After bringing me a tray with cookies and coffee exactly the way I liked it – two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of hot milk – he asked about Boba. This was usually more than enough to coax me out of a snit. When he saw I was still angry, he magnanimously told me he would write the weekly logistics report himself (something he was supposed to do that I always ended up doing). I just stared at him standing in front of my desk, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, running his fingers over the top of his hand, trying to figure out what else he could say. Looking at my furrowed brow and jutting jaw, he realized that he would get nowhere and wisely left for the day. Good riddance. ‘The mare’s work is easier when the farmer gets off the cart,’ I yelled to no one in particular.
I took a sip of café au lait, allowing myself this pleasure. He made the best coffee.
At five o’clock, I left the office. Vera ran after me and said, ‘You lose!’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘The office bet! Olga moving in with Mr. Harmon. I won! I had the fifteenth!’
‘How do you know? He didn’t say anything to me.’
She smirked. ‘You think he tells his secretary everything? I heard him talking to my boss. You were way off.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said bitterly and handed over the money.
After work, I went to work. Valentina Borisovna had a liter of vodka on her desk and an ice pack on her head. She moaned and downed a shot. I was worried that she’d switched to the hard stuff. ‘The Stanislavskis dropped by,’ she said.
‘I know you’re scared, but anyone could walk through these doors,’ I reminded her gently.
Immediately, she snapped to and the Grande Dame persona was back. In Odessa, illusion is everything. She whipped her fake Chanel compact out of her fake Louis Vuitton purse, tidied up her make-up, then put the vodka back in the safe. She only had thirty dollars in cash and photos of her grandchildren in there. Anything of value, she tucked in her bullet-proof bra. She put her pink glasses back on and looked up her nose at me.
‘What can we do?’ She covered her face with her plump, manicured hands.
‘I have an idea.’
She looked up at me. Her blue eyes narrowed.
Just then, two girls in fluffy angora sweaters walked in and asked how much our services cost. The Grande Dame pasted a smile on her face and gave them her spiel. ‘We make the men pay! Give it a try! What have you got to lose? Americans are richer and more stable than any man you’ll find in Odessa.’
On cue, I handed them forms. Name, rank, marital status. Likes, dislikes. Age, profession, etc.
‘What if I’m married?’ one asked.
‘Write divorced,’ the Grande Dame advised.
While they filled in the forms, I whispered the plan in Valentina Borisovna’s ear. She looked up at me in disbelief.
‘It will work, you’ll see,’ I said.
‘I hope you’re right.’
When the women handed me their forms, I typed their profiles for the program. ‘Vika, 25, originally from Odessa, enjoys playing tennis and taking long romantic walks. She seeks an athletic man who wants to have a family.’
The Grande Dame snapped their photos. (If a girl was plump, she took a headshot. If she was svelte like Vika, the photo revealed the girl’s body.) We thanked them for choosing Soviet Unions and handed them the list of upcoming events.
After they left, I continued the conversation as if we hadn’t been interrupted. ‘I’ve dealt with the mafia for over a year at the shipping agency. You can’t go through them, only around them. Trust me.’ Still, I was nervous and hoped that if Vlad figured out our ploy, he would only be annoyed, not angry.
She nodded. ‘In the meantime, Daria, our girls must look pristine next to the prostitutes. We’ll have to call them and explain.’ Of course, when Valentina said ‘we,’ she meant me.
‘Explain what?’ I asked.
‘That we have a planeload of rich, conservative men arriving.’
I phoned the first number on our list. ‘Irina? It’s Daria. Listen, this weekend we have a group of rather wealthy traditional gents, I thought I should warn you . . . Yes, yes, Irina. You’re absolutely right, conservative clothes, natural make-up. Smart girl. See you Friday?’
‘Only 199 to go,’ Valentina Borisovna said.
I groaned and slipped out of my heels. I supposed that soon Harmon would want me to start wearing orthopedic shoes. And why not curlers in my hair? I sniffed. That man. And Vladimir Stanislavski was no better.
Seeing my day had gone just as well as hers, Valentina Borisovna dialed the safe combination and brought the bottle back out. ‘To unexpected occurrences and mitigating disasters.’
