Tatiana's Table

by Paullina Simons

  Grand Hotel Europe, June, 1991

  When forty-eight-year-old Anthony walked into the ballroom and restaurant at the Grand European Hotel, his staff of two and the four Russian generals were already sitting at the table. Anthony was forty minutes late for an hour-long meeting to review his speech for Soviet television that evening. He came to the table, apologized, and sat between his assistant and his aide. Anthony’s contact, General Vennikov and three other Soviet generals deep into their sixties, were sitting across from him at the rectangular table in the back by the stage, sipping tea and reading Izvestiya.

  “Can we begin?” asked Anthony.

  Turned out they had already begun. The Soviets had made a number of changes to the speech, and as Anthony watched, a number more. One of the generals, in between endless cigarettes, was crossing out with spectacular glee practically every other word, another was busy pouring himself vodka, and the third was chatting up the waitress.

  Vennikov eyed the heavily revised speech with satisfaction, such satisfaction that Anthony said to him, “Why don’t you just have your generals write my speech for me? Perhaps that’s what I need. Four speechwriters.”

  Studying Anthony, the smoking general smoked down another half a cigarette before he exhaled. Anthony shook his head. The man was not coughing. He was smiling, however. He said in English, “I would offer you a cigarette but I can see by your slightly irritated American manner that you don’t smoke.”

  “I do smoke, and it’s not the smoking that’s irritating me,” said Anthony.

  Vennikov said in his heavily accented English, “When we’re in your country, you can revise our speeches all you want General Ludloff, but until then …”

  “It’s not the revising, it’s the re-writing,” Anthony broke in. “And it’s General Ludlow. All right, let’s see it. Let’s get it over with.”

  “You can keep your speech as you like, General Ludlow,” said the smoker, “since it’s in English. But since I’m your translator, permit me to read it how I like in Russian. I am not arguing with you about your speech. I am just saying, a lecture is perhaps not what we need.”

  The translator’s English was much better than Vennikov’s. He knew his job well. Anthony was impressed. The changes he had made to the speech in his translation were informed changes, geared mainly to diplomacy and tact, rather than toward a blatant manipulation of facts. He was versed in the MIA situation and had a careful way of presenting the salient facts to the Soviet government. His red pen in hand and a cigarette in his mouth, the translator said, “General Ludlow, have you ever thought of learning Russian? In your line of work it would come in quite handy.”

  “Thank you for your unsolicited advice, General. I do not write in Russian. But I do speak Russian. And read Russian. Which is how I am aware of the changes you are making in your, shall we say, quite loose interpretation of my speech.”

  Vennikov said, “The problem with your speech is that you are wrong about us, General Ludloff; we just need a little time. We cannot repair everything in a month. We are working hard on the MIA problem. We are improving our current identity records. In Afghanistan we know the names of nearly all the dead and wounded Soviet soldiers,” he added proudly.

  “And more to the point,” said the translator, “your comments about the difference between the Soviets and the Americans are inflammatory.” The translator read from Anthony’s speech. “ ‘Our president wrote a letter to his children before the Iraqi war a few months ago and in it said, ‘How many American boys am I willing to sacrifice to win this?’ And the answer is, not one. Not a single one. One is too many.’ ” He exhaled smoke rings at Anthony. “Maybe we could stop there. Do we really need to add that we in the Soviet Union thought twenty million was not enough?”

  Anthony studied him with surprise. “I didn’t write that in my speech,” he exclaimed.

  “No?” said the translator, his eyes twinkling. He turned back to the text. “Must be my mistake, then. My English isn’t what it used to be.” He picked up his red pen.

  Amused, Anthony exchanged a look with his aide.

  The translator lit another cigarette. “You had some MIA problems in Vietnam, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Unsolvable problems so far. The Vietnamese refuse to cooperate.” Anthony shrugged. “A thousand MIAs. We’ll get them. Slowly but surely, we’ll get them.”

