Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

‘Mom, this must have cost you all your pension money,’ I say, appreciating the effort she must have made to prepare this feast.

  ‘Here you go.’ She ignores my comment, putting a big bowl of borsch in front of me.

  ‘You’ve always made the best borsch in the world,’ I say, starting to eat. ‘Do you still work at the food market?’

  ‘Of course. I need to pay the bills … it’s a big house,’ she says, lowering her face to her bowl of borsch and slurping it like a proletarian in a Soviet canteen.

  ‘Zinka from the second row, who sells contraband fruit, has already bought a car - can you believe it?’ she loudly complains. ‘And I, making my own organic wine, can’t even afford to install an air conditioner in the house! It turns out to be much cheaper to import pesticide-grown stuff – they kill us, the producers, with taxes and corruption.’ She increases her volume with every word to match the clatter of the passing train, which periodically draws me in, providing some peaceful respite from mom’s interminable grievances.

  ‘So how’s the grape harvest this year?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s been a very sunny spring and summer. I managed to plant grapes all over the garden. It’s a lot of work, that I did all by myself: plowing, irrigating … the plants began to germinate even without humus … you know everything is so expensive these days …’

  ‘Mom, you are doing a great job,’ I say kindly, but she keeps going on and on.

  ‘I always do everything on my own,’ she says. ‘I never had any help from anyone - not even the slightest helping hand. Your dad hasn’t even called me in eighteen years …’

  ‘Mom, father died,’ I interrupt, trying to control my overwhelming emotions over this phrase. ‘There was an explosion at the plant …’

  For the first time, she stops complaining and leans back in her chair, visibly shaken.

  ‘May he rest in peace in the kingdom of heaven,’ she finally says, pouring two shots of vodka that we silently down. ‘Your father was a very good man,’ she reflects.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ I say contritely.

  ‘We were each other’s first,’ she says distantly, into the growling clatter of a passing train. ‘He would warm up my hands, kiss my nose, and polish my shoes … he was so handsome, so athletic …’

  ‘I took money from you,’ I say out loud, looking into her tired face with heavy bags under her eyes. ‘From that blue box you hide under the step.’ I’m already anticipating her going ballistic.

  ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ she asks with surprising composure.

  ‘You were so … tight with money,’ I say shamefacedly.

  ‘It was a very difficult time,’ she answers, immediately pushing back. ‘… For everyone in the country,’ she says bitterly. ‘At one point it was almost impossible to buy milk for a child. Waiting in those horrible lines … for hours and hours and hours. I had tears in my eyes when I finally got it,’ she sighs, taking another silent shot of vodka. ‘You probably took it when I got back from one of my trips to Poland. That’s the only moment I wouldn’t have known the exact amount of money I’d made from selling the grapes.’

  ‘You were in the shower …’ I recall, ashamed.

  ‘That filthy bus full of shady people, twenty hours each way, being treated like an animal … yes, I needed a shower,’ she hisses, accompanied by the rattling of train wheels. ‘How much did you take?’

  ‘Two hundred dollars,’ I remorsefully admit.

  ‘That would have been the amount I’d have earned in two years if I had stayed working as a school teacher,’ she scoffs. ‘What did you get?’ she asks after a pause.

  ‘A microphone,’ I say quietly.

  ‘For your music rehearsals?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ she says unexpectedly.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, my eyes wide open with shock.

  ‘Because you couldn’t have rehearsed without a microphone, could you?’ she asks with a faint, kind smile.

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, mom.’ Bursting into tears, I rush to hug her.

  ‘It would be really nice … if you could stay with me for a few weeks or months,’ she says, gently stroking my hair. ‘I’d look after you, my beautiful daughter. I’d cook for you.’

  ‘I don’t know … I’ll think about it,’ I say, still unable to believe we are having a civilized conversation.

  ‘There’s nothing to think about,’ she says firmly. ‘It will be good for you here.’

