Moonflower

by Angela J. Townsend

  I sorted through the other papers tucked inside and unfolded a letter with words written in rigid block letters. It was from Russia, from an attorney. The letter stated I was the sole heir to my parents' farm in an abandoned village of Osko in Chuhlomskoy in the district of Kostroma and that I was to travel to Russia by the 12th of this month to sign the estate papers and make claim to the property or it would be seized by the government. The last piece of paper had Chuck’s handwriting across the front. Chase your dreams, kid. Love, Chuck.

  I turned the paper over. It was an itinerary and electronic ticket for my flight to Russia.

  “Did you find the papers?”

  I turned around. Flora leaned against the end of the lockers smoking a cigarette. “He went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get all that for you.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand. Won’t they tag me as a runaway?”

  “Not likely. He bribed some government official. Told him he was taking a hell of a risk but he didn’t seem to care. Guess he must have liked you a lot to go to that kind of trouble.”

  I nodded, tears came to my eyes. I looked at the date on the ticket. No wonder Chuck had already arranged everything so quickly and in advance; I only had a week to get there.

  I thought about everything that'd happened in the past few days. He already knew he would be leaving Bambi. And he wanted to make sure I could also escape. Why hadn’t he just told me? It would have been risky, I guess. Bambi could have caught me packing or talking to someone about it and it would have given me away. Chuck knew it had to be a last minute thing because Bambi would have done anything to stop me. If I would've left she would have lost her monthly check from the state. Bambi needed that check. She’d never get another foster kid, not unless she dried out. She could hide her drunkenness with me, I’d always covered for her.

  I clutched the papers to my chest. Hopefully, I could avoid being caught before I got on the plane.

  I drifted the backstreets of Seattle, constantly moving. Fear and exhaustion stalked me. Russia dominated my thoughts, it became my focal point when I wanted to give up and turn myself in so I could finally rest. Memories bloomed like daffodils and mingled with the sound of my mother’s voice, malen’kaya—malen’kaya…little one. I rolled the word over my tongue. Bits and pieces came floating back to me, but they were all the wrong shape and size to piece the puzzle of my past together. The more I thought of Russia and what I would find there, the less my feet ached, and the less my eyes burned from lack of sleep.

  Everywhere homeless people huddled against abandoned houses, under wooden benches, begging for spare change, cigarettes, food. Their wrinkled faces time worn and heavy with hopelessness. A group of teenagers rested on sleeping bags, smoking pot, strumming guitars, begging for money. People hurried past them, stepping over them as if they were invisible. A man in a business suit dropped change into a tin cup. I watched a girl scramble to grab it. Her hair straight and brittle like stems of tangled wheat, her skin marred by meth. She stared at me, her expression devoid of all emotion. It was like looking at an empty body whose soul had departed for a better place. When I stared back into those hollow, vacant eyes—I saw my own and it worried me. If I didn’t make it to Russia, I could end up like her.

  There were dozens of other homeless kids, gathered on dirty benches, washing their grimy faces in the bathrooms of nearby restaurants, sleeping on ratty mattresses. I could never sleep on the streets, exposed and dejected—on display for the entire world to see. I spent my evenings wandering Walmart, or hanging around all night cafés drinking cup after cup of coffee. I dozed off when I could. Restless. Always moving. Watching over my shoulder.

  The day before my flight, I went to the city library and hid away in a dark corner. I read everything about Russia, the people, their customs, history, and land. I was browsing near a row of travel books on Eastern Europe when I found a series of coffee table books on Russian art. I took one of the oversized volumes to a table, opened its soft ivory cover, and ran my hands over the smooth, buttery pages. I realized at that moment that I loved art more than anything. It was all I had left in the ashes that had become my life.

  For a fleeting moment, I thought about not going to Russia, throwing out the passport and other documents. Pretending they never existed, calling Jane and asking to be placed in another home. Enjoy rent-free living for another year, graduate, get a job, and go to art school. But something inside me rebelled. I had to make the trip to Russia. I had to know what happened to my parents. I wanted answers to all the questions that had become thorns in the labyrinth of mystery surrounding my life.

