FINDING KATARINA M.

by Elisabeth Elo

  “You should come back to the States with me,” I urged again.

  “There’s no way that can happen,” he said morosely.

  “Oh, yes, there is. If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. Believe me.”

  “How?” He looked hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

  I pressed my lips together and shook my head. What I had to say to Meredith Viles would be between the two of us. “Just think about it carefully, Misha. If you leave Russia with me, you won’t be able to come back.”

  “I don’t have to think about it. There’s no life for me here.”

  “All right. Let’s talk to your mother,” I said.

  Lena must have seen us through the window because she opened the door before we knocked. Her face was tense and fearful, reflecting the expressions she saw on ours. The conversation went on for an hour. At the end, mother and son were embracing and crying together. It had been decided that Misha would come with me.

  If the CIA agreed.

  The sun was setting outside the window in gold and pink. The last rays glimmered on the frozen crust of the snow field. Lena’s hand trembled as she poured us tea. After losing her daughter, she had just agreed to surrender her son. I didn’t envy her.

  On the practical level, she wasn’t convinced that the CIA would agree to the plan. “They’ll go to any length to get you out of Russia,” she said, nodding in my direction. “But not Misha. Why would they go to such trouble for him? He isn’t important enough.”

  “Tell Meredith Viles I need to speak to her,” I said.

  Lena gave me a doubtful look.

  “You can get her on the phone for me, can’t you?”

  She nodded. “Tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Late that night, Meredith and I hammered out an agreement. She already knew my basic situation from having spoken to Lena. Now she was forced to hear me recount the ugly facts we both knew, the facts I hadn’t told my aunt: that she and the CIA had betrayed both Misha and me. That when I’d managed to uncover clues that might have led to my missing nineteen-year-old cousin—too young and inexperienced to have been recruited in the first place—she’d brushed them aside, preferring to trick me into completing his mission, which was much more dangerous than she’d let on. Then when I finished the job she gave me, instead of taking me to my Russian family as she’d promised, she tried to put me on a plane back to the States instead—all without bothering to mention that that very morning I’d become a wanted criminal in Russia. And when I was finally arrested, she’d sat back and let my dismal fate unfold.

  “You must have known what happened to me,” I told her icily, though at that moment I still wasn’t sure.

  “Natalie,” she said, “there’s no use in—”

  “Yeah, you knew,” I interrupted. I couldn’t bear to hear the rest of whatever patronizing brush-off was about to cross her lips. “You knew, and you let me rot.”

  “We didn’t know all the details.”

  “Did you try to find out?”

  “You had murder charges against you. There are things the CIA can’t fix.”

  “Murders you committed.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. I had no idea where she was calling from. It could have been next door, or Moscow, or Washington, D.C. Finally, she said, “You had your orders, Natalie. You should have gotten on that plane.”

  “Well, maybe if I’d known…” I let it drop. The conversation was pointless.

  What remained were my demands: Misha would come with me to the States and would receive political asylum. Lena would be offered the same opportunity, if and when she wanted it. That would be my payment for having kept my country’s secrets safe through torture and imprisonment.

  Meredith agreed.

  The next night, there was a potluck dinner in the meeting hall in my honor. About thirty residents of Cherkeh gathered to welcome Lena Tarasova’s niece from America. They brought their favorite meat pies, casseroles, and baked goods. After dinner, costumed children performed a skit dramatizing the epic hero Nyurgun Bootur deftly slaying monsters from the Below World, where all the ills that beset humanity originated. They recited their lines as children did everywhere—some with exaggerated brio, some in frozen terror—while a teacher whispered prompts when necessary, and parents beamed. Dmitri was there. He offered to translate the Sakha into Russian for my benefit, but I said I’d rather listen to the music of the language and watch the actions unfolding on the stage.

