Moonlight in Odessa

by Janet Skeslien Charles

‘I hope you didn’t send him there because of me.’

  ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.’

  ‘You sent your brother six time zones away because you didn’t like the way he spoke to me? Are you nuts?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,’ he said, trailing his finger along my cheek.

  I just stared at him with my mouth slightly open.

  ‘He can look after our family interests there,’ he said, then kissed me, a soft tantalizing caress.

  ‘You’re crazy. You could have any woman here,’ I gestured to all the beautiful girls. ‘You only have to choose one.’

  ‘I already have,’ he replied.

  I stalked off, but didn’t get far. Valentina Borisovna gestured for me to go to her.

  ‘So you see, Valentina Borisovna,’ Katya, one of our sweetest girls, said, ‘Mick was my date and that slut Yelena stole him.’

  ‘They should be pissed upon from a great height! No loyalty there! You’re better off without him!’ she exclaimed as she put her arm around Katya. ‘Surely you realize there are more bulls in the pasture! Go out and find a few. Daria will be happy to help.’

  I scanned the room, but Vlad had left. Good. I could do my job in peace. I interpreted for Katya, Tanya, Irina, Masha, and Natasha, then walked home. Boba greeted me at the door and asked how my evening went. I didn’t tell her about my dance with Vlad. She would only worry.

  The next morning, Boba remarked that I was rather pensive and I tried to smile. ‘Vsyo budyet khorosho,’ she said. Everything will be fine.

  I walked to work, avoiding the cracks and potholes in the dusty sidewalks. On the corner before our office, I saw a pensioner wearing a bright scarf with a bandage on her earlobe. She sat on an overturned pail, selling sunflower seeds wrapped in squares of newspaper for a few kopecks more than the going rate at the bazaar. When I gave her a dollar instead of a few coins for a packet, she was thrilled. Our poor, poor pensioners. I was too young to understand life before perestroika because Boba had protected me from the worst of it – the lines for food, people being taken away, the constant police state. She made it seem like a game. When I asked questions, she said, ‘Sshhh. Even the birches have eyes. Let’s count them.’ We touched the alabaster skin and counted the ebony eyes that looked out in every direction. Still, I felt that post-perestroika life was not an improvement for old people in our country. Their monthly pension barely got them through a week.

  Crime was rife, and defenseless pensioners were the first to suffer. I saw more and more old ladies with bandages on their lobes. Hooligans ripped the gold earrings – heirlooms that had been passed from mother to daughter – right out of the earlobes of babushkas as they walked down the street. In broad daylight. How could young men be so wicked?

  I walked past the security guard, down the hall to my desk, sat down, and started to read the faxes sent from Haifa. Harmon and Olga arrived at ten. He came in later and later. She stayed longer and longer. I was getting tired of covering for him.

  ‘Daria, quit being so lazy and go make us a coffee,’ Olga said in a condescending voice as she stole a box of tacks from my desk. It was the first time I had seen her since she had thrown me out of the flat, and it was like I was seeing her for the first time – as a stranger. A heartless stranger. She wasn’t my friend. She’d never been my friend. I had tried to make peace and had accepted her treatment of me because I felt guilty about introducing her to Harmon. But no more. I hadn’t forced her. She’d made her own decision. Pay up? You pay up!

  ‘You know, he’s Jewish, too,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, little hole, in the dark, men’re all the same – weak fucks who think twitching their asses makes them great lovers.’

  I just looked at her, dumbstruck. How could I have counted her as a friend?

  ‘Go get me my coffee!’

  I lowered my head and replied in Russian, ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  ‘She rude. Daria rude,’ Olga said in baby babble that Harmon seemed to love.

  I went to the kitchen and found that someone had already made coffee. The pot was nearly full, but lukewarm. A devious angel whispered in my ear, and I couldn’t resist. War. If that’s what she wanted that’s what she would get. I wouldn’t just give up. I unbuckled my sandal, grabbed the pot, and marched back to the boardroom where Olga and Harmon were sitting. Just as I reached them, I tripped and poured the coffee all over her lap. She yowled, expecting the coffee to burn her.

