by Tia Siren
''Sorry, what were you saying?''
She took a deep breath and began again. ''Nathe you're sweet, but I want to finish our relationship.''
''What?'' She was fearful he hadn't heard her again, but he had. ''What the hell are you talking about, finish?''
''I want to be friendly with you, but not your girlfriend anymore. I've thought a lot about it while I was in Moscow, and we're not compatible. You could find someone much better suited to you. You're only twenty-four, and you've got a great job at the Times. You're bound to find Mrs. Right.''
''Nicki,'' he exclaimed. She closed her eyes; sure he was going to run into the car in front. ''No Nicki, you've got it wrong. I don't want anybody else. I want you. Jesus, I love you.''
It was the first time he'd said that, and it made it all the more difficult. ''You think you love me, Nathe. But really you only have time for one person. Yourself.''
''Will you stop talking BS. You're my girl, and that's it.'' He looked at her. She looked hotter than ever with her new hair. She had also lost weight, not that she needed to. Now she was slender, and it made her look taller than the five eight she always claimed she was. All he wanted to do was get her back to her apartment and go to bed with her. He longed to feel her long legs around him and her soft lips on his. He'd often masturbated to a picture of her when she was away. Not a blunt picture of her in some pornographic pose, but a simple picture of her face, smiling into the camera he'd taken with them on a trip to the beach.
''No Nathe. I've made up my mind. Please respect that.''
''So what's happened, Nicki? Have you fallen in love with some heartless communist? They're all communists you know. Spineless alcoholics all of them.''
What he was saying wasn't true. She'd met a lot of very nice people in Russia during her exchange year. None of them were communists, and apart from the odd drunken birthday celebration, she'd never seen any of them drinking alcohol. She'd gone there with an open mind. Sure it was a totally different culture, and it had taken a lot of getting used to, but she'd really enjoyed the experience. ''No I haven't fallen in love with anyone. I just don't think you and I are compatible enough to take it any further than we already have.''
''Well thanks a lot. Thanks for ruining my day and my life. What a bitch. You know you've always thought you were better than anybody else.'' He glanced across at her with hurt engraved all over his face.
Surely he'd suspected something, though. She hadn't exactly been nice to him when they'd talked on Skype. And she'd never called him. He'd even complained that he always had to call her. ''I'm sorry Nathe, but that's it. I can't be with you anymore.'' Her words sounded so final, she thought. If only, there was a better way, a less cruel way. She'd agonized over it for days but every time she'd come to the same conclusion. There was no kind way to dump someone.
''And what the hell are you going to do with you life, Nicki? Yours graduating in four weeks and you still haven't applied for any jobs. It's not easy finding work so you'd better get on with it.'' There was a cold father like sound to his voice.
''I've told you a few times. I'm going to be a freelance journalist.''
''Yeah right. As if an editor would buy a story from a rookie journalist. You've been told so many times by me, by your professor and by all your peers, you need to get a job on a newspaper. Learn your craft and then, only then, might you have a chance at being a freelancer.''
He was right, but only to a certain extent, she told herself. She was graduating from a great school of journalism. Then she had to write some great stories. As a young rookie, she knew it would be difficult, but she was daring, and she intended to get exciting, even dangerous stories that would sell themselves. Stories of hardship, crime, war and death were all on her list, and she knew exactly where she was going to start. ''But that's what I want to do. It's my life and my business, and nobody else can tell me what to do.''
''Like I said. You think you are better than anyone else. Everyone's telling you it can't be done successfully, but oh no, madam won't listen. Well, I tell you what, when I drop you off at your apartment, you can darn well go to hell. I don't want to see you anymore either. And I might add, my experience with you has been nothing short of unpleasant. You're self-centered, conceited, arrogant, and a whole lot more.''
Nicki put the key in the door to the apartment and opened it. She grunted as she put her bag down in the hallway. When she closed the door, she leaned back against it and closed her eyes. Home. Finally home.
