Especially after his driving. If I weren’t already The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet then my stomach would be roiling anyway because, along with a new highway through Moscow, there are forty billion more cars. And every driver thinks like Igor—that the Moscow highway is their own personal video game.
WorldMar has their own housing complex! Or at least their own apartments inside a gated complex. Gated. The driver stopped at the double gates and showed our passport to the guard. He waved us through and we entered the Twilight Zone.
The apartment building is pink. With gold arches above the door. And according to Igor, right below us lives the Mayor of Moscow! Now, I’m confused. Because last time I lived in Russia, my roomie, who worked for an NGO, and I lived in a regular Russian flat, complete with roaches and a smelly elevator, and a rickety wooden door that couldn’t keep out a third grader. Apparently, Aid Workers’ digs have changed in two years because when I opened the steel door—which I think they acquired from Alcatraz—I found our one-bedroom flat outfitted with a security system, a real leather overstuffed sofa and chair, wall-to-wall carpeting, a large flat screen with cable, but no TiVo, a dishwasher, fridge with water filter and ice maker—last time I was here, having ice in my Coke was a sort of national crime—and an electric stove. Finally, on the other side of the flat, we have a huge double bed with a matching armoire, a dresser and night tables.
Where am I?
All of this glam was lost on Chase, who simply dropped our bags—and this is where I get back to the pickles—toed off his shoes and fell onto the bed. Against my warnings.
I, on the other hand, thanked Igor, and seeing my opportunity, I opened my bag.
I had to wring out my wool socks and I didn’t even get a taste of the pickles due to the embedded shards of glass.
I won’t need pickles anyway. Because I don’t have any cravings. I’m probably one of those girls who won’t get cravings when she’s…The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet.
I hid the chocolate chips in the kitchen, in the cupboard, in a pot large enough to feed St. Paul. I poured the excess popcorn in a coffeepot—because, well, hello, I buy coffee, not make it—and put it in a cupboard over the refrigerator. As for the few extra food items I packed, I hid them under the bed. On which Chase was zonked out, which made me feel very Josey Bond.
Then I unpacked both our bags. And paged through the first five chapters of the book I stole. And watched the sun set over Moscow. We’re nine floors up, and across the street from Gorky Park, the Russian version of Central Park, which means I can see over most of the other buildings, and nearly to the Volga River. The sunset is just as beautiful over the Volga as it is over Gull Lake. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been up too long, and the whole world feels as though it’s operating behind a plate of glass, and yet your entire body seems to buzz, as if electrified? That’s how I feel. Which is why I’m writing. But I know better than to go to sleep before bedtime. Someone is going to be sorry they didn’t listen to me.
I have to admit, I can’t wait until tomorrow. I can see now why God sent me to Moscow last year. He knew that I was going to marry Chase, and that WorldMar would need him, and he’d need a helpmate like me. Someone creative and smart and who knows Moscow.
I just know, when this year is over, it’s not only going to be the best thing we did, but he’ll be so thankful, he’ll have no problem returning home and buying a house. For us. And you know what I mean!
I’m going to run myself a bath, but I wanted to tell you not to worry about anything.
Everything is going to be perfect.
Love you!
Josey
Stop the pain!
Like an electric current, the buzzing slices through my brain, past the darkness, and into that place that had been soft and happy and quiet.
Buzz!
My entire body vibrates as I’m yanked to consciousness.
Where am I? Outside a large window, lights blink like stars, a bright moon illuminates the dark room.
I’m cold. And sore. And the buzzing!
“What is that?” From the doorway, I see a form appear. Chase. He’s in his underwear and stalking toward the door. Realization rushes at me.
Russia. I’m in Russia. Moscow.
I’m lying on a cold leather sofa.
And I feel as if I’ve been run over by a herd of buffalo.
Behind the buzzing, I hear something. A trickling sound. It must be raining outside.
Pounding now threatens to take down the door. I leap from the sofa just as Chase reaches—
“Stop!”
He turns, wide-eyed.
“Don’t open that!”
