Hotel Moscow

by Talia Carner

  Olga bit her lower lip. Rage filled her: rage at what Russia was doing to her people, at what it permitted to be done to her people. Rage at herself for her own helplessness. “I brought you a tabletka of aspirin.” She propped up Vera’s head and made her swallow the pill with water.

  “I used all our butter for her burn.” The old woman pointed at the soaked rags.

  “Ice is much better. See if you can get some.” Few refrigerators came with freezers. Olga handed her the tea and sugar. “Can you also make her mannaya kasha?” Boiling semolina would occupy the old woman and give her a way to help her daughter.

  Vera’s mother shuffled out of the room. Olga sat at the edge of the bed. Vera moaned. “It hurts so much.”

  “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Olga brushed aside sweat-soaked wisps of hair that clung to Vera’s forehead. “Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.” She sat quietly, stroking the chopped hair, waiting for the pill to take whatever effect it could offer. Vera needed morphine, not an aspirin.

  Vera fingered Olga’s plastic beads. “Why are you dressed up?”

  “I have a meeting with my boss, Chestikov, about the Tuesday symposium with the American women.” She stopped. “I’ll tell you another time.”

  “Tell me now. It’ll take my mind off everything. Are the Americans exploited by their capitalist bosses?”

  “Some are the bosses. And they seem happy.” Olga heard the wonder in her own voice as she uttered the words. “And they are not even aware of it. They think they know how good things are for them, but they can’t really, because they have no idea how bad things can be.”

  Vera shook her head and groaned. “No Russian woman is happy.”

  “Aren’t we sometimes happy in very small ways? We find fresh mushrooms in the forest and we’re happy. We see a friend, and we’re happy. A young woman buys a pair of jeans, and for three years she can be happy just looking at them. But it’s true: We’re not life happy.”

  Vera lay silent for a short while. “It hurt so much. You know important people. Can you find a doctor?”

  Olga cradled her friend’s hand. “As soon as morning comes, I’ll get someone I know. She doesn’t have a phone.” There was no question of taking Vera to a hospital. With no personal connections, she would be denied treatment.

  “They came on payday and confiscated the payroll.” Vera’s lips were dry and cracked. “Just stole all our cash.”

  “You don’t have to talk now.”

  “I want to, in case I die.”

  Olga touched Vera’s lips with a water-soaked sponge. “You will not die; it may just feel like it now.” Nevertheless, she knew that without antibiotics, infection of the exposed flesh might get into Vera’s bloodstream and brain.

  “They knew exactly how much money we had withdrawn, as if they had a direct phone line to the bank.”

  “They probably do.” Olga dipped the sponge into the bowl of water and mopped her friend’s forehead. “Shhhh. Try to get some sleep.”

  “I’m scared.” Vera wept. “I can’t keep up with their ‘protection.’ They want us to produce weird, useless stuff: Pots with no handles. Who can cook in them? They’ve dropped papers at the office, pressing me to turn the Cooperative of Metal Works over to them.”

  “Bad times are not forever. Russia will be a great country again. Just be strong.” Olga caressed her friend’s chopped hair. Russia had been a nation of decent people, of desperate people who, like the proverbial cows cursed with short horns, had long ceased to cope. Olga knew she had reached a decision. In her role as deputy director of the Institute for Social Research, she had the cover. But she lacked capitalistic savvy to untangle the complicated schemes that were destroying their new Russia. She must ask Brooke for help. “I’ll try to find out exactly who’s behind this.” She patted Vera’s forearm.

  Vera touched her chopped hair, then quickly withdrew her hand. “Sure. You’ll take on the mafia gangs, the corrupt bankers, and the police—all at the same time.”

  “Not ‘take on.’ Only learn the identity of the enemy. Knowledge is power.”

  A convulsion shook Vera’s body. She groaned. “Before you can do anything with the knowledge, you’ll be dead.”

  “You cannot die before your death,” Olga quoted. Yes, she could die for a better Russia for her granddaughter, and it would be worth it.