The food in the plane had been exceptionally salty, and she needed water. She turned on the kitchen light and smiled. There was a large, 'Welcome Home,' banner tied along the curtain rail and a bottle of sparkling white wine on the table. Sarah and Lela, her housemates, had intended to drink it with her. Not surprisingly they had gone to bed. It was three am.
*****
Nicki woke to someone knocking on her bedroom door. She opened her eyes and immediately shut them again as the sharp winter sunlight tore into them. Why do I never shut the curtains properly, she asked herself.
''I'm awake. You can come in.''
It was Lela. Lela had started college at the same time as Nicki. They'd found they had lots in common, not least because they were both black and both are starting out in journalism. After six months they'd decided to leave the halls of residence and get an apartment together.
''Hi, welcome home,'' she said as she tripped over the bag Nicki had left unopened on the floor. She fell onto the bed and gave Nicki a kiss and a hug. ''So how was it? We waited up for you, but sleep got the better of us.''
''It was a fantastic experience. You know Russia is such a paradox. The people are so polite and friendly, yet if you listen to the rhetoric coming from the politicians that represent them, you wouldn't think so.''
Lela looked around the room. Nicki had the largest bedroom in the three-bedroom apartment, and it was stuffed full of elephants. Elephants in all colors and sizes. She even had a pink elephant on the pillow next to her. ''So how many elephants did you bring back with you?''
''The bag you tripped over is full of them. But I have got something for you.'' Nicki got out of bed and opened the bag. She'd filled it so full that a couple of elephants jumped out when she undid the zipper. She rummaged around and found a small box wrapped in pink paper with a thin ribbon tied around it.
''Thanks,'' Lela said as Nicki handed it to her. As Nicki jumped back into bed, Lela noticed how slim she'd become. She'd always thought Nicki to be the best looking woman on their course. In fact that was an understatement, she was the best looking woman she had seen at NYU. She lay next to Nicki and began to open her present. ''We all missed you terribly,'' she said as her fingers fiddled with the knot on the ribbon. ''The house hasn't been the same without out. We missed your story telling.'' She paused and laughed, ''but we didn't miss your garlic lasagna.'' Nicki gave her a playful thump. ''Oh wow, Nicki, it's too much,'' she said as she held a gold fountain pen up.
''You're going to be a journalist, so you'll need a good pen.'' Typical Nicki, generous and thoughtful.
''So what's the plan now, once you've unpacked all your elephants,'' Lela asked.
''Will you help me? I have so much to tell you about my experiences, and of course, I want to know what you've been up to. How many men have you brought back here while I've been away?'' she asked playfully.
''Only a handful,'' Lela lied, unable to count the actual number.
After an hour, Lela couldn't find anymore room for the last few two elephants. ''Where do you want me to put these? There's no room.''
''Leave them on the bed, I'll find somewhere.''
''Perhaps you could sell some of your Mills and Boon books. You don't need to keep all those trashy romance books, do you?''
''I love them, I don't want to part with them. I split up with Nathan last night.''
Nicki said it suddenly with no warning of any kind, and it shocked Lela. ''Why?'' she asked in a Sherlo
ck Holmes kind of way.
''Because we aren't compatible. He's too different. He likes to be messy and casual, and I like to be neat and tidy and plan things. I felt sick when I got into his car yesterday. He hasn't cleaned it out for years.''
''But surely a messy car can't be the reason. I thought you guys were the real deal,'' Lela said as she picked up a book with a half-naked hero on it.
''No. It's more than that. I realized in Moscow that we aren't right together. I don't love him. I want to feel heat in my lower half when I think of my boyfriend.'' Lela nodded in agreement. She'd been out with so many men, and not one of them had set her alight. ''All I think of when I think of Nathan is chaos,'' Nicki added.
''How did he take it?''
''Badly. He called me some nasty things and dumped me at the door. I guess I deserved it. I said it so suddenly, it must have been a shock for him.''
