by Kim Purcell
Officer Baryshnikov pulled some keys on a chain out of his pocket and unlocked the front door. The receptionist’s desk in the entryway reassured her somewhat. She followed Officer Baryshnikov down a dark hallway with brown carpets that smelled of urine. The other officer followed her. A fluorescent light flickered at the end of the hall.
Officer Baryshnikov brought her to a room with concrete walls. “Your purse?” he said, holding his hand out for it.
She handed him her white purse with the tassels. Even then, it was looking pretty dingy and worn. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said.
He walked out and closed the metal door without another word, leaving her alone in the windowless room.
“Wait!” she yelled, and shook the door. It was locked.
The room was tiny. She could cross it in five large steps. There was a metal table in the center of the room and one wooden chair against the wall. She moved the chair to the table and sat down. It wobbled. She hated wobbling tables.
She wondered why they’d brought her here. Some bags had recently been stolen from the coatroom at her school. Perhaps they thought she’d done it, though that was ridiculous. She didn’t even have classes near the coatroom.
The metal table wobbled, wobbled, wobbled. She swore out loud at the table. Her words rang out in the quiet room and actually made her feel better.
She looked at the fake gold watch on her wrist, a present from her mother for her birthday, and watched the second hand move around its face.
After half an hour, Officer Baryshnikov came into the room, dragging a wooden chair. His hat was off now and she was surprised to see that he had a shiny bald spot in the center of his head. He sat down across from her and asked who’d visited their house recently, why her parents were going to the wedding, and questions about her father’s brother in Transnistria, whom she barely knew.
He did not ask her about the bags. Just questions about her family. It had to be her father, she decided. He was always getting drunk and finding trouble. He’d probably started arguing with the wrong person about his radical political ideas. She remembered how Daniil had told her that he thought her father could get himself into trouble if he wasn’t careful.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “Please tell me.”
He studied her, as if to determine whether she was worthy. At last he said, “There was a bombing at a café. In Tiraspol.”
She held her hand over her mouth. “My parents?”
“They are in detention.”
She didn’t understand at first, but then she realized they were accusing her parents. “You think they did it? Are you out of your mind?”
He gave her a cold stare. “Your father is a suspect.”
“He’d never—” She broke off. “Was anyone killed?”
“The Minister of Internal Affairs was killed,” he said. “Plus two of his bodyguards, two employees in the café, and two teenage girls. The girls had just gone into the café for a coffee. They were sixteen.”
Hannah’s hands fluttered by her face and then pinched on her earlobes. Seven people, including the Minister of Internal Affairs. And two girls her age. Her father wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not two girls her age.
“My father would never do that.” She felt ill. “He drinks too much, but he is not a killer.”
Officer Baryshnikov cleared his throat. It was one of those disgusting, phlegm-filled sounds. “If you give us information, we’ll release your mother,” he said.
“My parents were going to my uncle’s wedding. It’s my father’s side. We never see them. They’re not close.” Hannah didn’t know why she was explaining this, except that her mother had said her father’s family was a bit extremist in their views and Hannah figured this had to be the reason they suspected her father. “They were supposed to be back today. That’s all I know.”
“You must know something.”
“I don’t,” she said, opening her eyes wider, pleading with him. She thought about the phone call she’d overheard on the morning before her parents had left for the wedding. She’d just finished washing herself in the cold shower and she was stepping out of the bathroom when she heard her father speaking on a cell phone. She didn’t even know he had a cell phone. The other odd thing was that he’d closed the door, which was always open.
She could tell Officer Baryshnikov what she’d heard, but she worried it would seem suspicious. Her father had mentioned a café, but she knew he’d never hurt anyone. He was the kind of man who carried spiders outside rather than hurt them.
The officer gave her a look of distain, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word. He left her there for five more hours, during which she paced the room, stared at her watch, sat down, paced some more, and finally rested her head on the table, drifting in and out of sleep.
When the officer came back, he narrowed his eyes at her as if to see whether he’d worn down her resolve. He sat back down in the chair across from her, holding a silver pen and a small notebook. He opened the notebook to a blank page and clicked his pen. “When did your father start to work for the resistance?”
“He doesn’t work for the resistance.”
“He was unemployed and then he suddenly started working,” he growled. “When did he get the job?”
Hannah remembered the day her father told them he’d finally found work. Her mother had given him that wide, warm smile of hers, and then she’d jumped up, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him full on the lips.
“A month ago,” Hannah said. “It was an office job, I think. He joked that he was an errand boy. That’s all I know. But he carried a briefcase.” He’d even slowed down his drinking. Things were getting better.
The officer stared at her. “Tell me about the café,” he said.
“What café?”
“You must have heard something about the café in Tiraspol. That was one of his jobs for the resistance. His last.”
What did that mean? Had he been fired from his job?