  Afterwards, I found myself in Lena’s living room, discussing culture and comparative politics with a small group of adults who were eager to understand the West and the Western mindset. Katarina was there in her rocker, wearing red lipstick—the first lipstick I’d seen on anyone in months—and a pretty floral headscarf. She smiled benignly at the hub-bub, the end of her left arm tucked under the afghan on her lap. Dmitri didn’t say too much, apparently enjoying the evening’s second performance: me fielding questions on topics such as American presidential elections, social security, health insurance, and the weather. Towards midnight, Lena shooed everyone home.

  I realized I’d forgotten to bring the flashlight from the babarnya, and Lena offered hers for the walk back.

  “I’ll go with you,” Dmitri offered.

  “It’s okay. I know how to get there,” I said, independence being my habit.

  “Don’t you want some company?”

  I glanced at Lena, not sure what I was looking for. Her face was neutral.

  “Yeah, sure. That would be nice,” I said, hearing stiffness in my voice.

  The stars were extraordinary, more than I’d ever seen, a million shimmering sequins on the black satin sky. The hard-packed snow of the trail crunched dryly under our boots. All around, there was a faint whispering, as if from ghosts.

  “Do you hear that?” I asked.

  “It’s the wind in the branches.”

  “I don’t feel a wind.”

  “It’s very light tonight. You have to stand still.”

  So I did, closing my eyes. The gentlest of air currents caressed my cheeks.

  At the door to the cabin, he said, “So I’ll leave you here.”

  A bit of panic fluttered in my chest. I was suddenly afraid of the deep, starless night, the killing cold, the strange angles of the babarnya. I wanted to make the fire bright, and fill the shadowy space with conversation before I was left alone.

  “No, come in. I mean, if you have time.”

  “Let’s see. I don’t think I have any appointments.”

  I looked to see if he was teasing. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes said he was, and a hot flush crept up my face. Were we flirting? It had been a while since I’d done that. I’d almost forgotten how. Maybe I never knew.

  Inside, he built up the fire. Then, without asking, he carried some logs from the stockpile near the door and began splitting them into firewood, replenishing my already sufficient stock. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Not just because he was a man not wearing a uniform and not carrying a gun, but simply because he was there. With me. In an eight-sided cabin in a village not found on any map, in a far-flung region of one of the world’s most remote territories. What were the chances of that? It was almost a miracle. What if…

  The thought dissolved before it was half formed. I didn’t know what to think anymore, didn’t want to think at all. The simple truth was that I wanted someone to hold me. Just that, nothing more. I barely knew him. There were a hundred questions I ought to ask. But I had an anxious sense of time slipping by, running quickly like an underwater current—unseen, practically unfelt, sweeping me along to a point in time when there would be no more chances like this.

  When he put down the ax, I went to him and rested my head on his chest. He folded his arms around me, touched his lips to the top of my head. The warmth of his body and the glow of firelight disarmed me. Tears formed, and fell, and he kept holding me. I cried for a long time, longer than I wanted to,
then stepped back, aghast.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Oh, no. I’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “No, I know you didn’t.”

  “I could sleep on one of the beds on the other side of the cabin. If you don’t want to be alone.”

  “Yes, maybe. No.” I looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know what I want.”

  He hesitated, bravely trying to decipher me, as if it could be done. “I’ll stay.”

  “No, no. Please go. I’m fine, really I am.” Yes, this was the right answer. Anything more would be…too much.

  “You sure?”

  “I am. Thank you for helping me…for the wood and everything. And the hug. Thank you. I really mean that.”

  “All right.” He went to the door and shrugged on his heavy parka. “If you need anything…”

  “I will. Thank you. Thanks again.”

  From the doorway, I watched his flashlight beam wobble along the line of ghostly trees, growing ever dimmer until it was snuffed out.

  The next morning, I built the fire into a glorious blaze. It was a much bigger fire than I needed—its flames yearned openly for the circle of sky; its heat warmed the darkest shadows; it glowed across all eight walls. I went outside and piled snow into a bucket, and set the bucket on the edge of the fire pit. When the snow had melted to slushy water, I stripped, splashed my face, wet a towel, and washed my naked body slowly, methodically. Then I raised the bucket over my head and tipped it, so that the now-cool water coursed through my loose hair and splashed a puddle around my toes. The whole time, Dmitri was on my mind.

