Hotel Moscow

by Talia Carner

  “Have you been planting trees all night?” Brooke asked.

  Unruffled, he sipped his kefir. “I spilled this goddamned liquid shoe polish all over the place. Lemon will clean it.” He called over a waiter, and, using his pocket Russian dictionary, said, “Leemon.”

  “What was the deal with that paper you confiscated from Aleksandr?”

  “I didn’t like the information he was gathering.”

  She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms. “So you read Russian.”

  “I’d rather everyone not know that.”

  She glanced at the tourist dictionary he’d just used with the waiter. She thought of their meeting with Tkachev, and of the restaurant, where Judd had pretended not to know the language—or the owner. It was easy to connect the dots. He had been raised by grandparents who never assimilated. She knew such families, and they spoke Russian at home. Judd was merely one of the gold rush opportunists, those who often blurred ethical lines when laws didn’t exist—

  She rose from the table, still hungry. “I hope that whatever brought you to Russia will pan out for you.” She lifted a slice of brown rye bread to take along. “I’m leaving today. At five.”

  “I’ll be in touch in a few months.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  THANKS TO JENNY, the morning in Izmailovo art and craft market was one of the most exciting adventures Svetlana had ever had. Jenny’s chatter, her quick eye for merchandise, her way with the vendors, and her brazen bargaining left Svetlana breathless.

  “I’m glad you’re hanging out with me.” Jenny looped Svetlana’s arm though hers. “Let the other interpreters take care of these tootsies.”

  Svetlana giggled, reveling in the feel of Jenny’s plump arm, as though they were old school friends, equals. Jenny was the only plump woman among the Americans, but her voluptuousness was feminine, like that of a sexy Russian. Today she was striking in her turquoise kimono jacket, embroidered with cranes and water lilies, so unlike the all-black Amanda often wore, or Brooke’s interchangeable pastel-colored shirts. If Svetlana had their money, she would dress like Jenny.

  Jenny stopped in front of an artist’s easel that displayed a painting of two fish in bright blues and aqua. Their dark eyes were thoughtful, human. “Aquarius. My sign.” Jenny kissed the tips of her own fingers. “Ask him how much.”

  “Two hundred dollars. First price,” Svetlana translated the artist’s words, almost choking. Two hundred dollars was her entire yearly salary.

  “Twenty,” Jenny said.

  “Twenty? You want me to tell him only twenty?”

  “Didn’t he say ‘first price’?”

  Of course, no one ever paid the price quoted. Svetlana always bargained, yet a counteroffer at 10 percent was insulting; she would have offered at least 50 percent. When Svetlana hesitated, Jenny said, “This is how supply and demand points meet. It’s the fun part of selling, or business would be boring.”

  To Svetlana’s astonishment, Jenny ended up buying the painting for only fifty dollars. While the artist wrapped it in newspaper, Jenny said, “This place reminds me of Little Italy. That’s where I grew up, in New York City. Promise me that one day you’ll come visit. It has the best food in the world outside of Italy.” She looked around. “Can we grab a bite?”

  Svetlana shook her head. “They don’t sell food here.”

  “It’s a market. There must be something. A snack bar, a kiosk—”

  “We don’t waste food by eating it fast, in the street.”

  “Oh, well. I’m dangerous when I’m hungry.”

  Svetlana giggled.

  Jenny smacked her own forehead. “Whoopsy-do. I almost forgot. Have the artist sign the painting and print his full name on the back.”

  The artist shook his head. “It’s not a good idea,” Svetlana translated.

  “Why? Artists should be proud to sign their work.”

  “An old Communist law. Art is the intellectual property of Russia, not to be exploited by the West. The artist can get into trouble.”

  “Russia has nothing better to do than chase after poor painters who try to make a living?” Shaking her head in disgust, Jenny resumed strolling, toting the painting by the string of its wrap. “I can’t wait for the customs officer to stop me—” She halted mid-sentence and clutched Svetlana’s arm. “Look at those!”

  “What? Where?” All Svetlana could see were peasant blouses hanging from a bar on top of a stand. “These are just proletariat shirts. Not worth much.”

