Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  “I’m not sure that’s how you want to phrase—”

  “Now we go to emergency.”

  “Okay, what’s the emergency?”

  He turns to me, dead serious.

  “Gucci.”

  Seriously? Facepalm.

  31

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I did not have any intention of entering this store. This kind of place, to be true, just gives me the heebie-jeebies. You know, this place with three giant gold chandeliers hanging down over pristinely displayed zillion-dollar suits.

  Five giant letters outside spell the satanic words in gold: GUCCI.

  “Uri, I’m not sure I can exist in this store. I think I might break out in hives.”

  But Uri is too busy looking at himself in a pair of jeans with an embroidered black-and-white snake going up the side, which probably cost a year of tuition.

  “Relax, little mouse. You can escape in moment. I just need opinion.”

  “Okay, my opinion is all this conspicuous consumption is terrifying. You could feed a village with those jeans!”

  “You are so funny. You are little complainer everywhere.”

  Maybe I am complainer everywhere, but I can’t help but feel like the gleeful embrace of giddy materialism, after chucking out the Soviets, has released a kind of feverish capitalism that would make Midas blush. It’s like a toddler having just eaten his first piece of candy. Money! Spending! Happiness! I just feel like telling the whole place to slow down already. It’s not that great. Really, it’s not at all what it’s supposed to be. Easy there, new consumers. Take it slow.

  But Russians don’t really take things slow. And they don’t really do things tentatively. Just as the giant Peter the Great statue on the Moskva River is the tallest statue in the world, weighs one thousand tons, and dwarfs everything around it, there seems to be a prevailing concept that bigger is better, more is more. I guess this is what happens when your country isn’t founded by Puritans. There’s a kind of lack of guilt to all of it. But maybe that’s nothing new. Ask the czars.

  One of the exquisitely dressed attendants comes by, holding up two suits for Uri. One gray, one navy.

  “What you think?”

  “I think they’re perfect if you’re planning on stroking a cat in your evil mountain lair.”

  He shakes his head no, and there goes the attendant, annoyed at me.

  But before I can grumble further, Uri is next to me on the gold marble bench probably put here for bored husbands, boyfriends, or sugar daddies.

  And now he’s changed his tone completely, whispering, “This is safe place to talk. I want to bring you here to tell you . . . there is good news.”

  Wait. Is he actually talking about my parents? Here? In the middle of this golden calf? This makes no sense.

  “It’s not bugged,” he whispers, looking around.

  Ah, I get it.

  But the idea of hearing anything about my parents . . . Suddenly the room slows to a stop. I brace myself.

  “It’s good news.” He nods. “Nobody has heard anything.”

  “What?!” I burst out, a little too loudly. “How is that good news? What are you—”

  “Trust me, Paige. No news is good news for the kind of people I ask. It mean they are keeping secret, for someone else, who is keeping secret for someone else. If secret is being kept . . . that means they are alive.”

  I’m trying to make my way around this labyrinthian logic and, somehow, halfway across the world, in the midst of this capitalist citadel, it does sort of make sense.

  “There is nothing to keep secret if they are dead, no?”

  He looks me in the eye, drops everything.

  “But who are you—?”

  He stops me there. “You don’t want to know. You cannot know. These are bad people. Who know bad people. Who know other bad people. This is black market. Not world for little mouse girl.”

  Somehow the thought of Uri asking someone, who asks someone who asks someone else, across borders and to the darkest corners on Earth, where secrets are being kept or not kept, where lives hang in the balance, where my parents lives hang in the balance, my fucking sweet, kind, loving parents, somewhere in the darkness surrounded by vipers, is too much.

  Right there in the middle of the store, amid all the decadence and promise of happiness spun in gold . . . I. Break. The. Fuck. Down.

  And I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe in this place. No words or gestures make it possible for my lungs to gasp this air or maybe it’s too much air or maybe it’s not enough or maybe I am falling apart right here. My face is a wall of tears and Uri is next to me now. Sheltering.

  “No, no, no. It’s okay. This is good news. Paige. You are okay. I am here. Look. Okay?”

  And now there are three attendants all around, concerned, and Uri is protecting me from them, too.

  “Vse norlmal’se. Vse norlmal’se.”

  The attendants are looking at one another, gauging, trying to figure out if they should call an ambulance.

  Uri tells them to give us space. They retreat without a word.

  I guess he comes here a lot.

  I nod, a tiny little nod. The gold-and-black marble beneath us is slipping away, crumbling, and somewhere on the other side of it is everything I love and everything I am missing.

  Uri holds me up, trying to make it better.

  32

  I’m happy to say I have completely calmed down by the time we make it back to the dorm room and the whole thing never happened. Okay, fine, it did happen and Uri is behaving in an extremely watchful, shielding manner now, which is awkward, but I am back to normal. Or whatever my version of normal is supposed to look like.

  Katerina, ever blasé, turns to me and blows a smoke ring.

  “I hear you freak out in store.”

  “Wait? How?”

  “Uri call. He is protective big brother now.”

  Uri looks sheepish, nods, not used to this kind of role.