  I dressed, boiled water, prepared tea, ate crackers and dried fruit.

  In time, I heard a step outside. The door opened, and it was him, ushering in a blare of sunlight and a blast of icy air. Snow crystals sparkled on his parka; his face was ruddy with cold. He took off his gloves, his hat, his coat, his boots. I smiled, thinking, Siberian striptease.

  He came to where I was sitting at the picnic table, and knelt before me. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Did you think I’d come?”

  “I hoped you would.”

  I touched his wide-boned face, ran my fingers through his hair and along his neck, tenderly traced his smooth, satiny lips with my fingers. He let me, waited for me. Finally, I leaned down and kissed him. I felt the tensing of the muscles in his arms and back, the heat of his skin radiating through his rough wool sweater. We undressed each other slowly, and slowly began to move together, to press together, in the ancient dance. Our love was urgent and careful, our closeness unfamiliar, worthy of respect. And what had started the night before didn’t end for hours.

  Lena received word that the CIA was sending a helicopter. The flight plan hadn’t been disclosed, but she guessed they would take us north, possibly to Magadan on the coast of the Okhotsk Sea, where private planes were known to fly back and forth to Alaska. I was to be ready to leave at any moment, but Lena said it could take weeks.

  I spent the days with Lena, swapping stories of our lives. Together, we made a documentary for my mother, splicing in old photographs and videos, and mixing it all with family stories told by Lena and Misha. A whole portion of our little film was devoted to Katarina’s paintings, especially the ones of her lovingly imagined child, Vera.

  When Lena was busy, I read to Katarina from books I picked out of the bookcase. Tolstoy, Chekov, Pushkin, Pasternak. Whenever I stopped, Katarina would urge me to continue, saying that I had a lovely voice. She kept calling me Saldana, and I kept correcting her, hoping that one of those times it would stick.

  “I’m your granddaughter Natalie,” I would say. “My mother is Vera, the baby you had to leave behind. Do you understand?”

  The first dozen times, nothing registered, then, all of a sudden, Katarina looked straight at me and said, “Vera?”

  “No, Vera is living in America now. I’m her daughter.”

  My grandmother furrowed her brow. She seemed to be lost for a while. Then a glorious smile spread across her face. “Vera!”

  There was more force and recognition in her eyes than I had seen in her before. Sensing that this was the best her brain could do, I saw no harm in indulging her. I embraced her, and she hugged me much tighter and longer than I expected from so frail a woman.

  After that, I was Vera, and Katarina wouldn’t let me out of her sight for long. Now when I read to her, I sat close beside her, with her fingertips resting on my arm.

  During the night, I was with Dmitri, in a separate universe that existed for us only, outside of time and place. Our lovemaking grew bolder and more assured as the days went by, until it surpassed anything I’d known. I had no words for it, and didn’t try to find any. There was just him, the fire blazing or burning low in the background, the texture of animal skins under my naked body, and the smells of pine smoke and snow.

  One day, when I was in the babarnya by myself, a little boy appeared at the door. Lena had received news that the helicopter was about to arrive, and I was to pack quickly and come to her house. I folded up a couple of things—there wasn’t much—and headed down the well-worn snow path in a biting arctic wind. I didn’t want to go. My life in Cherkeh was well-ordered and beautiful; I lived each day as if it were a gift. I dreaded saying goodbye to Lena and Katarina, but it was the thought of leaving Dmitri that I almost couldn’t face. He’d told me he would never leave Russia, and we both knew I wouldn’t stay. Not just because of Misha, but also because I didn’t belong there. My life was with my mother and my patients in the States. Beyond that, we hadn’t talked about my going—what more was there to say? Better to keep what we were sharing untainted by the world, almost sacred, untorn until it had to be.

