece of paper. “My recipe for chicken Kiev. Not so difficult, this one. Priyatnogo appetita.” He kissed Mary Louise’s hand before going back into the kitchen.
As the tour bus drove us through the still-sunlit city to the Bolshoi, I remembered taking my two daughters to see the Nutcracker ballet when they were little. They loved it so much, it became a tradition for us to see it every year at Christmastime. Later, Laurie brought her own children to this exquisite ballet and invited me along. I loved to watch their faces as the Christmas tree grew taller and taller until it reached the ceiling during the dream sequence. I was sorry that neither of my daughters had inherited my love of dancing. But there was still hope for my grandchildren.
When the orchestra started to play that familiar music by Tchaikovksy and the heavy burgundy curtain rose on the party at the mansion, I was back at Lincoln Center watching Clara hug her nutcracker doll to her chest after her rotten little brother Fritz grabbed it and broke it and the magical toymaker Uncle Drosselmeyer rescued it and gave it back to her.
In the story, Clara falls asleep under the Christmas tree. In her dream, the tree grows taller and taller, wider and wider, until it fills the back part of the stage. I loved the part where she dreams that her nutcracker doll turns into a handsome prince who dances with her and beautiful snowflake dancers float as light as feathers about the stage.
Best of all was the Sugar Plum Fairy dancing into the scene, all sweetness and light, the music sounding like little bells tinkling around her. The beautiful dancers in white came out to dance the Waltz of the Flowers, their tutus a blossom of turned-up skirts, like the petals of chrysanthemums.
The Spanish dancers clicked and flirted, the Arabian figures turning slowly, their hands pressed together as if in prayer, while Chinese dancers held parasols and embraced Clara. Then, finally, the Russian dancers performed a wonderful sequence, sitting in midair and kicking their legs in a dazzling display of athleticism.
The audience clapped for each group, but the loudest applause was for the Russian dancers. For me, it was a return to my years as a young mother, so long ago now. Where did those years go? Bringing up two little girls was the best part of my life. It seemed impossible that they had grown into incredible women in such a short time. Watching this ballet I loved so much brought it all back
so vividly that I felt like I was in the dream with Clara. Looking across the aisle, I saw Caroline, flanked by her teenaged granddaughters, all holding hands like the best of friends. I turned to see Gini, Janice, Mary Louise, and Pat, my dear friends, and the thought struck me—families are made, not just born.
At the end, we all clapped and clapped, grateful for this night of beauty and grace, and for the chance to share it together.
MARY LOUISE’S RECIPE FOR CHICKEN KIEV
6 large boneless, skinless chicken breasts (or more if you’re feeding large, hungry men—and I do hope you are!)
2 jumbo eggs
¼ cup water
½ cup flour
3 cups panko
corn oil for deep frying
For the filling:
½ pound softened butter
2 or more tablespoons chopped fresh chives
1. Cream the butter and chives together and chill for about ten minutes or so.
2. Sprinkle the chicken breasts with salt and pepper. Spread the butter and chives mixture over each of the chicken breasts, folding the sides over the mixture to close up. (It should look like a little cigar.) Put in freezer for a few minutes—it’s easier to bread them if you do.
3. To bread them, dunk them in the flour first, then in the eggs mixed with the water, and then in the panko, similar to the Cutlets Pojarski.
4. Fill a deep frying pan with the corn oil and heat to 300 degrees, about 3 or 4 inches deep, and lower the filled chicken breasts into the oil with tongs. Keep turning them until they’re cooked through, about 10 minutes or so. Take them out when they’re golden brown and cooked.
Serves six.
Horosho!!! That’s really good!!!
Tina’s Travel Tip: Don’t miss the subway in Moscow. It’s better than a private limo.
Chapter 21
Tigers And Jugglers and Bears—Oh My!
When I woke up the next morning, Mary Louise had already taken her shower and was reading.
“Good morning,” I said. “I feel great—and I’m starving.”
“Me too,” she said. “Hurry up and shower and we’ll attack the breakfast buffet.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in line. The buffet was as scrumptious as ever with meats and cheeses, rolls and breads, jams and butter, cereals and fruit, and your choice of a custom-made omelet or pancakes. Today, something new had been added: the thinnest of crepes filled with creamed chicken and mushrooms that were so light and delicate, you could pretend they had no calories.
Gini and Pat were already at a table eating when we joined them. “This is delicious,” Gini said, pouring syrup on her pancakes. “How did you sleep?”
“Like an angel,” I said. “Is Janice still asleep?”
“I guess so,” Gini said. “I haven’t seen her yet.”
“I hope she isn’t sorry she stayed,” I said. “It just wouldn’t be the same without her.”
“Are you OK, Tina?” Pat asked. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m fine, thanks, Pat. It was a horrible experience, but I feel safe now. The killer must be hiding out somewhere in St. Petersburg. I don’t have to worry about meeting him ever again.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Alex said, joining us.
“Do you know something we don’t know, Alex?” Gini asked him.
“Just one small detail that probably doesn’t mean anything.” He looked around at our faces as we looked up, startled.
“What now?” I asked. “Please don’t tell me the murderer could be on this ship.”
“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t.”
“Well, what did you mean—just one small detail ?”
“I saw Sergei this morning after my run,” Alex said, looking very uncomfortable. “He told me that some food was missing from the kitchen again. Some bread and fruit—stuff like that. I’m sure one of his workers took it back to his room. Nothing to worry about.”