  ‘I guess I could stay for a few days,’ I mumble, realizing it sounds more appealing than flying back to Moscow, right into the jaws of Akbar and Schneider.

  ‘That would make me very happy,’ she says earnestly.

  In a few moments we finish dinner and walk to my bedroom, still full of anti-Soviet Metallica and Iron Maiden posters.

  ‘Goodnight, mom,’ I say, with tears in my eyes, feeling the thick wall I have been building around my heart all these years has suddenly melted down.

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ she says, kissing me on the forehead. As she leaves, she covers her face so as not to show her tears.

  A passing train is singing me a long-forgotten lullaby from my childhood. Back then, I would close my eyes and imagine myself on a funky yellow train, taking me to a magical land. Mirror-clear ponds, colorful trees, friendly birds and animals, all within arm’s reach, so that I try and touch them … but an invisible shield doesn’t let me through.

  On the left-hand side there is a giant Whore of Babylon hung on a shaky marble wall, with fearsome, cruel wild animals snarling behind it. I slowly turn around and see the waiter from the yacht in Monaco, bringing me a tray with a few lines of charlie. My leopard-print dress changes into a floaty white gown as I bend over and blow the powder away. Miraculously, this turns it into a flurry of snow, which covers all the mud around. The whiteout disguises pieces of the blown-up Ferrari, scattered Caesium rods, parts of an unfinished gas pipeline … making the glade look white and innocent.

  Feeling warm, I try to take a step back, but realize I am squeezed into a cozy, dark space. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet … the sound of tranquil breathing is lulling me to sleep, accompanied by the remote sound of a heartbeat. Striving to get out of here, I push the elastic upper deck above me, beyond which a giant, warm hand soothes me with love.

  ‘You’re small and I’m big,’ I hear a calm, melodic voice say. ‘You’re a part of me just like I’m a part of you. I forgive you.’ I realize it is me singing, standing in a glittering, snowy field. The joyful, elevating anticipation of becoming a mother overwhelms me as I caress my big tummy to calm down my timorous baby.

  I wake up with my hands on my abdomen, disappointed not to be pregnant …

  In the dark, I grab my phone from the nightstand and see dozens of missed calls from Akbar and other unknown numbers. My inbox and messaging apps are brim-full with links and emails from Richard, with the subject line “Must Read”.

  A picture of people in white uniform under the Libya Bridge is slowly loading on my screen and I ravenously read the text below:

  ‘Italian police seized a truly astonishing haul of 200 pounds of Caesium-137 in Genoa port today. The destination of the contraband is still being investigated, but is believed to be destined for a large international criminal network, perhaps tied to a terrorist organization, in the Middle East.

  ‘The container carrying Caesium-137 came from an Eastern European contractor,’ Marco Vanini, the chief of the shipping container terminal said in the interview today.

  ‘The seizure was the final outcome of a complex investigation involving various Italian police forces and with the assistance of Italian intelligence services, reporters were told at the press conference.

  ‘Caesium-137 is an especially dangerous fission product because of its high yield during fission, moderate half-life, high-energy decay pathway, and chemical reactivity. Because of these properties, Caesium-137 is a major contributor to the total radiation
released during nuclear accidents.

  ‘During the Chernobyl explosion, about 27 kg or 60 pounds of Caesium-137 was expelled into the atmosphere, and it was the predominant contributor to the contamination …’

  Impatiently, I look through the links and pictures, realizing Richard must have changed his mind and indeed pulled some strings.

  I quickly dial his number: ‘Nice article,’ I say casually.

  ‘Oh well, I had a good source,’ he responds, in the same fashion.

  ‘What made you trust it?’

  ‘A glimmer in her eye … when she was caught in a compromising position … at the stadium,’ he says, deliberately clearing his throat between the words. ‘So determined and so … primordial, in a way … like a lioness.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you would see it,’ I mumble, shamefaced.

  ‘Well, naturally after our conversation I got very interested about everything happening in Genoa … and that was the most popular news item.’