  “It’s okay, Uri. You can go. You did really well. Your dad would be proud of you.”

  “My dad will never be proud of me.”

  Okay, that sort of came out of nowhere, but maybe all my bawling and hyperventilating brought us to this come-to-Jesus moment.

  “No, Uri. That’s not true. I’m sure your dad—”

  “Men are jealous of son. He want to be young like you.” This is Katerina’s pep talk. “That is why son in Greek myth kill father.”

  “Okay. That is enough of Katerina’s Quilt of Compassion.”

  Uri smiles at me. “What is quilt?”

  “It’s, like, this thing where everybody sews together all their old scraps of clothing in squares or triangles or some kind of pattern and then sells it on Etsy for a zillion dollars. It’s an American tradition. Like apple pie. Or fireworks.”

  “Fireworks are Chinese.”

  “We have a very diverse population.”

  Katerina puts out her cigarette, immediately lights another one.

  “Okay, did you know that smoking is bad for you?”

  “Did you know that running twice a day is bad for you?”

  “Wait. No, it’s not. And, fun fact, those things will kill you.”

  She blows her smoke at me.

  “And yet we all die.”

  Uri looks at the two of us, a kind of friendly détente.

  “You guys should make show together. Go to different village. Make joke.”

  “What would you call our show, Uri?”

  “I would call it Sweet Naïve Live with Grim Reaper.”

  “Well, it has a ring to it.”

  Katerina smiles at me, knowingly. I can tell she really wants to ask about my new boy crush, and I desperately want to girl out and tell her everything. But none of those things are possible here.

  All that’s possible here is grinning and lighthearted, witty banter while inhaling secondhand smoke in a chemically dubious dorm room.

  But there’s nothing wrong with that, I’
m learning.

  In here, the three of us are like fugitives.

  Hiding from forces that have coiled and wended their way into our lives—but in the end, have nothing to do with us.

  33

  Yeah, she’s FSB.”

  I’m halfway past Gorky Park when Madden tells me. Jogging in my red Beats, as is my wont.

  “You were right, Paige. Gold star.”

  “So what does that mean? Is my cover blown?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “What, so it’s just, like, par for the course? Every American foreign exchange student gets her own personal shadow?”

  “Pretty much. I mean, maybe not every single one. She probably has multiple assignments. In the dorm. I wouldn’t be surprised if your room is bugged, by the way. And videotaped.”

  “Ew. Really?”

  “Yeah, so keep your pants on. You don’t want to end up a viral sensation, now, do you?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny. Well, so what should I do?”

  “Act normal.”

  “What about Raynes?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same question.”

  “I’m, uh, building trust.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you’re doing? Because over here it looks like you’re trying to get engaged.”

  “Gross! You and I both know I don’t have feelings.”

  “Good. Then hurry it up. My bosses are already talking about pulling the plug on this operation.”

  “What?! Are you serious?”

  “This isn’t kindergarten, Paige.”

  “But—”

  “All the things are at stake.” He pauses, and I see that grainy satellite picture of my parents. “Don’t make me fire you.”

  He hangs up.

  34

  I don’t hear the sound as in any way related to me. It’s something in the background. Something for someone else. White noise.

  I’m halfway back to the dorm, just about to turn off the path from Gorky Park to the river. The sun is starting to set, not just in the sky but in the water as well, dusty hues of pink, rose, peach, and the lights coming up one by one in Moscow. First this streetlamp, then that one, then that restaurant, then that light up above.

  But the sound keeps coming. If anything, it’s amplified. Nearer and nearer it gets until I realize . . . Wait. That sound is for me.

  “Haaaalloooo, PAIGE . . . PAIge . . . Paige . . . paige . . .”

  It’s mimicking an echo. My name, from somewhere off the path.

  As I turn toward the noise, it all comes crashing in, the realization of what it is, how it is, and who it is.

  Below, floating right next to me down the Moskva River . . . oh God, how long has it been there? There standing on the deck of a smallish white boat . . . it’s him.

  Sean Raynes. In all his ebony-haired, self-deprecating, kind-of-goofy, kind-of-genius glory.

  He smiles and somehow seems to lighten when I see him. Like he grows an inch taller and he exhales, somehow relieved.

  “I thought you’d never see me. I’ve been standing out here yelling at you like an idiot for about a century.”

  “Oh my God. What is happening right now?”

  The boat veers toward the side of the river, a limestone wall separating the river from the chaos of the city. Up ahead is a staircase down to the side of the river. I’ve seen fishermen down here at dawn before, first up to reel in a catch.

  “What’s happening is you are walking down those steps and getting in this thing. Before I get arrested for something.”

  “Harassment! You should be arrested for harassment!”

  “Really? Is it too much?”

  I want to yell out, NO! I feel adored and magical and like I’m in a movie! but that’s not what I yell out.

  “Possibly!” I say instead.

  And now I’m making my way down the stone steps to the landing of the glistening but polluted Moskva River. I’m not going to lie to you, whatever those fishermen are catching here in the mornings . . . I wouldn’t eat it.

  And now the boat is next to the landing and I am face-to-face—well, about a foot shorter, but close enough—with Sean Raynes, international man of intrigue.

