“What were you working on that made the police go after you?”
“I wasn’t. I was on vacation. I’m just another American tourist.”
Abby didn’t comment, leaving Nicole to wonder if the young woman bought her story. They remained silent while the train passed through three more stations, each decorated in a unique way. Abby stood up as the train approached the next stop. “This is us.” She led Nicole past several blocks of old, run-down apartment houses. At last she stopped and waved at an old woman seated on the stoop of a building up ahead. The woman looked bulky in her heavy coat, which she wore with a number of scarves, including one she’d fashioned into a turban.
“That’s Olga,” Abby said. “Remember, ‘babushka’ is the only word you need to say. And whatever she does—hugs, kisses, and all—just go with it.”
At the sight of Nicole, Olga stood up and cried out, “Malyshka!” followed by a string of other exclamations that sounded like terms of endearment. She hobbled down the stairs and pulled Nicole into a bear hug. Nicole responded, putting her arms around the old woman and calling out, “Babushka!” in what she hoped was a joyous voice. This was difficult when Olga was squeezing her so tightly. Nicole had expected Abby to stop for a visit, but without greeting Olga or saying goodbye to Nicole, she turned and headed back toward the Metro.
When Olga’s welcome wound down, she put an arm around Nicole and guided her up the steps. The entry hall was as run-down as the building’s exterior. It had a worn wooden floor, and the stairs they started to climb were covered with ancient, fraying carpet. They kept going until they reached the fourth or fifth floor; Nicole had lost track. Here, Olga took a jangling set of keys out of her pocket. After unlocking several deadbolts, she led Nicole inside. She signaled for Nicole to remain silent while Olga herself kept up a running monologue in Russian.
The place was the smallest studio apartment Nicole had ever seen, no more than eighty square feet, with worn but colorful, patterned rugs on the floor and hanging on the walls. The bed, covered with a lumpy duvet, took up most of the room. A tiny stove, sink, and refrigerator—all equally ancient—occupied one corner.
Olga opened a closet and gestured for Nicole to follow her inside. The old woman closed the closet door, plunging them into darkness while she felt around for a light switch and turned it on. She pulled aside a section of the wall and bent down to pass through the opening into a room no bigger than the one they’d just left. In contrast, it was neat and uncluttered. It held a couple of filing cabinets, several bookcases, and a desk with a computer and phone on top. An overstuffed chair and reading lamp sat in front of the desk. The furnishings looked fairly new. Against the wall was a futon with a pillow and blankets folded neatly on top.
Olga took off her scarves and coat and unwrapped the turban, hanging them on a coat rack near the door. The person who’d been hidden underneath all these clothes was much different than Nicole had pictured. For one thing, she didn’t look like a loving babushka. She was the right age, perhaps in her seventies, but with a dancer’s body, slender and upright. She must have been a great beauty, and she still remained attractive despite the passage of time. She had a cloud of silver curls, an angular face, and high cheekbones, but there was something hard and indomitable about her, and Nicole felt uncomfortable under her gaze. It was as if those piercing blue eyes could read her mind and see into her soul.
“Have a seat.” Olga’s English was clearly American. Nicole sat on the chair, while Olga settled across from her at the desk. “I understand you need a place to hide out from the police. I read Pravda’s version. What really happened?”
Nicole explained about witnessing the murder, Kolkov’s suspicion that she was hiding something, and his demand that she give evidence against her shipboard companion. She described the events that led up to meeting Abby. She finished with a greatly abbreviated version of Chet’s shooting, adding that Abby was trying to locate him.
“Ah-hah,” Olga said. “I hope that outfit you’re wearing is a good disguise. The police will be scouring the city for you.”
“It is. I don’t look anything like Nicole Graves, believe me.”
Olga looked at her watch. “It’s coming up on noon. I’ll fix us lunch. You can come with me, but we can’t speak English in the other room. The walls in this building are like paper except for my den here, which I reinforced with acoustical tiles. I never speak English in there. The neighbors think I’m crazy.” She smiled. “I put a lot of work into sustaining that image. They have no idea of my true identity, and I want to keep it that way.”
