Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  Uri makes a face. Doubtful. Katerina shrugs.

  “Oh, and bring boyfriend, American Paige. He will be like celebrity guest. I stand close to him, more girls will like me.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Don’t play shy. Everyone know you are little American vixen who steal heart of famous traitor. Was in newspaper. You should be happy. You are famous!”

  “I didn’t peg you as a newspaper reader, Uri.”

  “Really was on gossip website. Not good picture of you, but I tell friends you are pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  Katerina smiles; she is enjoying this.

  “Well, there is one good picture of you. One in passport. But nobody notice that. Mostly you look like, how you say, girl who fell out of trash can.”

  Now Katerina laughs. At my expense.

  “Okay, okay. Enough humiliation. It’s hard to live this life under a microscope. But I will ask him. Raynes. About coming to your party. Since your dad is . . . who he is, there will be adequate protection, I assume.”

  “Enough talk! I ask him.” Katerina dives for my phone and starts texting.

  “What? What are you doing?”

  She turns her back to me, hunched over my phone.

  Before I know it Katerina has fired off rapid text and response, masquerading as me, to Raynes. She turns back around, smiling a devilish little grin.

  “You can have now.” She hands me back the phone, nonchalant. “Oh, and he say he’d love to. Never seen dacha.”

  She winks at Uri.

  “Happy birthday. Girls will like you now.”

  3

  Russians don’t smile.

  No, seriously. I’m not making it up or being bitter or grumpy.

  I’m saying that, as a culture, this is a thing.

  You know how, if you go to the store and you’re checking out . . . you know how the cashier gives you a fake smile at the end? And you give a fake smile back? Or you say, “Thanks,” or “Have a nice day!” and then smile? Well, the Russians, they just skip that last part. Or if you see someone on the street, maybe you’re walking your dog, and they nod at you? You nod back, and you both do a fake smile? Yeah, no fake smile here. They just keep glowering. Right now, Katerina is on her bed, with her legs up leaned against the wall, contemplating her toenails. I, too, am contemplating my toenails, although I am on my bed, with my feet up on my wall, in a kind of mirror image.

  This is definitely the most collegiate moment she and I have had together.

  “So, why don’t Russians smile? Seriously.”

  “What is there to smile for?”

  “I dunno. Puppies? Cats playing piano. When a dog becomes friends with a dolphin . . .”

  “Endless war, people starving, death—”

  “Wow. That went dark fast.”

  “I am Russian.”

  “Double depresso.”

  “You don’t understand. You Americans. You think everything is always so great and wonderful and smile all the time.”

  “Yeah, but do you think we’re smiling because we think everything is so great and wonderful or because we want to make it great and wonderful?”

  “How do I know? I’m not the one acting like puppy dog.”

  “Look, Americans are optimistic. But is that really so bad? Fact: individuals with the highest levels of optimism have twice the odds of being in ideal cardiovascular health compared to their more pessimistic counterparts.”

  “So you have healthy heart. You live longer in miserable world.”

  “Jeez. Okay, what about God? Do you believe in God?”

  “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

  “Right. So I’m gonna take that as a no. Okay, so do you think we were all just put on this earth to pay bills and eat sandwiches?”

  “Do you believe in man with white beard in the sky?”

  “Not exactly. But I believe in something. Look, when you do something mean, how do you feel?”

  “Not great.”

  “And when you do something really nice, when nobody even knows about it, how do you feel?”

  “Fine. Maybe good.”

  “Okay, so you have a moral compass. Kind of like an inner guide. Now have you ever stopped to think why you would have that?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe whoever or whatever made us—think of them as our grand programmer—gave that to us. Like, a moral compass!”

  “Are you saying we are version of Minecraft?”

  “No. But I don’t know what we are. Did you know that some of the most preeminent scientific minds, at places like Princeton and MIT, are coming to the conclusion that this is all a hologram? Our entire lives. A hologram?”

  “That is even more depressing.”

  “No, it’s exciting! It means that all this materialism, this conspicuous consumption, this grabbing for money people waste their lives on, is superfluous. And that all that really matters is love and kindness and—”

  “You are like human greeting card.”

  “If I wanted to, believe me, I could curl up into a ball and crawl in the corner and cry for the rest of my life. Considering. But how does that help anything?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, at some point I am going to get you to try it out. I’m telling you.”

  “Try what out?”

  “Optimism.”

  “Disgusting. I will never try.”

  But she is smiling, there on her side of the room. Both of us contemplating our feet and the possibility that the universe may be a hologram.

  “If God is programmer, then who is God’s programmer?”

  “These are the questions, my dear Katerina, these are the questions . . .”

  4

  It’s a black-and-white photograph on exhibit. Enlarged. Blown up to the size of a painting. In the picture, there’s a boy with his face cast upward, a blissful smile on his lips, two shopping packages around his wrist, something wrapped around his head that almost looks like white paper wings. A Consumer’s Dream. That’s the name of the exhibit. The photograph: “In the Sun Next to Detsky Mir Department Store.” Moscow. 1961.

  We’ve had to improvise our communication, Madden and me, sans red Beats.

