Gold Digger

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Who?”

  “My therapist.”

  Seemed he couldn’t take a step without putting his foot in it. “Are you all right?”

  “Just forgot to tell him I won’t be around for the normal appointment this week.”

  “Okay.” He should think, sit and talk to Vadim, but his brain felt like it was swollen and rubbing against the inside of his skull. “It’s good to see you. Really good. I hope I’ll be coherent in a few hours. Maybe wake me in the afternoon?”

  Vadim nodded, and Nikolai grabbed his bag and headed upstairs. He knew where the master bedroom was. Vadim had taken him there to show him the dark wooden panel hanging over their bed that a native Maori artist had carved for them. Two war chiefs, engaged in what could have been a battle, a dance, or sex, done in a modern interpretation of traditional Maori art.

  He sat down on the bed, pulled off his shoes, then grabbed a woolen blanket and lay down, too tired and sore to think about anything.

  Somebody woke him, and he opened his eyes. Vadim was sitting on the bed. “Coffee?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Nikolai rubbed his face and sat up, feeling a great deal more awake than he had been. The sun was low; it had to be late afternoon. He reached over and Vadim put a mug in his hand. The coffee was made with milk, no sugar, as Nikolai always had it. He remembered he’d dreamed of something. Henri. He groaned and shook his head.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, just a weird dream.”

  Vadim gave a measured nod. “How did it make you feel?”

  Nikolai shrugged. “Confused, I think.” He sipped the coffee and felt a little bit more awake. A hot drink could sometimes really bring body and soul back together, especially during a shift on a North Sea rig. “Damn, this is good coffee.”

  Vadim didn’t respond; he just watched attentively, and Nikolai reminded himself that this was pretty much normal. Compared to a lively guy like Henri—and why did Henri come up all the time?—Vadim was stoic and impassive. There was a sense of calm, but it always hid a much deeper sense of disquiet. The trauma. He’d never be able to touch that, or even reach those dark parts of his father. Well, “father.”

  “I’ll grab a shower and come downstairs. Then we can head off?”

  “Aye.” Vadim stood and left.

  Nikolai yawned and drank more coffee. Shower, repacking his stuff, a fresh T-shirt and fresh jeans. He felt a great deal better when he came down the stairs.

  Vadim stood in the kitchen, mug in hand, zoned out. His weathered face was blank, yet tight, the cold blue eyes slightly narrowed, clear, and staring into the distance. Every muscle in his arm, from his fingers to his shoulder and neck, was taut. His free hand pressed in a tight fist against his thigh.

  “Dad?” Nikolai stepped closer, though his hackles rose.

  Please, don’t let it be a flashback.

  No response. He moved into Vadim’s line of vision, as eerie as it was to step into that sightless and yet laser-focused stare. “Vadim? Dad?”

  Vadim tilted his head, eyes staying focused. It seemed to cost him, but then he blinked and his gaze rested on Nikolai. For a moment, Nikolai wasn’t sure his father (not) even recognized him, but then Vadim put the mug down. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep.” Nikolai picked up his jacket. “I think I’ll drive.”

  Because there’s no way I’m letting you drive after this little episode.

  “So, how is everybody?” Vadim asked once they’d filled up the car and were heading down toward Wellington. What Nikolai really liked about the roads here (and what made up for their pretty poor quality otherwise) was their emptiness. It was quite easy to drive in New Zealand and not encounter another car for twenty or thirty minutes.

  “Well, Katya is big in real estate and busy buying up Tbilisi. Anya is getting famous as a surgeon. Last thing I heard, well, really previous-to-last, was that she saved the son of a big industrialist who’d nearly killed himself in a car crash. She has nerves of steel. Quite possibly the same stuff her heart’s made of.”

  “Did you fight?” His father had that talent of asking the important questions without preamble.

  “We’re cats and dogs, really. Always were. So the last thing I heard was that Liz had left her, with their son. Seems Anya cheated, but I don’t know the details. I’m not that interested in the family dirt.”

  Vadim reached down into the glove compartment and pulled out his sunglasses, then carefully and methodically polished them. “Have you talked to Lizabeta?”