‘To mitigating occurrences and unexpected disasters,’ I seconded, and we downed the shot.
I called the second number. ‘Allo, Sveta? Daria. You should know that we have a large number of Mormons attending the next social . . . you might consider wearing less make-up and more clothing, that’s all . . . No, no I’m not telling you what to do. You’re an adult. It’s just . . . we don’t want anyone mistaking you for a hooker.’
Valentina Borisovna chortled at that, but number two was not amused. ‘Fuck off,’ she said and slammed down the receiver.
‘You call number three,’ I said.
‘Vera? Verochka, listen . . .’
We were so worried about the women that I’d forgotten we had to say something to the Americans. Most had arrived a few days early and if they explored the city at all, they’d seen prostitutes in front of the hotels and the vauxhall – the train station. What to say?
I poured two more shots. Vladimir Stanislavski could drive any woman to drink.
I was relieved we had to spend the whole evening on the phone so Valentina Borisovna couldn’t show me her new matchmaking computer program. I needed a break from men.
The evening of the next social, I gathered all forty-seven Americans in the ballroom. I checked the microphone and cleared my throat. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to sunny Odessa. You have spent a day or two in our fair city and have seen that we have a minor problem with . . . ladies of the night.’
They nodded.
‘Unfortunately, the police send provocatively dressed agents to our socials to try to trap foreigners. Please do not fall into this ambush. If you are propositioned by an ‘undercover agent,’ simply walk away. Trust me, you wouldn’t like Ukrainian prisons.’
They chuckled nervously. I hoped my warning would work.
When our girls entered, for the most part, they looked as wholesome as country maidens, which only made the prostitutes stand out in their worn thigh-high boots, cheap lingerie, and excessive make-up. Each was branded with hard eyes and a mouth set in bitterness. Like a Mercedes or Rolex, they were owned by the mafia but not treated half as well. I didn’t blame these young women, I pitied them. For they were not like the floozies in the shipping office who slept with their bosses and tried to make trouble for the rest of us. They were fighting for their lives. I imagined that they’d sold off their valuables first – a mink hat, a silver serving spoon – displaying them on a small towel on the ground at the bazaar. Then went possessions of little value: books, Soviet knick-knacks, a grubby childhood toy. With nothing left, they sold the one possession that remained: their bodies.
At first, the prostitutes lolled against the wall, certain that the customers would come to them. They seemed surprised that for over an hour, the men stuck to the marmish misses. Girls like Sveta, who had not heeded our advice and wore a leather mini-skirt and high, high heels, were having serious difficulties. Usually, with her teased-up platinum hair and glossy lips, Sveta was chatted up straight away. But tonight when she approached a man, he walked away. Eight times, I watched her advance and the men retreat.
She came to me and said, ‘Daria, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never thought that . . . well, I should have listened to you. You were only trying to help.’ She looked at the professionals leaning against the wal
ls, then at her own clothing. Unfortunately, she’d chosen the same footwear as one of the working girls – shiny silver sandals with tinsel hanging off the four-inch heels.
‘It’s not too late,’ I told her. ‘Wash your face in the bathroom and take off those shoes.’
She did as I bid her and had more success. One man referred to her as ‘my barefoot princess.’ Valentina Borisovna nodded in satisfaction as she looked at our demure girls, ‘Ah, the chaste are chased.’
After an hour, the intruders slinked over to proposition the men, who repeated the one Russian word, besides ‘vodka,’ that they knew, ‘Nyet, nyet, nyet.’
Both our girls and the prostitutes were impressed by the men’s disinterest when solicited, and we made many matches that evening. It is a sad commentary on society when a man becomes a hero simply for saying no to a prostitute. A few of the prostitutes asked to become clients. Valentina Borisovna gave them forms to fill out on the spot. Trust her to find a way to turn adversity to advantage.
Harmon and I knew each other by heart. When he hummed he was in an excellent mood, when he sighed he needed a square of dark chocolate to bolster his courage. I knew he hated scenes, cheap coffee, and bureaucracy. He knew that I had my moods, and when my brows came together like angry thunderclouds, it was better to let me be. He knew that the best time to convince me to do a task was after a meal, when I was sated.
