The Man of My Dreams (From Russia With Love Story Series)

by Kiera Zane

  I let him buy me the drink and I enjoy it, even having to tolerate his stammering seduction.

  “In this town, it’s all about who you know. And now, you know me.”

  I smile, sipping my martini, cold yet warming, sweet and sour. “And who do you know?”

  “Senator Hanson, from Missouri. Great guy, great boss.”

  “You’re his personal assistant?”

  “Personal -- ? No, I’m an intern for his legislative coordinator. Still, he’s a heck of a nice guy. Gonna have a great future in this town, probably make it to the big game someday.”

  “The big game?”

  “The Mighty Whitey! The top job.”

  “President, you think he’s gonna be president someday?”

  He shrugs and smiles in a way that I know he thinks is sexy, and probably is when he’s not drunk, and when his intended hasn’t been to the places I’ve been to. He says, “It’s a dirty job but, hey, somebody’s gotta screw it up, right?”

  He laughs.

  After a moment or two, I decide to laugh with him.

  What’s the harm? I figure.

  I think the same thing when another man, not quite as young, offers to buy me my next drink. Three drinks later, I’m quite used to my new perspective. I’m not quite as used to the walk home, however.

  I don’t arrive until after midnight, but I creep in quietly and thankfully I don’t have to contend with Dragunov and his growing dissatisfaction. Does he want to rape me? I wonder, kill me, marry me? All three?

  What’s the difference? I have to ask myself. If I don’t get close to Senator Caine soon, I’ll be dead anyway.

  But I’m not dead yet.

  I pass out for the first time since the train ride into Moscow, when I shared the company of fourteen other young unwilling volunteers, all of whom are dead now, for all I know.

  The next morning I wake up wondering if I hadn’t joined them. I’ve had liquor before, of course, but not so much so fast. And when I did it was vodka only, not a prolonged mixture of every type of booze a man could buy a woman he wants to bed.

  I push through the headache and the dry mouth and the burning, reddened eyes to take care of the senator’s fish tank, which needs cleaning, and the fireplace of his Jamestown townhouse, which also needs cleaning; each by a true professional.

  Then there is the dry cleaning, another armful of suits and a dozen dress shirts. I’m glad not to have greater responsibilities, given my lessened physical state, even gladder that I have several hours before having to appear before Dragunov for our daily review.

  By the time I see him, I’ve recuperated enough to feign being tired only, and I am tired. The truth always makes lying easier. And I begin to notice more and more about Dragunov; his fearful twitch when I mention the beast, his master KomDiv Sobchak.

  During a lull in our discussion, perhaps because of my weakened state and perhaps because of my progressed confidence, I finally ask, “What is it with you and the beast? I know you hate him, and fear him.”

  He glares at me, and for the first time I wonder how sober he is. His head sways on his shoulders as he looks around my dim and small living room. He almost speaks, but stops himself.

  I let silence coax him to say what he’s been waiting years to say.

  “You have parents,” he finally says. “Maybe kids, too, I dunno...” I shake my head. “Well, imagine what your parents would say, what your father would say, if his boss wanted to sleep with you.”

  I think about it, able to retrieve memories of the lustful glances I’d attracted from my father’s associates, my brother’s friends, my own classmates and teachers.

  Then Dragunov adds, “Now imagine that you’re a boy.”

  I remember my visions of the beast Sobchak intermingled with images of naked boys; tortured, crying and dying.

  No wonder he’s so sad, I say to myself. And so afraid.

  No wonder we’re all so afraid.

  But fear drives the people in Washington, I begin to realize; fear and greed and love and hate and everything in between. For sure, they’re driven by something.

  And I am driven by sheer momentum, by the force of everyone around me. Certainly, my first few weeks are not driven by my own initial progress. Even as I feel I can justify a rocky start, as the days go on my sense of accomplishment and my ability to exude it are eroded by a creeping sense of futility and fatalism. I’m never going to get close to Senator Caine by being the one who organizes his aquarium maintenance and served as his dry cleaning delivery service. And if I fail to get close to Caine and to extract some worthy data, I know I won’t get a second chance; not at Caine, or at another mission.

