by Shamim Sarif
The old man’s chair faces Melissa, and it is to her that he directs his initial comments, in Russian.
“Would you ask him if he speaks any English?” Melissa says to Boris. The question is relayed and Misha shakes his head.
“Niet. No. Good morning,” he adds, in a hearty bellow. “Goodbye.”
“Very good,” comments Melissa.
“That’s all he can say, in English,” says Boris. “Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here.”
Misha attempts to smooth back his hair, which is unruly, and mostly black, though heavily and dramatically streaked with silver, and he asks if the women are from England.
“No,” says Lauren. “From America.”
Misha hums the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Melissa sighs slightly.
“Where are you staying? One of the nice hotels, hey? The Metropole?” Lauren catches the trace of sarcasm in his tone.
“The National.”
Misha shrugs as if she is splitting hairs.
“It’s been a long time since two such pretty women knocked at my door. What are you researching?”
Lauren clears her throat. “I’m researching my aunt’s life.”
“Your aunt? Why did you choose me to talk to?”
He looks at her, and as he does so, the end of his last sentence falters slightly, so that Boris waits to see if there is anything else. But Misha has fallen silent, and is staring now, peering at the woman sitting to his right. He leans across and pushes the curtains further open, so that the room is suddenly brightened by the slanted sunlight. Lauren shifts a little in her chair, and watches him back, taking in his yellowed skin, and gaunt cheeks. Now Misha’s hand is reaching for his glass, and bringing it to his lips, but it is empty. Boris says something to him, offering water perhaps, and Misha just holds out the glass. The guide takes it and disappears into the kitchen. When Misha opens his mouth, only a wheeze emerges.
“Are you okay, Mr Ardonov?”
Misha ignores Lauren and puts his fingers over his eyes. He seems reluctant to take them away but does so at last, for Boris is pushing a glass of water into his hand. Misha takes a sip, and speaks to the interpreter.
“She reminds me of someone. Someone I knew long ago.”
When Boris tells them this, Lauren can barely keep still.
“Who?” she asks.
Misha shakes his head. “Who are you?”
“I am Lauren Grinkov.”
There is a long silence. Misha sips at his water, then stands up, throws the remainder of the liquid into a dying pot plant, and extracts a bottle of vodka from the bureau behind him.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk about Katya. My aunt. I am her brother Yuri’s daughter.”
“I don’t remember anything from those days. It was a long time ago.”
Lauren glances to Melissa – this is not how she has expected the meeting to progress. Melissa turns back to Misha and speaks.
“Mr Ardonov, we’ve come a long way. If you could help us out, just a little.”
“You see,” adds Lauren. “I’m very close to my uncle, Alexander. And it is he that I am concerned about.” They wait for Boris to translate.
“Sasha is alive?” Misha says in almost a whisper.
“Yes, he is. He lives in Boston now. He was thinking about coming with us, but…anyway, I have a letter for you. From him.”
She listens to the overlapping of Boris’s translation, and waits expectantly, but there is no response.
“He’s happy and well,” Lauren continues, “but I feel he has never ever really recovered from Katya’s death. And a lot of that is because he does not really know what happened to her. In fact, he blames himself for leaving her here, in danger. Not that he had much choice. From what we understand.”
Misha laughs mirthlessly. “Everyone has choices in life. He ran off as quickly as he could.”
“So you do remember?” Melissa says. Immediately, she asks Boris not to translate that remark, but Misha casts her a hostile glance – her tone is plain in any language.
Lauren speaks again, her voice even, her manner persuasive.
“The fact is that my uncle was gone, and you were her best friend here. Is there anything you can tell me about the time leading up to her death? Did you see her, or talk to her?”
“I told you, I don’t remember. This all happened thirty or forty years ago. And I have spent those forty years drinking too much vodka. And now the doctors tell me I don’t have much time left. A few months, maybe. It kills the liver and then the brain, you know, vodka. And sometimes, if one has good luck, it kills the memory first.”
