by Greg Wilson
“What did I get who?” Nikolai replied absently.
Vari shot him another glance. “Natalia of course.” He slowed the Volga to a stop, dropped it into first and spoke across the wheel as he searched for a gap in the traffic. ‘Today’s Friday, right? Yesterday you told me that Saturday is your anniversary. So, what did you get her?”
“Oh shit!” Nikolai groaned. Slumped in his seat. “I forgot. Totally forgot.”
He shrugged back the sleeve of his jacket and raised his wrist to the light, throwing a desperate glance at his watch. Five after eleven. Vari echoed his own conclusion.
‘Too late now, my friend.” The traffic eased and Vari hit the accelerator, plunging the car across Mira and into Ulitsa Kapelski. He looked sideways. “And what was that you were saying about swimming in shit?” He eased off the gas and swung right into Schepkina, continuing on for a few hundred meters before sliding the Volga into the curb, leaving the engine running. Nikolai sat for a moment, staring up at the facade of his building then grimaced and sprang the door.
‘Thanks for reminding me.”
“Anytime, little brother.” Vari brushed a hand from the wheel. “What are friends for?”
Nikolai watched from the front stoop as the Volga’s tail lights meandered down the street. When they rounded the corner back to Mira he dragged his keys from his pocket and turned to the entry. The glass panel floated against the gloom of the foyer beyond, forming a leaden mirror of his image. The lobby lights had blown a week ago and still weren’t fixed; why would he have imagined they would be? He lifted the keys to the lock then paused, studying his own reflection.
He was changing. It wasn’t just the unfavorable cast of the light. He was tired and he looked it, but there was more to it than that. His clothes hung more loosely on his slender frame and his face seemed to have become more angular, the cheekbones and the line of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes harder and more cynical.
At university in Leningrad he had worn his hair long with a moustache and beard, his mother remarking how much he looked like the image of Jesus Christ in the faded print that hung above her bed. If there had been a resemblance it had faded as well with the passing years. He was clean shaven now, his chestnut hair cropped short, still thick enough, but the progress of its recession clearly evident above his forehead. Still… He drew a breath. When you considered it, for thirty-three what did he have to complain about? From what he could recall, at that age Jesus Christ had been dead.
When he and Natalia had first moved into the apartment three years ago, just after Larisa had been born, the elevator had worked. But then six months ago their landlord – a young entrepreneur who had begun buying up flats the moment the privatization starting gun went off – had finally persuaded the last of the old tenants to sell their occupancy rights, and since then the breakdowns had become more frequent until one day the elevator had stopped running altogether. Since then the car had been converted into a kind of ground floor stock room from which the building superintendent – the owner’s brother-in-law – now traded his limited supply of light bulbs and other maintenance requisites to the neighborhood’s highest bidders.
At least there were no secrets about the owner’s agenda. He’d been happy to lease out those flats he already owned while his game of Moscow Monopoly played out. Presumably the rent helped pay interest to some mafiya shark who had loaned him the money. But now that he’d won the game he wanted the building vacant. And why was that?
The answer was easy. Quality pre-revolution building. Six floors with five spacious apartments each. Nice design, good location, good condition… well, comparatively speaking, anyway. And now just one owner to deal with. That meant, for a sale as it stood, their entrepreneur landlord could now probably expect to pick up $4.5 million minimum. Not bad on what Nikolai had calculated as a cost of less than one. Then the developer who bought it would spend another three or so renovating before tipping each apartment out at around half a million a time, to gross $15 million; maybe even more. American dollars of course. And all completely legal.
So, now Nikolai and Natalia and Larisa were searching for somewhere else to live. It was a pleasant neighborhood, as Vari had observed, and while between Nikolai’s salary and their savings they could still afford the thousand a month this place had been costing, from what they’d seen so far, the likelihood of finding anything as good in Mira for that kind of rent was now little more than a dream.