  “The embroidery! Look at the rich, colorful, dense patterns. Fabulous. What fine handiwork.” Jenny pulled Svetlana over to the stand.

  “Don’t spend good money on them,” Svetlana said. “They aren’t made of silk or cut in a Western style that’s hard to get. They’re common, like potatoes.”

  “So what? It’s the people’s art. Notice the cross-stitching? How the red and black play off each other? The white on white? See how exact the workmanship is? It’s exquisite.” Jenny’s fingers traced the stitches, the seams. “Beautiful things are part of everyday life. Art is part of life.”

  In the next hour, with Jenny’s guidance, Svetlana understood for the first time the beauty of things that had always surrounded her: the intricate designs in the Persian rugs, the enchanting simplicity of painted ceramic plates, the nostalgia of war memorabilia, the spirituality of antique icons. Jenny’s discerning eye stopped at a handsewn fur hat, an exotic stamp collection, a Chinese vase dating back before the 1917 Revolution—and she bought them all.

  Jenny’s verve lit a spark that had lain dormant in Svetlana. She felt inspired, pushed through the boundaries of her own skin. Then she remembered: Emulating Jenny had been a mistake. A painful recollection of Sidorov passed through her. Without warning, he was behind her. Her nipples stung from his pinch. Her insides recoiled from his flesh.

  Stop it! Attitude Is Everything, Svetlana chided herself. She must force herself not think of him. She must ignore her fear of their next encounter.

  “Hey, are you with me?” Jenny snapped her fingers in front of Svetlana’s face. “Help me put these on.”

  A Communist official’s hat rested on Jenny’s rust-colored curls, the hammer-and-sickle emblem shining in red and gold. Svetlana helped wrap a hand-crocheted shawl around Jenny’s satin jacket and pinned it with a miniature ceramic vegetable bouquet. Jenny grabbed a five-foot wooden staff with writhing snakes carved into it, her face shining with pleasure.

  Svetlana thought they couldn’t carry any more packages when Jenny asked her to negotiate for a magnificent life-size doll. The doll wore a straw hat strewn with rose petals and a beautiful white lace dress with pink ribbons. The merchant wanted ninety dollars, but Jenny concluded the bargain by paying thirty.

  To Svetlana’s amazement, Jenny handed her the doll. “For your daughter. What’s her name?”

  “Natasha, but—” Svetlana’s heart leaped with excitement. “It’s too . . . too much.”

  “Nonsense. Every girl should have a beautiful doll. As you say, ‘it’s feminine.’” She imitated Svetlana’s accent.

  Svetlana clutched the doll to her chest. “Thank you so much.” But Jenny marched away, heels clicking, her staff punching the packed earth, her purchases banging against her legs. Svetlana hurried behind her, carrying more packages, still disbelieving this most extraordinary gift.

  “Let’s call it a day.” Jenny adjusted the rope handle of a bundle containing a hand-knitted bedspread. “Too much schlepping.”

  The waiting bus was empty. The driver listened to a radio station that, strangely, broadcast Red Army Band songs instead of the American pop music Russians were now permitted to listen to. The music grated on Svetlana’s nerves, reminding her of the heavy decision she must weigh. Should she proceed with Dr. Olga Rozanova’s request to get the Economic Authority’s files? Could she do it without Katerina’s help? Svetlana regretted failing to invite her friend to join them tod
ay. Two hours in Jenny’s company and Katerina might finally leave her brute of a husband—and be inspired to obtain the files.

  Svetlana glanced at Jenny, who had removed her shoes and was massaging her toes. “I’d like to ask your advice,” she finally said.

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s this situation. Uh—the attack at my factory.”

  “I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

  “Well, I was asked to help get information about it.” Svetlana explained her predicament and her conversations with Brooke and Dr. Rozanova. “I might get caught. What would happen to my factory and to the workers? What would happen to my daughter?”

  “Look.” Jenny raised her finger and put it up against the sky, squinting her left eye. “With one finger you can block out the whole big mighty sun.”

  Something weightless rose in Svetlana’s heart.