  ‘Damn it,’ I say, dying from embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t be too tough on yourself,’ he says. ‘You obviously did it to get the container of Caesium stripped out of the shipping docket. Even your injured body didn’t stop you.’

  ‘It was such a disgusting thing to do,’ I sigh, wanting him to think of me as a nice girl.

  ‘We’ve all been there, maybe even worse. But it seems that in the midst of humiliation you’ve had your liberation … physical and physiological. I believed you.’

  ‘I hope Akbar and Schneider aren’t as observant as you are … hope they at least won’t touch the poor guy.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s all over the Italian media now; he’s a hero. The real act of heroism is what you’ve done. If it wasn’t for you, who knows how many innocent lives would have been taken.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me … someone would still be alive,’ I say bitterly.

  ‘They would have blown up the reactor anyway, you know it … but it took someone like you to stop the Caesium contraband. Maybe things happen the way they should have happened,’ he consoles.

  ‘Yeah … there is something else,’ I say, fighting the lump in my throat through the tense silence on the other end. ‘I had an abortion,’ I finally reveal, feeling a weight lifting from my shoulders.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he sighs. ‘To have had a child with Akbar would’ve had destructive consequences for the rest of your life.’

  ‘He might believe it’s still a possibility,’ I say, more to myself than to Richard. ‘“It” was Alex’s.’

  ‘Well, there’s no positive spin unless there’s a spiritual connection involved,’ he comforts me. ‘Until then it’s just a potential existence … It is amazing, though, the power your body has to create … the potential for life,’ he says thoughtfully.

  ‘I could have been six or seven months pregnant by now,’ I say, with regret. ‘Imagine, that little life inside me, for whom I am the entire universe …’

  ‘Oh my God,’ he suddenly exclaims. ‘It’s the baby’s universe!’

  ‘What?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘My father’s sculptures,’ he explains. ‘He was sculpting a baby in a mother’s womb. He must have folded a traditional paperweight in tiny gold flakes … perhaps heating it to the melting point of bronze, at twelve to sixteen hundred degrees, to encase the fetus figure in Murano glass. The ruin behind the house was a glass furnace!’ he exclaims, finally solving the puzzle that has been bothering him all his life. ‘The oil drum, the insulation, the gas canisters … the liquid polyester resin … especially clear … he must have wanted to make a solid cast with an object inside.’

  ‘Like that Arman piece in the Tate? The female form filled with shaving brushes?’ I say, following his thought process.

  ‘Exactly,’ he affirms. ‘Solid. Acrylic … Then he would have used laser cutting to produce the stars and clusters inside the glass …’

  ‘Sounds like you’re finally about to piece it all together,’ I remark.

  ‘At least now I understand what it is …’

  ‘It could’ve been a sculpture with a very powerful message.’

  ‘Oh my gosh … it’s just dawned on me … my mother must have had a miscarriage!’ he exclaims. ‘She was in the hospital and when she came back it was never the same. She blamed my father … that’s how he depicted his frustration …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly.

  ‘It’s OK … All that dusted wreckage was always too meaningful and too painful to touch. I should do something about it … now’s a good time … It seems like I’m no longer going to work for the FT.’

  ‘You’re quitting your job?’ I ask, bewildered.

  ‘I just need out … obviously seeing Sophie every day doesn’t help.’

  ‘I understand,’ I sympathize. ‘I wouldn’t go back to work either.’

  ‘You should just write it all down in a novel, make millions and forget about banking.’

  ‘I don’t know … who would read it?’ I say doubtfully.

  ‘It’s a good story … corruption, redemption, sex and a hot chick,’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘Katya and Richard’s love story,’ I mock.

  ‘You might want to change a few names,’ he suggests.

  ‘I’d want a happy end,’ I say playfully.

  ‘You can always make one,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’ I ask, wondering if he means us.

  ‘Really,’ he echoes, making me smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SNOW JOB

  I open my eyes, feeling love in my every breath, in my every move.

