Interesting. Not just anyone could get a table at a fancy Nevsky Prospekt restaurant. Laura had heard that if you weren’t a foreigner, a celebrity, or a Party big shot, they’d tell you the place was booked, while you stared at a roomful of empty tables.
So who was Alyosha’s father?
A man in a tuxedo, his dark hair slicked down, greeted them. He looked them up and down — Laura hadn’t dressed for a fancy restaurant, and neither had Alyosha — and asked how he could help them.
“I’m an Intourist guide,” Alyosha explained. “And this is an American tourist.”
Laura caught on right away. “Hello,” she said in English.
The host gave her a once-over again, his eyes settling on her dark blue corduroys and unfamiliar boots.
“Follow me.” He led them to a table beside a stained-glass window and left them with two menus. Laura opened hers and gasped.
“Look at all these dishes they have! Chicken Kiev! Beef Stroganoff!” Sadko also offered less familiar dishes like Cold Boiled Beef in Jelly and Herring with Boiled Potatoes. Laura had seen some of these dishes on the menu at the Russian Tea Room in New York, but since she’d arrived in Leningrad she’d only eaten in cafés where the menu featured Russian vinaigrette salad (potatoes, beets, and sauerkraut), meat and cabbage pies, and shchi, or cabbage soup. There seemed to be no shortage of cabbage. Alyosha nodded. A waiter arrived and Alyosha ordered a bottle of champagne.
“What are you going to have?” Laura asked.
“I’m going to ask for the stroganoff and go from there.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant. “I have to try chicken Kiev. That’s the one where you cut into the chicken breast and butter squirts out?”
The champagne arrived. The bottle had a generic label that said Soviet Champagne. The waiter opened it with a flourish and poured them each a glass.
“To your health.” Alyosha clinked her glass.
“To your health.” She took a sip. A little sweet, but the bubbles were pleasantly tickly.
“May I take your order?” The waiter stood in front of them with a white napkin draped over one forearm. This restaurant was like something out of an old movie, so formal and stiff.
“Do you have the beef stroganoff?” Alyosha asked.
“No. We’re out of that.”
“What about the chicken Kiev?”
“Sorry, we don’t have that today.”
“That’s a shame,” Laura said. The waiter gave her a strange glare.
“Hmm …” Alyosha scanned the menu. “Do you have any chicken dishes at all?”
“No. No chicken.”
“Beef?”
The waiter shook his head.
“Fish?”
“We have pickled herring with cream sauce.”
“Ew.” Laura made a face. The waiter’s glare intensified.
“What else do you have?”
“Potato salad, borscht, and cabbage soup.”
“And that’s all?”
“Who are you to complain?” the waiter snapped. “That should be enough for anyone.”
“Okay, okay. Bring us some borscht.” Alyosha closed the menu. The waiter stalked away.
“That’s disappointing,” Laura said.
“It’s always this way,” Alyosha said. “If they get anything good, the waiters take it for themselves.”
“At least they have this lousy champagne.” Laura took a sip. “Which I like anyway.”
Alyosha raised his glass. “How do you toast in America?”
“Cheers,” Laura replied in English.
“Cheers.”
The tables around them emptied. Lunchtime was over. The waiter returned and set two bowls of lukewarm borscht in front of them. The huge room was hushed. The chandeliers seemed to be listening in.
“Why did you do it?” Laura asked.
“Do what?”
“Shave off your mustache.”
“I don’t know. A voice inside my head told me to do it.” He crossed his eyes to indicate insanity.
She laughed. “No, really.”
He put down his spoon. It clanked loudly against the china bowl. He looked at Laura’s face with an almost quizzical expression, as if he might find the answer to a question there. “I had a reason, which I won’t tell you yet.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, a mustache always grows back.”
“That’s true.” What could the reason be?
“I thought it might make me look … more American.” He concentrated on his soup now. “Like the Great Gatsby.”
Laura nearly spit magenta soup across the table. “What?”