  Or at life.

  And Dragunov’s steadily increasing ire at my recurring inebriation doesn’t make things any easier. Fortunately, his own steadily increasing inebriation helps me deflect his ire even as it inflates.

  Drunkenness is the enemy of reason, and without reason our mission cannot succeed. Unfortunately, both of us are tending to indulge ourselves in this manner. I know why I’m doing it; boredom and restlessness, the twin serpents who so often find their way into my cradle.

  And I know why Dragunov does it; the original serpents from the legend of Hercules’ infancy; the venomous and lethal doubt and pride.

  Between the two of us, Sobchak is likely to dispatch men to withdraw us from this failed enterprise. I know more than ever that such men are probably not far off; reporting every drink, every laugh, every smile.

  But those things do come more easily here, more readily. In the United States, everybody seems to be smiling, everyone is either truly happy or feels the need to exude a facade of happiness. In Siberia, quiet misery is much more the height of fashion.

  But I never enjoyed the misery of my childhood. I spent hours in the fields of the Omsk and of my own imagination to avoid that bleak, miserable existence. Given the chance to drink from the font of life, I am not about to deny myself.

  As for Dragunov, I can only assume that denial has already crushed him, and that his only option is to burrow deeper into that mountain in hopes of somehow emerging from the other end, and not merely to dig his own grave.

  Whether those two would not amount to the same thing in the end, I cannot say any more than I can predict my own precarious future. There may be spies all around me, every human outreach I make may bring me an inch closer to the lid of my own coffin, pulling it down over myself in the abstract attempt to grasp a tiny touch of life in the midst of my sixty-year slow death; only to hurry that death to a mere twenty-one years or perhaps a bit more.

  In hopes of obtaining that which I long for, I risk losing it all.

  But my life is not my own, I know that now. Who am I kidding? I have always known it. It belongs to the State. I belong to Mother Russia. And if this life is not mine to lose, if they will take it at any moment for perhaps any reason, then let them. I will take what I can and leave the rest.

  So I revel, I indulge. I sway my hips and raise my hands, using my woman’s body the way most Western women used theirs; as a beacon, a flashing light in the expansive, permanent midnight of Western bacchanalia.

  The men are a swarm around me, buzzing and touching and even biting a little bit. I never felt unattractive, and I know the power I have over men, even if most reasonably attractive women hold the same sway.

  But I’m not like most women.

  The KGB made certain of that.

  In one club on one night, the endless thunder and clang of the rock’n’roll gave way to a slower, somber tune, the twang of a steel guitar behind the saddened voice of a lonely woman.

  “You like Patsy Cline?” I turn to see a handsome young man standing next to me. Not sure how to answer, I wait for him to add, “I Fall To Pieces, by Patsy Cline. They never play it unless you ask for it especially.”

  I hear her sing the refrain and I nod, understanding.

  “And you requested it?”

  He nods, knowing that I also un
derstand.

  So I share a dance with him, his body tall and lean in front of me, swaying to the folksy rhythm. He even spins me once, a move I find quite exhilarating and even romantic in an old-fashioned way.

  Soon the rock music returns, drums banging and lead guitars playing those rapid-fire licks, the horns and the black girls singing to the postman, to their unfaithful lovers.

  But still, poor Patsy’s lovely lament rings in my ears even as the stress and the strain of the nightlife wears me down, little by little and the pressure and pain of my recent, turbulent change of life weighs on me heavier and heavier.

  As the days become weeks, my strength begins to ebb. Hours of work push me to my limit, and hours of drinking and dancing and lights and music only extend the reach of that limit. My head begins to constantly ache, my ears to ring; my fingers grow numb and nearly useless.