He’s just staring at me as though I might be from the planet Vorgan.
“You don’t know who’s out there!”
“Calm down, I was just going to look through the peephole.”
More pounding. And Russian words that don’t sound very happy. Russian is sorta that way, though, even when the words are happy. Lots of guttural khas, and hissing sh’s.
Chase peeks through the hole. “It’s someone in his bathrobe.” He reaches for the door.
I grab his arm. “You’re in your underwear!”
He looks down, as if noticing this for the first time. Looks at me.
“Cover me,” I say as I crack the door. I’ve been here before. I know how to handle strange Russian men at my door. But I leave the chain up, because, you know, those chains are invincible. I step back from the door, feeling Chase move behind me. “Shto?”
Now, I should interject here that I remember very little of my Russian. It took me six months just to learn hello. Zdrastvooyta. Yeah, I know, unfair. So I’m pretty impressed that anything Russian comes to mind at this moment. But it does.
Which also leads to the incorrect conclusion that I might understand even one word that emerges from our bathrobed visitor’s mouth. Despite how fast or loud he might say it.
Over, and over, and over.
Funny, that background noise doesn’t sound like rain, and with that thought something sparks the recesses of my mind. Something. I just can’t—
“Just let me talk to him,” Chase says, and steps past me to shut the door, unlock the chain and open the door.
Sure, Chase, have at it. Because I know that you’re fluent in Angry Russian.
Maybe I should get a frying pan.
The man is stymied for a half second at Chase’s appearance. I was also, but for different reasons. Then he continues his barrage.
He’s wearing a red bathrobe with leather slippers. About the height of Chase, Mr. Bathrobe has about fifty pounds on him, and smells slightly of vodka and cigarette smoke. And, the way he’s gesturing, I’m thinking maybe someone isn’t happy about the new neighbors.
He’s pointing. Down. And now making those gestures a person might make in the “Eensy Weensy Spider” song.
I always liked that song.
The eensy weensy spider went up the water spout…
Down came the rain and washed the spid—
Washed!
“The tub!”
I turn and run to the bathroom. Water gushes from beneath the closed door like a pretty Minnesotan stream.
I fling the door open. Inside, water stands ankle deep in the room as it runs over the sides of the overflowing tub. Oh no—I fell asleep while running the tub!
Chase is a step behind me, followed by Bathrobe Man. I reach over, turn off the water, then plunge my arm deep and yank the plug.
The water gurgles out. And I stand there, dripping, and look over at our guest. I point downstairs. He nods grimly.
“Izvenitya,” I say quietly. See, that’s another word I remember. Sorry.
Chase stands there in the warm water, running his hand through his hair, looking grim.
“Menya zavoot, Josey,” I say and stick out my hand.
“Chase,” Chase says. I am not sure how to say he’s my husband, not having to learn that the first tim
e I was here. But suddenly it’s a word I’d like to know oh, so very much.
“Gregory Borisovich Franchuk,” Bathrobe Man says. Chase pumps his hand, and I smile wryly, wondering if Chase realizes that he’s meeting, in his underwear, the Mayor of Moscow.
The next time we wake, some four hours after sopping up all the water from our bathroom floor with everything resembling a sheet, towel or blanket in the flat—and then sleeping on a bare bed—the sun is just climbing over the far side of the apartment buildings, and gliding into the yard below. I open my eyes, immediately awake, my body humming.
Russia. I can hardly believe that I’m here. Last time, I had unrealistic dreams about changing the world. This time, however, I’m serious. I’m going to help Chase help the Russians help themselves. Like The Donald, I’ll take fledging ideas and nurture them, bring them to life. God has given me a second chance to make a difference. And I’m up to the task. Because, deep inside, I’m still a missionary.
No, deep inside, I’m a mother.
That thought sweeps all others from my brain.
Chase is wrapped around me, one leg over mine, his hair crushed and tangled, wearing a speckled blond and red five-hour—or would that be twenty-eight-hour?—shadow. He’s warm and smells like Chase and a feeling of happiness so intense washes through me, I think maybe I can’t breathe.
