The tension ebbed from Nick. He returned to the bed opposite her and sat down. “Good. All I want is to believe what I see.”
Relieved that he demanded nothing further and questioned nothing more, she regained her composure. “You must be starved. Let's eat.”
They sat at a small table pulled into the middle of the room. Olga was intent on being a good Russian hostess, and the table was cluttered with more platters of food than they could possibly eat. She poured them each a shot of vodka.
“Mir i droozhba.” Olga raised her glass.
“Yes, peace and friendship.” His voice lacked sincerity. To Nick the phrase had been repeated so many times that it had sunk to the same level and was as removed from reality as the maxim “Have a nice day” was in America.
Olga swallowed her vodka like cough syrup. Nick threw his down as fast as possible to get it over with.
“Very good,” gasped Olga, patting her chest. She was breathless and her eyes watered. “Not many foreigners can drink good Russian vodka like that.”
“I've had a lot of practice.” It was one of his many standard lines. Reaching for the black bread, he wanted to get past this barrier of being a foreigner in the U.S.S.R. and return to the one area that he and Olga had in common. “Olga…” he began slowly, “what's it like losing a parent here?”
She was startled. Pulling her hair back, she said, “I've… never really talked about it before.”
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be… crass.” He raised his shoulders. “It's just that, well, I don't know you very well, but you seem very strong and very stable. As if you had a purpose. A direction. I envy that in you. My mother died, too, and sometimes I think that was the most determining factor in my life. Determining in the sense of interruption and… well, to be frank… I've never really been sure what to do. I guess I'm talking about direction…I…I don't know.”
Withdrawing into a series of painful memories, Olga arranged zakuski—hors d'oeuvres—of smoked fish, sliced onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers on Nick's plate almost as if he were not there.
“It's kind of like going through a war… an internal war,” continued Nick. “And while others might sympathize, unless you've been at the front, you really don't know what it's like. After all, cameras can't get there and there's no way to put it on television. You know, without knowing anything about them, I've been automatically attracted to a lot of people… a lot… who have also lost a parent.” As a guise to lessen the intensity, he picked up his fork. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, he said, “I feel the same way toward you, Olga.”
Her hands in her lap, her deep blue eyes cold, she didn't hear him. Trancelike, she said, “I thought I'd die too.” To use a cliché was safer and less threatening than expressing the depth of her real emotion. “Mama was killed, Papa turned to vodka, and I… I moved in with my great-aunt.” She shook her head, chasing away the memories, and addressed Nick. “I'm sorry. You must eat.” She picked up her fork. “Eat, Nick. You are my guest,” she said, dismissing the subject.
He cut a slice of tomato in half, but he would not be so easily pushed away. “Where's your dad now?”
“Lvov.”
He began to eat, and strained to sound as if they were talking about quite a normal subject. “Do you ever think of moving there?”
She laughed, perhaps more than necessary and glad for the release. “Kiev is my home. This is where I belong. Papa was born in Lvov and so he returned. His mother is there too. I see him once or twice a year, but this is where I belong.”
The onion was strong; he quickly ate a thick slice of black bread covered with butter. “That's such a foreign concept to me. I can't imagine feeling so strongly attached to one place.” He put his fork down and scratched his head.
She was confused. “I thought you said you were from Michigan.”
“Now I'm from Michigan, but before…” He shrugged. “Dad's a journalist, and after Mom died we moved all over the place. The East coast, the West coast, Houston, Chicago. I call Michigan home because… because in the past few years that's where I've been the longest. You see, mobility is the password of the United States.”
She barely heard him, though. Realizing that he had spoken, she reached out and touched his arm, “I'm sorry, I was… was just thinking about my mother. I… I…Yes, you were talking about Michigan.” She wiped her mouth. “What can I say? Kiev is my home. I can't imagine leaving.”