  ‘Oh, Olga,’ I said in English for Harmon’s benefit, ‘did I burn you? I’m so clumsy! The strap on my sandal came loose. Forgive me!’

  ‘Feces-soiled cunt,’ she said in Russian, in a sing-songy voice, equally aware of him. She used the handkerchief he proffered to wipe the coffee off her legs and white leather miniskirt. When he was sure that she hadn’t been burned, Harmon left to find the cleaning lady.

  ‘The next time you order me to serve you, the coffee will be burning hot,’ I told her, really getting in her face, lowering myself to her level. ‘Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me. Don’t take anything off my desk, not even a tissue, and quit stealing my presents from clients. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tell him how you really feel.’

  ‘Bitch! You wouldn’t dare. I’ll get David to fire you!’

  ‘I’d like to see you try. Your precious David can’t sent a fax without my help,’ I said, then gulped. Because of the brouhaha, I hadn’t noticed the fat diamond on her finger.

  After five, I went to work at Soviet Unions. The people passing by looked at me as though I was a little off and kept their distance. I admit, I was muttering to myself, asking questions that had bothered me all afternoon. What kind of idiot marries his mistress? Why didn’t I see it coming? What was I going to do? Would Harmon really fire me? Should I tell him the truth? Would he hate me?

  Valentina Borisovna was waiting for me at her desk. Her black suit hid a multitude of sins. Her signature pink pearls around her neck did nothing to detract from her cleavage.

  ‘Ahh, Daria. With the Stanislavski business, I nearly forgot all about my new matchmaking program. The technician and I put your profile in the computer and it gave these responses,’ she pointed to the screen. I sat down and looked at the words without really seeing them.

  ‘Which one looks good?’ Valentina Borisovna asked as she called up photo after photo. ‘Steve from Cincinnati? Billy from Austin? Peyton from New Hampshire? Nate from Minnesota? James from Seattle? Tristan from San Francisco?’

  ‘I don’t care, Valentina Borisovna. Just choose one,’ I said, watching the parade of photos. ‘Wait! Did you say San Francisco?’ Jane had told me that her boyfriend lived there.

  ‘Yes, San Francisco, California. I like the sound of that. You’re a real Odessan. You need the sea. That’s why it never would have worked with that Will. Where did he live? Nowhere, that’s where.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who I write to. It won’t change anything.’

  ‘Dasha, dear, you’re meant for bigger and better things. You’re intelligent, hardworking, and cultured. You will find love. You will find a husband and start a family. You just need to read this.’ She handed me a book called The Seven Secrets to Attracting Bliss. The author was a ‘psychologist-like guru’ from Chicago, according to the back cover. ‘Americans do give the best advice.’

  Her words barely registered. I was tired, sad, lost. Harmon would hire Olga and fire me as easily as he’d sacked the computer technicians. Boba and I would be destitute again and it would be my fault for giving away the one piece of security we’d had. I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t cry. San Francisco indeed. Nothing I did mattered.

  Valentina Borisovna looked at me and must not have liked what she saw, because she pulled the bottle of emergency kognac out of the safe and poured two glasses.

  ‘Za nas,’ we said and clinked glasses. To us.

  ‘Tell Auntie Valya all,’ she urged. This phrase let me know that it was all right to use the informal with her, t
hat I no longer had to use her patronymic. I felt closer to her, as though she had taken down a barrier between us, as though we were friends.

  I swallowed the kognac, reveling in the sensation of it burning my throat. I told her everything. Everything. Harmon’s first stipulation. My teeth. His advances. The incident. How I found him a mistress. How Olga turned from a sweet-natured Russian spaniel into a real bitch. How she stole things, how I tried to talk to her, how she ordered me around, how I’d responded. How Harmon gave her a diamond ring. Then I told her about the drop of water that made the vase overflow: she’d called me a damned Jew.

  Valentina’s shrewd eyes took in my facial expression. She listened for what I didn’t say as well as what I said. She was silent for a moment, then rendered her verdict. ‘You did exactly what I would have done, what any smart woman would have done. Right or wrong, who knows? You have nothing to reproach yourself for, my dear. Nothing at all.’ Then she laughed and added, ‘The trick with the coffee was inspired! I may have to use that warning myself. How I would have loved to see the look on Olga’s face when her expression turned from fear of being burned to anger at being tricked!’

