Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  She goes with a so-so hand gesture and a squiggly mouthed smile.

  Welp, good thing I brought my 100-percent-organic bug-killing hotels.

  “How are the mice? Any mice? . . . Kak myshey? Lyubyye myshey?”

  Same gesture.

  Welp, good thing I brought my 100-percent-organic mouse-removal hotels.

  She gives me a shrug and a smile. What can you do? Now she’s off to introduce some other poor American to the true wonders and slow poisoning of a Moscow dorm room.

  I’m okay, though. I’m going to be okay.

  When we flew over Moscow before we landed, I had this feeling like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl, reeling through some kind of carnival, and there was really no hope in all of this, and I was an idiot.

  I mean, this chance at getting my parents back? This isn’t real. This was just some strange dream I am having, and soon I will wake up back at Bryn Mawr, next to one of my three trusty hookups and all will be well. I will gather my clothes and tiptoe out of one of their bedrooms before having to make awkward breakfast conversation.

  You know. Like a normal person.

  Sidebar: I really don’t understand how anyone could actually have breakfast with someone they just slept with. Like, what are you supposed to even say? Hey, remember that part with your tongue last night? Well. I really liked that. Good job. I mean, seriously. It’s just so much easier to gather your boots and get the hell out of Dodge. I always feel a panic in that moment. Like . . . please don’t wake up please don’t wake up please don’t wake up. The horror of crouching over my clothes, half-naked, and having to make small talk, overrides all my usual brain function. This fear has left me to abandon more than one pair of underwear in a fit of panic.

  But in that moment just before landing, looking out on Red Square and the skyscrapers in the distance, I would take that awkward, half-naked crouching conversation any day of the week. What the hell am I doing? Who exactly do I think I am?

  But then I remember my mom and the organic spaz attack she would have over the chemically toxic dorm room.

  It reminds me why I’m here.

  Once she changed all the mattresses in the house in a random freak-out about flame retardants and off-gassing. One other time she threw out everything under the sink, staring at the backs of the cleaning supplies, squinting at the labels, saying, “Oh Jesus,” and then hurling them each into the trash. My dad would just stand there watching her, slightly bemused. God, he loved—

  Loves her.

  Right? Loves her. Because that is what all of this is for, that present tense. They are alive and he loves her currently and I love them still.

  We were in Bethlehem, Palestine, once, when my dad was doing a story about an art school there, a school started by a young boy from a refugee camp. It was an inspiring story. A story of hope in the midst of chaos. Total Pultizer contender. We went to see the artwork of the students, the oldest of whom were seventeen. The youngest student was five—a little girl who had wandered into the school and literally just picked up a brush.

  My mom was talking to the little girl, asking about her painting. “Who is this? And who is that? And what are they doing?” The little girl was smiling, a little bit shy, but after a while she warmed up to my mom. And she was standing there, almost under her wing, looking up with a smile on her face. This tiny little girl from Bethlehem with big brown eyes. She kept wrapping her little fingers around my mom’s necklace. Some crazy thing she had bought on the streets of Istanbul.

  And my mom noticed she kept grabbing the necklace, dazzled by it and fascinated by it, too. A ludicrous mix of colors and ribbons and stones. Large embroidery thread. It made no sense, in a way, the necklace. But I remember looking over and seeing my mom take off the necklace and give it to the little girl. I remember the little girl, her eyes lighting up. She couldn’t believe it. It was like giving her a ship of gold.

  And the little girl hugs my mom close, like she’s known her her whole life, like she was an aunt or a cousin or a sister.

  And I see my mom’s face over the little girl’s shoulder. A tear in her eye.

  And I know why she’s crying. She’s crying because she wishes she could do more. Because she feels helpless. And all she wants to do is help this little girl. Give her a better life. A life free of violence.

  And my father sees my mother, too. And he looks at me.

  We share a moment.

  In that moment, that is all we wish to be.

  My mother.

  Present tense.

  She’s alive.