I could not hide the fear in my face.
“Oh. Tina, I’m sorry,” he said, patting my arm. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Anyway, the police are still on the ship just in case he should turn up. Relax and enjoy Moscow.”
I tried to take Alex’s advice and relax, without much success.
Janice appeared, her plate full of rolls and cheeses and butter and jams. She had found someone to make her a pot of hot chocolate, so she was totally content.
“Hi, Jan,” I said. “Glad you decided to stay?”
“I am,” she said. “All it takes is a cup of hot chocolate. Oh, and the best thing just happened.”
“What?”
“I just discovered that Mark—Sue’s husband—publishes art books. I told him my daughter and I are going to be working on a book about the Gypsy Robes. He thought it sounded like a beautiful book and he wants to talk to me more about it.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if he published your book?” I said. “Wait until you tell Sandy—she’ll be thrilled.”
“I know,” Janice said, slathering butter on her croissant. “Keep your fingers crossed, Tina.”
We walked back to our cabins and gathered cameras and sweaters, as the morning was a little chilly, for our tour of Moscow.
“Good morning, everybody,” a cheerful Andrei said when we were seated on the comfortable bus. Cheerful was a pleasant surprise coming from our usually unemotional Andrei. “We go now to city of Moscow. We will go to Kremlin Armoury to see the Fabergé eggs and many beautiful things. We cannot go into Red Square because Putin comes tomorrow and it is roped off, but we can look at it. Gum’s Department Store is nearby. You must say Goom, not Gum, like chewing gum. We go in there. You can shop. Was once office buildings under Stalin. Is now very expensive, decadent mall. You will like.”
There were happy murmurs from the women on the bus.
“St. Basil’s Cathedral is next to square,” Andrei continued. “Supposedly, Ivan the Terrible had the eyes of the architect of this church poked out so he could never make a better one somewhere else. You hear lots of things. Some true. Some not. Then we go for ride on Moscow’s subway. Is one hundred and eighty miles long. Carries nine million people every day. Beautiful station stops with statues, paintings. You will like. Afterward, we go to afternoon performance of famous Moscow Circus.”
“He had me at Fabergé eggs,” Janice whispered.
The bus stopped and Andrei shepherded us into the Kremlin Armoury, the only part of the Kremlin open to the public. Janice had to be dragged away from the display case of porcelain Fabergé eggs, each one sparkling with diamonds, sapphires, pearls, and rubies, with tiny windows showing the delicate carvings inside. “Presents Nicholas the Second and Empress Alexandra gave each other on Easter every year for thirty years,” Andrei said, “until they were killed. Artists not paid for these beautiful things. Was totally corrupt society with very rich and very poor.”
“Do you get the feeling that communism is not entirely dead here?” Gini said in a low voice to me.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “Look at this gold coronation robe. It was Peter the Great’s.”
“It’s amazing the Communists kept all this decadent, monarchist stuff,” Gini said.
Andrei heard her. “Is to remind people how rich the tsar was and how poor the people were.” He laughed. “Now everybody poor except Russian Mafia.”
Andrei took us past royal carriages and elaborate thrones, including a double throne for Peter and his sickly half-brother Ivan. As at the Hermitage, there were tourists everywhere, mostly Russians with their children.
Back outside again, Andrei said, “OK. Rest of Kremlin closed to tourists. But you can see St. Basil’s Cathedral—very old—with domes of blue and white and red and gold, all colors very beautiful. Then go to Gum’s—best department store in whole world, right over there. Buy what you want. Meet me here in one hour. Then we go on subway.”
We looked inside the cathedral. Every inch of the walls and ceiling was covered with paintings. Statues were tucked into eve
ry nook and corner. Gold icons of saints dominated the front of the cathedral, and intricate carvings graced the walls and ceilings. Fifteen minutes of this and our eyes needed a rest. “Let’s check out Gum’s,” Mary Louise said, pronouncing it like chewing gum.
“Goom, Mary Louise, Goom,” I said, imitating Andrei.
“Goom, gum, who cares?” she said. “Let’s shop.”
“You’re on,” I said. The others decided to check out the buildings surrounding Red Square, so Mary Louise and I headed for the famous department store.
“It’s huge,” Mary Louise said. And it was. The enormous white building stretched across the east side of Red Square. We walked through the arched entrance into what looked more like a mall than a department store.
The space in Gum’s was divided into two sets of shops and boutiques on either side of a wide, tiled pathway, unlike the stores that have one whole floor covered with clothes and shoes and cosmetics counters and stools and bustling crowds pushing their way through the aisles, back at home. On the second and third floors, bridges connected the left side of the store to the right side. The bridge on the top floor was covered with tables with brightly colored umbrellas, where people were eating and drinking.
“This is incredible,” Mary Louise said. “Somehow, I wasn’t expecting it to be so . . . so . . .”
“Capitalistic?” I said.
“Exactly,” she said. “Vive Chanel!”
Glittering on either side of us was a series of elegant, very chic boutiques—Chanel, Vuitton, Prada, Armani, Gucci, Versace.
“I was sort of hoping for something more like The Gap,” I said, as we walked toward the center of the mall.
In front of the Hugo Boss shop, there was a large blue and white ceramic cow.
“They had these cows in New York a couple of years ago, remember?” I said.