“I don’t know,” she said. Her whole body felt heavy. It was three thirty in the morning and she worried she was going to say the wrong thing and get her father into more trouble. “He’s not part of any resistance. He doesn’t like the Minister of Internal Affairs, but many people don’t,” Hannah said. “That doesn’t mean he’d do anything to him.”
“Tell me what you know,” Officer Baryshnikov said, his voice softening. “Perhaps your father did nothing. We are putting the pieces of the puzzle together, that’s all.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“Tell me about Petr Sokolov,” he said.
“Petr Sokolov?” she stammered.
“Your father talked to him many times on the cell phone. He must have visited your home.”
The man her father had talked to on Saturday morning—his name was Petr Sokolov. She hadn’t heard much. Just about the café. Then he said, “Thank you, Petr Sokolov. You can count on me. Good-bye.” Hannah had waited a couple of minutes before she opened the door to the main room. Something’s wrong, she thought. Her father’s face was red and he looked flustered. “I’m leaving,” she said. He told her she should wait for her mother to come home from the hospital, but she lied and told him she’d already said good-bye to her the night before. She hoped her mother hadn’t told him that she’d called her stupid for grounding her when she wasn’t home by ten. She hugged him then and told him Katya was waiting.
“I don’t know any Petr Sokolov,” Hannah told Officer Baryshnikov. “I’ve never heard this name.”
“You’re a slippery Moldovan, aren’t you? Just like your parents.” As if he was so different from her, just because he had a badge and his clothes were a little newer. “You don’t need to protect them. They’re dead.”
The word
hit her like a wooden plank slamming against her head. “What?” she breathed.
“They’re dead.” He smirked at her like this was a good thing, and then tapped his silver pen on the metal table.
She stuck her chin out, defiantly. It was impossible. “You’re just lying to get information.”
“I’m not.” His face was serious and she almost believed him. Again he tapped the pen. It was loud on the metal and it made her jump. She glared at him.
She’d been left in this little room for hours and all along her parents were dead? She didn’t think so. “When did this bombing happen?” she asked.
“I ask the questions,” he responded.
“I’m not a fool, you know. My uncle would have called.” She looked him up and down, hating him with every part of her soul.
“I never lie about death. Your uncle is in detention. He couldn’t call.”
She swallowed. “You’re lying,” she said, tears lacing her words.
“Do you need to see the picture?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, sitting up taller.
He pulled out a snapshot and dropped it down in front of her. “Your mother has no head.”
If he’d punched her in the stomach, it would not have been as painful as what she saw in that photo. “It could be any woman without a head,” she whispered.
Chapter Forty-nine
Hannah pushed open the door to Sergey’s office. He was gulping down vodka, straight out of the bottle, which was unusual for him. He was wearing a gray suit but no tie. The top buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing his hairy chest.
“Who is Petr Sokolov?” she asked.
He squinted at her and she saw he was more than a little drunk. “Hannah,” he said, staring at her. “I forgot what Lillian did to your hair.”
“Who’s Petr Sokolov?” she repeated.
“Nobody.” He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a prestamped Moldovan envelope. “You have a letter,” he slurred. “It came in the mail today.”
“A letter?”
“From your family,” he said.
He handed it to her nonchalantly, like it didn’t matter to him. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been opened. She looked down at the scratchy handwriting. It was from her uncle Petru. Babulya’s eyes were too weak to write, but perhaps she’d dictated it to him. The envelope was made of thin paper, and it was easy to rip open. She pulled out the flowery stationery, probably Valeria’s, though the writing was her uncle’s.
Dear Hannah,
We have only just received your letters to your babushka. Unfortunately, there is some bad news. She’s had a heart attack. . . .
Hannah gasped.
“What is it?” Sergey asked and moved close to read over her shoulder.
She grabbed the envelope to see the date it had been sent, but the stamp was too faint. She held her hand over her mouth as she continued to read.
She is in the hospital. I am sorry I could not reach you earlier, but I did not have your address or a phone number. Do you have a phone number? Call us.
Your uncle,
Petru
A sob rushed out of her and Sergey wrapped his arm around her, reading over her shoulder. “Do you want to call them?”
He picked up his cell phone from the desk and asked her for Petru’s phone number. After he dialed it, he handed her the phone. She heard the low double buzz of a Moldovan phone line, different from the single ring she heard when she called Lillian’s cell from their home phone. In Moldova, she’d never thought about that double ring, but now it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard, and it made her feel as if she were traveling to Moldova over the telephone.
It rang and rang.
Perhaps they were at the hospital. At last, her uncle’s groggy voice came over the line. “Hello?”
She realized it was the middle of the night for him. “Petru? It’s Hannah.”
“Hannah?” There was a pause. Maybe he was sitting up in bed. “We received no news from you for months, and then, all of a sudden, we get four letters, and another one week later.”
She looked at Sergey. He had sent them after all. “How’s Babulya?” she asked.