“I envy that,” said Nick. “When I go back to the States I don't know what I'm going to do and I… I don't know where I'm going to live. Christ, I worked part-time in a bookstore for three years and I sure don't want to go back there.”
Wanting to forget her own thoughts, she concentrated on his words. She did not, however, understand. “But doesn't your government give you a job in your field when you graduate?”
“No,” he snapped in response to one of the most frequently asked questions. Defensively, he added, “No, and I don't want anyone to give me a job. I just want to figure out what I want do with my life. That's how my mother's death interrupted my life—it stunted me.”
“Oh.” She served him the rest of the smoked fish. Seizing the opportunity to get away from any more personal questions, she stood and said, “You finish this, and I'll be right back. I have some borscht on the stove.”
Nick admired her as she stepped away from the table. Without any trace of weakness, she was very feminine. Attracted to her wide face and thick blond hair that were both beautiful and graceful, Nick also realized that, yes, she was a survivor. Probably more so than he was. He could as easily imagine her in a brocaded gown attending a ball right out of War and Peace as fighting in the trenches of World War II.
A few minutes later, rather matronlike with the sleeves of her white blouse pushed up and beads of perspiration on her brow, Olga returned with a steaming pot of borscht. Putting a hot pad down first, she set the pot on the table. From the desk she took two large bowls and ladled beet red borscht into them.
“Now I know why everyone wants to meet people from abroad,” said Olga, calmed and sure of herself again. She rapidly stirred a small glass jar of sour cream and then spooned a large puddle into the middle of his bowl. “It's interesting. So much information.”
“Versus disinformation,” said Nick, referring to the Soviet method of reporting half the truth according to their needs.
She handed him his bowl. “Yes, disinformation.” She shook her head. There was, after all, nothing she could do about it. “I have a question for you. About food. I heard one of the guides at the exhibit say that you have no lines for food in America. Is that really true?”
“If he lied, why shouldn't I?” He stirred his soup and its sour cream, and the borscht turned pink. “Why should you believe me any more than the other guide at the exhibit?”
“Oi, Nick, I…” She enjoyed being forced to be specific about something not personal. “I believe you because you are here, an individual. I believe you because your words seem to come from deep within you. But at the exhibit, well, it's from your government, and…”
“That's just it, Olga.” Nick relished having an audience that would at least seriously weigh his words rather than automatically assume he was spewing propaganda. “That's the difference between us. My government has done a lot of things I don't agree with—from Viet Nam all the way down to the interstate highway system—but I still cling to the hope that people come before government. In fact, every American wants desperately to believe that even if it is no longer true: we want to believe that our government works for the people. Whereas here… well, would I be wrong in saying that the people work for the government?” Before she had a chance to comment, he said, “What it means, Olga, is that what any of the guides say—including myself—is what we believe. You've got to make an attempt to understand, though.”
She would not be backed down by theory. “But I want to know,” she said, firmly. “Do you have food lines?”
Nick t
ook a large spoonful of soup and swallowed it. “No.”
“Do you really have all that fruit, too?” Olga wanted no doubt left in her mind. “I saw at the exhibit that most of your fruit and vegetables are grown in California and then shipped all over the country.”
He was slightly irritated, Russians seemed to think that the existence and availability of a substance signified the quality of life in a country. He hoped for more from Olga.
“Yes,” he said. “Apples, oranges, strawberries, pineapple, every type of fresh vegetable… yes, we have it all. And most of our produce is from California.”
Amused, she clapped her hands in astonishment. “Last year we had oranges for a while from Morocco. But none so far this year. And I've only seen photographs of pineapple. As far as things like strawberries, they're a treat a parent buys once a year for his child. And bananas… I haven't the faintest idea what they taste like.” A thought seized her and she turned to Nick like a mischievous schoolgirl. “Nick, have you ever eaten a banana?”
