by Adam Pelzman
I give him a look that says you can’t be serious. Go back to your hotel room? He nods. And you’ll be a gentleman? Nods again. A perfect gentleman? Yes, yes and yes, he says. Now, normally there’s no way I’m going back to a hotel with a customer, ’cause you never know. I remember Jackson, she was young and didn’t know shit. She did the same thing, went to a motel with a guy, and damned if anyone ever saw her again. Now, that doesn’t mean she’s dead. Maybe she’s happy somewhere. Or maybe she just had enough, got some sense and gave up the grind, but who knows.
Anyway, going back with a guy isn’t something I do, and I know damn well that if I get in that room we’re doing a whole lot more than just having some food. But I start thinking about that night in the Champagne Room, when Julian made me come and was all tender after. And I’m thinking that I’ve been on a cold streak lately, haven’t had sex in months and I’d like to feel close to a man again. I’m not picking up any creepy vibes from Julian, just a lot of sweetness and smarts and a guy who knows how a girl works. So I say sure, what the hell, but I’m texting my friend Carolina, telling her where I am and if there’s any crazy shit from you then her and her boyfriend, Dino—he’s Dominican and he’s insane—they’re coming over and you’re a dead man. Got it? And Julian nods, sort of cocky, like he’s not too afraid of Dino or anyone else, and he says I got it, there’ll be no crazy shit from me. I pull out my phone and point the lens. Smile, I say, and he does. And I take a picture of him and send it to my friends just in case.
We take separate cars over to the hotel, that way I can get the hell out if I want. It’s a real nice hotel, one of the new ones they built by the beach, with a pretty lobby and a trendy bar and lots of nice-looking people. He takes me up to the room, fourteenth floor. There’s a big bed and a table to eat at and a view of the ocean, which is tough to see ’cause it’s dark outside. I’m out of sorts, nervous, and so is he, which I can tell by the way he’s biting at his lower lip and tugging on his ear. Feel free to take a shower if you want, he says, not that you need it, I mean, but you’re more than welcome, and he points to the bathroom door.
Well, after dancing for eight hours, sweating and guys all over me, damn right I need a shower. So I go inside, throw my purse on the counter, my clothes on the floor and turn on the water. And it’s a great shower with two heads and lots of pressure and all sorts of pretty-smelling gels, shampoos, soaps. I’m in heaven, ’cause I don’t have this in my place. I just got a thin stream of water that’s warm, not hot, and it’s okay for cleaning, but it’s not too good for relaxing. I’m loving the shower and the bathroom’s filled with steam, and when I peer past the curtain I can barely see the mirror, it’s so foggy. But then I feel a little draft, chilly, and first thing I think is Julian opened the door and he’s coming in and I’m in trouble. But instead he calls out Perla, take all the time you need in there, no rush, you’ve had a long day. And I’m thinking, well, this is a guy who sure knows how to treat a girl right.
When I come out in my robe, a fluffy one from the back of the door, Julian’s sitting on the bed with a menu. He looks up and smiles. Room service, and he waves the menu. I think I’m getting the burger, the sweet potato fries and a club soda, how about you? I bounce down on the other side of the bed and grab the menu from him. There’s so many things on there and I wonder if a hotel can really make all this fancy stuff, Cajun salmon, tuna with Asian greens, or if it’s better to play it safe. I’ll have the same as you, but eighty-six the club soda, just a ginger ale with a slice of orange.
Julian gets up off the bed and says he’s going to take a shower too, real quick. And I’m thinking wow, I can’t believe he’s leaving me alone in the room with all his stuff—his wallet, keys, phone—and that he either trusts me or he’s not too sharp. When he closes the door and I hear the water, I walk over to the dresser and look at his wallet, at the pricey gold watch. I keep an eye on that bathroom door. I put the watch on my wrist, and it feels heavy, the gold. I admire it, move it back and forth so that the ceiling light shines on the blue face, wonder how much it costs, then take it off and place it back nice and soft on the dresser. Then I’m on to the wallet, which is some sort of hide, alligator or ostrich, I don’t know, but it looks expensive and it’s thick, so I’m thinking that it’s filled with cash ’cause he’s not the kind of guy to fill up a wallet with old receipts and discount cards. I start lifting up the edge to see who this Julian really is, how old, where he lives, what he does.