He stares off into the middle distance while Boris relays this to the women.
“I don’t buy it,” says Melissa, quietly. “He’s sharp as a tack.”
“Then why would he be so difficult about talking to us?”
“Beats me. But he hasn’t even looked at you since he noticed who you look like.”
Lauren nods to Boris to let him know that she is ready for him to translate again. But before she says anything, she stands up and walks the two paces to Misha’s chair. She squats down before the old man, so that he has nowhere to look except at her face. She speaks directly to Misha, and her voice is soft, so that Boris has to concentrate hard to hear her.
“I know this must be difficult for you. But my aunt Katya is important to me too. I really need to know what happened to her.”
His eyes dart away, and fix down on his knees. There is a slight shake to his hand, which Lauren has not noticed earlier.
“What difference does it make now?” he says.
Lauren sighs. “You sound just like my uncle. It could make all the difference in the world. Mr Ardonov – imagine being him. Imagine losing the love of your life, and then spending every day of your life blaming yourself for her death.”
He is looking straight at her now, with sharp, hollow eyes like caverns, almost devouring her features. The expression on his face shows the difficulty of the task he has set himself. Then, suddenly, a veined hand reaches up and pushes at Lauren’s shoulder, almost putting her off-balance. She stands and takes a step back, shocked.
“You must leave now. I have nothing more to tell you.” His shaking hand goes to his glass again and he takes a drink. When he looks up, something in his face has hardened.
“Goodbye,” he adds, harshly, in English.
Boris shrugs at Melissa and gets up, but Melissa waits for Lauren to make a move before she too stands up. They pick up their bags, and after a moment’s consideration, Lauren takes out a package and hands it to Misha.
“Here, Mr. Ardonov. To say thank you for seeing us.”
He does not reach for it, or even look at her, so she leaves it balanced on the edge of the table beside him. On top of the package, she leaves the letter that Alexander has given her, and a card from their hotel.
“We’re here for four more days. At the National. We leave on Saturday. If you decide you can remember anything.”
There is no response, so Boris thanks him and they leave.
For some time after they have gone, Misha sits motionless in his chair, watching dots of dust spiralling down through the same shaft of sunlight that revealed Katya’s niece’s face to him. Finally, he takes another drink, and rips open the envelope. The note is short, but he leaves it on his lap where it falls for a moment, before flicking it open to read it.
“Misha –
It has been too long that we have not been in contact, and I am sorry for it. You will have met Lauren by now, and will know that she is Katya’s niece. Perhaps you will have seen it in her face before she even explained. She is like a daughter to me – the daughter I wish I could have had with Katya. I know you will treat her well, but I ask you, in memory of our old, long friendship, to look after her and help her if you can in her quest to find out what happened to our Katyushka. There is not a day when I don’t miss her, Misha. I know you must too. I a
lso know you must have done all you could to help her, and I have never thanked you for that. I thank you now, my friend.”
There are a couple more lines to the letter, but Misha does not read them. He crumples the note in his hand and puts it on the table beside him, and puts a hand to his eyes, where tears are beginning to pool. He cannot believe this. He can count on the fingers of one hand the times he has cried during his entire life. As if to divert his own attention, he roughly pulls open the brown paper on the package and leaves the hotel card where it falls, on the floor. The wrapping holds a frame, and when he turns it around, he finds a small brush and ink portrait of Katya, signed by Lauren. A tiny, animalistic sound is forced from him, almost involuntarily, for the likeness is incredible. He lets the picture drop onto his lap and covers his eyes again. His shoulders give an involuntary shake. Then, with a sudden force of emotion and energy, he picks up the frame and hurls it across the room. It bounces and lands face down on the dirty carpet, but does not break. Leaving it there, he staggers into the kitchen for vodka.
