by Talia Carner
Brooke took in a big breath of relief. “I didn’t think you were a war correspondent,” she said to Norcress.
“Why is that?”
“When you crucified my client the Prince of Morocco, you seemed to have a bleeding heart. Not the right kind of temperament for war reporting.”
He let out a short whistle. “He deserved every word I wrote. If he’s your client, you must have seen the squalor his people live in right outside each of his twenty-three palaces, while he diverts his fortune to investments abroad.”
He was right, of course. Although at Brooke’s suggestion the prince had dug hundreds of wells that saved women hours of walking to fetch water, she had been powerless to change the abject poverty she had seen. She was glad Norcress hadn’t seen the one hundred pure-bred horses living in a palatial barn, fifty decorated stalls on each side of a magnificent octagonal reception hall. The hall’s dome was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semiprecious stones, and the display of gifts given by dozens of heads of state included a larger-than-life, diamond-studded U.S. eagle. She never asked which president had given it.
When she said nothing, Norcress added, “My assignment is to look for the people’s stories. How they manage change.”
“Or don’t.” Brooke waved toward the world outside.
He fished in his vest for a business card, and handed it to her. “Just in case another one of your other clients has a better tale than that Moroccan dude.”
They rode the rest of the way to Hotel Moscow in silence. He didn’t let her pay when he dropped her off, saying he’d continue to his hotel. “I owe you one,” he said.
“Two,” she replied.
He raised her water bottle. “May I keep it? It will make three.”
BACK AT THE hotel, Brooke could hardly believe that she could feel so safe in this shabby place. Again she submitted her passport at the reception desk, and a ten-dollar bill gave her the key to Amanda’s room.
Although it was the weekend, she phoned and left a message at Hoffenbach’s office. Should she call Olga to tell her about the forced change of plans? After all, they had said their good-byes. Brooke’s need for information overcame her hesitation. She dialed Olga’s number, surprised yet again at how easy it was to place a phone call in a hotel—and a city—where nothing else worked smoothly.
“The riots are spreading. Things have gotten out of control.” Olga’s voice was so loud, Brooke had to shift the receiver away from her ear. “Communists and nationalists are fighting in the streets. About ten thousand—” Olga’s cough turned into a fit.
Viktor took the receiver from his wife. “We’ve heard that the rebels blasted through the door of the Ostankino television station. They fought the police inside. Yeltsin’s troops opened fire. Shot everyone in sight.” He sounded as agitated as his wife. “Half the armed staff in the parliament are registered fascists. Their leader, Zhirinovsky—”
Olga recovered enough to call out, “The man is a joke.”
“Nobody took Mussolini and Hitler seriously until it was too late,” Viktor said.
“What do they say on CNN?” Brooke asked.
“Wait. Viktor is turning to the channel,” Olga said, back on the phone. After a moment, her voice dropped. “Nothing. Another economic crisis in Brazil. A soccer game in Hong Kong. Nothing.”
In the background, Brooke heard Viktor call out.
“The Russian channel, it’s all fuzzy,” Olga said. “Now it’s a blackout. Wait! Yegor Gaidar, the prime minister, is on!”
“The government recaptured the TV station?”
“It’s another station.” Suddenly Olga cried out. “Oh, no! He’s telling Yeltsin’s supporters to gather at the City Council and set up barricades. He’s calling for a civil war!”
The brief history chapter in Brooke’s guide book covered in one sentence the last civilian clashes during the 1917 Bolshevik revolution, when the czar had been overthrown. “Who exactly is fighting whom?” Brooke asked. “I saw demonstrators destroying kiosks. The owners were their own people!”
“Those kiosks sell capitalists’ goods. They represent Yeltsin’s free-market plans. All capitalistic economy has done so far is bring corruption out into the open.”
Olga was silent for a while, probably watching the ongoing reports on TV. Finally she said, “Uzhasno. Terrible. These are terrible days for Russia. We’ve been humiliated and depersonalized for so long. All we wanted was our freedom, yet look how miserably we’re managing it now that we have it.”