  Nodding, the translator said, “I am sure you will, General Ludlow. After all, here you are, fifty years after the Second World War, returning to recover information on a mere ninety-one American soldiers missing in action.”

  “Actually,” said Anthony, “just one.”

  The waitress brought them vodka, seven shot glasses, and Russian hors d’ouvres. Caviar, black bread, white bread, butter, herring, salami. A little salad Olivier, a little venigret. They broke for recess.

  Anthony liked the Russian cuisine, taking some bread and caviar and herring. It was his Russian blood. He drank a shot of vodka in the middle of the afternoon as if he had done it all his life. He raised a glass to the newly forged relationship between the Soviets and the Americans, downed two full shots of vodka for this special friendship and ate the venigret and salad Olivier with gusto. The generals watched Anthony with curiosity. The translator said, “You drink like a true Russian.”

  “Yes,” said Anthony. “Must be my Russian blood.”

  “Oh, who is Russian in your family?”

  “My mother.”

  “Really?” said the translator. “American-born?”

  “Soviet-born,” said Anthony, with his usual diplomacy.

  Vennikov gasped. “Your mother was born in the Soviet Union?” The generals stared at Anthony now with more than idle curiosity. Anthony was delighted.

  His assistant nudged him under the table. “General Ludlow, may I have a quick word with you, sir?” They stood up and stepped away a few feet. “Sir, we might want to be careful with the information we give to these people.”

  “Why, Dave?” Anthony asked lightly. “You don’t think we’re safe?”

  “Who the hell knows? Six months ago they were abducting their own leader and holding him hostage at a holiday resort! These Soviets are an unknown quantity. We must be more careful.”

  Anthony made a serious face. “You’re right. I don’t want to cause an international incident. As the general points out, we’re not here to inflame. Or are we?”

  They went back to the table. Vennikov asked if everything was all right.

  “It’s great,” said Anthony. “Where were we? I think we were discussing point thirteen, dealing with the immediate notification and discourse between the two countries regarding any new information on war prisoners or missing in action.”

  “General Ludlow,” said Vennikov, “frankly I’m surprised to hear your mother is from the Soviet Union. This changes things. Yesterday, with you present, I showed her our war records. I was being courteous, a good host. I thought she was looking for someone out of idle curiosity.”

  “With all due respect, General,” said Anthony, “did you think my mother came here from the United States to look for someone just because she was idly curious? My mother doesn’t have time to be idly curious. The President of the United States offered her the chair of the American Red Cross. She told him she was too busy to accept. She is not here on vacation.”

  “What was she looking for?” asked the translator.

  “She was trying to find the name of a man in the war records who had been thought dead since 1943.”

  “Why does she think he is dead?” asked Vennikov.

  “She has his death certificate.”

  Vennikov laughed out loud. He shook his head. “General Ludloff, if she has his death certificate, I’d say he is more than thought dead.”

  “That’s what she thought,” said Anthony. “But why does his name not appear in the death records then, not here, nor in Moscow?”

  “I told you,” Vennikov said cheerfully, “our records are fa
r from complete.”

  “I can see that.” Anthony was growing impatient. “But broadly speaking, were death certificates issued for soldiers who were still alive?”

  Vennikov shrugged. “I suppose not. What’s her interest in him, anyway?”

  “He was her husband,” replied Anthony without further ado. Stony silence fell at the table. The Soviet men stared at Anthony with slack confusion.

  Dave, the assistant, shot up from the table and said, “General, could I see you for a—”

  “No, David. Sit back down.”

  David sat back down.

  Anthony smiled. His mother would be proud of him. Vennikov was red in the face. The other two generals took their cues from Vennikov.

  It was the translator who puzzled Anthony, however. His strong-jawed face was not slack, nor was it dumbstruck, and his mouth wasn’t open. His eyes remained unblinkingly on Anthony, as he cleared his throat and said, “General Ludlow, what was the name of the dead officer?”

  “Alexander Belov, I think,” replied Anthony.