The night time darkness in the room is thick, unalleviated by any glow or shadow from outside, for the crimson velvet drapes are heavy and full. Lauren lies in bed, thankful for the blackness blanketing her. Her disappointment at the meeting with Misha is deep and the searing touch of it is only now beginning to recede. She turns from side to side, wondering what it is about Katya that is so hard for the people who knew her to speak of. Beside her, Melissa shifts a little, and Lauren turns towards her. Her shape has become discernible now, as her eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Her back is to her, and she can see the slight rise and fall of her arm, moving with her gentle breathing.
Slowly, giving herself time to pull back if she wishes, Lauren reaches out her arm beneath the covers so that her hand lays almost flat on Melissa’s back. She can feel a calm stillness in the body she is touching, so that she knows that Melissa is awake and aware of her touch. Gently she lets her fingers move down her back, caressing the bare skin, feeling along the length of the spine to the hollow of her lower back. There is a slight shiver beneath her fingers, and she lets them rest here for a few long seconds. Then she traces a line back upwards again, until she is stroking the base of Melissa’s neck. Without another thought, Lauren shifts closer to her, and her lips follow the line her hand has just taken.
“Are you sure about this?” Melissa says quietly.
“Yes.”
Melissa says nothing more, and Lauren cannot trace her feelings.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks.
Gently, lightly, so that she will not disturb the subtle spell of this moment, Melissa turns around so that her hands can reach up to enclose Lauren’s face.
“No,” she says. “Don’t stop.”
For Melissa, the days have passed in a strange combination of heightened awareness, and blurred confusion. Her laptop has been left untouched for the week, and her impressions of Moscow remain caught up with the sight and touch and scent of Lauren. She dislikes the feeling that she is slipping out of control, but there is also a new pleasure to even everyday sensations now that she does not want to give up. She takes a soothing gulp of black coffee and through the doors of the restaurant watches the occasional activity in the lobby. It is before seven o’clock in the morning, and too early for breakfast to be served, but she has found someone to bring her a pot of coffee. She is an early riser, has always been, and today she has been too restless to stay in bed alongside the slumbering Lauren. Their packing is almost complete, and they have several hours before their flight. She has a taste for solitude sometimes, for time alone to think things through, a trait she has inherited from her father.
The sound of talking attracts her attention. There are two men in the lobby now, and she looks up as she savours the warmth of the cup in her hands. An old man is making his way past the doorman. He has been stopped because he is not well-dressed; or rather, his clothes look old and unwashed. But he is inside now, and making his way to the desk clerk. With a jolt, Melissa recognises Misha. Putting down her cup, she goes out to the lobby, where she watches from a discreet distance. Misha is carrying a small, battered brown suitcase. He puts this down on the counter before the disconcerted concierge, and the two men have a voluble discussion. The concierge appears reluctant to take the case, and makes Misha open it. He does so, finally, and she can make out nothing more than a small pile of clothes and an envelope. The case is examined and snapped shut again. She hears Lauren’s surname being mentioned, and the concierge scribbles a note. Before he has even finished writing, Misha is turning and walking back out through the lobby.
He has a slight limp from his hip that makes him walk slowly, and Melissa watches him, computing, deciding. It takes only a second for her to hurry across the room and cut him off before he reaches the front entrance. He stares at her, then rolls his eyes as though he cannot believe his bad luck and tries to sidestep her. She is asking him to wait, saying that she must speak with him, and the doorman steps in to halt the old man. Misha stops with a frustrated gesture, and looks furiously at Melissa, then barks something at her. She looks at the doorman.
“He wants to know what you want with him?” the doorman obliges.
“I just want to talk to him. Will you ask him if he will have a cup of coffee with me?”
The request is forwarded, and Misha shakes his head vigorously.
“He says he must go. He is tired and old. You must please leave him alone.”
“I can’t. Tell him I will follow him until he agrees to speak with me.”
Misha lets out a stream of bad-tempered invective that the doorman does not care to translate, and he takes a further step away from them, but Melissa has already slipped a fifty dollar bill into the doorman’s hand. With a quick, belligerent movement, he blocks off the door and all but pushes Misha back inside. Melissa reaches for Misha’s arm. It is thin and frail under his grimy, grey jacket.