  Chapter Twelve

  BROOKE ENTERED THE dining room, waved to the women at the breakfast table, and stopped by Aleksandr, who was speaking with a waiter. Although he had clearly seen her, he was in no hurry to give her his attention. She waited patiently until finally the waiter walked away, and Aleksandr turned to her.

  “There’s no English-speaking channel on TV, and the radio in the room is AM, in Russian.” She smiled. “We need access to the news. Amanda said you’d bring the English newspaper.”

  Aleksandr shook his head. “Too dangerous to go downtown.”

  “How dangerous? What’s the news about the standoff in the parliament?”

  “It’s getting better.”

  “But it’s dangerous, you’ve just said.” Brooke tried to hold his watery gaze. “Can you give me more details?”

  He consulted a folded Russian newspaper and translated as he read, his voice robotic. “The Russian Orthodox Church mediated, and the parties have reached an agreement. Electricity, heating, and telephone services will be restored to the parliament building.”

  “Sounds like a government press release. Where can we find a source for inside views? Actual opinions and analysis?”

  He shrugged and turned to the group table.

  “Look, Aleksandr,” Brooke said, trying to control her annoyance. “There’s a serious military confrontation going on. We may be caught up in it. We need information.”

  “I must collect the cost of breakfast.” He played with the zipper of his leather jacket, then announced to the women at the table, “Seven dollars each.”

  “Just charge it to the room.” Amanda waved her hand. Attired in a red suit for the first conference, she looked radiant.

  “You pay when you eat,” Aleksandr said.

  Brooke sat down and eyed the sample of a salted fish, one-sixth of a hard-boiled egg swimming in mayonnaise, and four peas circling something lost inside fried batter. It was her mother’s kind of cooking, and Brooke would have liked it if it weren’t too heavy for this time of day. “Can we at least order what we want to eat?” she asked Aleksandr.

  “The hotel economist has directives for the portions of the food, but EuroTours negotiated a very good deal for your group.” He pointed at the prepared plates. For the first time since Brooke had met him, he sounded enthusiastic. “In each zakuska you get three pieces of cucumber instead of two. You see? And the compote has plums, apples, and apricots. It’s planned for lunch, but we got it for your breakfast. And the kitchen is frying eggs for you. A whole one for each—no sharing. And real butter. You see? Fresh. It’s included in the price.”

  “We appreciate it,” Brooke said, giving up. Her mother, too, revered butter. She could never bring herself to share that particular wartime-rare commodity with strangers. The few times Brooke’s friends ate over she had served margarine instead.

  Brooke stabbed her fork into a slice of cucumber. When she looked up, she saw Svetlana standing behind Aleksandr and listening as he argued with Amanda. Other than a large red crescent below her eye, no residue of the previous afternoon marred her jaw. Her blue suit had been repaired and pressed, and her hair coiffed and sprayed back into full obedience. Brooke couldn’t help but admire the young woman’s fortitude. She motioned to the chair beside her, and Svetlana sat down.

  “How are you feeling?” Brooke touched the back of Svetlana’s hand.

  Instead of spreading her cloth napkin, Svetlana’s fingers wrung it. “You’ll eat everything, yes? It takes six years of training to become a chef. It would be disrespectful to him if you don’t eat.”

  “Okay.” Feeling queasy, Brooke scooped a fried pea. Sh
e couldn’t help recalling doing the same throughout her childhood, eating to satisfy someone else’s need.

  Forcing down the pea, she racked her brain about whom she could ask about a better hotel. Amanda’s idea of staying in a Russian hotel to narrow the perception of the socioeconomic gap between the Americans and the factory managers they came to counsel had been a good idea in theory, but reality proved far less enchanting. When Brooke had mentioned it again that morning, Amanda had been too busy with the coming day’s issues to tackle another problem, and asked Brooke to be a good sport and bear it for now. Doggedly, Brooke had checked the phone booth in the lobby, although she couldn’t have read a directory if she had found one. Using hand gestures with the nearest sentry, she learned that Moscow had no phone directory. Hoffenbach had stayed at the luxurious Kempinski Hotel, which she was certain group members employed by nonprofit organizations, including Amanda, could ill afford. “Svetlana, do you know of another hotel, a bit better, but not too fancy?”