  And my father’s alive.

  And I will save them.

  As if in response, a tiny gray mouse scurries across the bed frame.

  That’s okay, mouse. You’re part of the plan, too.

  It appears my roommate’s yet to arrive, so I get to lay claim to the bed of my choosing. Do I want the bed next to the crumbling lead paint that will probably fall into my mouth while I’m sleeping or the bed next to the dilapidated heater that will inevitably start a fire at three in the morning?

  Heater it is.

  12

  Remember when I told you how the girls here dress supercool and may possibly be the coolest-dressing girls on Earth? Welp, that is confirmed when I see her. My roommate.

  There she stands, framed by the doorway.

  There are a lot of things I would like to say to this girl. A thousand things. But my tongue is tied by the fact that she is wearing a jacket I want to immediately steal from her body.

  Let me describe it to you. It won’t make sense. In fact, it will probably sound ugly. But it’s not. Oh, Lord above. It. Is. Not.

  This jacket is sort of a mustard beige color, and it’s a trench, tied at the waist over the double row of buttons. But that’s not what’s going on here. Here’s what’s going on . . . The top of this mustard trench is like an alien made a necklace-slash-collar out of weird alien stones. Peach, royal blue, light blue, dark peach, beige, and black. In squares and triangles.

  I know.

  It sounds hideous.

  But it is the coolest item of clothing I think I have ever seen. Like she found it for nothing from a street vendor somewhere ludicrously remote or possibly it’s couture and costs a million dollars.

  But wait, there’s more!

  Her hair. Okay. Her hair. It’s dark brown at the top, almost black. Then there are sharp bangs, right across her forehead, then the dark hair turns kind of light, then it turns like a pale shade of beige. Not blond, mind you. Oh, no. Almost like taupe. And then the whole thing ends just below her shoulders.

  WTF.

  I guess I didn’t realize I would be rooming with the late David Bowie’s young female Russian equivalent. Jesus Christ. I look down at my “#arrestCheney” T-shirt and wish I had put a little more effort into my entire ensemble

  She smiles. “This shirt. I like.”

  So she appreciates my “#arrestCheney” T-shirt. Okay. Okay, that’s good. We are off to a good start.

  “I see you put me next to lead paint.”

  She gestures toward the vacant, toxic twin bed.

  “I thought maybe Russians, like, drank that stuff for breakfast or something.”

  “You are funny girl. I kill you last.”

  Silence.

  And now she breaks out in a laugh. A thick bark of a laugh that welcomes me to this place somehow.

  “Here.” She pulls out a bottle. “Georgian vodka. We drink.”

  Well, folks, when you just land in Russia and Ziggy Stardust’s body double tells you we drink, then we drink.

  That’s just etiquette.

  And my mother raised me to always be polite.

  13

  Her name is Katerina, of course. Katerina Markova.

  And this is how we drink.

  Katerina leads me through the streets of Moscow, past Manege Square and Gorky Park, we end up in front of a completely nondescript building at the end of a long alley.

  She pushes a cold metal
number on a list and the gray door buzzes open. Now there’s a flight of cinder-block stairs. At the first landing, a girl scurries past us, dressed in thigh-high stockings and a white peacoat buttoned up to her chin, avec epaulets. She ignores us except for a slight flip of her burgundy bob. I follow Katerina, a few steps behind, as she reaches a door slightly ajar.

  Katerina gives me a quick backward look, a Cheshire cat grin, and opens the door.

  And now I know why she gave me that grin.

  Outside it’s gray and bland and lifeless. But opening the door to this place, this secret place, it’s like she’s opening the door to a Technicolor wonderland of hipster utopia. Where everyone looks like they’re from either Echo Park or Williamsburg or Oberkampf. You could point the camera in any direction and that would be your album cover.

  There are pink-and-gold cigarettes tucked in purses, bouffants, oversized sweaters, suspenders, ironic mustaches, skinny boys who look like they just fell out of bed and, now . . . us. I’m expecting a cool reception, because this seems to be the epicenter of haute in the universe.