Monday, he set lunch on the boardroom table: olives, hummus, rice pilaf, garlic dip, dolmas. What did he want? He watched me soak the lavash bread in the creamy dip that he’d topped with the most decadent olive oil. He watched me gingerly take a plump black olive. I closed my eyes and gnawed at the flesh. And sighed. And forgot that he was after something. He poured us each another glass of Bordeaux. He knew everything I could not resist.
That afternoon I was heedless, my belly full of bliss. Harmon used this to advantage, asking: ‘Where should one go in Odessa to buy a ring?’
I told him the names of a pawnshop and three jewelers known for their high-quality gold without realizing there was only one reason he would need a ring. Harmon – this job – was the one rock of financial security I had. I should have protected this interest in the same way the Soviet government protected Lenin’s carcass.
Unwise.
I had been unwise.
When I arrived at the Soviet Unions office, the Stanislavskis were already there. Win-won-won. The Grande Dame was in Party con mode, her blond bouffant shellacked up even higher than usual. On the long ledges of the windows, her ferns and orchids were dewy. She sprayed and watered them when she was nervous. I was afraid we’d have plenty of plant cadavers on our hands if the Stanislavskis started visiting regularly. The younger two looked at her gravely, like she was talking about a cure for cancer or their take of our profits. Vlad was flipping through one of our new programs, scanning the faces and statistics of our girls.
‘What can I tell you?’ Valentina Borisovna looked up at them with a poorly hidden smirk. ‘We have virtuous men who are interested in ladies, not tramps.’
‘Virtuous men don’t exist,’ Oleg, the youngest, said.
‘Surely you gentlemen realize that our clients come to find a wife,’ I seconded. ‘If they wanted a prostitute, they’d go on a sex tour in Asia. They chose a matrimony expedition for a reason. Picking up a prostitute in front of two hundred potential spouses is not a good tactic.’
They nodded and were silent for a moment.
‘We could send the whores to the hotels,’ Oleg suggested. ‘They can find out what rooms the Americans are in and knock. That’s what hookers in Moscow do. Russian room service!’
The Grande Dame sputtered, and I gave her a look to quell her objections. If they talked about their strategy, we could combat it.
Seeing I hadn’t flinched at their lewd idea, Vlad put down the program, took off his sunglasses, and put his face one inch from mine. We were nearly the same height. His black hair was slicked back with too much Western product, but he was handsome for all that. ‘The scythe meets the stone,’ he said, meaning You’ve met your match.
I refused to blink or to look away. It seemed to me that the air between us sizzled like piroshki in Boba’s frying pan. I could avoid him, tell myself a hundred times that he was only interested in the chase, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about him. I could only hope he wasn’t aware of my feelings.
‘I’m thirty, maybe it’s time for me to settle down,’ he said. ‘Find a woman. I want you to find me a suitable wife.’
His brothers snickered.
‘The fee will come out of the money we give you,’ I replied.
‘Fair enough.’
‘Our bro’s going to be wearing epaulettes – Daria’s,’ Oleg said.
I gasped and stepped away from Vlad. This despicable phrase refers to the sexual position in which a woman’s ankles rest on the man’s shoulders.
‘Now just a minute!’ Valentina Borisovna yelled. In her outrage, she didn’t care that she was dealing with killers. ‘Daria is a well-bred, cultured girl, and I insist she be treated with respect. Apologize at once, you jackal!’
She moved to my side.
‘Apologize!’ The middle brother seconded as he glared at his brother.
‘I ain’t gonna apologize to the heifer or the train-station whore,’ Oleg said.
‘Oh!’ Valentina Borisovna clamped her arm protectively around my shoulder and shoved my face into her bosoms, trying to shield me from the ugliness. No man had ever spoken to us in such a manner. The Grande Dame and I were used to chivalrous words from men, but gangsters respected no one.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ the middle brother asked.
Vlad turned to Oleg and hit him in the face with such ferocity that I could have sworn that his nose was not just gushing with blood, not just broken, but actually concave.
‘To hell with you!’ Oleg screamed as his hand moved to his face. Blood spurted onto the Persian rug. I clutched Valentina’s arm, never expecting to witness such violence. She squeaked out the incantation, ‘Everything will be fine, everything will be fine.’