  “This is the first hotel I’ve seen from the inside. Maybe ask Aleksandr?”

  Brooke gave out a thin smile. Aleksandr and EuroTours had selected this Soviet-style dump. Judd, who seemed familiar with Moscow, last night had brushed off the idea of finding another hotel as not being simple. Why would finding a good hotel in Moscow be such an insurmountable task? When she saw Judd again, she’d probe further.

  Sipping tea—the alternative, coffee, had the same transparency—Brooke felt Svetlana watching her. She turned her head and saw the Russian’s eyes glued to the Star of David.

  Brooke smiled at her. “Like the cross you have,” she said, indicating the thin gold chain on Svetlana’s neck.

  “You’re a Jewess?”

  “Jewish. Yes.” Brooke’s hand swept the group at the table. “Some of us here are Jews.” She smiled again, disliking the disapproving look in Svetlana’s eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  Svetlana’s diagonal gesture with her head, a cross between a nod and a negative shake, was her answer. Brooke let it slide, but resisted the urge to hide the necklace.

  Aleksandr took out a leather-bound notepad and chewed on a pencil, calculating. “I take your order for dinner now,” he told the group.

  “You mean lunch?” Amanda flipped her sheet of dark hair. “We’ll be at the conference.”

  “Dinner. At seven o’clock. But you order and pay now.”

  Amanda pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. “We need to talk.” She strode away. He followed.

  Svetlana poured herself coffee, then squeezed in a slice of lemon. “Very Russian. Want to taste it?” She offered her cup.

  “Not right now. Thanks.”

  Svetlana shrugged. “American women exercise every day, right?”

  Brooke laughed. “Hardly.”

  “No, it’s true. I read it in magazines.” Svetlana nodded her head for emphasis. “Western women know how to lose weight, know how to get rid of a bad man. They dance in a club every night, they dine out all the time, they have time to read books and even to sit in the sun.”

  “Maybe one of those things or the other. Not everything.” Brooke poked at her food. “I work long days, late into the evening.”

  “Don’t you earn enough to work less?”

  “My job requires me to put in many hours and travel overseas. If I wanted to work fewer hours, I’d have to find another profession.”

  “Then you must be very unhappy.” Svetlana’s eyes traveled down from Brooke’s face to her aubergine-colored skirt-suit, lingered on the flower-studded brooch, then continued down to Brooke’s black pumps. She grinned shyly. “You’re a very elegant Jewess. Very feminine, even if they force you to work hard—”

  “No one’s forcing me. I enjoy what I do; it gives me satisfaction. It might have been different if I had a husband and children. But in my free time, I try to do one of the things you mentioned—take a walk, go out to dinner with a friend, or read a book.”

  “You go dancing?”

  “Sometimes at weddings. Do you like dancing?”

  “Not possible here.” Svetlana shook her head from side to side. “Here what matters is having enough food to eat and finding a good pair of boots for winter.”

  Brooke picked up her fork again.

  “My neighbor is Jewish,” Svetlana ventured. “But a good woman. She’s a doctor. Her daughter—I like her a lot—can’t get into university because she’s Jewish.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Brooke replied, understanding Svetlana’s offering of an olive branch, yet making another faux pas.

  Amanda returned to the table from her chat with Aleksandr and sat down. Her lips were tight.

  Svetlana leaned toward her. “Order them to finish their meal. Nikolai Sidorov’s feelings as a host will be hurt if they don’t.”

  “Sidorov?” Brooke tossed a glance at Amanda. “An economic adviser to President Yeltsin will find out that I left two peas on my plate? How?”

  “In the report the chef submits.” Svetlana looked at Amanda. “Surely the group must obey its leader.”

  “I can’t order them to eat,” Amanda said.

  “We’re not used to eating so much in the morning.” Brooke kept her tone conciliatory.

  “You eat porridge? Or maybe tomorrow Aleksandr will order you kasha in cream?”