“I have an American book, The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Alyosha explained. “It’s in English, and it has the face of a very handsome man on the cover. He’s blond, with a square jaw and a straight nose and no mustache or beard. He looks so American. He’s the ideal American man, I think.”
“Is it a photograph?” Laura wondered if he was thinking of Robert Redford, who’d played Gatsby in the movie. He looked nothing like Alyosha, with or without facial hair.
“Yes. At first I thought it was a photograph of Fitzgerald, but someone explained that it’s actually an American movie star.”
“Robert Redford.”
“Do you think he’s handsome?”
“Sure. He’s not my favorite, though.”
“Who is your favorite?”
Laura had to think about it a minute. “Al Pacino.”
“Al Pacino? What does he look like?”
“He looks a little bit like you. Only darker, and with a bigger nose.”
“Does he have a mustache?”
“Not right now.”
“Then I will go without one, too. For you.”
For her! So Continental and un-American. So romantic. The idea of a boy doing something just for her was so unfamiliar she couldn’t quite relax. “Don’t do it for me. Don’t do anything for me.”
“Why not? I can’t think of a better reason to do anything.” He ducked his head and went back to his soup.
She took a minute to let a fizzy feeling dissolve like champagne into her bloodstream. This boy was very charming.
“Did you like the book? The Great Gatsby?” she asked.
“Yes, what I read of it. I can’t read very fast in English. I have to stop and look up a lot of words in the dictionary, and some of the words aren’t in there.”
“I have the same problem in Russian. Maybe you could read the Russian translation.”
“That is very hard to find.” He tapped his spoon against the bowl.
“I’m pretty sure I saw one last week,” Laura said. “At the Berioska Shop.”
Alyosha shrugged. “I’ll bet you see a lot of things at the Berioska Shop.”
Laura felt a twinge of guilt. The Berioska was a special store for foreigners only. Along with a range of tourist souvenirs, it was stocked with luxuries that ordinary Russians could hardly imagine: the best caviar, furs, wines, meats, amber jewelry, hard-to-find books and music, fancy lacquered boxes. They didn’t accept rubles, only US dollars, German marks, French francs, British pounds, and so on. The windows were shaded and the door guarded to keep ordinary Soviet citizens out. The government didn’t want them to see the luxuries they were deprived of — but everyone knew about them anyway.
“Have you ever been inside one?” Laura asked.
“No, of course not. How could I? They check your passport.”
“They’ve never checked my passport.”
“That’s because you’re obviously American.”
“Well … what if you were obviously American?”
He lifted his eyes from his bowl. “What do you mean?”
“What if I borrowed some clothes from one of my friends and we dressed you up as an American guy? I could teach you a few English phrases to say in case anyone talked to you, and maybe we could sneak you into the Berioska.” Dan Knowles was just about Alyosha’s size, she thought.
“Dangerous? How?”
“We’ll get caught, and we’ll both be in trouble. You could get sent home. And I’m not ready for you to leave yet.” Laura’s American chaperones, Dr. Stein and Dr. Durant, were always warning the students about infractions — from missing curfew to associating with the wrong people — that could get them sent home. But how did Alyosha know about that?
“What about you?” she asked. “What would happen to you?”
“To me? It’s hard to say. I’ve had friends who have been arrested for less.”
“Arrested!”
“I had a friend in art school who sold fur hats to foreigners on the black market. He made a lot of money until he got caught. The militia arrested him and when we saw him a few weeks later he was a different person. Very skinny, quiet. Broken. He was kicked out of school, of course.”
“This isn’t worth getting arrested over,” Laura said. “But how would we get caught? We’re just shopping. If you stay quiet, no one will know.”
“They’ll know,” Alyosha said. “Somehow they’ll know.”
His mood had turned quickly from puckish to grim. She wanted to call back that mischievous spirit.
“Don’t you want to see a Berioska Shop for yourself?” she asked.
“I have to admit I’m curious.”
“Then let’s do it.”
He hesitated.