“Please,” she says. “Just a few minutes.”
Misha pulls his arm away, and sizes up the fit, young doorman.
“How much did she give you, bastard?” he asks him. The doorman smiles and moves his large frame more squarely in front of the door.
With an irritated sigh, he turns suddenly and walks towards the restaurant, and Melissa follows, stopping to ask the concierge if he will translate for them. The man seems reluctant, but comes out from behind his desk.
“Oh, and bring that suitcase with you,” Melissa says, pointing to the brown case that waits on the counter.
“It is for Miss Grinkov,” says the concierge, by way of asserting himself.
Melissa picks up the hotel phone and dials their room.
“I need you down in the restaurant. Quickly,” she says, and she hangs up, anxious to ensure that Misha does not get away. But he is sitting sullenly at the first table, just inside the restaurant doors. She sits down beside him, with the concierge across from them. The suitcase has been left behind, she notes, but there will be time to deal with that later.
“Would you like coffee?” Melissa asks.
Misha glances at his watch, as though hoping he might be able to request a real drink. He waves a hand impatiently, and shakes his head.
“What do you want?” the concierge asks Melissa on his behalf.
“I want to know why you came here. What did you leave for Lauren?”
“It’s there. Go and see if you want to.”
“Why didn’t you ask to see Lauren?”
Misha’s anger seems to seep away slightly, and his eyes hold a suggestion of sorrow, even fear.
“I just wanted to leave the case for her. That’s all. I am a dying man, I have one last thing to do, and now I have done it. Okay?”
His aggression has no effect whatsoever on Melissa’s composure.
“Why didn’t you ask to see Lauren?” she says again.
Misha looks at her, irritated, but his voice when he replies is lower this time.
“I don’t
want to see her face again.”
“Because she looks like Katya?”
Misha does not bother to reply. The concierge repeats the question, and he looks away.
“Why does that upset you so much? Why do you feel so badly when you remember Katya?”
Still, Misha looks away, at the floor, but now the fierceness of his gaze is replaced with something deeper – again that mixture of sadness and fear, Melissa feels. Behind the old man, Lauren has come into the restaurant. She has washed up, and the hair around her face is damp, but her eyes still hold a haze of sleepiness. She looks at Misha in surprise.
“Mr Ardonov?”
Misha jumps in his chair. Lauren’s hand goes to his back, soothing, reassuring, but her touch and her anxious gaze only seem to upset him more.
“Look at her,” Melissa says. She nods at the concierge, who is watching in confusion, and has forgotten to translate.
Misha disregards the request. “Tell him again,” instructs Melissa. “Look at her. Look!”
He looks up. Lauren’s face is just above his, her hand still on his shoulder, and he looks into her eyes, takes in her nose and mouth and chin. His hand comes up and clutches at her arm. The pain and horror in his own face appals the women as they watch.
“What is it?” Lauren asks, quietly. “What is it?”
Melissa is looking from Lauren to Misha, gauging. They are near a breakthrough of some kind, that much she can sense, but how not to let it slip away?
“You know something about her death, don’t you?”
The concierge looks shocked, but she repeats the question and instructs him to translate it. Misha hears it and at last his eyes pull away from Lauren. His eyes are watery; though whether these are tears, or the familiar rheumy moistness of age and alcohol, Melissa cannot tell.
“You know something.”
“Melissa…?”
“Trust me on this one,” Melissa says brusquely, and her eyes never leave Misha. “She’s Alexander’s niece. Your best friend’s niece. Don’t you owe him and Katya that much?” She pauses. In the quiet of the vast room, they can hear only the clinking of plates being laid out.
“You’re dying,” Melissa says softly and he looks at her, a wounded glance, as if she has taken too low a shot at him. But she remains unfazed. “You’re dying,” she repeats, her voice clear. “If you clear your conscience, what do you have to lose?”