Who had said that people received the rulers they deserved? Brooke could offer no words of comfort. This had nothing to do with her, she told herself. Her Russian chapter was closed. She wished she were at the airport now, just in case she could talk her way onto an oligarch’s private plane.
Chapter Thirty-one
IN THE HOTEL dining hall, Nikolai Sidorov raised his glass of vodka. “Another toast! One more toast!” He winked at Amanda, seated next to him.
Jenny, seated farther down the table, adored the way Russians toasted, always with drinks, especially the male officials she’d seen. Russians knew how to have fun, so unlike boring American gatherings, where she was expected to hold back raucous laughter and to smile at stupid jokes.
She admired Sidorov’s dexterity as, for the fifth or sixth time, he balanced the tiny glass on the back of his hand. “To beautiful American women—and real Russian men.” With a swift movement of his wrist, he tipped the glass and downed the contents in one gulp.
Jenny picked at the chopped beets, black olives, and herring swimming in cream on her plate, but her eyes were on the only man in the room. She felt like a lizard sitting on a tree limb, waiting for a bug to stumble her way. It would, soon. The heady combination of attractive American women and vodka had erupted in perspiration on Sidorov’s forehead. His eyelids were heavy, and his waxen-blue pupils glimmered in arousal.
Jenny glanced around the table at the other women. They were talking about the revolution, or uprising, or whatever it was Brooke claimed had started, but there was no sign of it here. Sidorov, in fact, seemed insouciantly jolly.
“We might be looking at another totalitarian regime, this time with nuclear power,” Brooke whispered to Amanda. “But he’s acting like he’s partying in a brothel.”
“C’mon, Brooke,” Jenny shot. “You’re upset that he hasn’t hit on you.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Jenny, it’s been a long day.”
Jenny would have died for that thick brunette hair curling at the shoulders, reflecting the light. “Admit it: Wouldn’t you drop that big-time job of yours for the right rich, gorgeous man? Everyone has a price. You too.”
Brooke pushed herself from the table and walked away, just as Jenny had hoped. She liked Brooke well enough, but right now Jenny wanted her out of the way. Until Sidorov stumbled her way, she would enjoy the garlicky sautéed meat that was now being served with steamed cabbage flavored with lard.
Sidorov rose to salute again and tried to wrap his arm around Amanda. She squirmed and disengaged from his hold. “To the new American–Russian friendship,” he roared. He chugged the glass of vodka.
“To our host—and the boss!” Jenny called out, raising her glass. She emptied it down her throat although she had never taken to its taste.
Still standing, Sidorov threw a lascivious smile at her, finally noticing her. “In business, you women have so much more to offer than we do,” he declared to the table. “You can always close a deal by using what nature gave you.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Sidorov, that American women do not do business that way.” Amanda slid from her seat to the chair Brooke had vacated.
“Russian women have no such inhibitions.”
“In the United States, it’s called sexual harassment, and it’s a crime.”
“Our women don’t mind. Ask Svetlana Alitkina here.” He looked around the room. “Where is she?”
“Curfew. We’ve sent her home,” Brooke said from the door.
She was holding Amanda’s video camera and trained it on Sidorov.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
“I assume you won’t mind if we record you. Americans would be interested in your views.”
“Put it down. Shut it off.” Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth.
Svetlana. Jenny thought about their conversation. Maybe she could help the little Russian woman. There was a time, long ago, when inside Jenny a Svetlana had resided—timid, afraid to taste life.
“I don’t think we’ll stay for coffee.” Amanda rose from the table.
Everyone but Jenny finished eating in a rush. Cooling herself with a Chinese fan, Jenny threw Sidorov an inviting smile. He lumbered around and took the empty seat beside her. Still fanning herself, Jenny opened the top button of her silk blouse. As Sidorov had just said, in any successful transaction, a woman should put her best-selling point forward.
“You’re a real woman.” Sidorov assessed her cleavage with an appreciative gaze.
She lowered her eyelashes. The vodka was sending pleasant sensations throughout her body. “Only a real man would know. But I haven’t met any here—until now, that is.”