“Come on. It will be an adventure.”
He lifted his glass and clinked it against hers again. “To adventure,” he said. “Our next adventure together.”
You’re going to do what?”
Karen was having trouble understanding the plan. Maybe it was too ridiculous to be understood.
“I’m going to dress Alyosha in American clothes from head to toe and bring him into the Berioska Shop with me. What size sneakers do you think Dan wears?”
“And what are you going to do when he opens his mouth and says, ‘Khallo, please to show me some rrrecords’?”
“His accent’s not that bad. And anyway, I’ll do all the talking.”
Karen shook her head. “You are going to get into so much trouble.”
“No I’m not. Besides, it’s a good deed. He’s never been inside a Berioska! He’s very curious about it.”
“Sure, they all are. That’s why you’re going to get walloped.”
Laura knocked on Dan’s door and explained her plan. Dan blinked at her, owlish behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“I love this,” Dan said. “I’ll give you whatever you need.”
She borrowed socks, shoes, a shirt, a pair of jeans, and a jacket. She considered borrowing underwear, just for pure authenticity, but Dan assured her they wouldn’t be checking Alyosha that thoroughly.
“You’re going to get into major trouble for this,” he said. “You know that, right?”
She refused to believe it or care.
* * *
On the day of the Big Adventure, her classes felt endless. In Phonetics, Laura’s favorite class, they were learning jokes.
“Our Physics teacher talks to himself. Does yours?”
“Ours does, too. But he doesn’t know he’s doing it. He thinks we are listening.”
Ha ha ha.
“Okay, Karina and Lara, read the next joke, please,” the Phonetics professor, Semyon Mikhailovich, said.
Laura read the first line: “What are you doing, my little daughter?”
Karen: “I’m writing a letter to Olya.”
Laura: “But you don’t know how to write.”
Karen: “So what? Olya doesn’t know how to read.”
Karen stared at Laura for a second with a wry expression in her eyes. Then they both burst out laughing, mostly to please the teacher, but also at the absurdity of the class.
“Very good.” Semyon Mikhailovich’s eyes danced when he laughed. He was young, tall, and refined, with dark hair and round black glasses. Laura couldn’t be sure if he laughed because he thought the jokes were genuinely funny — in which case, he had the lamest sense of humor ever — or if he saw the absurdity too, and didn’t know what else to do but laugh.
Laura wondered if Alyosha had heard that one. She’d tell it to him and see. He probably knew much funnier jokes.
Karen and Laura crossed the crowded hallway to their next class, Translation. Translation was not as much fun as Phonetics.
The professor, Raisa Ivanovna, passed out sheets of onionskin paper so thin that the O on her typewriter had poked straight through. “Here is your homework for tomorrow. Translate this article into Russian. Let’s go over some of the more difficult vocabulary.”
Laura glanced at the article, “Siberia: A Land Reborn,” and quietly groaned. Karen pointed out one sentence: “The programme for the economic development of the Baikal-Amur zone, drawn up by scientists of the Siberian branch of the USSR Academy of Sciences, makes up a multivolume encyclopaedia.”
“Bedtime reading,” Karen whispered.
Raisa Ivanovna explained vocabulary words like gas reserves and hydropower stations. Laura’s mind wandered. This was her last class of the afternoon. As soon as it was over, she would cross the river on her way to meet Alyosha, and they would have their adventure — if she didn’t die of boredom first.
* * *
“Wait.” Alyosha stopped her just outside the European Hotel. “What’s my name?”
“Oh. Your name. Right.” She stopped to consider him in his American down jacket, blue jeans, and oxford cloth shirt. They were Dan’s clothes, but he didn’t look like a Dan. He looked weirdly preppy.
“You’re Skip.”
“Skeep? Is that a name?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“Really? It sounds funny. Okay. I’m Skeep.”
“Not Skeep. Skip. Skip.”
“Skee-ip.”
“Uh, yeah. Leave the talking to me.”