  But no.

  This is Katerina’s place.

  She takes a seat at the end of a long table, lit by candlelight, with the walls painted green around us and art everywhere, real art, from real people, probably who are sitting here at this table right this very second. This is a long table, by the way. There are about twenty people at this table. And there are other tables, too. But from the looks of it, this is THE table. And, from the looks of everyone, Katerina is the person to be with.

  Okay, I can handle that. I just landed four hours ago, but it’s cool.

  “Secret supper club,” she offers, as explanation. “Came out of iron curtain. We have to do fun things as secret.”

  Behind her, there is a giant mirror with a gold gilded frame. I steal a glance at myself in the mirror and hope I measure up. I’m pretty sure I don’t.

  “Now let’s find out why you are here,” she proclaims.

  She’s pouring my third shot of vodka already, but who’s counting? These people drink. I’m not kidding. Like they REALLY. FUCKING. DRINK.

  Katerina smiles, that Cheshire cat smile again.

  “Now American Paige. Are you spy?”

  14

  There’s about five hundred different things going through my mind. Five hundred different possible answers I could give. It’s like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books: Answer A, turn to page 137, and get sent into a dark cave to be eaten by a bear. Answer B, turn to page 5, and find yourself at the business end of a Kalashnikov. (For those of you not in the spy game, a Kalashnikov is like a Russian Uzi. Thanks, paramilitary training!)

  I am just about to attempt a response when a very thin, dark-haired boy in a hoodie comes sidling up beside Katerina. He has dark purple circles under his eyes, but there’s something attractive about him. Something simultaneously puppylike and sleepy. And harmless. And a little pathetic. Like a Slavic Bieber.

  He stares at us.

  I stare back.

  “Yes. I know you are dying for me to introduce myself, so I won’t make you wait any longer.”

  I’m expecting Katerina to send this guy packing, but she continues to gaze placidly at him. I really have no idea why.

  “You like club? You like hip-hop? You want beatbox?”

  There’s an extremely awkward silence as I study my vodka and Katerina says nothing.

  “I think he is asking you, American Paige.”

  “Ahhh! You are American! No wonder you are so stuck-up and spoiled!”

  I turn to Katerina. My eyes are all, Is he serious right now?

  Katerina attempts an explanation. “Usually, in Moscow, if someone, a man, comes up to you and begins talking to you . . . you are supposed to answer him.”

  “Really? But I don’t even know him.”

  “It is just different culture.”

  “What if he’s a rapist?”

  She gestures in his direction. “Look at him!” She laughs. “He is not rapist.”

  “Hello? I am right here. You can see?” He gestures to himself.

  I lean in to Katerina.

  “I don’t understand this. I’m just supposed to talk to any and every random guy who comes up to me? And, like, be nice?”

  Katerina smiles. “Yes.”

  “Any guy? Like even ones with, like, extra limbs or whatever?”

  “Yes.”

  I sigh.

  “Okay. I’m going to talk to you now. I wasn’t trying to be rude or anything. It’s just . . . in the States we don’t randomly talk to any guy. Because serial killers. However, to answer your question . . . I do like club. I do like hip-hop. Not sure about beatbox . . . but I appreciate the effort.”

  “I love Young Jeezy! He is also American!”

  “Okay, yes. But I’m not, like, him or anything.”

  “You are American like him. He is best!”

  Katerina is looking at me with amusement.

  “Is it horrible for you?”

  “What?”

  “Talking to stranger?”

  “If I’m going to be honest, yes. I’m uncomfortable. This is not my strong suit. Even back home. But since you’re here. And we’re in a double-secret supper club. I am making an effort.”

  “I am Uri,” the boy tells me. “Uri Usoyan. And you are?”

  “Katerina.”

  He nods. “Nice to meet you, Katerina. And you? What is American girl’s name?”

  “Paige.”