  At 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, I stood in front of the Crown Plaza, pretending I had stayed the night at the prestigious hotel, when in reality, I had crashed at the bus station. A shuttle arrived at the curb and I boarded for Sea-Tac. A wave of nerves fluttered over me. My hands shook. I didn’t know if I could pull it off. I was never very good at lying.

  I felt as if my head would explode. How many years in prison would they give me for a fake ID? It couldn’t be that long for minors. No, I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to end up in jail. My dreams of going to Russia faded with every anxious turn of the bus.

  A mile before the airport, the bus stopped again. I glanced out the window and spotted a biker in the next lane. He wore a mustache that hung like iron-bar. He turned and nodded to me. He looked friendly, light-hearted. There were fine lines around his hazel eyes, smile lines, no doubt. Tattoos slithering up the side of his arm.

  A terrible heaviness centered in the middle of my chest. Tears pooled in my eyes. For a second, I wondered if Chuck had sent him to watch over me, but when the light changed, the biker sped off in the opposite direction.

  I dropped my lashes to hide the hurt, sighed, and leaned back into the bus seat. I had never trusted anyone before in my life, but I had trusted Chuck. He would never have done anything that could have gotten me in trouble, never would have asked me to do anything he didn't think I couldn’t handle. As hard as it was, I had to continue to trust him.

  For some reason, it was important to him that I went to Russia. That I escaped. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to try to give me a new life. Now that his life was over, I had to make it to Russia, if only for him.

  The shuttle dropped me off near the next entrance and I slung my bag over my shoulder. I would have to pass through security and then find the correct gate. My stomach knotted and I felt like I had swallowed stones. My lungs wouldn’t expand. Could they tell I was nervous? Could they see the panic, the fear in my eyes that would give me away?

  The airport staff checked my bag and my ID. They searched me over and then waved me through. A tremendous weight lifted from my chest. Suddenly, I could breathe again. The massive plane I’d board in just a few minutes rested outside the window of the gate. All I wanted to do was get on board and into the air.

  “Miss?”

  I peered over my shoulder.

  Two armed guards were waving to me. "Miss, we need to speak to you,” one yelled.

  I stared wide-eyed as they approached me.

  One of the officers held out my backpack. “Is this your bag?”

  “Oh…yeah, um…thanks.” Would he see how nervous I was?

  A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “You’re welcome, miss, have a nice flight.”

  As he turned and walked away, the tension in my shoulders melted.

  When my row was finally called for boarding, I held my breath through the next bit of security, praying my boarding pass and papers were in order for the airlines.

  “Enjoy the flight.” The woman handed me the bundle of stubs. She barely glanced at my face and didn't even open my passport. I half ran down the accordion tunnel, passing the people blocking my path, desperate to be on the plane and in my seat before anyone could stop me.

  Even while the plane taxied the runway, I waited for security cars that never came. When the plane was off the ground, I knew there was no turning back. No
second guessing Chuck's carefully laid plans. The only city I’d ever known disappeared below me. But it really didn’t matter because it would never be home again—not without Chuck. I took out my sketch book and drew for hours on end. I sketched a picture of a mystical motorcycle soaring across the sky and signed it with a moonflower.

  The plane’s wheels touched ground, bounced off the runway, and settled. I yawned and stretched as the massive jet engines died down and we taxied to the platform. I stared out the window trying to see through the sheet of haze covering the landscape. I grabbed my bags, clutching the worn leather straps, suddenly overcome with apprehension. If this didn’t work out I’d be seriously screwed. What if I ran out of money? How would I ever make it back home? I knew nothing about Russia—I was putting my life at risk to find out what had happened at the very start of it. Why my mother was murdered and who my father was. I couldn’t let it go—the desire to know burned inside me. But maybe I had traveled all this way for nothing. Just the idea of seeing the house where my life started excited me. I had never owned anything other than my clothes or art supplies and now a house and farm would be mine—all mine. A home no one could rip me away from. At least, I hoped that was the case. It all seemed too easy—what if there were hidden costs I couldn’t pay?