How could he ever tell her that his father used to make him eat corn flakes topped with bananas day after day? “Yes,” he said, firmly. Suddenly he wanted to be very close to her or very far away; he wanted to tell her everything about the rest of the world or to leave her in peace. He spotted a large chunk of gristly meat floating by some chopped beets. “I get frustrated here. I'm from the West, yet I know a fair amount about your country. Take this piece of beef, for example.” He touched it with his spoon. “It bothers me not only that you had to wait in line or bribe someone or use blat to get it, but that you wasted time to get something that should have been there automatically. And this is Kiev—a major city. Do you know what it was like in Tselinograd? They hadn't had any meat in that city for six months before we came. And when we, the Americans, arrived a city of over a quarter of a million people finally got meat. Only it was crap like cow hoofs, tails, and pig ears.”
Knowing that he spoke the truth, Olga, disgraced, turned away. Nick could not restrain himself and continued his lecture.
“It doesn't have to be that way,” insisted Nick. He leaned forward, bracing himself on the table. “It just doesn't. For the same reason, there doesn't have to be a paper shortage in a country with more forests than any other in the whole god-damned world. That's what I can't stand. In America we waste a lot of natural resources and material goods, but here, God, it's the waste of humanity that burns me.”
She covered her mouth and stared down at the floor.
“Olga,” said Nick, scratching his eyebrows. “I'm sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“You're right.” Her voice was sullen. “It's just a little painful.”
Without thinking, Nick said, “Next time I come I'll bring you some canned pineapple from Hawaii. I can get it from our embassy.”
Accepting his clumsy apology, she turned to him. “Really?”
Then he felt ashamed. He felt as if he were recklessly entering her world and turning it upside down. He'd go home and everything would be fine. But what about her? “Olga.” What could he honestly do for her besides hurt her with ail this information, all these dreams that for her could never be? “I decided the other night, well…” The power to make someone dissatisfied with life frightened him. “I decided I'd very much like to take that letter to your uncle.”
“Nick…” Her cheeks flushed.
“I was going to tell you the other night but then you ran away.”
“How wonderful.” Her eyes glowed with dampened success.
“I'll take a letter and I'll call. Maybe I could…”—he felt ashamed that he was asking this of her—“maybe I could see the letter before.”
She was momentarily taken aback. “What about a package?” she asked with trepidation. “A package. Would that be too much of an inconvenience?”
“I'll… I'll…” He stalled as he stared into her hopeful face. “Sure. I can take a package.” He smiled.
“Oh, Nick, thank you!”
“You're welcome.”
She got up from her seat and came around the table. Brushing her hair back out of her face, Olga leaned forward to Nick, who was still sitting. And only at this last moment did she hesitate. He reached out, however, and nudged her closer and gladly accepted her shy kiss on the side of his face. Not letting Olga pull away, he returned her kiss more directly.
“Nick…“It was not a reprimand.
Suddenly, with his bowl of borscht before him, he felt ridiculous. “Shit.” He dropped his soup spoon and napkin to the floor, pushed his chair back, and stood.
“Olga,” he said, facing her.
Nick reached out and took her hand. Olga withdrew. He put his hand on her waist. She inched forward with a small step, a small movement. Closer. Nick wrapped his other hand around her back. Afraid to let go, afraid to hold on, she shook with fear.
“It's okay,” he said, understanding.
Olga needed no further enticing. She embraced Nick in a quick, compulsive movement. He knew at once, however, that it was not sexual. She burrowed her face into the nook between his neck and shoulder, and he understood that she wanted something much more than passionate kisses and sensual touches.
“Oh, God, Nick…” she moaned with pain.
His green eyes large and confused, Nick said, “Olga… what is it?” He thought she sounded guilty, and he held her tightly, not letting go.
Suddenly she became angry. “You hit a raw nerve, Nick.” She wanted to hit him. Instead she clung to him desperately.
Nick ran his hand through her hair. “What are you talking about?”