  “Don’t chicken out,” Jenny continued. “Go for it. Do something important. Life is too short. Where d’you think I would have been with what little God has given me? A fatso nobody, like a zillion others. Never mind that I built a great business that has made me rich. I’m still ugly. But I act as if I am a goddess, so I feel beautiful.” Jenny touched the “Attitude Is Everything” button on Svetlana’s lapel. “Don’t wait for life to happen. Make it happen.”

  Inside Svetlana, a small butterfly spread its wings.

  Chapter Thirty

  BROOKE HAD BEEN careful not to indulge in purchases that might not fit in her suitcase, but couldn’t resist a small black-lacquered box, finely painted in minute detail. She fetched her luggage from the bus driver, checked that the lock hadn’t been broken and the contents of her wheeled bag were undisturbed, then asked one of the interpreters to help her get an official taxi among the few parked at the entrance to the market. She would arrive at the airport well ahead of nightfall—and with two hours to kill before her five o’clock flight, enough spare time for any eventualities.

  A half mile of dirt road led away from the market. By the time Brooke left, it was lined with people, each hawking a single possession: a bird cage, a hand-knit shawl, a steam iron, a box of imported crackers, a samovar, a book of crossword puzzles, a pair of women’s shoes, a silver candlestick, a violin, a puppy. Shifting their weight from one foot to the other, these sellers were visibly tired, their eyes devoid of hope. Their pleas sounded desperate, urgent.

  Driving past these destitute people, Brooke’s indignation rose. Russia was a superpower, not a third world nation, but the government’s ideologically driven economic policy, so misguided, had brought its people to their knees. Given its rich natural resources, this country could have done so much for its population, yet, indifferent to the deprivations of its masses, it had spent lavishly on a grand space program. Brooke rolled up the window and leaned back, emotionally drained.

  She was jolted awake as the driver jerked to a stop. She heard shouting, the thunder of an enraged mob. Her eyes scanned the four-lane road. “What’s going on?”

  The driver said something in Russian. Brooke rooted in her bag for a city map and showed it to him. “Where are we?” His index fingernail pointed to a junction a block away from the Garden Ring Road, the center of the city.

  Brooke looked up. Along the wide road, waving the red hammer-and-sickle flags of the defunct Soviet Union, swarms of men ran past marchers who carried the white, black, and gold czarist flags of extreme nationalists. Thousands of feet pounded. Placards bobbed up and down. Raised fists sliced the air in a show of power—or anger. Shouting rhythmic slogans, some people broke ranks, wielding clubs and iron staves, while others brandished Kalashnikov assault rifles. Rocks flew and smashed into kiosk windows, shattering glass. A vendor just ahead of Brooke’s taxi cowered on the floor of his booth.

  Panicked, spewing curses that Brooke actually recognized, the driver skidded into a U-turn and hit the curb, throwing her sideways on the seat. He tried again, then finally made it, driving in the wrong lane and swerving to avoid the oncoming traffic before the other drivers did the same.

  This was insanity. In the mayhem, Brooke heard the rumble of heavy vehicles. An armored car veered into the road from a side street. Its wheels slammed against the corner of the curb. Two dozen men, eyes blazing, fists punching the air, hung from its windows; more stood on its steps and bumper, clinging desperately to the vehicle as it sped by Brooke’s taxi.

  Her driver trailed in their wake a hundred yards until orderly troopers wearing black shirts with swastikas goose-stepped into the center of the street, saluting with straightened arms as if lifted from a Hollywood set. Neo-Nazis. Brooke’s blood pumped harder in her ears.

  Her driver jerked the car sharply into a side street, only to face a swell of people waving farm tools. Caught between the colliding mobs, he zigzagged his way through another alley where men were piling up garbage pails, bed frames, and broken lumber to erect a barricade. The driver shot through them. Timber cracked and hit the windshield, and Brooke heard screaming and realized that the car had just injured people. Her knuckles turned white as she held on to a strap with one hand and the seat with the other. She must get to the airport, but they hadn’t left the city yet.