  “No. I . . . was too busy. I figured I should leave her alone for a while. I don’t want to crowd her as Anya’s brother. I guess she has more important things on her mind than talking to me.”

  “Can you make sure she’s all right?”

  “In what way? Financially?”

  Vadim shrugged. “That, too.” He didn’t elaborate, and Nikolai really wasn’t sure what was going on in his father’s mind. “She does have a kid.”

  “Yeah.” Nikolai fell silent, unwilling to think about Szandor. Every single father-child relationship in his family was messed up. Fathers weren’t really fathers, but if they were, they weren’t very good at it. He’d heard little about Vadim’s father, his grandfather (except not), but he did know they’d never really been on good terms, diverging too far in intellect, politics, and overall character. Vadim’s father had been bookish, intellectual, allegedly good with people; Vadim had turned himself into a cold-blooded killing machine until he’d been too messed up to continue, too old to do anything but security advisory.

  Nikolai suspected that Vadim’s financial comforts hadn’t exactly been earned by cuddling orphans and protecting widows, and the people he’d advised hadn’t used Vadim’s knowledge to safeguard civilians. War was a dirty business, and Vadim was likely filthy to the elbows from it, if not further. Once, they’d been driving up to Rotorua, and, to mask the heavy silence in the car, Nikolai had switched on the radio. A story came on about the Afghan elections, and Vadim had killed the radio without a word, his lips pulled into a sneer. More than twenty years on, he still hated that place.

  “Have you ever met the kid? I know Liz and Anya were at your wedding, but Liz was pregnant then.”

  “No. Too busy, too . . . hostile.” Vadim stared at the sunglasses in his hands. “Can’t fault her.”

  Nikolai reached out and placed a hand on Vadim’s powerful wrist. “One day, Anya will realize that holding grudges is a wretched way to spend her time.”

  Vadim placed his hand on Nikolai’s and squeezed gently. “Not likely, but it took me a long time to understand some emotions myself.” He put on the sunglasses and looked out the window, clearly thinking his deep thoughts and mulling things over. Vadim always wore his thoughts like a long veil trailing around and behind him, and Nikolai decided to leave him to them. To interact with his father (not) at all, he had to give him a huge amount of time and space, much more than with anybody else he knew. Talking to him was always like making that tenuous first contact with a stranger when you just didn’t know how he’d respond.

  “She is quite like me,” Vadim added, fifteen minutes later.

  “You’re not—”

  “Like I was at her age.”

  “Oh.” When Nikolai had been a kid and Vadim had been home, he’d seemed distant, not really there in Moscow, but not actively hostile. Or maybe that was what he’d seemed like to his family. Though they’d only ever encountered Spetsnaz Captain Vadim Petrovich Krasnorada on a good day. “Well, I hope she and Liz find a way to let Szandor see Anya every now and then.”

  “Szandor?” Vadim turned his head. “Is that what they called the child?”

  “Yes, friend of our mother, and, oh.” Damn. He’d totally forgotten that the original Szandor had been Vadim’s friend. Considering Szandor had been flamingly gay, Nikolai wondered for a moment where that friendship had begun and ended. He didn’t want to think of it too much; the mismatch between Vadim and Szandor was too great. “He was kind of Unc
le Szandor to us. Before he died, I mean.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  After Katya’s and Vadim’s divorce, Katya had started again in Hungary, teaming up with Szandor, whom she’d met at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. They’d both been top-class fencers and had run a salle in the house in Budapest Szandor owned and that, after his death, had become the cornerstone of Katya’s future real estate empire.

  “Szandor taught us fencing while he still could. He adored Anya, said she was extremely talented. He was . . . a perfect gentleman, I guess, very soft, very kind. Extremely generous. Was he your lover?”

  “Yes.” Vadim said it without emotion. Or maybe he’d buried it so deeply that he himself couldn’t access it anymore.

  “He had a partner up until he got ill. When the . . . when he developed AIDS, the guy couldn’t deal with it and left him. Funny, well, ‘cept it’s not, he came back a year or so after Szandor’s death and . . .”

  Asked me for forgiveness. As if I could give it. As if I’d been Szandor’s family, or something even closer.