“You’ve been wasting your time in Moscow, then.” He refilled her vodka glass, and she drank it in two gulps. How she loved Sidorov’s deep, baritone voice as he said, “Nothing exciting, uh?”
“Not when I’m with women day and night. The most they want to do is play spies.”
He burst out laughing. “And whom would the beautiful ladies spy for, the C.I.A.?”
“Well, maybe. Actually, I’d like to hear your advice about it.” She stroked her neck, allowing her hand to disappear into her blouse. She could help Svetlana and herself at the same time. “We’re looking for Russian terrorists.”
Sidorov gave out a hearty chuckle. His eyes were glued to her rippling blouse. His nostrils flared. “What kind of terrorists do you expect to find?”
Jenny leaned closer, one of her breasts brushing his arm. “The kind we saw at the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory. Scared the living chibaberini out of me.”
Sidorov sobered up. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard.”
She raised her Champagne glass and licked its rim. His eyes followed her tongue. “We’re talking to people,” she added.
“Who’s talking?” He bent forward, and she inhaled the masculine scent of cigarettes, vodka, and Armani aftershave.
She motioned with her head toward Brooke, who was about to go up the stairs leading to the lobby, then regretted diverting Sidorov’s panting attention. To draw him back, she said, “It’s too warm in here. Would you protect me if we went outside?”
Beads of perspiration trickled down his temples. He mopped them with a napkin. “Would you like to take a ride? I have a Rolls-Royce.”
THE GUARDS NODDED deferentially as she and Sidorov passed through the lobby. Once they descended the steps to the street, he told his chauffeur to take a hike.
The joyride lasted three hundred feet, to the end of the empty parking lot, which was fine with Jenny. Sidorov could bestow this aphrodisiac of a car ride on his little Soviet girlfriends. If she cared one bird-poo about a Rolls-Royce, she could buy herself three.
At the edge of the lot, where a large oak tree blocked the glare of the only lamppost, Sidorov killed the engine and turned toward her.
This was going to be exciting. Jenny opened the door, slid out, and resettled in the back seat, motioning the Russian to join her.
He laughed, got out, and plopped himself down next to her. He pawed at her neck and breasts, slathering saliva all over her skin and blouse. His eagerness was contagious. She felt a low, deep rumble of gratification flare up at the bottom of her tummy.
She reached for his pants and unzipped his fly. Taking him out and covering him with her hands, she mumbled, “What a big boy. Better than any American man.” She leaned over and took him in her mouth.
He groaned. “That’s a real woman. Knows how to appreciate a good thing.”
Her loose knit slacks slipped off easily. She led Sidorov’s right hand toward her moist cavity, rocking over his manicured, thick fingers as they entered her. A few minutes later, she moved to straddle him. Her thighs felt luxurious, full and feminine as his hands squeezed them while he buried his face between her breasts. His muffled grunts of pleasure were music to her ears.
She directed a nipple into his mouth. “Suck on it, big man,” she moaned. “Suck hard.” She brought up the fingers of his right hand, still glistening from her moisture, to his nose. “American caviar.”
Sidorov inhaled and groaned. His upward pumping grew faster.
“What a big man.” Jenny slid up and down over him, meeting his pace.
He strained and, in three more quick thrusts, climaxed.
Triumphantly, she gyrated a few more seconds. Mission accomplished. Nothing was better than feeling that a man found her utterly irresistible.
Chapter Thirty-two
HAVING FINALLY MET her host, Brooke was disillusioned and disgusted. The civil war that so troubled Olga and Viktor seemed to be just a backdrop for Sidorov’s indulgence.
When the night clerk hesitated to return her passport—she hated not having it in her possession—she paid him ten dollars. Upstairs, she lay on her cot. Everyone had a price, Jenny had said. Brooke stared at the ceiling. Twenty years ago, she, too, had had her price.