“You received my letter?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My dear niece, there is some news.” His voice was grim.
“What news?” Hannah asked, gripping the phone.
“Your babushka suffered another heart attack.”
Hannah gasped. “Is she worse?”
“She passed away two weeks ago.”
Hannah dropped the phone and fell to her knees on the hardwood floor of Sergey’s office. She panted, dizzy with grief.
Sergey picked up the phone. “Hello? This is Sergey. Hannah works for me.” He was still slurring. “What happened?” He looked down at Hannah and she looked up, hoping she’d heard wrong, but from his face she saw that she hadn’t. Babulya was dead.
She reached for the phone and he handed it to her. “Did Babulya get my letters?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry. We read them to her, but she couldn’t hear anything, I don’t think. She was in a coma.”
Babulya had died thinking that she hadn’t written, hadn’t sent money, had abandoned her. She’d died with cataracts. Hannah felt her chest constrict with pain, and then she remembered that dream she’d had, the hot wind when Babulya told her to listen to her nose.
“When’s the funeral?” she asked her uncle. For some reason, she thought she could go.
“We had it last Friday,” he said. “In the church.” He recited all the people who’d come. It seemed completely unreal. How could these neighbors have been at Babulya’s funeral, while she was here in America, completely oblivious?
She interrupted him. “Was she in pain?”
“Hannah, it was beautiful. She saw the light. And she smiled before she passed away—it was such a smile, something of God, it was so beautiful.”
Beautiful. Hannah knew he was just trying to reassure her, but that word made her want to scream. How could he say that? Nothing was beautiful. Nothing would ever be beautiful again. Babulya was dead.
“Hannah?” Petru said.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Do you have some more money you can send?”
Hannah felt sick that he was asking about money at a time like this. Her voice was shaky when she spoke. “I sent fifty dollars in the letter.” She worried that a worker at the Moldovan post office had taken it out.
“Yes, but the funeral was very expensive. Valeria is worried about the money, and if you can manage anything more . . .”
You got rid of me, she thought, and then you didn’t even take care of Babulya, your own mother. “I will send what I can,” she said.
He thanked her but didn’t ask how she was. Just wanted the money she didn’t have.
She hung up the phone, feeling numb.
“They always want money,” Sergey said, resting his hot hand on her back.
She nodded slowly, staring down at her hands. Petru was the one who’d given her forty American dollars, a fortune for him, which Volva had then stolen, but maybe he’d only done that because he hoped she’d send him even more.
“Come on,” Sergey said, sliding his hands under her arms to help her stand. She wobbled on her feet. The insides of her body had been turned into mashed potatoes. “I’ll help you downstairs,” he said, and wrapped his arm around her.
When they got to the stairs, she wished he’d just push her. She wanted to feel the bump-bump-bump of her body on each stair. She deserved some kind of punishment for leaving Babulya. But Sergey had a secure grip on her, despite his inebriated state, and he helped her down each step, gently reassuring her, telling her
everything was going to be okay.
Chapter Fifty
Sergey rested her on the old flowery sofa in the garage. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I know it is hard when something happens in the family and you are here, and not there. It has happened to all of us.” It was nice of him to say that, she thought.
“I found your uncle Vladi,” he whispered. She looked into his shiny blue eyes. He seemed to be telling the truth.
“You did?”
“He’s on his way home.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, even though she didn’t know what to believe. Maybe he was just trying to make her feel better.
He knelt down beside her, kissed her cheek softly, and ran his hand over her butchered hair. His fingers tickled her scalp.
“Don’t leave me.” She meant that she didn’t want him to leave her with Lillian, but it sounded like she didn’t want him to leave the room.
He kissed her lips. It was a soft, tentative kiss, and though she didn’t kiss him back, she didn’t turn away either. “I’ll take care of you, moya lubov,” he slurred. “Don’t worry.”
She closed her eyes, hoping he’d take this as a sign to leave. She just wanted to curl up in a ball and not move for days and days.
“I love you,” he said.
And then he was kissing her face, her neck, her hands, and she didn’t know whether she wanted him to stay or whether she wanted him to go. The places where his lips connected were the only places she felt any heat. The rest of her body was cold, as if she’d died with her babulya, the last person on earth who had really loved her.
Sergey said he loved her. In the midst of the fog that filled her brain, Hannah wondered how he could possibly love her. He didn’t even know her.
Sergey took off her socks and rubbed her feet. It felt kind of nice. He lifted her arms above her head and tugged off her T-shirt. Her limbs felt wobbly, not her own. His calloused hands glided across her skin. He climbed on top of her. His curly chest hairs scratched against her skin; his heat pressed against her. When had his shirt come off? Then she realized his pants were off too. Her eyes flew open. She was lying on a cold sleeping bag with a married man on top of her and the thing she’d promised herself would never happen was happening.