But before I open it up, I wonder again, is he a trusting guy or some fool? I take my hand off the wallet and climb back on the bed. I grab a magazine off the side table, check my nails that are all cracked and remind myself to get a manicure. I hear the water stop, a few seconds of soft sounds like he’s drying off, then the knob turns. Is he a trusting guy or some fool? Either way, I’m happy I didn’t look at the wallet, proud even, ’cause it’s not just bad but maybe even a sin to look, a terrible sin, ’cause you can’t punish a guy for believing that a girl’s good. And you also can’t punish him for not being smart enough to know maybe she isn’t.
THE HUNTER’S SON
Julian Pravdin’s room in the Siberian orphanage was small, and there he lived with two other boys, one named Petrov and the other Volokh. The three boys shared one mattress; nothing but a misshapen rectangular sack, it was filled with bedbugs and had weird bulges sticking out in the strangest places.
A small window faced south over the bay. There was a substantial hole in the glass that the boys stuffed with rags to repel the incomprehensible Siberian winter; when the weather turned warm, they removed the rags, welcoming the moist, cleansing salt air into their dreary chamber. There was the hot plate that the boys sometimes used to cook food. But because they rarely had food and electricity at the same time, it remained mostly unused on the top shelf, the cord dangling, swinging like a noose, taunting them, reminding them how little they really had. And then there was the toilet in the side yard, a small wooden hut with two holes cut in a rough plank and a shallow pit below, a frozen stew of feces and urine, a soiled rag hanging from a nail.
Julian was lithe, thin and twitchy like a borzoi, with bad vision and shiny black hair. His father, Ivan, was a legendary hunter who knew every foot of the Stanovoy Range, from Lake Baikal all the way to the Sea of Japan. In what one witness described as an epic and harrowing battle, Julian’s father was killed by a tiger in Khabarovsk Krai. The local paper wrote that the wild cat was a mythical beast twenty feet from snout to tail and five feet high at the shoulders, and the villagers said that when the tiger was finished, there was nothing left of Ivan but a hand and a boot. Even the man’s gun, the legend goes, had been devoured. After Ivan’s death, Julian’s mother suffered a clean and rapid break from her principled past. A local doctor called it a severe psychiatric episode; a shaman from her home village, an ancient man with a feathered hat and a painted face, called it the work of a malevolent spirit. Either way, the pain of her loss, of Julian’s loss, forced her first into alcohol, then heroin and then, by financial and chemical necessity, into prostitution.
In a gray metal box with his other precious things, Julian kept a photo of his parents; there, in a thick forest, his father, strong and rugged, stood with his arm around the shoulders of a slender girl, pink cheeks and white skin, her eyes offering a hint of Asian narrowness that revealed her connection to the village near the Mongolian border. Her shy smile suggested unexpected happiness, as if she had stumbled upon some treasure that she knew must one day be returned to its rightful owner.
Like most of the orphans, Julian didn’t receive visitors. But there was one time, it was the only time, when his mother came to visit. The head of the orphanage, Krepuchkin, knocked on the boys’ door one morning before chores. The three of them stood at attention, lined up like soldiers. Krepuchkin was a repellent old man with hunched shoulders and a flaccid paunch that hung low over his belt. As though he could not distinguish one from the next, Krepuchkin
scanned the boys’ faces. He settled on Julian and pointed at the boy. Put on a clean shirt, he barked, your whore mother is going to be here in an hour. And with that, he slammed the door.
Petrov and Volokh turned to their friend. Julian’s lower lip trembled. He darted to the cabinet and removed the only nice shirt he had, the one he kept clean and folded for the governor’s annual visit or—his deepest hope—a visit from his mother. Julian unfolded the shirt and held it up to his shoulders. Satisfied that it still fit, he then dipped a comb in a cup of water and straightened out his unruly hair.