  I come to forget the feeling of being in total control, the strength that comes with a healthy body and an unpolluted mind. But what purpose are these things being put to? The health of my body is only a tool of the State, my mind a weapon to be used and then discarded when no longer functioning at full capacity or replaced by a sleeker, more effective model. If I am to lose these things anyway, I’d rather put them to some pleasurable use and not volunteer them entirely to the pleasure of my government and those who abuse her, and me, to their own ends.

  But this comes at a price, one I feel that I’m paying little by little instead of in one hideous lump sum.

  And I can’t seem to stop myself. There’s so much excitement and glamor and sheer humanity in these Washington nights, I can’t sit idly by and not be a part of it.

  I’ll have the rest of eternity for that.

  And each night I push myself further; the music seems louder, the drinks stronger, the men pushier, the women sexier. As we’ve heard about the United States, the people’s call seems to be more more more!

  And they’re getting it, every day and in every way. Surely, I think to myself, this decadence cannot last, not for me or for these others. Nobody can live long or happily with this kind of routine.

  Who could survive it?

  But I do my best, my tight red dress cradling the curves of my hips and waist, my round, firm breasts just as high and proud as any American woman’s. I shake my long, blonde hair, letting it mesmerize and astound as it falls over my face; lips pouting, eyes dipped closed as I drink in the driving rhythms.

  After too many hours to count, I know I have to go back to my apartment. I accept an offer from the nearest man to drive me home, then politely refuse his advances in front of the building two blocks north of my own. I don’t want anybody knowing where I live, or having anybody who does know where I live see me being dropped off by some strange American at three o’clock in the morning.

  I let him drive off and then turn for the short walk home. The street starts to bend and twist in front of me, double-vision making it hard to concentrate on where I am going. The ringing in my ears throws me off balance, my legs uncertain and my body oddly asymmetrical. My stomach turns, nauseous, the street looms in front of me as I bob and weave and barely manage to stay on my feet and take that next reckless step toward my apartment.

  I almost make it, but a small car skids to a halt in front of me, nearly running me over. Or perhaps it is more correct to say that I almost fall under the car.

  The end result would be the same.

  And a familiar voice slides out of the car. “Lexy?”

  I turn, swaying and squinting to focus on none other than Senator Jonathan Caine.

  “Senator Caine, I...”

  “Hop in,” he says, head tilting toward the passenger door of his car. I step around, weaving a bit and unable to stop, before climbing in. The car is warm and dark, and filled with the scent of his cologne. “Looks like you had quite a night.”

  I look myself over, flushed with embarrassment as he drives forward.

  “I had some... interesting experiences, met some people. Nobody of consequence.”

  “Knowing this town, nobody of any truth, either.” He adds, “You really shouldn’t be alone on the streets at this time of night. Where’s your place?”

  “It’s actually... we just drove past it.” He shoots me a confused look. Without making him ask, I explain, “I thought it’d be more... less conspicuous if I ...”

  Senator Caine chuckles, “The old two-blocks-down routine. Classic. You’re a smart girl, Lexy, and just a little bit devious. You’ll do well in Washington.”

  “Senator, I --”

  “Please, Lexy... Jon.”

  I can’t help but smile as Jon takes us around the block. I say, “Jon, I want you to know that, even though I was out, I, um, I won’t let it affect my work.”

  Jon says, “You’ve been doing all right so far, but it’s bound to catch up with you, Lexy.”

  I try to think of something clever to say, but I can’t. It takes most of my energy to stay upright and hold back the punchbowl’s worth of different liquors sloshing around inside me.

  “Which building?” Jon asks, the car slowing down around us as he pulls up to the curb. I point and he stops, double-parking and shutting off the engine. “You better let me see you up.”

  “No, that’s all right. I can manage on my own.” Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll be fine.

  “I will see you to your apartment, Lexy.” His tone brooks no argument, and I really don’t have the strength to do it.

  “I’m fine – “ I start anyway, and he holds up his hand.

  “I won’t have you stumbling and staggering towards your apartment in the middle of the night unescorted. How many times have you done this since you got here from the Midwest.”

  Embarrassment. Can I say many, many, many times?