  Vadim watched him carefully from behind those mirrored glasses. “What happened?”

  “I was really angry at him and told him that leaving your dying partner is beyond the pale. Funny, I just didn’t have it in me to forgive him for it. Now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve. You know, be half as generous as Szandor was in life. He never really held a grudge or anything.”

  “He had a strange sense of honor, that Hungarian,” Vadim said wistfully. “I’d have punched his boyfriend.”

  Nikolai laughed. “Yeah, you would’ve. That’s very you.”

  “What was your relationship like?”

  “It was Anya who was the favorite student, but our relationship was still a good one. He helped me when I got into trouble or needed to talk to an adult who’d listen and not shout at me. He had this way of making me feel better by asking about things I cared about rather than whatever was bothering me, until I could come out with it at my own speed. He was wise like that. Not pushy.”

  “A bit like a real uncle? Or more like a father?”

  Vadim was slowly encircling him; he felt it. “I don’t know. He just seemed like an adult who was always on my side. A nice guy. An ally.”

  Vadim frowned, thinking, then took off his sunglasses. “He was my mentor, too, just in a different way.” He glanced over, and Nikolai’s breath caught. Before he could protest that Szandor had never touched him in any way, Vadim lifted a hand to kill that sentence. “I know he’d never have taken advantage of you. For all his razor-sharp reflexes to exploit a weakness on the piste, he’d never take advantage off the piste. Correct?”

  “Yeah.” Nikolai fell silent, thinking, remembering the man, his slight athletic built and the perfect fencer’s posture. He’d been the embodiment of dignity and a quiet, calm confidence that came from inside. “You know, I think maybe I resented you because he died of AIDS.”

  “Me?”

  “Katya said that gay guys screw around so much, they’re bound to catch something. I’m not sure she still thinks that, though back then, she did. She was shaken up more than most when he was diagnosed. She looked after him and told us to treat him normally. And we did. We didn’t really understand why he was so ill. But I remember when I asked her what was wrong, she explained that Szandor being gay and ‘screwing around’ meant it was the ‘logical conclusion.’ When I learned you’re gay, the first thing I thought was that you’d die like he did.”

  Vadim’s lips tightened, and the silence settled like a third person in the car. “By now you know that even straight people catch and die from it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Being a soldier and then a mercenary was more dangerous than being gay. Much dirtier, too. Less fun. Though I certainly made the most of both.” He shook his head and fell silent again.

  Nikolai breathed deeply, examining those thoughts, too. That he’d always considered being gay risky and that it might lead to death—possibly as a logical conclusion, like Katya had said. And where exactly did that leave him now? Him and that crazy tenderness for Henri and how much he’d enjoyed the sex with him?

  “I think he loved you a great deal. Szandor.”

  “I know he did,” Vadim said calmly. “Wish I’d appreciated it more.”

  Nikolai reached over and touched Vadim’s hand. Dry, powerful, large, and gentle. It was weird to see Vadim so mellow rather than withdrawn, though he was that, too. By Vadim’s standards, he was positively chatty and lively now, and Nikolai appreciated the openness. If only he could have broached the one topic he really cared about, the one he kept worrying like a broken tooth.

  The front desk at the Museum Hotel checked them in quickly. The whole place was weird and vibrant, with odd art on the walls and strangely old-fashioned décor, though the building itself was completely modern. Vadim had booked them a suite that looked out toward Wellington harbor—the bedrooms were both doubles and they shared a spacious living room and a kitchen.

  It made sense, in case Vadim wasn’t up to heading out. Sometimes he preferred to stay indoors, like once in Rotorua, where he’d spent the night shaking with ugly flashbacks in one of the hot tubs, trying to calm down. But Nikolai didn’t mind sharing a room with Vadim; he’d done so on their other trips. They’d even slept in the same large bed and he’d never thought about it much. Vadim had indicated he might freak out in the middle of the night, so Nikolai had done what he could to make it easy on him.