  I felt relief that she understood, but then I looked at the cut-throat survivor who lauded my line of defense and attack. She was a snake who shed her skin when needed – she’d been a communist when it had been necessary to survive, and now she espoused democracy because it allowed her to make loads of money. She was conniving, always looking out for herself. I liked her, but did not want to be like her. Not at all.

  I didn’t dare ask what she would do next. Luckily, she volunteered her tactic. ‘I assume Harmon has adult children. Dasha, you must call them and congratulate them on their new stepmother. They’ll be so pleased.’

  That evening, Valentina called and told me that I’d forgotten to take Tristan’s e-mail address. I wrote it down with no intention of contacting him.

  ‘Promise me you’ll do it,’ Valentina insisted. I wondered if she felt guilty about my indentured servitude and was trying to set me up. ‘For research purposes.’

  ‘Fine,’ I sighed.

  At work, I had plenty of time to write to Tristan, since Harmon was over an hour late coming in. Again. I walked into his office, which was larger than mine. His desk was larger than mine. His chair was more comfortable than mine. I turned on his computer. It felt right to sit at his desk. Dear Tristan, Thank you for your interest in Soviet Unions. We are happy that you have chosen us, Ukraine’s premier matchmaking organization. I reread the lines and shook my head. I’d been spending too much time on Valentina’s PR. I erased the letters and started over. Dear Tristan, Why can’t you get a girl at home? Perhaps the direct approach wasn’t the best. I hit backspace. My name is Daria. I work as a secretary – Secretary? Translator, computer technician, accountant, and juggler would be more accurate. and enjoy going to the beach in my spare time. What spare time? I tried to think of something else to write. Write-wrote-written. My life seemed ridiculously small.

  I love the sea . . .

  The ringing phone cut through my thoughts. I answered Harmon’s direct line without thinking. It was Mr. Kessler calling from Haifa. When I told him that Harmon was in a meeting, he sounded skeptical. He’d heard that excuse from me too many times. I also used ‘He’s at the port’ and ‘He’s at the doctor’s office.’ I was not creative when it came to new and plausible reasons why my boss was absent. I admired Mr. Kessler and hated lying to him.

  ‘Daria, you would tell me if I need to replace David, wouldn’t you?’

  I didn’t say anything. In Odessa, we don’t like change. Something about the devil you know being better than a new boss.

  ‘Daria? Is there something you want to tell me?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘That’s all I need to know,’ he said and hung up the phone.

  Thirty minutes later, Harmon walked in, whistling and in a good mood. I glowered at him, so he’d know that I was angry.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked. ‘And why are you at my desk?’

  ‘I’m doing your job – might as well have your office. I can’t keep doing this. Mr. Kessler keeps calling and you’re never here. He’s suspicious. When I lie and say you’re in a meeting, you can bet that he calls Pavel and Yuri. When they’re in their offices, he knows I lied! I can’t keep covering for you.’

  ‘Well, if that’s your foul attitude, maybe you shouldn’t work here anymore.’

  I called his bluff. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Kessler said that the monthly reports have been late. What do you have to say about that?’

  So this was how it would end. He would blame me for things that were beyond my control. He would fire me and hire her. I strode up to him, until our faces were two inches apart. I drove my finger into his chest to drive home my words. ‘Let. One. Thing. Be. Clear. My job is to scream cockle-doodle-doo. Don’t blame me if the sun doesn’t rise.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ he yelled back.

  ‘It means it’s not my fault that the electricity goes out most afternoons and that the post is slow. I’ve done my job and yours. I can’t help it if documents don’t get to Haifa on time.’