Nicole accompanied Olga back to the other room, where the woman made egg salad sandwiches and hot tea in tall glasses with metal holders. They brought their food into Olga’s den and resumed their seats, using the desk as a table.
“Do you mind if I ask how you ended up here?” Nicole said. “I can tell from your accent that you’re American, and I’m guessing you grew up in New York.”
“Clever girl! I went to Harvard, believe it or not. I’d skipped a couple of grades in high school, so I was sixteen when I entered the university, young and naive and impressionable. One of my professors was a devout communist. He became my mentor, then my lover, and I joined the communist party. This was in the 1960s. You can’t imagine how difficult life was for communists in the U.S. back then. We were considered the enemy. I couldn’t get a job. My family disowned me. I was thrown from a comfortable life into poverty and shunned by people I’d once considered friends.
“I decided I didn’t belong at Harvard, in Boston, or the U.S., for that matter. I quit school and defected to Soviet Russia. I never saw my family again. It took about ten years for me to become disillusioned with my new country. By now, it was the late 1970s, and I’d started working with dissidents who were helping Jews escape from Russia. At the time, they weren’t permitted to leave, but the group was heavily infiltrated with KGB. I was arrested, convicted of crimes against the state, and locked up for three years. I came out more determined than ever to remain in Russia and help others who were being persecuted.” She stood up. “Excuse me, I’m going to get more tea. You probably want a refill, too. I’ll bring the pot.”
When Olga returned, she was carrying a tray with the teapot and a plate of small, round cookies covered with powdered sugar. “Snowballs!” Nicole said. “I haven’t had these in years. My mother used to make them, too.”
Olga drew herself up in mock affront. “Snowballs? I’ll have you know, my dear, that these are Russian tea cakes. And I don’t bake. I buy them at the corner bakery.”
Helping herself to a cookie, Nicole said, “It sounds like you’ve had a hard life.”
“At times. But I believe that everything we experience, both good and bad, leaves us that much wiser. Things are good for me now, although I’d rather not have to pretend to be crazy. I help journalist friends like Abby find stories that tell the rest of the world what it’s like in today’s Russia. Sometimes I can help people like you, who are persecuted by the police. I have friends who are sympathizers and provide enough financial support to keep me and my cause afloat. I’ve never fit in anywhere, but now I do, in my own particular way. I’m doing something worthwhile by fighting the government and helping give voice to the opposition.”
The phone on Olga’s desk rang. Nicole noticed the ringer had been turned down so it was barely audible. Olga carried on her end of the conversation in Russian. When she hung up, she said, “That was Abby. She’s getting pretty fluent in Russian. She wants you to know that she’s still trying to find your friend. It isn’t easy to get information out of hospitals. But she called someone at the ministry of health who owes her a favor, and he gave her a way to look in hospital records for recent gunshot victims. There are close to one hundred hospitals in Moscow, so it’s taking a while. She did find two unidentified victims.” Olga held up a sheet of paper where she’d written the hospitals’ names. “The hospitals want to notify any family these people might have. And, of c
ourse, the police want to know more about them, why they were shot, and by whom. The men were found in different parts of the city, so there’s no reason to think the shootings were related.”
“Can you give me directions for getting there? I need to find Chet as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” Olga said. “But first, I have to make you an ID card. All Russians and non-Russian residents have to carry them. You’ll probably be asked for it when you visit the hospitals. First, I’ll need a photo of you, of course.” She went over to the filing cabinet and took out an old polaroid camera. She held it up, got it in focus, and said, “Look at the camera.”
Nicole smiled as the camera clicked.
Olga shook her head. “We can’t use that because you were smiling. This isn’t the U.S., remember? Try to keep a serious face.” Nicole obliged, and this time, Olga seemed satisfied and put the camera on her desk while the film rolled out and started to develop.