  I was told to stand in front of this photograph, at exactly three.

  I’m fairly sure someone is supposed to come up beside me and whisper, The eagle has landed. But that’s not what happens.

  Instead, Madden himself appears. “I thought this particular indictment of conspicuous consumption would appeal to you.”

  “Wait. What? What are you even doing here?”

  “You’re not the only one who gets to fly off to exotic locales.”

  “I just thought there would be some high-tech form of communication here. Not, you know, analog.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  He smirks.

  Hard not to like that smirk.

  He hands me a pair of blue Beats.

  “Here, better encryption. Still, keep them away from your roommate.”

  “Ah, just like before. But blue!” I grab them. “Don’t be jealous, but I’m going to a rad party. I’d take you but I’m taking your arch nemesis, aka my boyfriend. Of whom you are secretly jealous.”

  “Hmm. And where exactly is this party?”

  “It’s my would-be rap-star BFF’s birthday. At his dad’s . . . DACHA. Boom. Make it rain, bitches!”

  “Uri . . . the gangster’s son?”

  “Bing bing bing, you win a gold star.”

  Madden thinks. And thinks.

  “What are you doing? Whatever that is, stop it.”

  “Actually, that’s perfect. That’s the perfect place to do it.”

  “What? Do what?”

  “Come on, Paige. You know what.”

  “Nooooo. C’mon. Really? Can’t I just enjoy the party?”

  “What are you, five?”

  “It’s just. Does it have to be there? I mean, can’t we, I don’t know, stall
or whatever? I know I can figure something out.”

  “We’re running out of time. You can do it, or someone less . . . concerned can.”

  “Well, I’m not even going to tell you where the party is, then.”

  “Paige. You can’t take your ball and go home, okay? We’re way past that. You know it and I know it. Listen. I’ll have a gun planted.”

  “But I hate guns. No gu—”

  “Please await further instructions.”

  He strolls away. “By the way, don’t miss the third-floor exhibit. Huge vaginas. Very provocative.”

  “They’re probably giant vagina dentatas because all men fear the power of the female!” I’m basically yelling this across an empty room. Madden ignores me.

  The security guard only raises an eyebrow.

  5

  This is it. The last video. I can’t wait to tell you how I got these.

  But not yet.

  From above we are looking at it. The gold-and-robin’s-egg-blue gilded Baroque restaurant. Underling has just come in, excited. He whispers something into Dimitri’s ear.

  Queen Elsa picks at her blinchiki with a fork.

  Dimitri turns to her.

  “Get packed. We are going to Dubai.”

  “I thought we were going to America?”

  “No. Better deal. From sultan.”

  “But I want to go to America. Girl have better life there. I will be next Hillary Clinton. Or maybe even Kim Kardashian!”

  “Ha! Dream on, mishka. We go to Dubai. That is good place to be billionaire. If you don’t like it you can go back to cabbage farm.”

  Underling leaves.

  Queen Elsa frowns at her plate.

  “Don’t worry. You will like. We will have yacht. Palace. Gold. Don’t frown, mishka. You will be number one girl in my harem.”

  He winks and raises his glass.

  “Dosvedanya.”

  6

  Ice-skating in Red Square looks a little bit like ice-skating in Disneyland minus the big brother element. Actually, now that I think about it, they’re not that different.

  Above us, the GUM Department Store (aka Glavny Universalny Magazin), is lit up in white Christmas lights, serving as a kind of princess fantasy backdrop to this ice-skating wonderland.

  Raynes and I have swerved off the main rink into this white-and-red tent where it’s extremely quainty. Hot chocolate. Spiked hot chocolate. Glogg. Gluehwein. And lots of other hot alcoholic drinks that start with GL.

  We’re both laughing at ourselves because we’re the worst ice skaters to ever ice-skate the face of the earth. Particularly here. It’s a good thing everyone else is so drunk, because otherwise we would probably have been kicked out of the rink. I’m sure everyone assumed we were five sheets to the wind.

  It’s clear that most of these people are not just drunk but Russian drunk. Which means their bodies are moving forward and they’re totally cogent but every once in a while they just randomly tip over.

  Raynes sits down at a corner table, underneath a string of white Christmas lights. And yes, Oleg is behind us. Brooding.

  He was not ice-skating.

  Of course he was not ice-skating.

  “God, I’m so bad at this.” Raynes laughs, taking off his skates.

  “Me too. What were we thinking?” I’m taking off mine, too. I guess that ends that microhumiliation. “I mean, I suppose we were going for the sort of romance of it.”

  We lock eyes. I think we’re both maybe thinking that we didn’t need ice-skating to be romantic. At least that’s what I’m thinking. Also, I have to kill you in a few days. And think of a way not to have to kill you.

  “Do you think we can get Oleg to fetch us some hot chocolate?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s dying to. He’s coming with us to the dacha party, of course. Sorry. I can’t seem to get him to take the night off.”

  I don’t say, Oh, that complicates my plan to kill you. Instead, I smile and say, “Well, we knew he was coming, right?”

  “Oh, he’s coming all right. I think the whole thing makes him nervous.”