  I shuffled down the aisle behind a long line of people waiting to get off the plane. Two steps and I’d leave the safety of the aircraft and be on foreign soil. There was no going back now. A slow, sick roll of anticipation churned inside of me as I stepped onto the platform of the cold airport terminal.

  Everything appeared so bleak, somber, and sterile. Russian voices swirled around while I made my way across the pale tiles to pass through Customs. Just this one last stop and I'd finally be free. I reached into my bag for my passport.

  A group of stooped, old women stood in line ahead of me, brightly colored scarves covering their heads. They wore heavy sensible shoes under a thick layer of peasant skirts. They reminded me of the little nesting dolls I had found at the market. They passed through the line quickly, chatting among themselves. The customs officer stamped each one of their tattered passports without hesitation. But it wasn’t so easy with mine. An officer, a young man with a square face and heavily starched uniform raised his eyebrows clear up to the brim of his black cap. He paused, examined my face with narrowed eyes, and took my passport aside to consult with another officer.

  The men pulled me into a small conference room. The older of the two, a man with steel gray hair and matching bushy mustache, questioned me in broken English. He asked me why I came to Russia, why I was traveling alone, what business I had there. I calmly pulled out the letter the attorney had given me and handed it to him. He read it slowly and handed the documents back to me. “Go.” He ushered me quickly toward the exit.

  After I passed through several doors and into a last lobby, I tucked the letter into the front pocket of my bag. I didn’t have an appointment, but I wanted to see the attorney right away. I didn’t want to lose the only thing I had come here for—my parent’s home. A place filled with mystery and unanswered questions.

  Near the exit, I spotted a guy about my age, but he was unlike anyone I’d ever seen before. He was striking, so handsome some would say he was beautiful in a guy sort of way. He clutched a sign with my name written in rigid letters across the front, which seemed to match the hardness of his exterior. He had thick, muscled shoulders like he lifted buckets of iron for a living. His eyes were as dark as his expression. He glared at me, cold and unfriendly. For a moment I thought he was going to smile but instead he pursed his lips even tighter.

  “Are you Natasha Novikoff?” He asked.

  I hesitated. “Yes…that’s me.”

  He nodded and slipped the sign under his arm and extended his hand. “I am Anatoly.” He took my hand and gave it a shake. His grip was incredibly strong, almost painful. “I work for Mr. Kardinovsky. I will be guide while you are here. I live in village where you are going. Come, we go now.”

  “To the village?”

  “No, to Mr. Kardinovsky’s office. He is here in Kostroma and expecting you. Village is 40 kilometers north. It is abandoned—except for caretakers.”

  “Abandoned? Why?”

  He shrugged. “People leave. Go to cities to work. We go now, please.”

  He opened the exit door. For a moment I wasn’t sure if he was holding it open for me or for himself, I hesitated before passing through and we both tried to leave at the same time. Our bodies pressed together. His body went as rigid as a suit of heavy armor; he held every muscle tense as if I were a poisonous insect about to sting him. “I’m sorry,” I stammered.

  His breath fell in rapid beats against my cheek. We both struggled and locked bodies again.

  “Excuse,” he said. “Ladies first. Please.”

  “Uh, Sorry.” I pushed past him. Normally I would have died a thousand deaths of embarrassment, but I was so preoccupied with the idea that I was finally in Russia

  Outside, the air was warmer than I'd expected, crisp and clean. It seemed everything I ever read about Russia was about how cold it was. Nothing but snow and ice. But I wasn’t prepared to feel such intense heat. All around me people wore summer clothing, shorts and t-shirts.