”I thought I could cover it up with other talk, I thought I could get past it, ignore it. But… I can't!” She stopped breathing for a moment. “I… thought I could ignore it, but now that someone, now that you're holding me…”
“What… is it?”
At first Nick wasn't sure. Then he felt a second and a third, and then a whole series of spasms. Just as he realized that she had cut off her breathing again, he felt her fingers digging deeper and deeper into his back. She was trying to hold something in and her body, fighting this thing, shook violently. Then she ran out of air and when she took a breath, it came rushing out. Tears came in a sudden torrent and Olga, her body racked with sobs, cried uncontrollably.
“Olga… Olga…” At a loss, not knowing what to do or how to help her, all that Nick could do was pull her as close to him as he could. “What is it, Olga? What's the matter?”
Her speech garbled, she sounded like an animal in great pain. Moaning inhumanly, she clenched Nick with all her strength. She threw her head back and tried to speak.
“I…I saw… it, Nick!” She cried, her face twisted into a spasmodic contortion. “I saw!”
“Olga, what? I'm here. What did you see?”
“I… I…” she said in rhythmic, heaving sobs. “I… I…” And then, tortured, she blurted it out: “My mother. I… I saw her murdered!”
Overcome with agony, the strength she had relied on all these years rushed from her body. At last, after so much time, she had finally told someone that her mother had not fallen under the steel wheels of that streetcar, but that she had been pushed.
Hours later Olga lay in bed and listened as Nick closed the outer door of her communal apartment. Motionless, her eyes were fixed on the ceiling until, a few minutes later, she wrapped the sheet around her naked body and hurried to the balcony. As she opened the doors the cool night air rushed over her and chilled her. She stepped out and, hearing footsteps, searched the street five stories below. She spotted the figure of a man walking in the direction Nick would have gone, but it was not him. Nick did not carry a briefcase nor was he that tall.
It had taken her over an hour to calm down, to stop the flow of tears. Nick had lowered her to the bed and held and rocked her. He had been kind and responsive and as understanding as he could have been without any information. She had clung to him silently, like a child, not telling him anything. She couldn't. Al
ready he knew far too much and she, because of this, was weaker. And when, after she had finally stopped crying, he had asked a few simple questions, she had quieted him with a kiss and a touch. Though responsive to her sexual advances, at first Nick had been reluctant. To avoid having to explain, Olga had been persistent, however, and together they had become lost in their desires. From now until this operation was completed, Olga was sadly aware that it would be a great struggle for her to maintain self-control.
Nick had wanted to meet tomorrow night and she lied and told him she had to work. The truth was that Mayakovsky had ordered her not to meet with Nick for several days; via the monitoring system in the Russian couple's apartment, Mayakovsky had learned that they had arranged an evening with Miller. “The more normal, the more well-rounded Comrade Miller's life is here,” Mayakovsky had advised Olga, “the better off we will be in the long run. Let him settle into a comfortable pattern—nothing too intense. After all, we don't want to arouse suspicion.”
Besides, her Aunt Elizaveta had asked to be escorted to church the next night. There was a special service at Saint Vladimir's Cathedral for the Metropolitan who had died in Rome, and the old woman, who rarely ventured out, wanted Olga to accompany her. Though Olga strongly disliked going to the Cathedral, her aunt's requests were few. It was the least Olga could do.
A slight breeze came up, lifting the sheet around her and causing it to billow out. Shivering, Olga went in. As she closed the balcony doors behind her, she glanced around the room and realized that it was a fairly nice room and a decent communal apartment. In fact, she decided, she wouldn't mind living there permanently instead of just until the American exhibition left Kiev.
Drained of emotion and physically worn out, Olga wanted to cry and run away from it all, but she knew she could not. She regretted having told Nick about her mother's murder, but sadly, she realized she had told him because she trusted him. She trusted him in the sense that he would always call a black object black, and a white object white. She was curious whether this was an American characteristic or if this was simply how Nick differed from the average Russian.
The Cross and The Sickle Page 11
