Hotel Moscow

by Talia Carner

  Amanda shook her head. “I didn’t see when it happened, but I saw the aftermath. It’s horrible. I’d never expected anything like this.”

  “There are no laws and no police here,” Brooke said. “What if the mobsters want to get rid of the witnesses?”

  Amanda gave her a strange look.

  “We need security,” Brooke pushed on. “Aleksandr saw these guys enter the building but he didn’t even come looking for us. Can we replace him, get another escort?”

  “I’ll certainly put in a request. And also ask for protection.”

  “We need a small army.”

  “The escort from EuroTours is assigned by the Economic Authority. Security is a different story. Obviously, I can’t just hire people off the street.” Amanda sighed. “As soon as we get to the hotel, I will contact the American Embassy, see what they suggest.”

  “May I help? I can make phone calls.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. Let me take care of things. But we could both use a good cup of tea. Will you please ask the dezhurnayia to fill our thermos with hot water from her samovar?”

  The driver turned on the radio again, and Gloria Estefan sang “Coming Out of the Dark.” Brooke looked out the window, her body tuned to the rhythm of the wheels, their syncopated sound broken by the untuned clanking of rusty parts. The streets seemed cold even when filled with people, the pedestrians’ gaits lethargic. Other than an occasional aluminum and glass kiosk, there was no sign of commerce on the boulevards. The buildings, even the magnificent ones, had no store-front windows, cafés, or restaurants. How long would a change take—if democracy won?

  Springs jutted out of Brooke’s seat cushion. She shifted her body to ease her contact points, but could still feel their jabbing. The month before, she had helped Prince Jamal of Morocco buy a Rolls-Royce at an auction. What was she doing on this clanking bus—and in this dammed country?

  Words from Svetlana’s welcome speech crossed her head. “Women have the special compassion to put old grievances aside and find the common denominator of the many things we share, to be friends.” Tears sprouted into Brooke’s eyes as she recalled hugging Svetlana. There had been more hugs today—the well-wishers at the airport, the cafeteria workers, the seamstresses at the factory—than she had received from her own mother over a lifetime. She had connected with these women whose language she didn’t speak and whose wretched lives she barely comprehended. She had been inspired by their valiant hope. If the past of her parents’ generation had come and gone before she was born, now she was staring at an alternate future for these Russian women, a future beyond the current obstacles they faced. Their desperate present shook her, but she had in abundance what they needed to change it: knowledge.

  The dusty, mildewed air in the bus mingled with the aroma of discarded carnations. Brooke struggled with the window’s latch until the glass panel slid down a notch. She sank back in her seat and sipped water. She must remember that she had come here to gather information, to exploit the trip in order to boost her prospects of keeping her job—not to get herself raped, beaten, or burned to death. How could she risk her life for the people who had persecuted her family? She touched her Star of David, hidden under her buttoned blouse. Helping people in despair was a Jewish value, the rabbi had said just last week. That was what defined her Judaism, not the Holocaust.

  The bus rumbled through a densely inhabited area with wide streets that were strangely almost devoid of people, as if this were a deserted Hollywood set. No patch of grass brightened the exposed dirt, no benches welcomed pedestrians to rest along the boulevards, no stores beckoned shoppers. Brooke wanted to pierce through the massive buildings, right into people’s kitchens, to understand this strange, complicated city whose fierce cruelty still contained a genuine vein of warmth.

  Chapter Seven

  BACK AT HER hotel room, Brooke changed into an oversize T-shirt. All her joints ached from the earlier surge of adrenalin. After retrieving hot water from the floor matron, she made tea for Amanda and herself, sat at the desk, and pulled out her yellow pad to write a fax to her parents. As much as she hated telling them where she was, worse would be her vanishing in this vast country without a word. Her father, at least, should know her whereabouts. Maybe he’d keep it from her mother.

  “Writing to the office?” Amanda asked.