Two weeks after leaving the hospital, no longer in the care of the kind strangers who had sheltered her for a month each in five different homes and then taken her baby away, Brooke vacillated between searing loneliness and feeling numb. She had been deposited at a truckers’ motel room along Seattle’s Rainier Avenue, where she alternated between sleep and crying. None of her recent benefactors visited her, and she ate nothing until the maid started bringing her sandwiches, apples, and Coke. Brooke almost broke down and called her parents, but being the designated caretaker of their hearts, she couldn’t hurt them with a disappointment that topped all possible letdowns.
Returning to school was her only hope, her lifeline to sanity. However, having missed the spring semester, she had lost her scholarship.
The depression—a rock stuck in her heart—left her fuzzy, spent. Yet, in her moments of clarity, Brooke knew that her parents had survived much worse. She would endure this, and perhaps even find a future, if only she could pull herself together.
A week into her stay, the motel clerk informed her that her bill was no longer covered. She took the bus downtown, and the first employment agency she walked into sent her, as a summer temp, to the billing department of an entertainment magazine. She had no choice but to accept minimum wage pay, knowing it would be insufficient to pay tuition.
Her breasts were still full; her milk hadn’t dried in spite of the shot and the pills she had received at the hospital. Her stomach, though, was already as flat as a virgin prairie. She was beautiful, a photographer at the magazine told her. With heavy makeup and a wig, no one would ever recognize her.
Four months later, when her nude photographs were published in Penthouse, her figure was back to its boyish self, and she was back in Berkeley. The money had replaced the lost scholarship. Her parents never learned of her betrayal, never had to face the disappointment.
For twenty years, Brooke had been on the lookout for those photographs, certain they would jump out of her past and bite her, reclaiming every penny she had received with a compound interest that would leave her life in bankruptcy. Five days ago, they had finally arrived—and then immediately been lost at the Moscow airport’s customs office.
Fighting the depressing thought that she was being blackmailed, Brooke rose from her cot, grabbed her thermos, and set out to ask the floor matron to fill it with hot water. At the end of the corridor, several men hung about, waiting for their turn with the prostitutes. Brooke caught sight of two striking young women chatting outside their rooms, both dressed in lace, taking a smoking break.
A man emerged from the elevator
and inspected her. Brooke quickened her steps. As usual, the floor matron’s door was wide open, and the old woman sat across from a blaring TV, her elbows resting on her protruding belly. She turned her head toward Brooke. Rivulets of tears streamed down the creases of her face.
The pain in the hooded eyes startled Brooke. Silently, the woman pointed to the TV, which showed soldiers fleeing in all directions, chased by crowds brandishing clubs and farm tools. Bystanders hurled cobblestones at a group of soldiers, who fled into a building.
“Uzhasno,” the woman cried. “Uzhasno.” She shook her fist at the TV set, and began to sob, mumbling in Russian.
The sight of the defeated soldiers alarmed Brooke. If wild crowds were winning against a trained army, it could only lead to anarchy. “Dah. Uzhasno,” she said. The picture suddenly cut to a rectangle of storming snowflakes. The old woman rose to her feet, sniffling. Brooke wanted to retreat, but the woman yanked the thermos out of her hand. “Keep-ya-tok. Boiling water,” she said, and filled it.
“Spasiba. Thanks.” Brooke handed her a packet of gum and returned to her room. She had given the rest of her tea bags to Svetlana, but Amanda had left a used one in a plastic baggie. Brooke dropped it into the steaming thermos.
She searched her packed suitcase, took out Olga’s nesting matryoshka, opened all six dolls, and lined them up on her night table. The carved wood was thin, the hollowed-out insides as smooth as little wombs.
When Amanda returned, both of them silently readied for bed. Brooke peeked under her blanket for cockroaches and, finding the bed uninvaded, crawled in. She fell into the long tunnel of sleep.
The first knocks on the door, a light rapping, became a part of a dream where she leaped and hopped in a tribal circle. There was some ancient, deep, and monotonous chanting, and a soothsayer disguised as Olga stood in the center, tapping her stick to the rhythm. The tapping became louder and more insistent. Jerked out of her sleep, Brooke bolted upright.