  A delicious smell from the kitchen wafts into my room, making me feel hungry and happy. Today things will unfold the way God wants them to.

  I reach for my phone to check the news and the first thing that hits me is the report of snow in London. All the flights are canceled because of it. The emergency services are hopeless when it’s snowing … ideal time to torch a house …

  My phone treacherously vibrates and I don’t need to look at the screen to know it is Akbar.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, my tone serious and professional.

  ‘Well, hello, Katyusha, how are you feeling?’ he asks, sounding suspiciously kind.

  ‘I’m OK … still haven’t had my period,’ I say, trying to play the pregnancy card.

  ‘So that’s why you decided to go to Italy to fuck the docker?’ he says, restraining himself from yelling. ‘What the fuck, Katya? Why?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand …’ I mutter.

  ‘So there’s something I don’t understand here?’ he angrily interrupts, and then, breaking into a full-blown yell: ‘Is there?’

  ‘It was Schneider’s idea …’ I say. If I can get them to bump heads with each other, they might just leave me out of it …

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about Schneider!’ he bellows, audibly smashing something for emphasis. ‘He’s going to get what he deserves. Traitors get whacked,’ he says, inhaling ostentatiously. ‘Blyat, did I ask you to mess with my shipment?’

  ‘I couldn’t let it on the ship,’ I say, standing up to his interrogation.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, who are you to decide what gets onto the ship?’ he fumes. ‘The container was supposed to quietly get to its destination. But no! You wanted the whole world to know about it.’

  ‘Akbar, wake up!’ I fiercely argue. ‘You can’t send contraband radioactive isotopes to an anarchic state in the Middle East. Think about your children, maybe our children, our grandkids and their kids …’ I know his soft spot, and am trying to push his buttons … ‘They’re going to condemn you for contaminating half the world - is that what you really want?’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Katya,’ he hisses.

  ‘You always knew you were going to blow up that reactor,’ I say accusingly.

  ‘It’s your fault that I’ve lost everything! I had no choice!’ he barks, defending himself. ‘But you,’ - he takes
a deep breath - ‘you have a choice now.’

  ‘Me?’ I ask.

  ‘You, suka, are going to get me back that container and I really don’t care if you have to fuck the entire police department. I really don’t fucking care!’ he yells, over yet another crashing sound on his side. ‘Do whatever you have to do to get my container back … otherwise your journalist won’t survive,’ he casually adds in his usual calm, unfaltering baritone.

  ‘What?’ I ask, my heart sinking into my boots. ‘What did you do to Richard?’ I ask, panicking.

  ‘Nothing too dramatic … yet,’ he calmly responds. ‘He’s just come to visit my mansion, so to speak. A long way from Fashion Street … in the trunk of my new Bentley Turbo,’ he says slowly, tasting every word, stabbing me right in the soul.

  ‘You can’t kidnap a British journalist!’ I shout desperately.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention, but he didn’t want to accept Ibrahim’s invitation, so technically, it was in self-defense.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Ibrahim is the scariest man on earth!’

  ‘What can I say, we’re fighting over you, femme fatale,’ he smirks, to the piercing noise of another crash, making my heart constrict with dread. ‘Katya, don’t …’ I hear Richard’s moan, and immediately something heavy shatters … and all is quiet once again … a dreadful, punching, killing silence, that makes my blood run cold and tears noiselessly roll down my cheeks, while I crumble inside.

  ‘Please, let him go …’ I cry, covering my mouth with my hand to muffle my howl.

  ‘You have twenty-four hours to get me the container,’ Akbar says matter-of-factly, and hangs up.

  He is going to kill him. Even if somehow I found a way to get the container back …

  I couldn’t do it.

  It would be against everything I stand for. It is clear, as clear as a mountain stream fed by melting snows - this silent realization that I finally have something to stand for … but I love him. I love him. Love is patient, love is kind, and it is not self-seeking … because there is plenty of it within to share … if only he could be safe …

  My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly swallows me whole.