Nikolai passed the locked elevator car and rounded the corner to the staircase. At least it was only a three-flight climb. For now, most of the tenants from level four down were still hanging on. Everyone on five and above had given up and abandoned ship weeks ago.
He reached his lobby, found the right key and let himself in.
The apartment lay still and silent; in darkness save for the soft glow from Larisa’s nightlight that trickled along the hallway. Nikolai grimaced at his own guilt. Tonight – like so many others – he’d promised he’d be home early for dinner. By nine Natalia would have put Larisa to bed; by ten thirty she would have given up herself. He set his keys down quietly on the hall table, slipped off his shoes and padded along the corridor towards the bathroom.
He undressed in the dark, hung his clothes behind the door, splashed some water across his face and made his way to the bedroom at the end of the corridor.
The light from Larisa’s room pooled at the entry, falling across a shopping bag set on the floor just inside the doorway. Shopping. Forgotten anniversary. Broken promises. Guilt. Nikolai sighed, stepped around the obstruction and made his way across to the bed, slipping beneath the covers beside Natalia and lowering his head carefully onto the pillows so as not to disturb her. For a time he lay there quietly in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, wondering about his life and where it was taking him –where it was taking them all – then gradually the soft even flow of Natalia’s breathing and the warm scent of her body next to him began to wash the anxieties aside and he fell asleep smiling, despite himself, at all of his blessings.
Nikolai woke a little after seven to the rich smell of fresh coffee and the sharp insistent tug of tiny fingers on his left earlobe. “Daddy! Daddy! Look, look, look, look, look!”
He shook away the remnants of sleep and turned in the direction of the pain. Satisfied that she had her father’s attention, Larisa let go her grip on his ear and thrust something large, brown and woolly into his face. Niko drew back, blinking to focus, and came eye to uncomfortable eye with Boris the Bear, resplendent in drop earrings, two strands of pearls and a small pink tutu that appeared uncomfortably tight on his ample waist. Boris seemed to be looking decidedly uneasy.
“Look, Daddy!” Larisa insisted. “Boris is going out.”
Nikolai looked, not at Boris, but at his daughter. At the perfect oval of her face, her long silken hair – already as dark and lustrous as her mother’s – and the impenetrable depth of her almost black eyes. He smiled and ran a hand across her forehead.
‘So I see,” he nodded seriously. “And you’d better keep your eye on him. Dressed like that you never know what he might pick up.” He looked at the bear again. Could have sworn Boris was glaring at him.
Natalia’s voice reached them from along the corridor. “Larisa, leave your father be. He’s tired. And hurry up or you’ll be late. Aunt Raisa will be here any minute.”
“Okay, Mummy,” Larisa called. She started to trot away, then stopped abruptly, turned and hurried back to the bed, set Boris down on the bedclothes, threw her hands around Niko’s neck in a giant hug, then plucked up the unfortunate bear and pattered off with him again. Nikolai shuffled upright as Natalia appeared in the doorway. She was wearing one of his shirts, three buttons open, cuffs turned back, a preview of her long slender thighs available to the point where they disappeared beneath the hem of the striped, cotton fabric. She propped against the architrave, smiling, dangling Larisa’s small pink rucksack from one hand, using the other to toss back a lick of dark hair that h
ad fallen forward across her eyes. She lifted her chin, a fraction of a nod directed back over her shoulder.
“Raisa from downstairs is taking her to the markets. Back at lunchtime.” Her tongue teased her upper lip. ‘Seeing it’s our anniversary, I thought you might like…” The sharp trill of the buzzer from the hall cut her off.
“Mummy, Mummy!” Larisa’s tiny feet began stuttering back along the corridor. “Raisa’s here. Raisa’s here!”
Natalia called across her shoulder. “Coming, darling.” She turned back to Nikolai, picking up where she’d left off… “You know.” Her eyes slid down to the shopping bag that still sat on the floor inside the door. Nikolai’s gaze followed.
“Know what?” he answered hesitantly.