''You're so intelligent and beautiful you'll find someone at the drop of a hat.'' Lela picked up another book, this time, the hero was holding a blonde woman who was looking at him as if he'd saved her from certain death. ''Look at you. You're tall and thin. Your waist is invisible and up top, you've got a really nice pair. Your ass is the envy of all the girls in the class, and your eyes are stunning. Don't worry you'll have men flocking to you once they know you're single again.'' Suddenly Lela's eyes lit up. ''Or have you already got some dark Russian prince?''
''No. I haven't and can you believe it? I was a very good girl in Russia. Not once did I entertain a man in my chamber.''
''You're chamber? You're definitely reading too many of those ridiculous historical romances. So what are you going to do now? Have you applied to any newspapers yet?''
Oh no not you as well. Why didn't people understand? She wanted to be a freelancer. ''No, don't you remember, I want to go freelance.''
''But.....''
''No buts. I had enough that from Nathan on the way home. He doesn't think I'll be able to make a go of it. He thinks editors won't buy my stories.'' Nicki pulled the trunk on her pink elephant and twisted it in frustration. ''I'm going to do it. It's very important to me. I want to work for myself, not some ego inflated editor. And as for them not wanting to buy my stories, I'm going to tackle such daring subjects that they'll be forced to buy from me.''
Lela cocked her head to one side. She had a habit of doing so when she didn't believe what she was being told. ''Okay. If it's so important to you, I really hope it works. But where are you going to start. I mean you need a story, you'll graduate soon, and your students loans will stop.''
''Maxim Sokolov.''
''What? He's a murderer. He killed the judge presiding over his trial. What was his name? '' Lela asked.
''Hudson. But he was acquitted. In the eyes of the law, he's not guilty. Simple. But after he came to Brighton Beach, New York, back in the nineties, he set up a vast empire of extortion, drugs and trafficking. I'm going to write about it.''
''You'll get yourself killed,' Lela said without hesitation. ''Do you know how many journalists have been killed by Russians? They are masters at it. As soon as you go sniffing around he will put an end to you. Don't do it.''
*****
Nicki pulled her collar up higher. She was glad she'd worn a scarf. The wind was blowing off the ocean and whistling between the restaurant buildings on the sea front. Only the gulls were enjoying themselves as they surfed the gusts high in the sky.
The Crab and Lobster seemed like a nice place to eat. On the sea front, it looked like a giant beach hut. The wooden boards in the facade painted yellow and the small cross bead windows, white. The door was maroon and contained a ship’s porthole. There was a balcony running the length of the building where clients could eat in summer, and its roof was adorned with lobster pots and pieces of fishing net.
Nicki climbed two steps to the front door and looked through the porthole. Inside, it was as cozy looking as outside. There were about twenty round tables, all with red and white checkered table clothes, and a long bar down the left-hand side with wooden stools in front. The ceiling was covered in sailing paraphernalia. Oars, lobster pots, fishing net, anchors, even a brass ship’s bell that hung down from the ceiling into the middle of the room.
She went inside. She noticed a couple sitting at a table in the far corner. They looked like they were making up after a fight. The woman had a blotched face, and the man a hurt look on his face and they were holding hands across the table. There were only two more people in the restaurant. The waitress was only about eighteen and pretty. Why such a pretty young woman should wear her hair in dreadlocks was beyond Nicki. The other person was a handsome blonde man of about twenty-five. He was tall, and his T-shirt clung to a physique he obviously spent a lot of time honing. Unusually for the time of year, he was wearing jeans shorts that showed off his long tanned legs. Nicki wondered what it would be like to stroke over the soft looking blonde hairs that covered them.
''Coffee please,'' she said, sitting on one of the bars stools. The waitress nodded. Nicki reached down to her bag and took out a notepad.
''You're a reporter then?'' the waitress inquired.
''Do I look like a reporter?'' she replied. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white blouse covered by a gray cardigan. Hardly a giveaway.
''The notepad,'' she said. ''Plus we get hundreds of journalists in here.'' She put a white cup and saucer down in front of Nicki.
''Why so many?''
''They're all after a mafia story.'' She picked up a tea towel and started to polish wine glasses.
''Doesn't the mafia own most of Brighton Beach? Sokolov owns this restaurant.''