  Brooke shook her head. Normally she would. The partners of her firm were men who had once mentored her; later, as she gained their trust and appreciation, their professional lives merged with their social lives. She attended Fourth of July barbecues at their homes, often the only single woman. Sometimes the hosting wife invited a nephew or a young neighbor, but beyond several dates, nothing ever came out of these matchmaking efforts. When it came to emotional intimacy, Brooke forever felt herself floating in a bubble of Holocaust second-generation syndrome.

  Now, with the recent buyout, she could see that her office had given her a false sense of family, not unlike her parents’ sad home, not unlike the bosom of her Berkeley commune of her college days: All were transient.

  “How do I fax from here?” she asked Amanda.

  “Aleksandr can bring them to his office tomorrow, while we’re at the conference.”

  “Before or after he’s fired?”

  “Brooke, you’ve been witness to a horrific scene today. I’m sorry about it. Luckily none of us got hurt. Let’s try to muster positive thoughts.” Amanda rooted in her suitcase, and brought out a purple candle. She placed it on the edge of the desk.

  “What’s this for?”

  “A scented candle. For healing.”

  Brooke rose and went to the window, but could see nothing. Darkness had fallen on Moscow early, suddenly, skipping the twilight stage, surprising her with its finality. She turned back to the room. “Will a candle heal the economist stabbed in his side? Or that woman you gave CPR to? Or Svetlana’s jaw? What kind of powers do you attribute to a man-made candle—lit or not?”

  “It gives me peace.” Amanda struck a matchbook. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  This was what Brooke’s mother had railed against all her life: How, while members of their tribe had been slaughtered, Americans—Jews and non-Jews alike—were silent, inactive. Later, as the horrors came to public attention, Americans preferred first to ignore them, then turned them into clichés. In war films you couldn’t feel how cold it was, her mother said, how the sewer where Jews hid stunk, how Nazi bands’ music echoed in hungry stomachs, or how the odor of the incinerators where Jews burned stayed on the skin.

  “Living in New York City, I too prefer to think that we’ve put cruelty and bigotry behind us,” Brooke said. “When that ‘We Are the World’ song came along, I too nurtured the delusion that the world is one large global community. Today, I stared evil in the eyes.”

  “What do you think I’m doing here in Russia, organizing this mission?” Amanda asked. “I just don’t show my compassion with your intensity.”

  Brooke clammed up and stepped to the bed. Lifting the covers, she peeked at the linens, then lay down. Frayed from years of repeated washing, the cotton sheets felt surprisingly welcoming. “Sorry to dump on you. I’m tired.”

  Sitting cross-legged on a towel she’d spread on the carpet, Amanda said, “Here’s a lovely thought to fall asleep to. You have an admirer.”

  “Not Aleksandr, I hope.”

  Amanda smiled. Her face was at a level with Brooke’s eyes.

  “Nikolai Sidorov?”

  “Not quite.”

  “An American?”

  “Yup.”

  Brooke groaned. “Now I have to wait nine days until we return to meet him.”

  “How do you feel about the domestic package—a husband and kids in the suburbs?”

  Brooke stared at the spider-like cracks in the ceiling. “It would be nice to have someone to snuggle with. But it may be too late for children.” She shifted her gaze back to Amanda. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

 
“Just wondering. It wouldn’t work for me. I can’t be tied down.”

  “Some freedoms are overrated.” Brooke closed her eyes again. Her experience of freedom at the commune at Berkeley had been exhilarating while it lasted; she would never have traded the love she had found there. Except that, like most loves, it had its price.

  AMANDA’S VOICE BROKE through Brooke’s sleep. “Wake up. You’re late for dinner.”

  “No dinner. Thanks.” Brooke turned to face the wall, pulling the covers over her head.

  “Listen, I spoke with the commercial attaché at the embassy. He suggests we leave even though there’s no State Department alert. He just wants to get rid of the headache we’re already causing him. I had to relay the message to everyone, but no way am I canceling tomorrow’s conference.” She paused. “You’re staying, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. Well, the commercial attaché has sent someone over. He’s downstairs. Hurry up.”

  Amanda walked out. Brooke pushed herself off the bed and found her slippers. The lone electric bulb dangling from the ceiling wire illuminated the room in wan yellow light. In the mirror, her high cheeks looked bony over the hollows beneath them, her lips sleep-puffed. She rinsed her face, but there was no time to reapply makeup. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, curling the ends on her fingers for a finishing touch.