  There was a short silence at the table followed by raucous laughter from three Russian men, three excluding the translator who stared intensely at Anthony. Anthony blinked momentarily, and saw a flicker of—

  Vennikov, still laughing, said, “Your mother should have just asked me. I would have helped her immediately. She could have saved herself and me a lot of aggravation.” He stuck his finger out at the translator. “This is General Alexander Below. As you can see for yourself he is not dead. He did serve in our great war, proudly and well, and is a many times decorated officer in the Red Army. Bring your mother here. Maybe this is the man she is looking for. Maybe this is her dead husband!” He did not stop laughing, and neither did the other two generals. Anthony’s assistant and aide smiled nervously.

  Only Anthony and the translator stared mutely at each other.

  “I am probably wrong,” muttered Anthony, lowering his gaze. “There must be so many Alexander Belovs. It’s quite a common name, no?” He raised his eyes again.

  “Perhaps,” agreed the translator non-committally. “What is your full name, General?”

  “Anthony Ludlow,” replied Anthony.

  “Your full name.”

  “Anthony Alexander Barrington Ludlow,” replied Anthony, and saw the translator’s face grow white. A film clouded his raw, unwavering eyes.

  Vennikov said, “General Belov, you can thank your lucky stars it is not you that woman is looking for.”

  “Not for many years now—fifty-five to be exact,” said the translator, “but once upon a time, Alexander Barrington was the name I carried.”

  David, a grown man, was whimpering. “General Ludlow, this is a public relations disaster. Please, could we talk a moment?”

  “No,” snapped Anthony, without taking his eyes off the man across the table. Neither Anthony nor the translator spoke. He could not look away from Alexander. “She remarried,” he said in English. “She thought you were—”

  “I know what she thought,” Alexander interrupted. “She still has the death certificate.” His hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette. Finally he lit it, inhaled deeply, smoked it down, stubbed it out and lit another.

  Anthony looked at the translator’s hands and then at his own. They were the same hands. His were palms down on the table.

  Anthony could no longer raise his eyes.

  Vennikov came to the rescue. “General Belov, this must be an administrative error, don’t you agree? Why would there be a death certificate filled out with your name? It’s a different Alexander Belov.”

  The translator stood up.

  Anthony remained sitting. His legs were not to be trusted.

  Vennikov exclaimed, “You’re not the same Alexander Belov, I tell you!” He spun to Alexander. “General Belov, if you’re the man she is looking for, that means that General Ludloff is your—”

  “Son,” Alexander finished. “It means that General Anthony Ludlow is my son.”

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Anthony stood up tall and straight.

  Disgruntled, Vennikov looked at Alexander. “This is impossible!” he growled.

  Alexander stepped away from the table and said, “Haven’t you heard the nasty rumors about me, Comrade Vennikov?”

  “I didn’t believe them. I thought they were vicious lies.”

  Alexander turned to Anthony.

  Anthony brought his trembling hand to his temple and saluted the man standing in front of him.

  Alexander saluted his son back. He blinked.

  Anthony’s hand remained frozen at his temple.

  “Where is your mother?” asked Alexander.

  “And so, you see?” said Tatiana quietly. “Here we would be. You and me.”

  Now it was Alexander’s turn to stare at her dumbstruck. “Indeed, Tania. I thought you never thought about it?”

  “Oh, once or twice. And here we would still be, just like now,” she whispered.

  “Except everything would be different.”

  Their souls, from her eyes to his, flew back and forth. “Not everything,” said Tatiana, closing her eyes. Thirty feet in front of her, in full military uniform with black hair underneath his beige cap with the red star, stood Alexander.

  And Alexander closed his. Barefoot in a yellow sundress with her hair in two little braids, on her tiptoes on top of his boots stood Tatiana.

  Back then, when they closed their eyes, they could not imagine a life without one another. Alexander went to Lazarevo because he could not imagine it.

  Tatiana went to Germany because she could not imagine it.

  With bowed heads they retreated, busied themselves with their nighttime routine, with getting ready for bed. They tried to make small talk. “You know, you never did learn to cook that beef pho from Vietnam. I loved that stuff,” he said.