‘I apologize on behalf of my brother,’ Vlad said.
‘It’s nothing,’ Valentina blathered. ‘The blood matches the rug. No one will notice.’ She rubbed it into the rug with her pink pump. ‘See? No harm done.’
Vlad grabbed Oleg by the scruff of the neck and shoved him out the door.
I took a step forward, wanting to thank him for defending me, but didn’t know what to say. Instead I thrust out my chin, put my hands on my hips, and demanded, ‘Will you kindly send someone to clean up the mess?’ to their retreating backs.
Vlad looked back at me with a wolfish grin.
After they drove off, Valentina Borisovna cracked the safe. We both sat down. ‘Vlad was right to discipline his brother for insulting you. He seems quite taken with you. Is it possible you were . . . flirting with him?’ She said this non-committally, but her eyes fixed on me like a bazaar vendor’s on a gypsy girl.
I fought the urge to smile. I didn’t know why, but I liked giving Vlad a hard time. He seemed to like it, too. Valentina Borisovna dug around in her purse and handed me a book that looked like it had been read about a hundred times. ‘Promise me you’ll read this. It got me through three ugly divorces.’
I looked at the tome. It was called Smart Women Foolish Choices by Dr. Connell Cowan.
A half an hour later, a middle-aged woman dressed in a housecoat and slippers got out of Vlad’s car. When she walked into the office, she looked at the bursts of blood on the side of the desk and exclaimed, ‘What happened here?’
‘Vlad punched Oleg,’ Valentina Borisovna replied.
‘He’s never done that before,’ she commented, pulling a rag and square of lye out of her pail.
Valentina Borisovna explained that Oleg had been nogli, a Russian word that combines rude and obnoxious.
‘I didn’t think anything could come between those brothers.’
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‘And nothing will,’ Valentina Borisovna said. ‘Boys will be boys, that’s all.’
But she eyed me speculatively. I said I had a headache and went home.
Italy is well known for its mafia, but most people don’t realize that our mob is much worse – and much wealthier. In Italy, there is a hierarchy, a tradition, and family counts. In Ukraine and Russia, where money and opportunities are new, there is no hierarchy, there are no traditions, and family doesn’t count for much. Our mobsters have mansions all over the world, collect things like Fabergé eggs and B-52s, and are strangely proud of how quickly they can throw away money. From reading the news on the Internet, I had the impression that in other countries, the mafia controlled prostitution, underground gambling, and the drug trade. However, in Odessa, it controlled all commerce, not just illegal trade. Maybe living conditions were fine in Kiev, where all the politicians and foreign journalists worked, but outside the capital, if you wanted heat, electricity, or a telephone, you went to the mafia. If a doctor needed supplies, he went to the mafia. In a sense, Odessans needed the mob, who rebuilt the infrastructure of the city – granted, at a high price – more than they needed the government, a group of self-inflated old communists who filled their pockets as fast as they could, and unlike the mafia, gave nothing in return.
Which is not to say that the mafia didn’t have a negative side. After perestroika, there was a period in which drive-by shootings were common. All businessmeni needed bodyguards. It had been a free-for-all as the mobsters fought for the top spot. Things were calmer now, since many of the contenders had been shot, fled the country with their illegal gains, overdosed, or become politicians. Vlad had crowned himself the king of the Odessa hill. And it seemed we’d be seeing more of him.
I was never so happy to find Boba standing in the doorway of our flat. She must have heard me trudging up the stairs. ‘Oh, Boba!’ I hugged her – she smelled of freshly made sugar cookies. ‘So glad to be home.’ I took off my shoes and kicked them under the hall table and handed her my jacket and briefcase. The things I normally would have told Olga, I told Boba without thinking; the events of the week burst from my mouth. ‘I got dumped by my Internet boyfriend. Olga is trying to depose me, and Harmon is so whipped he may well go along with it. A fight broke out in the Soviet Unions office. And to top it all off, that gangster Vladimir Stanislavski wants us to set him up. How would he know how to treat a lady? I bet he only frequents tarts!’
Moonlight in Odessa Page 10