The three boys stood by the window quietly, looking down to the trash-covered courtyard below. In his damp hands, Julian held the photograph of his parents. Every few minutes he stared at it, as if to remind himself what his mother looked like. He held the photo up to Petrov and Volokh and pointed to his mother’s image. They nodded, comforted him that they too were keeping a vigilant watch for her, that she would not slip by undetected.
At noon, the grub bell rang and howls filled the hallway, the howls of animals—the other orphans running to the dining hall for lunch, fighting for the front of the line so they would not have to settle for scraps. The three boys did not move, for they would not eat lunch on this day. Just then, a truck with a broken windshield lurched up the cratered road and stopped in front of the orphanage. The boys leaned forward, pressing their noses against the cold glass. Out of the driver’s seat stepped a man, hunched and elderly, who hobbled to the back of the truck and removed a stack of wood. Disappointed, Julian dropped his head. To get a better view of the road, Volokh used his sleeve to clear a circle on the glass that was fogged from their breath. “Over there,” Petrov yelled, pointing to a figure approaching on foot from the east.
Walking along the side of the road was what appeared to be an old woman. Despite the cold, she wore high heels and her ankles buckled in the pitted road. Over her head was a scarf—not the thick wool babushka favored by the women of this region, but a bright silk scarf, yellow and blue. As she approached to within fifty feet of the courtyard, the boys could see that she was not an old woman at all, but a young woman who walked with the tentative deliberation of the aged. Julian gasped. He tapped the window. “That’s her,” Julian whispered. “That’s her.” He handed the photo to Volokh and ran out of the room, down the stairs.
Volokh carefully returned the photograph to Julian’s box, and he again assumed his position at the window—Petrov by his side. Below them, Julian burst through the front doors of the orphanage. He stood in the courtyard, wind whipping papers and aluminum cans across the surface. He bit the fingernails of his left hand and shielded his face from the wind with his right. The woman stood at the front gate and peered through the rusted metal. Before her stood her son. She choked on the phlegm in the back of her throat. Her lips moved. She removed a kerchief from her pocket and wiped the lipstick off her mouth. Julian smiled wearily. He waved.
Maria Pravdina stepped through the front gate. As if to normalize the syncopation of her heart, she placed her right hand over her chest and pushed down hard. Julian and his mother now stood twenty feet apart but remained still, unsure of their next steps, unaccustomed to each other. Maria began to cry, a soft whimper. Slowly, she fell to her knees and bowed her head. Julian ran to his mother, threw his arms around her neck, held tight. He, too, cried—the tortured howl of a child abandoned, reunited.
Maria wrapped her arms around the thin waist of her only child. “Sorry, Julian, sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Julian struggled to breathe. “It’s okay, Mom. I understand.”
“I wanted to come, my love. It’s just that they wouldn’t let me, that I lost the legal right once I signed the papers.” Julian nodded. “And then I had some trouble with the law, and Krepuchkin said I was unfit.”
Julian held tight and whispered into his mother’s ear, “You’re not unfit, Mom.”
Maria smiled, kissed her son on the forehead. “Thanks, love.”
“But at least they let you visit today, which is a great thing. How did it happen, Mom, that they let you come see me?”
Maria turned away from Julian. She watched as the old man returned to his rusted truck and drove away. “I worked out something with Krepuchkin. I figured out a way.”
Julian reached for his mother’s hand. “Come see my room, Mom. Meet my friends, the ones I wrote you about. I told them all about you. And Dad, too.”
Maria and the three boys spent the day in the small bedroom. They plugged in the hot plate and popped a fistful of corn that Julian’s mother brought with her; they sipped with delight from the two cans of cola that she carried in her purse. For each boy, she’d brought a small toy. Julian got a model World War II tank. Petrov, a plastic dinosaur. And Volokh received an action figure—a Viking with a horned hat and a tiny plastic sword. Maria asked the boys about their lives: when they arose, what they ate, what they did for exercise, their favorite subjects. She asked if they had girlfriends, a question that made the boys giggle with shame. She told them to stay strong, be honest, pray to God. She said that if they did these things, they would be happy and free.