  The helicopter touched down at noon in the meadow, scattering the ponies, and sat idly in the bright snow, looking foreign and ugly, like a giant mechanical gnat. The men came into Lena’s house to get Misha and me—one a Russian pilot, the other an American CIA agent wearing arctic blue sunglasses and a vivid red mountaineering parka with numerous zippers and snaps. They filled her tiny kitchen with their big egos and restlessness. Misha wasn’t there, making Lena and me worry. But he soon showed up, looking dazed by the significance of what he was about to do, with clothes spilling out of his backpack and some books under his arm.

  “You’re coming, right?” he said anxiously to his mother. “To America?” As if she might forget.

  “When I’m ready,” she said calmly. Which meant, when Katarina was gone.

  I kissed my grandmother, hugged my aunt. My bag was stuffed with food for the journey, gifts, including one of Katarina’s paintings, and a thumb drive with photos and our video on it. I was dragging my feet, hoping Dmitri would arrive in time to see me off. But he didn’t come, and I couldn’t delay forever. I told myself he was staying away on purpose, to make it easier, and Misha and I followed the men out to the helicopter in the stinging cold. I climbed inside, belted myself into a contoured leather seat in the back, with just a tiny window to my right. Misha sat close beside me in the cramped space, his face pressed to the tiny window on his side, where his mother was waving goodbye. I could only imagine what he was feeling.

  The rotors whirred faster and faster, the noise of the motor grew shrill and deafening, the craft lifted with a reluctant juddering and peeled away from the earth.

  There, on the road not far from Lena’s house, I saw him. His car pulled over, the door flung open, him standing tall in the middle of the road, peering skyward, shielding his eyes against the glare. He raised his arm and waved slowly, in a wide arc, back and forth; I waved back, hard and fast, though I doubted he could see me. The shadow of the helicopter passed over him. The aircraft banked; he came into sight again, slightly behind me. He turned his body to follow the line of flight; he kept waving and so did I. Seconds later, he was gone from my sight, and the village, too, had dis
appeared. The helicopter raced over a vast snow field, gaining altitude all the time. I placed my hands protectively over my belly as the aircraft lurched into a blinding sky.

  JUST AS LENA had predicted, the helicopter brought us to an airfield outside icy Magadan, where a small private plane, a single-engine Piper Cherokee, was waiting. The pilot was American through and through, with his ready white smile, and his way of making the hardship of twenty degrees below zero feel like a brisk adventure.

  He shook my hand firmly though our puffy gloves. “I heard you had quite a trip,” he said, laughing at his own drollness and the crazy ways of Lady Luck, who had spit me out of her incomprehensible whirlwind onto the unlikely shores of the Bering Strait.

  “Very,” I replied.

  Misha said hello in English, hello being one of the several English words he knew.

  Next, we landed at a US Army base somewhere in Alaska, where more American men vigorously shook my hand, and a few of them went on to pat my back with enough fond energy that I had to brace my feet. Misha valiantly practiced his hellos. I quickly forgot the men’s names. What I remembered was their high spirits, the brilliant sunrays piercing off the wings of the Cherokee, and the damp, muddy smell to the air. I did learn the name of one of the mess hall cooks, a fresh-faced Jeb from Columbus, Ohio, who served us cheeseburgers and fries.

  I wouldn’t be allowed to call Vera until after my debriefing at Langley. That took several days, during which Misha and I stayed in separate rooms at a local motel with a pervasive chemical smell and depressingly bland art. Two taciturn, well-muscled agents picked me up every morning at eight a.m. and delivered me back to the motel at precisely five p.m. During those long days, while the leaden skies of December hung motionless outside the institutional windows of CIA headquarters, I spilled every detail of my true story and, in return, was provided with a detailed false story to relate to family and friends. At night, after dinner with Misha, I leaned back against thin pillows and a flimsy headboard, watching episodes of Friends and Frasier and Modern Family until the oddly raucous laugh tracks lulled me to sleep.