''I have no idea. I just come and do my job and go home again. Andrey's my boss, and I'm sure he's not mafia.'' She pointed at the blonde man. When he heard his name, he looked up from his newspaper.
''Talking about me again Mel?'' he joked. He got up and wandered over to Nicki. ''I'm Andrey. It's a bit boring in here at this time of the day. Things don't usually get going until after seven pm.''
''That's okay, I only dropped in for a coffee. It's a lovely restaurant.'' He could have been a Californian surfer, she thought. His fresh face was tanned, and his blonde hair cradled his face in long waves.
''Yes, I love it. It's become part of me. There's always an opportunity to meet new people, like yourself.'' He leaned on the bar and put his foot on the brass foot rail. ''So are you?'' he asked.
''Am I what?'' she replied looking into his blue eyes.
''What Mel said. On the lookout for a mafia story?''
''Okay, I am a journalist. A freelancer. That's someone who works.....''
''I know what a freelancer is,'' he interrupted. ''If you're looking for a mafia story, you're fifteen years too late. All the shootings have stopped, and now it's a respectable area.'' He began to laugh, ''in fact the only bad thing that can happen to you around here, is a seagull messing on your head.''
''I don't know, there are secrets everywhere if you look for them. You for example. You sound Russian, so you have a story to tell. Why did you come here? Where are you from? How many girlfriends have you had? I bet a lot of female readers would enjoy reading about you.'' She put her hand on his arm as if she would be one of them.
''I'm afraid it would be a disappointing story. Tell you what, you tell me how many boyfriends you've had, and I'll tell you how many girlfriends I've had.'' He looked pleased with himself.
''One,'' she said without hesitation.
''I don't' believe you. A hot woman like you has only had one boyfriend. Get out of here.''
''What do you take me for?'' she jested. ''Are you suggesting that I may be loose?''
''Of course not. Sixteen.''
''You've had sixteen girlfriends?'' she exclaimed. ''I don't believe you. You're exaggerating, trying to be macho.''
''Sixteen not including the one night stands,'' he bragged. ''Not too bad for a simple boy from St Petersberg is it?''
&nb
sp; ''I guess not, but I still don't believe you. So why did you come here from that beautiful city?''
''Have you been there?''
''Last year. I studied for a year in Moscow and went to St Petersberg by train to have a look. It really is a very special place.''
''I came here to better myself,'' he said proudly. ''I had a bad start in life. My dad was killed in the Chechen war and my mother never got over it. I found her one day. Asleep in the kitchen, except she wasn't asleep. She'd taken an overdose.'' His eyes stared into the distance for a few seconds before focusing on her again.
Nicki was shocked. She'd had a relatively easy time of it in comparison. Her parents were both still alive and reasonably well off. ''Jesus that's horrible. Poor you,'' she put her hand on his. ''Does it pain you to talk about it?''
''No. Not nowadays anyway. It was nine years ago and time heals.''
''So have you got any relatives?''
''No, I'm all alone in the world,'' he said as if he liked it that way.
''Well, if you've had so many girlfriends, you probably haven't had time for relatives.''
''I guess not.'' He liked her. She was beautiful and had the same sense of humor. He liked the oval shape of her eyes and the way her hands moved when she talked.
''Andrey, it's almost five and where I'm from it's okay to have a drink after five. Would you join me?'' She was beginning to enjoy herself and didn't want their conversation to end. In addition, she was hopeful he could point her in the direction of Maxim Sokolov. She had it on good authority that this was one of Sokolov's restaurants.
''Okay, but you're my guest. Mel, a couple of glasses please.'' The waitress put two small glasses in front of them and handed him a bottle of vodka. ''In Russia we drink vodka, do you like it?''
Nicki hardly ever drunk anything alcoholic and she wasn't at all sure she could stomach a drink as strong as vodka. ''Yes, of course, I love it.''
The way he concentrated as he poured the drinks fascinated her. He reminded her of a young boy she used to sit next to in kindergarten. When he drew a picture, he always held his tongue between his lips. Andrey was doing just that.