  Dinner at the hotel should be an informal affair. As Brooke pulled a pair of jeans and a sweater out of her suitcase, something kept flitting at her consciousness like a moth stubbornly hitting its powdery wings against a glass window. The unread letter from Seattle. The long-ago tangy whiff of sage came to her nostrils, a scent that always accompanied the memories of the months she had spent at the commune . . . and what happened later.

  She hauled her carrier bag onto the bed and searched for the envelope. Growing frantic, she unzipped every pocket and slipped her hand into each. Nothing. She turned the bag over and shook it empty.

  Realization blasted through her head. In her mind’s eye she could see the letter tossed on the customs officer’s desk. The corpulent assistant had gathered her belongings only from his table, while Brooke was distracted by the predatory officer and eager to flee the room. She had failed to double-check his paper-strewn desk.

  Those men had her letter. They would have a laugh. She hoped they wouldn’t recognize her in the photograph. Brooke collapsed into a chair and sat there for long minutes, letting her anxiety come to rest. Perhaps losing the letter was meant to be. Some secrets should stay buried, until they disintegrated like a corpse in a grave.

  Chapter Eight

  SVETLANA WALKED THE few blocks from the subway station down deserted streets, alert to all sights and sounds in the boulevard. In this older section of town, darkness lurked in hidden doorways, broken fences, scraggly shrubs, and debris-filled alleyways.

  The familiar fears of unchanging days, of hopelessness, and an inescapable destiny descended on her. The terror she’d experienced at Gorbachevskaya Street Factory—and the pulsating pain in her jaw—had transformed into a dread of Nikolai Sidorov. He’d hold her responsible for ruining the Americans’ first day. Somehow he’d even blame her for the disaster, as if she could have prevented any of it. And her dreams for her cooperative’s success had been trashed today under the thugs’ feet as irreparably as the sewing machines. How could they work without equipment?

  Behind Svetlana, the corner street light gave off a faint halo, but the two lampposts in the center of the block remained dark. Their light bulbs had been stolen two years before, when Communist control had ended.

  Keeping to the drier edges of the rutted pavement, she trudged around glistening mud puddles while glancing about her. Lately, talks of muggings and rapes had accelerated. Quickening her pace, she tried to push away the images of the wounded Pavel Borisovich and her battered workers. She touched the new “Attitude Is Everything” button on her lapel. It was easy for the American women to have a good attitude; they had everything. For them, life was to be enjoyed rather than endured.

  Dr. Olga Leonidovna Rozanova, herself Russian, also possessed that positive outlook. Svetlana had been almost as excited about meeting the revered sociologist today as she was about the Americans. Just recently she had discovered that Dr. Rozanova had been the author of the underground newsletter “Women’s True Voice,” the samizdat that had given her so much hope during the Soviet days, scaffolding her spirit when she despaired with trying to envision a better future for Natasha.

  Svetlana clutched her handbag, feeling its bulging contents. So many gifts. The hard candies and gums she would dole out to Natasha over the next year. The Snickers and Three Musketeers she would trade in the street for months of eggs and sausages. And Brooke had given her the most beautiful scarf she’d ever owned, a silk print. It would be a betrayal to sell it, yet the money it could fetch might pay for coal for the whole upcoming winter.

  She stopped in front of the three-story building, feeling her skull contract. The facade, originally painted in peach, sported decades-old dark patches of mold. In places where the paint peeled off, lighter patches of ancient plaster showed even in the wan light.

  Back to the hell of the communal apartment. If only she could turn around, this very moment, and flee the five-room apartment in which five families lived—fifteen people sharing one toilet, one shower, and one small kitchen. The curse of Russian life. The walls that trapped them all for life in a web of intimacy and hatred—of smells and sounds so familiar, yet so utterly detestable—spoke only of old grievances and gripes yet to come.