She pushed through the revolving door, nodding at the guard just inside. “Passports,” he barked.
“Passport. Sure.” Laura answered his English with hers, giving the impression of someone who couldn’t speak Russian if she tried. She opened her bag and pretended to rummage around for her passport. “We just got into town and I’m so disorganized….”
The guard stared impassively, scrutinizing Alyosha’s face and clothes. Laura resisted the temptation to glance back at Alyosha and see how he was holding up under the pressure.
“Here it is.” She produced her passport. The guard opened it, studied it, compared the photo to her face, and returned it with a grunt.
“Thank you.” She took Alyosha’s hand and pulled him inside with her, but the guard said, “Wait. Your passport, please, sir.”
Laura hoped the guard didn’t notice the flash of panic in Alyosha’s eyes. He patted Dan’s coat, pretending to search his pockets.
“Did you leave it in the hotel room again, Skip?” Laura scolded. “He keeps doing that. It’s gotten us into so much trouble. You’ll let us in, won’t you? We’re just going to spend some money in the Berioska Shop. You know — dollars.” She opened her passport case and let a twenty-dollar bill fall to the mosaic floor of the hotel entrance. Whoops, dropped one. She pretended not to notice. “We’re leaving town tomorrow, so we’ve got to get some souvenirs today. I promised my aunt Lucy I’d get her an enamel box, and she’ll kill me if I go home without one, right, Skip?”
Alyosha opened his mouth to speak. She could see the D of Da forming between his teeth. She winced — no, Alyosha, don’t say it….
He saved himself at the last moment with a silent nod.
The guard subtly stepped on the bill on the floor and waved them inside.
“Thank you! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll be sure to tell Aunt Lucy how nice you were!” She dragged Alyosha along before the guard could change his mind.
Alyosha’s hand, sweaty and shaky, gripped hers. She gave him an encouraging smile, but he stay
ed stone-faced.
“Don’t be nervous,” she whispered — sticking with English, just in case — as they crossed the hotel lobby.
“I’m not,” he insisted, but she knew he was lying. Being brave for her.
She opened the curtained door to the Berioska Shop, then smiled and waved at the guard who sat just inside. “Hi!” The guard let them pass without a comment. So far, so good.
For one second Alyosha stood frozen in place at the entrance, unsure what to do. He gazed around the gleaming room at the glass cases full of luxurious objects he had no access to. Laura tugged on his hand and pulled him toward the food section.
“Let’s go on a binge,” she said. “We’ll buy whatever you like.” She didn’t have a lot of money, but this seemed like something worth spending it on.
She took a basket and led him down the aisles of packaged goods, cookies and sardines and tuna and caviar. He seemed afraid to touch anything, so she helped him by taking his hand and forcing it to grip a bottle of olives.
“Laura, I don’t like olives,” he whispered. The Russian words seemed to spill out of him involuntarily. No one was close enough to hear.
She laughed and put them back. “Ha! Neither do I. What about macadamia nuts?”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“We’ll try them.” She put them in the basket. They went to the meat counter. She followed Alyosha’s eyes as he took in the varieties of sausages and cutlets and ordered the ones he seemed to linger over.
They bought Dutch cheese, French wine, an amber pin for Alyosha’s aunt. Alyosha stared at everything, afraid to say a word. The salesgirls stood around yawning and gossiping, helping out grudgingly when asked.
It’s working, Laura thought. We are actually getting away with this.
“Okay, Skip — have we got everything we need?”
Alyosha nodded, but his eyes fell on something beyond her shoulder that seemed to trouble him. She turned around. A pretty brunette shopgirl was showing dolls to a German woman. The girl looked at Alyosha curiously, as if she knew him.
“Alyosha?” the shopgirl asked in Russian. “Is that you?”
Alyosha started. Laura pulled him aside. “Who is that?” she whispered in English.
“Marina. I went to school with her,” he replied in Russian. When he was nervous, his English failed him. “She recognized me! What are we going to do?”
The Boy on the Bridge Page 4