Or maybe that’s just Chase’s arm pressing on my stomach. A stomach that suddenly doesn’t feel so good. I push his arm off and sit up. My head swirls. Or rather the room swirls.
Chase stirs but I get up, cross the flat to the lagoon that used to be our bathroom, find the WC, open the door and hover over the bowl. Waiting. Like Texas bracing for a hurricane.
Maybe I should eat something.
“Josey, you okay?”
I brace my arm against the wall, feel a slight sweat slick my body. Yeah, I’m swell.
The feeling passes, thankfully, and a moment later I return to the bedroom. Chase is up, and pulling on his jeans. “I don’t suppose I dreamed that…incident…last night.”
“Not unless someone left a giant spit wad in our bathtub,” I answer, referring to the soggy everything that is starting to smell like rainwater.
“Any suggestions about what to do with this mess?”
“Not a clue.” I head for the dresser, but Chase catches me and pulls me close. He knows how to distract me. And I like it. “We’re in Russia,” he says close to my ear. I love the feel of his arms around me, and I lay my head against his chest.
“Da,” I say. I can feel the blood start to heat in my veins. Chase always finds a way to steal my focus.
Or rather, help me find it.
He kisses me on the neck, but lets me go before I can suggest anything, and heads out to the kitchen.
I am rummaging through the clothes that 1. Survived the last-minute pregnancy pillage and 2. Don’t smell like pickle juice. I find a pair of black capris and a formerly crisp white peasant blouse. I’m pulling it on as I walk to the kitchen.
Chase is standing with the fridge door open. The light and the smell of tomato and dill spill out. “There is a pot of soup in here.”
I look over his shoulder. “I think that’s called borscht. I wonder how long it’s been here.”
“Let’s try it.” He reaches for it but I put a hand on his arm. The voice of wisdom. Again. Wasn’t it me that reminded him that he was in his drawers last night? “You don’t know how long that’s been there.”
He gives me a frown. “We have no food.”
“What about my bagels?”
He waggles his eyebrows and I swat him. “I brought a dozen bagels in my carry-on for just this occasion.”
And that’s how we find ourselves sitting in our family room, sharing a couple of blueberry bagels, drinking bottled water from the plane—me, the Proverbs 31 woman, thinking ahead again. Chase and Josey, World Conquerors. Partners. I can’t wait to get started on his NGO project, help him sort through ideas, present them to his Russian partners. I’ve already looked up cottage-industry ideas on Google, and have a few cooking in the back of my brain. We are going to make such a great team.
Now is probably the time to tell him that we’re taking on recruits. I can see his face already, the joy…
Chase must be reading my mind because he reaches across the table, touches my hand, smiles. “Do you know where my toothbrush is?”
Oh. Well. “In the bathroom.”
He gets up. I see my moment vanish, but it’s okay. Because maybe today after we’re done at WorldMar, we’ll take the subway to Red Square. And find the bistro where I used to sit and daydream about Chase and our perfect life. I’ll tell him there, with the twilight at our backs, and the smell of fall in the air, with the jeweled leaves swirling at our feet. And he’ll sweep me up in a hug, tell me—
“Did you bring my black suit pants?”
How did he ever live without me? “In the closet.”
The doorbell rings. I get up to answer it as Chase dives into his dress clothes. Our thug driver is at the door and I open it.
“Gatov?” Igor asks.
Another Russian word. To which I nod, yes, we’re ready.
See, this will be a cinch.
We ride down the elevator, which is oh, so much cleaner than any Russian elevator I remember. They usually resemble a phone booth that has been well used by the local canine population. This one is clean. Not a doggy treat in sight.
We walk by a doorman—missed him last night—who nods at us, and find ourselves outside, where a dozen black cars line the sidewalk. Our thug opens the door to one of them, and Chase and I slide into the backseat.
I feel I must wave. To someone. So I wave at the doorman. He ignores me as we pull away and out the front gate.