  “Where’s Oleg?”

  I realize that the boat is being captained or driven or piloted or whatever you call it by an old salty dog who is definitely not Oleg. This guy has ivory white hair and a thousand wrinkles.

  “That’s what I was wondering. They sent this guy today. Maybe Oleg is getting tired of me.” He dramatically raises his hands to his head. “Oh no! He’s lost interest! And I just bought a new dress!”

  And that is definitely a twinkle in his eye.

  “Don’t worry. Maybe you and this new guy will work out.”

  We both turn to the new guy and laugh to ourselves. He’s pretty grizzled. Looks like he’s seen better days.

  I try to hop onto the boat but a wave comes and suddenly it actually seems like I’m going to fall between the limestone steps and the boat, directly into the ice-cold Moskva River.

  “Whup!” He reaches out and grabs me, right before I am about to topple into the water, wherein the boat will probably then crush me against the sidewall and all of my trials and tribulations will be over.

  The momentum pushes us both back onto the boat, where we careen backward and fall flat onto the deck.

  “Jesus!”

  There’s a moment. Then Raynes starts laughing. I don’t blame him because it’s completely ridiculous.

  “We are idiots,” I say.

  “No, we’re not. We are hearty sailors.”

  “Yargh! And avast!”

  “Is that your imitation of a hearty sailor?” He smiles down at me. We’re both sitting there on the deck, recovering from our vaudeville moment. But he’s right next to me, leaning over me. Not too close.

  This is what it feels like.

  I wish he were closer.

  I wish he were closer than millimeters. I wish he were closer than myself.

  I clear my throat. “I think that was my attempt at a pirate, maybe.”

  “I feel like a pirate. Absconding with my treasure!”

  “Wait. Am I the treasure in this metaphor?”

  He looks at me. Those goddamn eyes. It’s like there’s an alien heart-killing death ray in there. A state secret. “Yes.”

  This is what it feels like.

  Like I’m light and there is nothing holding me down and there is no such thing as time. Time hasn’t even been invented.

  The boat starts to float its way down the river, and above us, the lights come up on Saint Basil’s Cathedral, those red onion spires up into the lavender sky.

  And I wish this boat could keep floating up the river forever, up to the Volga, past Yaroslavl, through the waters of the czars to Saint Petersburg, and there we would make a mad dash to Finland and no one would ever know where we are or who we are or what we did or what we never wanted to do.

  35

  The Moskva River is floating underneath us while Raynes and I are leaning back taking in the sky and the bobbles on the churches, the tips of the buildings. It’s nighttime now, a crescent moon in the sky above us, and the few stars we can see.

  “Look, there’s the Big Dipper. See that?”

  Raynes nods, appreciating the entire canvas.

  “And there, there’s Orion’s Belt! Do you see! The three stars there?”

  “And what is that there, do you know?”

  “That? That is Orion’s Sweater Vest.”

  Raynes turns to me. Leans in.

  “What a big discovery. I had no idea Orion’s Sweater Vest existed.”

  “Oh, it exists. It’s just rare to see it. Like you have to be on a boat, in the Moskva River, with someone named Paige.”

  “Oh, thank God I found that last part.”

  I blush and try to keep everything in joke territory.

  “No. Really. Thank God I found that last part.”

  And this i
s it, ladies and gentlemen, the moment Sean Raynes, international man of mystery, leans down and actually kisses me.

  And the world stops.

  I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s going on outside our heads. I’m pretty sure the earth is still turning and the moon is still shining and the river is still lapping under the boat beneath us. I’m pretty sure the world hasn’t actually stopped turning on its axis. But here. Here in this moment. With this kiss, this kiss that keeps lasting, we might as well be part of the constellations. Just lift us between Andromeda and Pegasus and Ursa Major. Just keep us there.

  Forever.

  36

  Katerina is still up when I get back to the dorm. She’s reading Sula, by Toni Morrison, underneath a dim clip lamp. My dim clip lamp.

  “Wait. Isn’t that my lamp?”

  “Yes. I like.”

  “That’s a really good novel, by the way.”

  “Yes, it is about friendship.”

  She says this in a loaded way, adding, “Between girls.”

  I stand there for a second, not knowing what to say. Wait. Does she know I’m a spy? Have I been “made,” as they say in every Scorsese movie?

  “You should also try Song of Solomon—that’s good, too,” I say in an attempt to deflect.

  “Maybe.” She closes the book. “Can I ask question?”

  “Yes, you can ask question.”

  “Are you falling in love right now?”

  “What? No! No, of course not. What would give you that idea? Who would I even fall in love with?”

  Katerina contemplates the blue chipped walls a moment.

  “I am not sure. Maybe you tell me. Maybe we have girl talk.”

  “Really? Can we have a pillow fight after?”

  “Is that what American girls do?”

  “Definitely not. It’s sort of like the male idea of what girls do. But it has no basis in reality. Sort of like everything else you see in the media.”

  “Are all American girls like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you. Against system.”

  “Probably more than you would think.”

  “When I think of American girl, I think of bunny rabbit.”