  Only the thought of her Natasha, waiting for her, made Svetlana push open the creaking stairway door. Again the light bulb was missing. She wound her way up, knowing in the dark how to avoid the broken stairs. Like the rest of the building, the staircase hadn’t been repaired in the seventy years since this once grandiose Stalin-era mansion had been converted into an anthill of rooms.

  When Svetlana entered the room she shared with Natasha, the girl squealed and flung her stuffed rabbit aside. Her eyes searched for Svetlana’s avoska, the string basket in which she carried provisions. “What did you bring to eat?”

  “With the Americans here, I didn’t have time to stand in lines.” Svetlana planted kisses on her daughter’s forehead and cheeks. It hurt her jaw to pucker her lips; she hoped it wasn’t broken. Feigning cheerfulness, she said, “You’ll have macaroni tonight.” The candy would be a surprise.

  “I hate macaroni.”

  “I’ll add white cheese.” Svetlana didn’t blame Natasha. The grayish pasta, made of rotted wheat, tasted foul unless laced with sugar, which she could no longer afford. Sometimes, Lyalya, a pretty twenty-one-year old student who lived with her mother across the hall, paid her for English and German lessons with groceries; the young woman’s mother, a physician, received them as payment from patients.

  Svetlana stepped next to the one bed in the room, removed the broomstick that held the hip-high refrigerator door closed, and crouched in front of it. She used a rag to scrape off ice that had formed on the exposed cooling pipe inside the refrigerator, and pressed it to her jaw. Natasha hung on her back while Svetlana peeked at the meager contents. “I’ll also add honey,” Svetlana said. “And we have potatoes from yesterday, and two eggs. I’ll boil both so you can take one to school tomorrow.”

  “An egg?” Natasha’s eyes widened with anticipation. “Vkusno! Yummy.”

  Someone tapped on the door, and without waiting for an invitation, opened it. Lyalya entered, dancing a jaunty jig. Svetlana gasped.

  “What do you think?” Lyalya pirouetted. She was wearing a stunning, foreign-made, red Lycra dress that ended two centimeters below her crotch. It was topped with a matching jacket with a dozen gold-shimmering zippers. Her long legs, encased in fishnet stockings and tucked into black patent-leather high heels, completed the look of a pricey call girl. “I’ve joined an escort service,” she chanted, and waved a hand in front of Svetlana’s stunned fa
ce. “Earth to Svetlana?” she said in English, an expression they had picked up from an American magazine.

  Svetlana swallowed. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Lyalya’s brown eyes twinkled through their heavy makeup. “I’ll meet so many interesting people. Foreigners.”

  “But what will you have to do?” Svetlana whispered. She twitched her brows to warn of Natasha’s presence.

  “Oh, that?” Lyalya swung her hips and laughed. “Foreign men aren’t bad, not like the disgusting Russians. The girls I’ve met have a great time; they go to restaurants, bars, and clubs.” She giggled. “Have you ever been to a restaurant?”

  “Once, for a wedding.”

  “I’ll go every night and earn more money in one week—in one evening—than you’ll make in a year in that miserable factory.”

  “But think of your future,” Svetlana murmured, wrapping her arms around Natasha, who stood gawking at Lyalya.

  “My future? Like my mother’s? It’s a new era. I can study for years and be a stupid doctor or I can have it better now.”

  Svetlana let go of Natasha and grabbed Lyalya’s arms with both her hands. “There’s a terrible price to pay for the road you’re choosing. You can still change your mind before—before you catch some horrible disease. There’s a new one, AIDS—” She searched her mind for ideas. “Remember when you wanted to be a journalist? Now you can apply again.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m still a Jewess. The university hasn’t changed its policy or quota.” Lyalya’s voice mimicked an official’s authoritative baritone. “‘Jews are involved in international conspiracy; they can’t be trusted to work with foreigners.’” She pranced behind the laundry hung on a line across the bedroom, and her finger flicked Svetlana’s pink underwear, their crotch patched. “I’ll rent Mama a whole apartment. I want her out of this hell hole.”

  “We’ll talk more later. I must make Natasha’s dinner.” Svetlana patted strands of her girl’s fair hair.