  “Do you think he’s paranoid?” Deflection, ladies and gentlemen!

  Raynes shrugs. “Who knows?”

  “I mean, there’s really no reason to guard you. It’s not like you’re doing anything that would make anyone dislike you.” This is my not-so-subtle way of trying to get him to admit his diabolical plan to expose RAITH.

  “I think the American government, and probably half the country, would beg to differ.”

  And he leans in to kiss me. Right here, under the white sparkly Christmas lights in the Red Square ice rink.

  FLASH!

  What I can only imagine to be a Russian paparazzo snaps a picture. He smiles for a tenth of a second before Oleg bowls him over and pins him to the ground.

  Now everyone starts to look over at us. Some people are taking pictures on their phones. I have a millisecond thought that maybe somehow Gael García Bernal will see one of these pictures someday.

  “Guess it’s time to smile for the cameras.” I shrug.

  Raynes smiles. “At least they didn’t get us while we were ice-skating.”

  And in that moment, this moment here, I try not to fall in love with him. And I wonder, in these pictures that these people are taking, if it will show. Here is a picture of a girl about to murder her boyfriend.

  7

  This will probably be my last jaunt along the Moskva River. Not only because I’m starting to freeze to death, but also because my mission is soon to be accomplished. One way or the other.

  Madden’s voice comes over my blue Beats, and I just know this is going to be annoying.

  “Paige, they found out.”

  “Who?”

  “FSB. They figured it out. They know about the flash drive.”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “It’s not good. They have a plan.”

  “Are you going to tell me that plan or are you just going to say dramatically, ‘They have a plan’?”

  “They’re planning on taking Raynes. From the dacha. They’re going to kidnap him and pin it on Dimitri. They’ll tell everyone he’s dead. The great Raynes is dead. Then, my guess is they’ll probably shoot Dimitri. Two birds with one stone.”

  “Do you know where they’re planning on taking him?”

  “Yes, Paige. They’re planning on taking him to McDonald’s. Then Disneyland. Or a secret jail where we’ll never be able to find him. And they’ll torture him. Until he gives up the list. And all our RAITH agents die.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “Paige, he can’t be caught alive. Now that the flash drive is gone, now that there’s no backup, they can do whatever they want with him. If he’s dead, no loss. But they won’t just kill him. They’ll get the list out of him. They’ll torture him. You’re doing him a favor. To kill him first. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes. Un-fucking-fortunately.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Isn’t that what they always say?”

  The sun is setting behind Kadashi Church, taking any thought of the heat with it. Now it’s freezing and I can see my breath.

  I’ve never been so cold.

  8

  There’s a moment, a moment where I’m sitting on the foot of the bed waiting for Raynes. I’m all gussied up for the big party. And there he is, stepping out of the shower. And I wish I could just stop this train and get off.

  He’s telling me about a dream he had last night.

  “So, I’m falling, falling off a high building and it’s terrifying and I’m just flailing around, trying to scream but nothing’s coming out. And right before the bottom, right before I’m just about to hit the sidewalk and splatter into a million pieces, you suddenly appear . . . and you lift me. Gently, smiling, up even higher than the building, higher than the skyline . . . up, up, up into the clouds. And I’m so grateful. In my dream, I’m so grateful to you.”

  Gulp.

&
nbsp; I smile back at him, feigning a kind of sweet understanding.

  Oh God. I can’t live with myself.

  He’s telling me about a sweet dream he had where I’m, like, an angel or superhero, and in reality I’m just about to lead him to his death.

  I’m going to hell. If there’s a hell. This is my entry ticket.

  “You know . . . we don’t have to go to this party. Maybe we could just stay here and watch Netflix or something? I really have to catch up on my binge-watching.”

  “What? No. Are you crazy? Oleg is letting me go to this. I can’t miss it!”

  Netflix. It was a pathetic attempt. A last-minute Hail Mary. And I didn’t sell it.

  “You look really beautiful tonight, Paige. I’ll have to have Oleg fend off all your adoring would-be suitors.”

  Oleg, who is standing by the front door, pretends not to hear.

  If Madden is right, he’s probably too focused on his plan to kidnap Raynes later tonight at the dacha.

  He catches me staring at him. Maybe he heard my thought. Maybe he feels guilty. The two of us stare at each other for a second, taking the other one in. Then he looks away.

  Maybe he can tell I feel guilty, too.

  9

  Sometimes Russians have a modest little dacha maybe a few hours outside of Moscow, a little wooden cabin with firewood and a stove. In winter, even the mice freeze to death.

  That is not this dacha.

  Or try it like this:

  THIS. DACHA.

  All caps.

  This estate, one hour outside of Moscow, makes just about everything in the States look like a strip mall. It’s a three-story stone palace, bright royal blue, with an elaborate white stone crest-type thing at the top, amid the spires. The entire face is covered with elaborate white engravings and moldings and etchings all around the doors and the windows and everything else you can imagine. There are little circles and spires and playful touches in the façade, as well as white stripes on the first floor. It sounds completely bizarro, I know, but it’s truly one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I actually gasp when we turn through the forest to see it.

  “Holy smokes.”