Natalia raised her eyebrows, gave a little shrug. “A private showing?”
The buzzer rang again, followed a second later by another insistent, high-pitched demand from Larisa.
“Mummy! Come at once or I’ll be late!”
Natalia rolled her eyes again and called back with an indulgent voice.
“Coming, Larisa.”
She began to turn then stopped and reached into the pocket of her shirt. “Oh, by the way,” her slender fingers withdrew, clasping a tiny package, “This is for you.” She lobbed it lightly across the room towards him and his hand shot up instinctively, clutching it from the air. When he looked back again Natalia had gone.
She returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray of coffee and rolls and set it down on one of the bedside tables, all the time watching Nikolai for his reaction. He was holding the small gold crucifix in the palm of his hand, soothing the fine engraving with his fingers, the wrapping from the tiny package discarded beside him.
Natalia settled cross-legged on the bed and looked at him. “Do you like it?” She seemed anxious. “I mean, I know you’re not really a religious person, but it belonged to my great-grandfather. He died in the Revolution, and I just thought…”
Nikolai bit his lip, holding back his emotion. He stared into her black, liquid eyes, watching them searching his own. “It’s beautiful,” he answered softly. “I’ll never lose it, I promise.” He closed the crucifix into his fist and reached forward, drawing her to him, kissing her gently on the forehead. She hugged him back, tilted her head until her mouth found his, kissed him, then pulled back and grinned.
‘So!” She smacked the bedclothes with an open hand. “That’s my gift. So now for yours!” She bounced from the bed before Nikolai had a chance to speak, scooped up the oversized white shopping bag and clutched it to her chest then stopped and looked serious for a moment. “I have a confession. I did peek when the delivery man brought it last night, but only a little peek, okay? Now, stay there. Back in a minute.”
She skipped out of the room leaving Nikolai totally perplexed.
What delivery man? What present?
He tried to rewind his brain, backing up past the bag he’d seen last night when he’d come to bed, to the conversation with Vari in the car on the way home. He hadn’t bought Natalia a gift because he’d been so goddamned self-absorbed he’d forgotten to. The only remote possibility he could think of was that his partner had anticipated that he would forget and had arranged something for him, but that just didn’t make any sense either. His mind was still clutching for answers when Natalia reappeared in the doorway, his shirt replaced by a stunning cream slip that clung to the curves of her body like liquid silk. She stood before him, turning her head slowly from side to side.
“Niko,” she breathed in awe. “It’s just glorious.”
She spun slowly for him, letting the fabric glide with her, tracing the shape of her breasts, following the curve of her back and hips, then she was facing him again, flicking the same errant strand of hair from her eyes.
“You are a bad boy, Niko. This must have cost a fortune.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a mischievous grin. “And that’s not the only reason you’re bad, is it?”
Nikolai regarded her with a look of blank confusion.
Natalia’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no point pretending. What do you have to say about these?”
He noticed now that Natalia was holding something in her hand. What was it? A book? She started towards him, lifting it, holding it out in front of her.
“I admit I peeked, yesterday, but I only looked at the box on top.” She sounded almost shocked. “I had no idea about these.”
She was standing in front of him now, holding the cassette cases towards him. Nikolai’s eyes fell to their covers and he stared at them with astonishment. He pulled himself upright, took the boxes from her outstretched hand, swung his legs from the bed and sat on its edge, shaking his head.
“Natalia…” He looked up at her. Shook his head again. “I don’t know anything about these.” He set the cassettes aside and reached up, taking her hands, pressing them between his. “Listen, Natalia, I’m sorry… I forgot our anniversary. Forgot it completely.” He traced a hand down her side, feeling the silk shimmer beneath his fingers. “I wish I had chosen this for you, God knows you deserve something this beautiful, but I didn’t.” His eyes fell to the cassettes again, tracing their lurid covers. His brow furrowed. “And these…” he stared up into Natalia’s dark, puzzled eyes, unable to separate her disappointment from her confusion. “Natalia, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “but I have absolutely no idea what this is about. “
Natalia stood at the foot of the bed, her back turned to Nikolai as she wriggled into a pair of jeans. Behind her the cream silk slip lay discarded on the covers. She reached into a drawer, rummaged through its contents, snatched out a T-shirt. Niko watched, only too aware of the sudden distance between them.