  “No, thanks. Really.” Brooke put down her fork. “Tell me about yourself. You studied to be a translator, you said.”

  “English and German. But I never spoke with an American before. This past year I sometimes saw American men in the street. Never a woman. All my life I was told you’re our enemy, but now we meet, and you’re so nice.”

  Maybe Svetlana would realize at the same time that Jews, too, were nice. Brooke smiled. “I enjoy meeting you all.” At her elementary school, only the country or the regime had been presented as enemies, not individual Russians. “How did you improve your conversational English without ever meeting foreigners?” she asked. “You’re incredibly talented.”

  Svetlana blushed. “I listen to Radio Free Europe, repeat the words, and write down in a notebook all the new idioms. Russians always fantasize about traveling. I collect tea bags from all over the world. Sometimes only the wrappings, because they have little pictures of the places they come from.”

  “I have some tea bags, but they’re not that fancy.”

  “I’d like a novel, if you’ve brought any—” Svetlana stopped as a young Russian man wearing a blue-and-white Dodgers jacket sauntered into the room. Given his neat, cropped light brown hair and pleasant features, Brooke assumed he was a hotel staffer about to get into his uniform. She registered a waiter elbowing one of his colleague, gesturing with his head as the new arrival circled the group, intently scrutinizing the women.

  His second circle, though, was tighter, like a tiger closing on its prey. When he leaned on the back of Amanda’s chair in a possessive gesture, a siren wailed in Brooke’s head. Amanda, bending forward and talking, her silver bangles jingling, appeared unaware of his nearness behind her. “Amanda,” Brooke called out.

  At that instant, the man lunged forward and grabbed Amanda’s arm.

  Amanda jumped to her feet, knocking over her chair. “Let go of me!” she shouted.

  He stood still. He didn’t reach for her satchel that now lay at his feet, nor did he try to wrestle her. He stood completely still, his gaze fixed on her face. His composed expression didn’t even look insane.

  In the midst of women yelping with surprise, utensils dropping on china plates, glasses rolling off the table and crashing on the floor, and chairs tumbling backward, Brooke bolted out of her seat. She sprinted toward Amanda. To her horror, as if in slow motion, the man’s other hand reached toward her friend’s fingers. “Stop!” Brooke yelled, afraid he’d break them.

  But then, with the gentlest touch, the man caressed Amanda’s fingers. The expression on his face turned to awe.

  Brooke seized his arm and yanked. His muscles felt as hard a
s iron. “Do something,” she called to the waiters, who were watching the scene like spectators at a vodka-drinking contest. “Get the guards!” she yelled to Svetlana.

  “It’s not their job,” Svetlana replied in a voice that sounded as if it came from far away.

  “Well, get someone! Now!” Brooke repeated, still trying—and failing—to drag the man away.

  Out of nowhere, the tip of a shoe hit the Russian’s wrist close to Amanda’s arm, and in a split second Judd flipped the Russian over onto his back. Rising on his elbows to a half-sitting position, the Russian scuttled backward, staring at Judd with fear. He tossed one last look at Amanda, then scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. Judd did not pursue him.

  “Jesus!” Amanda collapsed into a chair and rubbed her arm.

  “What in the world was that all about? And what’s the matter with the staff here?” Brooke picked up a chair to move it out of the way and glowered at the waiters who still lounged against the doorframe. “I guess it’s not in their unionized employment description to help.” She looked at Judd. His face revealed nothing. “Nice job.”

  His nod was imperceptible. He smiled and walked in the direction of the washroom.

  “What was that guy trying to do?” Bewilderment etched Amanda’s face. “He didn’t go for my money or my bracelets.”

  Jenny came close, her delighted smile framed by a red bow on top of her hair and a pair of saucer-size earrings. “He only wanted to touch you,” she chirped. “I knew it! Russian men are obsessed with American women. Wow, Amanda. You’ll feed his sexual fantasies for a long time.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Brooke picked up another overturned chair and sat down.

  “Amanda’s Asian look adds a dash of the exotic.” Jenny cocked her head toward the corridor. “He was cute.”