At five-thirty, the dinner bell rang, and the howls of the other children again echoed through the halls. Julian shuddered. A look of deep, unreachable pain crossed his face. He reached for his mother’s hand. “It’s time, my love, it’s time,” she said.
Julian shook his head. “Please, no,” he begged. Petrov and Volokh stood back, uncomfortable.
Maria shook her head and approached Petrov. As she leaned down and kissed his cheek, the boy inhaled her sweet perfume. She ran her fingers through his hair. She then approached Volokh and gave the boy a kiss on the top of his head.
Maria turned and looked at her child. Trembling, Julian approached his mother. “Stay,” he pleaded. “Or take me with you. I’ve got a bag all ready to go.” Julian pointed to a canvas satchel on the floor. “We can sneak out. Krepuchkin can’t catch us. We can outrun him. And you can take me home, Mom, take me to your home.”
Julian’s mother pursed her lips. “No, love, no. It can’t be, at least right now. I’m sorry. I am not fit.” She held her son’s cheeks in her palms. She kissed him on the lips. She withdrew—and before Julian could reach for her, before he could anchor himself to his past, his future, she was gone.
The boys stared at the closed door. Then they darted to the window and looked out to the courtyard. A sickly fluorescent light flooded the rotted concrete. Below them, Julian’s mother stepped out of the front door and looked about as if she were searching for something, someone. Just then, Krepuchkin emerged from behind the gate. He approached Julian’s mother. She bowed her head and glowered at him, empty, detached. Krepuchkin extended his hand. At first, Maria did not move. She stared at the wrinkled hand. Krepuchkin barked something, and through the window Julian felt the force of the old man’s rage, his sense of entitlement. Julian’s mother reached out and held his hand, leading him to the far end of the courtyard, behind a twisted, dead oak.
Krepuchkin opened his long coat. He unbuckled his belt. His pants fell down around his ankles. With his right hand, he tapped Maria’s shoulder, pushed her down to her knees. Julian’s mother complied, and as she did so, she glanced up in Julian’s direction—praying that her son would not witness her degradation.
“What . . . what . . .” Julian mumbled, gripping Petrov’s arm. “What . . .” Volokh and Petrov turned away from the revolting scene below. “What!” Julian screamed. He turned to his friends. “What is happening? What is he doing? What is she doing?” He looked down to the courtyard and saw the movement of his mother’s head, Krepuchkin grasping her shoulder tightly. Julian scanned the room. The hot plate—still warm from popping corn—sat on the shelf. He pushed his friends aside, grabbed the hot plate and reached for the door. But before he turned the knob, he stopped, lifted the satchel from the floor and threw it over his shoulder. “Lea
ve me be,” he directed as he fled the room.
Volokh and Petrov returned to the window. They watched anxiously as Julian emerged. They watched him cross the courtyard, the hot plate under his right arm. He approached the lifeless oak—slow, steady, powerful like a wild cat. He peered around its gnarled trunk. He approached Krepuchkin from the side and raised the hot plate. He eyed Krepuchkin’s temple. And the moment before he split the old man’s skull, Julian’s mother looked up to her son—a tear in her eye. But there, amid the horror, a sly smile crossed her face, a recognition that her dead husband’s predatory stealth, his primal rage, his willingness to kill, all lived on in their little boy.
Krepuchkin lay on the ground, motionless, dead. Gray matter, bloody pulp spackled the ground. Julian’s mother stood. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She rubbed her sore knees, and she again placed her palms on her son’s cheeks. She nodded and smiled. Julian smiled in return, filled with the pride of a child having pleased his parent. He looked up to the window and waved good-bye to his friends. And then he bowed at the waist, dramatic and proud, like Yevgeny Svetlanov after the final note of Die Walküre.
Julian and his mother skipped through the front gate. They looked right, then left. They hesitated for a moment, wondered which way to go, then turned east toward the coastal road, toward the bay, the young boy—the hunter’s son—guiding his mother with acute instinct through the magical Siberian night.