  That night in Rotorua, when it had been really bad—so bad that Nikolai had considered calling a medical professional—he’d even held Vadim and talked to him, feeling every shake in his father’s huge body like an earthquake, feeling for the first time in his life pitifully grown up, all because his father was weak and needed him. It was not something he wanted to repeat, not ever if possible, but it had bonded them more than the uneasy conversations before that.

  Nikolai tossed his bag on the bed and opened the curtain, looking out over the lights of Wellington. He stretched and yawned and plugged his laptop in to recharge. A quick check of his emails wouldn’t (likely) hurt, so he connected to the hotel Wi-Fi and downloaded them. Thank God, none from his mother and none from Anya. She’d meant it, then. That was it. She’d just ended contact, probably forever. That wasn’t beyond her.

  And email from Henri LeBeau. Nikolai ground his teeth and opened it.

  Hi Nikolai, hope you’re well. Could you please answer your phone? Or maybe listen to the message I left you, garbled as it was?

  Henri

  Nikolai plugged in his phone, but a knock at the door derailed every thought about maybe really listening to it. He glanced up and saw Vadim standing in the doorway. “Hotel restaurant or room service?”

  “Restaurant?”

  Vadim nodded. “Good with me. Now?”

  He had to be hungry, whereas Nikolai still felt bloated from the airline food. “Fine. Let’s get something to eat. I think I’m catching a second wind now. My sleep-wake rhythm is going to be completely fucked for a few days.”

  “Take time to rest. The jetlag isn’t easy to deal with.” Vadim pushed away from the doorframe.

  Nikolai grabbed his key card and wallet and they headed downstairs and then across the building to the restaurant. He really liked the mood in this place. Few hotels he’d been to managed to pull off both classy and quirky. No wonder Solange had adored it, though the main building seemed to have more curtains and enormous mirrors than an expensive bordello circa 1920.

  They got a great table in the restaurant and decided to go with the five-course taster menu as Vadim suggested. Nikolai was happy to put his taste buds at Vadim’s mercy; that usually worked out fine and it turned out well this time, too. No deep conversations; they’d had enough of that, so they talked about the place and the food and otherwise had a few measured exchanges that counted as chitchat between them. Nikolai really didn’t mind that. As withdrawn as Vadim was, he could be good company.

  �
��So, with the Olympics coming up, any of your young padawans going to represent Kiwiland?” he asked as he was finishing his crème brulée.

  “No, though I did singlehandedly raise the local profile in fencing. The fencing club in Palmy is doing well, but I’m mostly teaching women’s self-defense and leave running the fencing to some of the advanced students.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “Aye. Preventing people from turning into victims.” He gazed into the distance, then down at his plate. “Poetic justice.”

  Nikolai wasn’t quite sure he caught the meaning behind that, though he assumed it had to do with Vadim’s soldiering days. And if it did, this was the first hint of atonement or guilt he’d ever caught from him. “I think that’s great. Keeps you active and involved with people. You know, connected.”

  Vadim nodded and offered a rare smile. “Yes, it gives me a great deal.”

  Nikolai reached over and touched Vadim’s hand again. The waiter, a young, good-looking guy, had just brought the bill and stared down at their hands for a moment, but Nikolai didn’t feel guilty or weird. The waiter looked away, then smiled at them both with more watts than he’d spared during his service. Did he think they were lovers? And how weird was that?

  “Let me cover that, Dad,” Nikolai said to resolve the situation and pulled out his credit card.

  “We can put it on the overall bill,” Vadim protested.

  “No, that’s fine. I do part-own a gold company, you know.” Nikolai dealt with the waiter, who seemed a touch flustered, feeling a little sorry he had shattered his illusion, but the last thing he wanted was to send the wrong message. “I think he assumed we were dating.”

  Vadim snorted and turned to look after him. “He’s much too young for me.”

  Nikolai chuckled. “You should have young guys throwing themselves at you.”

  Vadim briefly lifted a hand with his steel wedding band, which ended that particular conversation without further protest. Nikolai laughed and finished off his wine.

  Back in the suite, Nikolai went through his email and came across Henri’s. He noticed the reflex to delete it and glanced at his phone. He really didn’t feel like answering or listening to what was likely another corporate takeover move. Fuck Henri.