  Brooke craned her neck and saw demonstrators destroying kiosks. In the new wave of people, the taxi slowed to a crawl. A banging on her other side made her jump. She turned to see a man wearing a photographer’s vest, a badge of media credentials tangled with the straps of his two cameras. “American?” he mouthed. Hanging onto the taxi as it continued to crawl, he held up a name badge.

  She recognized the name Peter Norcress. This was the journalist who had besmirched her client the Prince of Morocco. She cranked down the window two inches.

  “May I get a ride?” he asked in American English. “I’m from the Los Angeles Record.”

  Brooke recognized his narrow face from the photo on his column, the thinness of a marathon runner. She motioned the driver to stop and unlocked the door.

  The journalist slid in and locked the door behind him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said between breaths. His panting filled the taxi. “Norcress.” He extended his hand for a shake. His palm was sticky.

  “Fielding. I know who you are.”

  He laughed. “I hope you know only the good things.” He eyed her. “What is an American fair maiden doing here?”

  Brooke gestured with her chin outside. “What’s going on?”

  He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “A revolution! At two o’clock, Yeltsin’s opponents commandeered a truck and broke through police lines. Rutskoy, once Yeltsin’s darling and now his arch enemy, called from the White House balcony for everyone to take to the streets. They stormed the mayor’s office in Tverskaya Street.”

  Norcress spoke to the driver in Russian, and the driver continued to pull forward through the crowd. There were angry people whichever way Brooke looked, streaming in no particular direction. “Water?” She handed Norcress her water bottle, and he took a large gulp.

  “So far, Yeltsin has ordered his troops to hold their fire,” he continued. “Whether they’ll obey him is yet to be seen.”

  “It only takes one soldier to disobey—or panic—and the shooting will begin,” Brooke said. “I need to get out of here. I’m on my way to the airport. I don’t want to miss my flight.”

  “The airport is shut down.”

  “Shut down?” The hair stood on Brooke’s arms. She should have left yesterday. Or the day before. Her heart pounded hard as the provoked mob broke in a roar, and torches bobbed over the crowd. Just get me out of here. “Until when?”

  “Who knows? And the State Department has issued a warning to Americans not to travel to Moscow.”

  “Too late, isn’t it?” She scanned the street while the driver continued to move at a turtle’s pace. People pounded on the car hood as they passed. A man pressed his face to the window, and his distorted features grimaced at Brooke. She recoiled and slid away from the window. Then a group of angry peop
le surrounded the car and started rocking it.

  Brooke slid down as much as the tight space allowed, and bent her head into her knees. The driver gunned the gas pedal and forced the mob to scatter.

  In the next street she raised her head to look out. “How do I call the American Embassy?” she asked Norcress.

  “By the time you find a working phone, you’d be better off just going there. It’s not far, but you’ll need to walk. It’s right by the White House.”

  How could she walk through this wild mob? What would she do with her two pieces of luggage? Brooke crossed her arms, pressing them hard into her body. “What about an international phone call?”

  “Cash-call. At the central post office—if it’s open.” Norcress gestured behind them. “Good luck!”

  A huge blast tore the air, followed by more blasts. “Cannon. The army is firing its cannons,” he said, his voice excited. “Action!”

  Brooke covered her ears. She recalled the artillery she had seen surrounding the White House. A seismic shift of world power had begun—and she was caught in its epicenter. “It doesn’t sound like a good idea to walk toward it,” she said when the noise receded.

  “No, although I should be out there.” He craned his neck to look out the window. “Maybe not.”

  She followed his gaze. At the near corner, policemen held white shields and raised Kalashnikovs. Their presence offered no comfort—nor were they any deterrent to the roaring mob that continued to swarm in every which way. “I must get out of here,” she said. “Is there an airport hotel?”

  “Where were you staying until now?”

  “I checked out of Hotel Moscow this morning.”

  “Isn’t that in Lenin Hills? It’s far from the action. Get your ass back there.”

  She dropped back into her seat. “I guess I have no choice.”

  Norcress gave the driver new instructions. The driver gunned the car again, cut across a street corner, slalomed the wrong way down a street, and finally found a less crowded avenue.