“The man,” he tested cautiously. “The one who made the delivery. Do you remember what he said?”
Natalia answered with a tight, dismissive shrug.
“How should I know. ‘A delivery for Nikolai Aven.’ Something like that. I wasn’t paying attention.”
She dragged the T-shirt over her shoulders and tossed her head, the tautness of her movements underscoring her mood. The empty plastic cases lay open on the bed, the tapes beside them. Nikolai picked up one of the un-labelled cassettes, examined it. Drew a breath and tried again.
“Please, Natalia.” He made an effort to balance contrition and reason. “Please try to remember. It could be important.”
She turned around and looked at him. Then averted her eyes and shrugged again.
“He was about your height. Thin. Short blond hair. Well dressed.” Perhaps it was Nikolai’s imagination, but the air between them seemed to thaw a little as Natalia worked her memory. She gave another shrug. Resigned. “Too well dressed for a delivery man, now that I think about it.” Her gaze fell, demoralized, to the silk chemise and she shook her head. “I was so pleased. And now I feel so… so stupid.”
Nikolai tried to recall some occasion when he might have felt worse. None came to mind. He got up from the bed and made his way across to her, wrapped his arms around her and felt her melt against him. Whispered in her ear.
“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
For a long moment she remained still, then finally he felt her hair brushing against his cheek as she began nodding.
“I know,” she sighed. “I know you will.”
She clung to him a moment longer, then drew back and sealed the reconciliation with a single kiss. Across his shoulder she noticed the tray she had set down on the bedside table and sighed. “The coffee will be cold, Niko. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make some fresh.”
Nikolai stood in the steaming shower stall, thinking.
‘A delivery for Nikolai Aven.’ Who the hell would want to send him two pornographic movies and a piece of designer lingerie, and why? He turned to face the stammering stream of hot water, closed his eyes and let it play across his face as Natalia’s description of the delivery man ran through his mind. His own height, thin, short blond
hair, well dressed. Nikolai shook his head. No connection he could make. Nothing. He tried building the picture again in a different sequence. Short blond hair. Well dressed. Someone who knew where he lived. His eyes shot open. Christ! Gilmanov! Then at the same instant he heard Natalia’s voice coming to him from behind the glass screen, tight and insistent.
“Niko!”
He turned and saw her outline behind the rippled glass. Something about her tone triggered a sense of alarm and his hands shot out immediately, locking off the taps and sealing the pipes with a shudder. He flung the door open to find Natalia staring at him with anxious, uncertain eyes, the video remote controller clasped tightly in her hand.
“Niko.” Her voice was subdued. “I think you’d better come and look at this.”
Nikolai snatched a towel from the rack, wrapped it around his waist and, still dripping from the shower, followed Natalia into the living room.
The curtains to the street had been drawn shut; in the corner the television shimmered with a frozen image. The empty video cases and one of the tapes lay open on the coffee table. He glanced at Natalia, down to the steady green light on the face of the VCR, back to Natalia again. She nodded. Lifted the remote and held it out tentatively to him. He frowned and took it, his eyes travelling back to the flickering image.
Four men. Figures in profile, two either side of the screen, facing each other across a long polished table.
Judging from the angle and length of the shot the camera must have been placed somewhere above them at one end of the room, its distance and the width of the lens creating a strangely exaggerated perspective.
Nikolai stepped in closer, squinting, trying to understand what he was seeing.
The two men further away from the camera were unfamiliar and by their posture appeared to be the supporting characters, each sitting back, apparently observing the interplay between their associates.