“Now I’ll get to work on your ID. Tell me your friend’s last name. I’ll use it on the card so it looks like you’re married. Most hospitals won’t let you visit a patient unless you’re a close relative.”
“It’s Antonovich.”
“Antonovich,” Olga repeated, writing it on a notepad. “Making up an ID takes a little while. There’s a stack of newspapers on the filing cabinet. You might want to read while I take care of this.”
Nicole looked through the papers. Only two were in English, The Guardian and the New York Times International Edition, but the most recent was a week old. Nicole tried to focus on the New York Times, but she was too keyed up and anxious. She decided to explore Olga’s bookshelves instead. She was curious about the woman, and her choice of books might reveal more about her.
“Do you mind if I look through your books?”
“Not at all. Help yourself.”
About half the books were in Russian, the rest in English. Olga’s taste appeared very similar to Nicole’s; they both had an appreciation for literary fiction. She spotted a copy of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, one of her favorites. Next to it was The Testaments, the Handmaid’s sequel, which Nicole had been meaning to read. She pulled it down from the shelf and an envelope fell out. Handwritten in large, flowing script on the envelope was the name “Olga Whitney Marozova.” There was no address or postage stamp, so it must have been hand-delivered.
Nicole glanced over at Olga to be sure she wasn’t looking and, turning way, slipped the letter out of the envelope. It said:
“My greatest hope was that we could be together and share what little time we have left. You’ve made it clear you aren’t interested. I accept your decision and will stop calling since I now realize my persistence has upset you. I’ve left this parting gift. Love always, Max.”
She opened the book and read the inscription on the title page, written in the same hand. “To Olga, with love and admiration. You will never let something like this happen to us.” It was signed, “Max.”
She carefully tucked the note back in the envelope, which she slipped into the book before sitting down and starting to read. She was only a few pages in when Olga handed her the finished ID card. It was still warm from the thermal laminator. It looked authentic, although Nicole was in no position to judge. Her photo was on it, along with print beneath it in Cyrillic.
“I’ve made you a legal resident from Slovakia,” Olga said. “You came here when you married Antonovich. This would explain why you don’t speak Russian, and most Russians don’t speak Slovak. Your name is Nicola Pavlikova Antonovich. Now, let’s see. What else do you need?”
“Directions for getting to the hospitals,” Nicole said.
Olga picked up the notes she’d made earlier and handed them over. Then she pulled a small pamphlet out of her desk. “Here are some Russian phrases that might come in handy. They include English definitions as well as transliteration, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble pronouncing them. Since you’re Slovakian, they’ll understand why you aren’t fluent in Russian. The one phrase you should memorize is ‘I am his wife.’”
Olga opened a desk drawer, took out a burner phone still in its wrapper, and handed it to Nicole. “You shouldn’t go anywhere without a way to communicate. Let me have those papers again. I want to write down my phone number in case you run into any problems.”
“Can I use this phone to call home for my phone messages? I haven’t picked them up in a while, and that worries me.”
Olga went into her desk again and pulled out a different phone. “Here, this one has enough credit on it for you to call overseas. Make it short, or it will run out of its allotment.”
“Thanks,” Nicole said, exchanging the original phone for the new one. She was putting on her coat when Olga said, “Wait! I forgot one last thing. She went over to the filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, and reached into it, pulling out a small box. Inside was a plain gold band, a wedding ring, that was dulled from years of wear. She slipped it onto the ring finger of Nicole’s right hand. “Now you’re properly married to this Antonovich. I hope he’s tall, dark, and handsome.”
“More like very, very tall and fair. Not exactly handsome, but sort of hot.”
“Is he your lover?”
“No. I’m engaged, and my fiancé really is tall, dark, and handsome.”
“So? Where is this Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome who leaves you to take a cruise on your own?”
“It’s complicated,” Nicole said.