  “Paige. Like page in book?”

  “Yes. Like page in book.”

  “Maybe one day, Uri will read you.” He smiles.

  Ew.

  “I don’t really know what that means exactly, but I’m trying not to be ‘unapproachable, spoiled American girl,’ so now I will smile. Also, I just said that out loud.”

  Katerina laughs.

  “Here. More vodka.”

  She pours me what must be my fifth shot and pats me on the back.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you in street.”

  Uri turns back to me. “I’d like you to meet my friend, someone very close to me. It is . . . my penis.”

  I spit the drink halfway across the room. “What? Oh. My. God!”

  Katerina lets out a laugh.

  Uri gives me a wink. “It is joke. You see, harmless? I’ll find you later, nerd American dork. I always find cute girl.”

  He saunters off.

  “You like him?”

  “Um. I sort of don’t know what just happened.”

  “But you like?”

  “He’s not really my type. Kind of smarmy, actually . . .”

  “What is smarmy?”

  “Proud of himself. And slick.”

  “Ah! Well, that is why because he happens to be son of Moscow’s most notorious gangster.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “See? I told you you should be more careful who you talk to.”

  She winks and I do what can only be described as a drunken swat of playfulness.

  And hover there a moment, then collapse in a heap on the table.

  Stupid vodka.

  15

  I have to tell you something.

  Now before I tell this to you, let me just explain . . . I don’t know any of this is happening in this moment. I find out later.

  But I’m gonna tell it to you, right here and now, because this is really when it’s actually happening. And I’m gonna tell this to you so you realize just how absolutely screwed I am right now and just how in over my head I am. Because it’s really something.

  Now what I’m sharing with you is another videotape. Actually, I’ll be sharing a bunch of them. So just be prepared. I’m not going to tell you where I got them, or when, because that would spoil all the fun, now, wouldn’t it?

  Just watch.

  Observe.

  Laugh at my expense.

  Truly.

  Because if I had known any of this was going on,
well, I’d be on the first plane home back to Philly.

  So, without further ado, come with me now . . . into this videotape!

  I know, I know. Just follow me and don’t make too much noise. I don’t want them to hear you.

  What we are looking at right now, you and I, is a very, and I mean very fancy restaurant in Moscow. This is, like, where Vladimir Putin has his lunch, when he’s not bare-chested fishing, bare-chested invading neighboring countries, or bare-chested posing for calendars. Yes, there is a sexy Putin calendar. January through December, lots of man boobs, lots of outdoor activity. I’ve been dying to get my hands on one since I heard about it. I want to display it in my room. You know, ironically. But get this. They are sold out.

  Anyway, back to the video. We are perched somewhere in the ceiling. I imagine we are looking at this from a chandelier. Who knows what the camera looks like? Whatever it is, it must be small, because we are basically right on top of this table.

  If there weren’t a very large bald man with slightly tinted glasses sitting at this table, you would have thought we went back in time. To the Baroque period. Every inch of the ceiling, every inch of the walls, around the doors, around the windows, around the fireplace is covered in either white, light blue, gold, or a kind of vaguely Asian mural. It basically looks like, at any moment, Marie Antoinette is going to come strutting in the room proclaiming, “Let them eat cake!”

  I’m not going to lie to you. I wish I could live in this room. It’s insane and overly done and embellished and gilded and everything I would never think I would like because I pride myself on not being a fetishistic consumer—but it is stunning. Yes, I want to live here. With Gael García Bernal. My figmental boyfriend.

  But right now the person who is living here, or who is dining here, is a rather portly, not-very-nice-looking, hair-challenged man in glasses, who I will introduce to you. Don’t look him in the eye. Just kidding. We’re watching videotape, remember? He can’t see you.

  This man, sitting below us, unbeknownst to us spying on him, is none other than Dimitri Kolya Usoyan. Basically, the John Gotti of Moscow.

  If you don’t know who John Gotti is, I’ll give you a chance to Google.