  I peeled off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Anatoly pause. When he saw me looking, he averted his gaze, frowned, and walked away. There was something about the way he walked that intrigued me, it was almost military. His shoulders were rigid, his back stiff. It was like every step had some super serious purpose.

  At the curb, a black Mercedes waited for us. I could see through the lightly tinted windows that the car had fancy leather seats. Anatoly opened the passenger door for me and I got in while he tossed my bag into the back. He slid into the driver’s seat, snapped on his seatbelt, and gripped the wheel.

  “Are you buckled in?”

  I nodded and he started the car, switched on the air conditioning, and steered into the street. In the close confinement of the car I smelled his cologne. It was a spicy, oriental blend of heated cloves with a hint of lotus flower. The guy would have been hot if he wasn’t so stiff and formal. I settled into the plush car, resting in the comfort of the soft leather and took a deep, calming breath. I had done it—I had made it to Russia.

  We left the airport, weaving through busy streets, passing an array of buildings with onion domes and pillars shaped like Christmas ornaments, tented roofs, majestic churches, and bell towers.

  “Wow, everything is so beautiful. I’ve never seen such vivid colors.”

  “This part of city is rich in history,” Anatoly said. “It has remained the same for hundreds of years. Unlike Americans we do not destroy our old buildings to make new ones.”

  I didn’t know what to say….Was he cutting on me for being an American or simply making a statement? I sat upright. Should I say something? Maybe not, he was my only ride. But still, it burned me.

  We pulled up to a towering brick building. It must have been at least twelve stories high. Anatoly parked and we got out and climbed the gold steps inside. The floors were carpeted in a plush red and on the walls were massive impressionist paintings. People of Russia. Men and women working in fields, soldiers marching, fishermen casting their nets.

  “You like artwork?” Anatoly asked.

  “Yeah, I like to think of myself as a hobby artist. These are really good.”

  “They belong to my uncle. He collects art. Come, I take you to him now.”

  Anatoly showed me to an elevator that took us to the second floor. We walked to the end of a long hallway filled with more of the same kind of artwork and knocked on the last door.

  A male voice answered in Russian. Anatoly opened the door and we entered. A bald man with iron brown eyes and a fringe of gray hair sat behind an imposing granite desk. He studied me with a cold, hard-pinched expression. Then stood, loosened his tie, and nodded in my direction. He turned his attention to A
natoly, speaking to him in low, hushed tones in Russian. I stood there feeling awkward. It made me uncomfortable the way they kept darting glances at me. What were they saying? I was about to say something when the man patted Anatoly’s shoulder. A smile broke out across Anatoly’s face and his eyes danced. It was the first time I saw him smile. But when he turned his attention back to me and his eyes met mine—the smile died. I wondered what his problem was. Did he hate having to drive me around? Or was it something else?

  “I will wait outside.” Anatoly walked to the door and closed it quickly behind him.

  “Come, sit.” The man motioned to a chair. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Vodka?” His English, while good, was peppered with a Russian accent.

  “No, thanks.”

  “As you may know, I am attorney for your parents’ estate. You received letter?”

  I nodded.

  He slid a sheet of yellowed paper across the desk. “This is deed to house and farm in Okso.”

  I picked up the paper and frowned. The deed was written in Russian and the only words I recognized was my name. On the bottom was a map which showed a wide river which ran through the back of the property.

  “Look,” I said. “I want you to know—I’m not just here for the real estate. I want to find out about my parents. I want to know who they were. I’ve spent my whole life wondering. No one would tell me anything.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “I want to know what happened…. Why my father….”

  He reached for a file and removed two documents. He slid them across the desk to me. “Your parents’ death certificates.”

  I stared at the sheets of crisp white paper, each with formal writing embossed across the top in words I couldn’t understand—hieroglyphics of a terrible past.

  “Can you read Russian?”

  I shook my head.

  He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Your parents died same day. Over fifteen years ago. Your mother from gunshot. Your father drowned.”