  “Yeah, well …” she averred.

  And he averted his eyes. “We can always get some at Phuong’s.” Phuong’s was a Vietnamese restaurant in Scottsdale.

  “That’s a good idea,” Tatiana said vaguely. She had never gone and never intended to.

  And they moved on, talking about other things, making life from other things.

  “Shura, want to hear a joke?”

  “Love to.”

  “An Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian are looking at a painting of Adam and Eve. The Englishman says, look how stoic, how poised. They must be English. And the Frenchman says, Nonsense, look at how erotic, how sensual, how full of flesh. They must be French. And the Russian says, Absolutely not. They’re naked, they have no food, no water, and no shelter, yet they’re told they have everything. They’re Russian.”

  First he laughed.

  And then he whispered, “Wait, I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he was holding a small bowl in his hands. She sat up. He sat at the edge of the bed, she closed her eyes, and he gave her a taste of something he had made earlier that morning.

  “You made me ice cream?” Tatiana said, stunned.

  “Well, it is our fiftieth wedding anniversary. If not now, when?”

  Strawberry Ice Cream

  2 cups (350g) fresh, ripe, thinly sliced strawberries

  ¼ cup (55ml) fresh lemon juice

  1 cup (200g) sugar, divided in halves

  ¼ cup (55ml) orange liqueur

  1 cup (225ml) milk

  2 cups (450g) heavy cream

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  First macerate the strawberries. In a medium stainless steel bowl, place straberries, lemon juice, ½ cup (100g) sugar, and orange liqueur. Stir gently to coat strawberries, cover and let stand for two hours.

  Strain the strawberries, reserving the juice. Mash or purée ¾ of the strawberries, reserving the rest.

  In a medium bowl, combine milk and the remaining ½ cup (100g) sugar, beating with a hand mixer until sugar is dissolved, a minute or two.

  Add puréed strawberries, the reserved strawberry juice, heavy cream a
nd vanilla and mix with hand mixer until blended.

  Place in the frozen bowl of an ice-cream maker and churn for about 20–25 minutes until mixture turns thick and frozen. In the last five minutes of churning, add the remaining ¼ of the strawberries. Eat soft-serve, or place in a freezer-safe container.

  She ate it and cried. Soon he put the melting ice cream away. “Shura,” Tatiana whispered, “darling, forget what should have been. Remember all that was.”

  “Tatiasha, babe,” Alexander whispered, coming back to bed to be covered, “my one and only wife, forget our age, our splendid youth, forget it all and let our crazy love make us young.”

  Index

  The page numbers in this index relate to the printed version of this book; they do not match the pages of your ebook. You can use your ebook reader’s search tool to find a specific word or passage.

  B

  Beef Barley Soup, 164

  Beef Stroganoff, 21

  Beef Tenderloin, 163

  Beergaritas, 178

  Blinchiki, 61

  Blini, 36

  Blueberry Pie, 76

  Borscht, 30

  Bread:

  Banana, 180

  Challah Rolls, 140

  Corn, 154

  Crusty white, 45

  Garlic, 87

  Toast Points, 47

  Bread Pudding, 120

  Buttermilk Pancakes with Grated Apple, 73

  C

  Cabbage, Lazy, 6

  Cabbage Pie, 48

  Challah Rolls, 140

  Chicken with Lime, Cajun, 176

  Chicken Curry, 92

  Chicken Soup, 90

  Chili, 152

  Cod or Mahi-Mahi with Mango Salsa, 143

  Cookies:

  Chocolate-chip, 99

  Creature, 185

  Lemon Whippersnappers, 189

  Russian Tea, 102

  Corn on the Cob, 167

  Corn Bread, 154

  Cream Cheese Icing, 18

  Custard Cream Filling, 69

  E

  Eggs, hard-boiled, 105

  F

  Fajitas, 174

  Fruit Salad, 186

  Fudge Brownies, 183

  G

  Garlic bread, 87