  Harmon didn’t know what to say to that and went into the boardroom. I checked my e-mail and saw that I already had a response from Tristan. Dear Daria, I was so happy to get your e-mail. I saw your photo on the website. You’re beautiful. And intelligent! I can’t believe you speak three languages. You should work at the UN! At least someone appreciated me, I thought, glaring in Harmon’s direction. I love the ocean, too. I live near San Francisco and camp at the beach as often as possible. Of course, I also love to hike in Yosemite. Its the most beautiful place on earth, so quiet and peaceful. You would really like it. I would love to show you.

  Maybe I should tell you a little about myself. I’m a schoolteacher. I teach science to 11–14 year olds. I’m also a scout leader and spend time teaching boys how to do everything from pitching a tent to helping them with their hunter safety classes. As you can see, I enjoy teaching and I like kids.

  Well, that was a huge point in his favor.

  I have never done anything like this before . . .

  Harmon stalked into his office to grab a stack of files. ‘You really are the most infuriating woman I have ever met.’

  ‘You can’t break a wall with your forehead,’ I muttered to myself. And to him. In other words, don’t deal with stubborn people. And don’t be stubborn yourself.

  I needed to get out of this office, out of Odessa. And San Francisco suddenly sounded appealing. I wrote back immediately.

  An hour later, Harmon came out of the boardroom as though we hadn’t fought and said, ‘You know, I was thinking this place needs a little something. I never thought this branch would last more than a month, so I didn’t bother decorating. But we’ve been here for well over a year now. What do you think about getting some paintings?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. Another chore on my list. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘No, no, you’re so busy. I can do it.’

  I should have known that Harmon had something up his Gucci sleeve. He never volunteered to do any extra work. He never volunteered to do any work, period. The following day, when I walked down the hall towards my desk, there were paintings on nearly every inch of the wall. Splatters of yellow over blots of black entitled Bruise. A canvas painted monotone blue called Sky. I didn’t need to see the signature to know that they were Olga’s post-modern spree. The prices were marked on cards tucked between the canvas and the frame: $100, $75, $150. Exorbitant in a country where an average monthly wage is thirty dollars.

  We don’t say ‘That’s the last straw’ in Russian. Who has a camel? We say ‘the last drop.’ As in the drop of water that makes the vase overflow. Everyone has a vase. The last drop came when I looked up from my desk and saw the three by three foot painting of a large red stilett
o with someone crushed underneath it. I looked closer. It was me beneath the heel, extinguished like a cigarette. Sudden Death for only twenty dollars. That bitch. And Harmon. How could he let her get away with this? I went to the kitchen to escape the art gone bad. The paintings there were equally ugly, but at least I wasn’t being snuffed out in them. I waited for Harmon. This vase had overflowed.

  When he came in at ten, he was grinning. ‘Well, what do you think? Don’t all these paintings liven up the place?’

  ‘Did you see my portrait?’ I grabbed his tie, pulled him down the hall to my office space and pointed to the offending shoe.

  He squinted. ‘That’s not you.’

  ‘The hell it isn’t,’ I said, using a phrase I’d learned from the captain of one of our ships. ‘Take it down.’

  ‘Olga thought you’d like this painting best and insisted we hang it in front of your desk.’

  ‘One needn’t think too hard why.’

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ he said.

  ‘Easy for you to say, you’re not the one being squished under her shoe. Of course, if she painted your portrait, you’d be under her thumb.’

  ‘Enough!’ he roared. ‘The painting stays.’ He strode into the boardroom and slammed the door. Looking around, I realized that I was surrounded by photos of the Barbie and the Bulldog and tacky paintings. I moaned. Why couldn’t I have just one ordinary, boring day?

  When Harmon’s daughter Melinda phoned a few minutes later, I looked at the discount Sudden Death canvas and felt no compunction about saying, ‘Ah, yes, your father is in. Let me be the first to congratulate you . . .’ I was so mad that I didn’t think about the ramifications. I just wanted to hurt him.

  ‘Congratulate me on what?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said, ‘didn’t your father tell you he’s engaged?’

  When she started to scream, I bellowed, ‘Harmon, it’s for you.’ Although in my mind I’d referred to him as simply Harmon since the incident, this was the first time I dared to address him without the respectful title of ‘mister.’ It was the first time I walked out of the office before the end of the day. It was also the first time I put my fist through a work of art.