Moscow is a different world. I remember the fashions from France, the well-dressed women in Prada knockoffs and fake Gucci bags, but I don’t remember the new sky rises, the restaurants and name-brand stores. Or maybe it’s because I spent most of last time underground, riding the subway. Suddenly I miss it, the press of the crowd, the feeling of speed as humanity is sucked along underground by trains like turbocharged earthworms.
But I’m not complaining. Especially when Chase takes my hand. We drive past the McDonald’s and Red Square, Moscow Underground and finally to Volyachaevskaya Street to the WorldMar headquarters.
Which is located on the top floor of a mall. With escalators. And an ATM machine. And a movie theater and…get this…a Baskin-Robbins. Thirty-one Flavors!
Pinch me.
I walk through glass doors into WorldMar and the size two, age thirteen receptionist greets us in refined English. “I’m Olya,” she says as she beeps his secretary. I glance over at Chase. He’s beaming.
Methinks someone is enjoying this very, very much. Would like to wave his pink slip in some school administrator’s face. As his new secretary comes out, I take his hand.
Which is a good thing because now I know he loves me. His pulse didn’t even skip at her long blond hair and size four curves. Mine, however, went wild at her wool Ann Taylor suit and knockoff Prada slingbacks.
I need to go shopping.
“Allo,” Miss Well Dressed says, and extends her hand. I see a manicure. “My name is Katrina.” I also see how her gaze falls over Chase.
And then it hits me. Everywhere I look at WorldMar, I see young, shapely Russian women. Now, yes, Russia has been extraordinarily blessed with young shapely women—and I happen to know that none of them between the ages of fourteen and fifty-one eat anything—but it seems that WorldMar has collected an inordinate amount of said shapely women. My radar—and you know what I’m talking about—is suddenly in red alert.
Chase shakes Katrina’s hand. “This is my wife, Josey,” he says. Good boy. Keep saying that word—wife.
We follow the underfed Katrina and her wiggle through the office to Chase’s new digs. Which, for the shortest of moments, takes my breath away. It’s pink, like our apartment building, whi
ch I think must be part of a giant Russian makeover, but the view makes up for the color. It overlooks the Kremlin, St. Basil’s and the Volga River.
Chase has a big black desk and a couple of bookcases, his own computer and some black leather furniture. I think I’m seeing the same decorator’s touch as in our flat.
“Wow,” Chase says.
I smile up at him. He so deserves this, and he’s going to be the best anthropologist/entrepreneur/ consultant they’ve ever had. Katrina leaves, telling Chase she’ll introduce him to the staff when he’s ready. I’ll just bet she will.
Just as Chase is taking me into his arms, again—and I’m thinking, for a little thank-you kiss—a knock at the door separates us.
An American enters. I pinpoint his nationality by his footwear—loafers—and the way he’s dressed in colors—a blue polo and khaki pants. “Jim Wilkes,” he says, “I’m in charge around here.” He shakes our hands and I place him at midthirties, confident, with a sort of smart preppiness about him that I would associate with Easterners. Or least people from Wisconsin.
“I’m afraid your partner isn’t here today, Chase. Bertha is out on a project but she’ll be in later this week. I’d be happy to show you around the office, however.”
Bertha?
I can’t help it. A sigh of relief streaks through me. How much trouble can a Bertha be?
“It’s nice to meet you, Josey,” Jim says as he makes to leave. He opens the door for Chase.
I’m baffled, because I know he’s just offered to show Chase around, and it feels like he’s asking me to…leave. And well, I’m Chase’s partner, too, aren’t I?
I stand there and Chase just looks at me. And I look at him. And he says nothing.
Nothing.
And it’s then I realize. Chase’s idea and my idea of our life here just might be vastly different. I’m not the co-conquerer.
I am the baggage-toting sherpa.
“Mz. Anderson?”
I hear the name through a fog of darkness and hard angles. Blinking, I frown and it’s a second or two before I realize that I’ve fallen asleep at Chase’s desk. I sit up, and it’s then I feel moisture, pooling at the corner of my mouth. Oh gross.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 7