Olga smiled. “I’ll bet it isn’t as complicated as he wants you to think. Why don’t you give this friend of yours a try? What were the words to that song? ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.’”
“I’m afraid that isn’t in my nature. I’m hopelessly monogamous.”
The two bid each other goodbye and Nicole left, heading for the Metro. The ride took about forty minutes, time enough for Nicole to go over the sheet of Russian phrases and practice them silently in her head. The hospital was part of a large medical complex spread over several blocks of almost identical buildings, gray with darker gray double columns between each row of windows. It looked relatively new, and the grounds were neatly landscaped.
The woman at the front desk asked for Nicole’s ID and took a quick look at the photo before handing it back. Nicole consulted the list of phrases Olga had given her and asked to see her husband. She only referred to him by his last name. She was pretty sure he didn’t go by “Chet” in this country.
The woman looked through names on her computer and said, “Nyet.” She gestured to the man waiting behind Nicole to step up to the counter.
Instead of making way for him, Nicole looked at her list of phrases and read the word unconscious. She must have mispronounced it because the woman didn’t understand. Nicole stuck out her finger as if her hand were a gun and pointed to her side and mimed someone asleep or unconscious.
For the first time, the woman looked directly at her, her eyes reflecting understanding and perhaps sympathy. She quickly scrolled through the records again as if she knew what she was looking for. When she stopped scrolling, she said “Ah!” then started explaining something to Nicole in Russian. Nicole gestured with a shrug, signaling that she didn’t understand. The woman jotted the number 437 on a slip of paper, gave it to Nicole, and pointed to the elevators on the other side of the lobby.
It took Nicole a while to find the room. The place was enormous, and she kept having to ask for directions, pointing to the paper with the room number and making it clear she didn’t speak Russian. Several times she had to backtrack where someone had steered her wrong or, more probably, she’d misunderstood the directions. Finally she found room 437. There were four patients crowded into a room barely adequate for two. They were walled off from each other by screens that appeared to be made of cardboard. The room was overheated and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. As she gazed around, she could see that the smoke was concentrated around a bed in one corner. She slowly walked past
the beds, observing the occupants. One man was too old, the second too young, and the third too small. None of them had their eyes open, and it was hard to tell if they were asleep or unconscious. But Chet wasn’t among them. She peeked into the corner where the smoker was lying. This man was wide awake, bald, with a fringe of dark hair. He winked at Nicole and blew a couple of smoke rings, then gave her an enormous smile from which two teeth were missing.
Out of pity, Nicole smiled back and waved before hurrying down to the lobby. As she emerged from the elevator, the woman at the counter motioned her over and said something in Russian. This time, Nicole didn’t need to understand the words. The woman wanted to know if she’d found her husband. Nicole gave a sad shake of her head.
As she walked toward the exit, she looked at the clock. It was 4:00 p.m. She didn’t know how long it would take to get to the next hospital, but it didn’t matter. Time was running out, and she had to follow every lead. She had only two more days until the Victory Day celebration. If she couldn’t find someone to help, she’d decided, the British Embassy would be a better bet than her own. They might know who to contact. How much would she have to tell them? Everything, she supposed, and she hoped the people who worked there would believe her and could be trusted. She had no idea if this was the right thing to do, but she had no other choice.
The second hospital was just as enormous as the first. The architecture was similar except that the front of this building was crescent shaped with a driveway that circled up to the front entrance and rounded back out to the street. The lobby setup was almost identical, too, with one person behind the counter to handle visitors’ questions.
From a distance, the receptionist looked like the prototypical jolly babushka who’d be greatly loved by all who knew her. But as Nicole got closer, she could see the woman wore a sour expression. She looked as if she were fed up with the day, the people she had to talk to, and perhaps the whole world. Without looking at Nicole, the woman silently pointed to her left, where at least thirty people were queued up to be helped. Nicole went to the end of the line and waited quite a while before she reached the counter.
The Moscow Affair Page 13