  “That many, huh?” I think he’s angry; I’m too drunk to know for sure. He wraps his arm around my waist. “Let’s go. Which way?” He escorts me into my building.

  I allow myself to lean on him as we walk up the stairs to my first-floor apartment. Things get blurry fast. My imbalance from the street only feels more advanced, my muscular control even less so. The more I lean on Jon, tall and strong, the more I want to lean on him and the more I feel that I need to lean on him.

  My apartment is dark. Jon is practically carrying me now, my feet dragging and my head hanging as he slides the straps of my red dress from my shoulders and lets it fall to a crumpled red mass at my feet.

  He lays me down on the bed.

  I am exhausted, drunk and very nearly unconscious. I feel the suggestion of wakefulness and nothing more, the image of Jon standing above me. Even with my mind swimming in the churning waters of delirium, I can reason out that this man, or any man, can do what he pleases with me and that I am helpless to defend myself.

  But I’m pretty sure I hear him say something, only parts of which I can clearly make out. “Pretty... night... sleep, Lexy. We’ll talk in the morning.” That last part I hear plainly then silence and nothingness.

  The night sputters past in fits and starts, blocks of what feel like sleep interrupted by dreams, images, visions that seem too real. I see Dragunov standing by my bed, his voice a sinister whisper. “You shalava, you let him undress you and you were too drunk to seduce him?” I feel the bed shaking slightly, a heavy pressure on top of me.

  I dream that I’m being crushed by something, imagining the faces of the miners who attacked me in that Omsk field years ago. I look up and it’s as if it’s really happening, yet it isn’t.

  Not Omsk, I tell myself in a dream state of half-clarity. Not the miners. Not my brothers.

  Not Senator Jon Caine.

  But somebody. shalava, Why are you calling me a dirty slut in Russian; you know we. must not use Russian ever on our mission. Are you drunk? You know that will get us exposed. Americans are paranoid about the Russians. One word and we could be found out, you idiot.

  The dark room and a blurred man’s face punctuate the undulating darkness of a nauseous
and restless sleep. Smells surround me, subtle pressure and a steady rhythm preventing my body from recovering its strength, its energy.

  I can feel him inside me, someone, my head tilting and shaking as I try to focus, vainly trying to push the name out of my mouth. Jon? Dragunov? Sobchak?

  “Jon?” My saliva tastes vile.

  “Nyet.” I hear a whisper in my ear, and then my mouth is full. There’s a salty taste, movement in an out and I gag but it continues. “Sosi moi hui sooka!” I remember the little boy and Sobchak. I am the little boy, and Sobchak must have found out about my failings. This is his punishment, and if I want to live I must take eat his cock like he says and like it. I let it continue until a lot of saltiness fills my mouth. I hear a groan . . . pleasure. I want to vomit, but can’t. There’s no place for the vomit to go, so the saltiness and slime slides down my throat. I gag and swallow it.

  Another whisper, an admonition. “Remember your mission, shalava, or I will do this again.”

  “Yes, Comrade Sobchak.” I hear a soft chuckle then silence and I am alone again.

  Darkness. Unconsciousness pulls me back from the brink of clarity and control. The only thing resembling reason which remains in my drunken brain is that I admit to myself that Jon had been right.

  It has caught up with me.

  ***

  July 1963

  The next morning I wake up feeling like my body was tossed out the window. My legs hurt, my crotch aches, my skin is clammy, the sheets are damp, my mouth tastes like a sewer. The air is musty, dewy with a human musk. What a great way to start the morning.

  I think back to the night before, realizing at once that it hadn’t been a dream. I can’t recall exactly what I said, if anything, to whomever it was who had invited himself to my body the night before.

  Was it Sobchak? Was it Jon? My scrambled memory isn’t helping and neither is the dull pounding headache. Dragunov? One of the KGB shadow agents I’ve so often imagined snooping around behind every corner? The guy from the club who drove me home? Somebody else entirely?

  I can’t think anymore. I push myself into the shower, legs slow to respond to my brain’s weakened requests. My whole body wants simply to collapse and stay down for good.