by Bergen, KC
Michael peered over at Melissa. She wasn’t going to stand there for much longer. He took a deep breath and forced himself to walk over. She seemed so far away, as if he were wading through syrup. His mouth was dry, his heart beating so hard his ears rang.
Don’t commit to it.
He wanted to retreat to the bathroom, relieve himself of the dreadful feeling, perhaps even save his own life, as his heart was pounding like a drum.
If you chicken out, you will regret it for the rest of your life.
Refusing to obey his cowardly impulses, Michael forced himself to continue moving forward, toward Melissa. But his legs weren’t fully cooperating. He tripped himself up, stumbled, and bumped into her. She lost her balance, but Michael managed to shuffle his feet and prevent her from falling.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he let go of her arm. “I didn’t mean to knock you up. I mean bend you over. Knock you over.”
“Are you okay?” Melissa asked. “You look ill.”
He felt sick to his stomach, but he didn’t want her to think that she might catch a disease from him. And he didn’t have the flu or any contagious disease either. His head and chest were just so warm and everything else felt clammy and cold. And up close, Melissa’s eyes were even more beautiful than he remembered. He could drown in those eyes.
Drown.
Breathe! Say something!
“I’m … healthy as a horse.”
“I like horses,” Melissa said.
“Do you want a ride?” No! That, too, was something his dad might say. But Melissa laughed, and, for a blessed moment, Michael felt relief. “I mean, do you want to dance?”
Melissa smiled. “Sure.”
She took Michael’s arm as he gallantly led her to the dance floor. Grinning, Michael glanced over at Novak, who gave him a thumbs-up. Then Novak spied Tristan slowly twirling with Mary on the dance floor. Just before the fake KGB officer caught a glimpse of him, the shepherd ducked down and sought cover behind an obese lady. He slowly backed away to ensure that Tristan’s prying eyes wouldn’t find him.
Novak bumped into a fundraiser official. “Sorry,” Novak said and headed for the restrooms.
The pudgy fundraiser official fixed his comb-over and stepped up onto a small podium, where he adjusted a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to our educational fundraiser. Thank you all for coming. We ask that you join us in the Sequoia Room for our panel discussion preceding the auction. The Sequoia Room, in ten minutes.”
***
Mary and Tristan were still dancing, and she asked him if he was excited about the discussion.
“Sure,” Tristan said absentmindedly, as he was watching Brian sandwich himself between Amber and Candy. The man had everything. Well, he didn’t have custody of his son yet. Carol and that annoying Ted, who kept looking over at him, were also waltzing. But despite these disturbing elements, Tristan was actually enjoying himself. All he needed was firmly within his reach.
“Have you thought of what you’re going to say?” she asked.
Tristan stiffened up. “Excuse me?”
“The panel discussion. Ted asked you to share some information about the Russian educational system? When we all went out to dinner, remember?”
Tristan vaguely recalled something about a discussion, but he’d never perceived it as an actual commitment. In his mind, a discussion was an informal conversation. Definitely not a big event like this. His knees were beginning to tremble, and he felt like he had to—yes, he definitely had to void his bladder, perhaps more than just his bladder.
“Of course I remember,” Tristan said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the restroom.” Tristan left Mary on the dance floor.
***
Appalled by her ex-husband’s dirty dance moves, Mary walked off. Brian grabbed Candy’s butt and pulled her close, gesturing for Michael to follow his lead. But Michael continued to dance slowly and with decent space between himself and his partner.
Meanwhile, Mary snacked on some strawberries and grapes and had another glass of champagne. As she observed her ex-husband behaving like the pervert he was, she reminded herself that she was there to have a good time. Seeing her son dance with a girl from school helped. And he wasn’t taking after his father, which was a great sign. But the boy still needed a proper male role model. Tristan was a KGB officer, so he was undoubtedly well versed in violence and secret operations. He knew how to keep secrets. Was that really something Michael and she needed at this point in their lives? She’d had enough of secrets, she thought, and looked away from Brian groping one of his so-called glamour models.
“Mary!”
A familiar voice. Mary turned to find one of her mentors, a legendary real estate agent, sauntering toward her. “Nikolay!”
The hulking man grabbed Mary by the shoulders and kissed her cheeks. “So nice to see you.”
“You too, Niko! How’s business?”
Nikolay sipped from his glass of champagne. “Please. This is not business, it’s personal.” He chuckled. “I just returned from a trip to Moscow.”
“Oh, how’s the family?”
“My kids are growing up so fast. They make me feel old!”
Mary glanced at her son. “Tell me about it.”
“Are you here alone?”
“No, I’m here with someone,” Mary said, looking around. “He should be back soon, and I think you two will have much to talk about.”
55
Tristan checked the first bathroom stall, which was locked. Fortunately, the second was vacant. He shut the door and quickly unbuckled his pants. His stomach was in turmoil.
A panel discussion? About Russian education?
Peter was a middle school dropout and hardly knew anything about the US educational system. He planted his ass on the toilet, deciding there was no point in even trying to be quiet. Whoever was in the next stall would just have to endure the reverberations.
Novak had unrolled the movie poster from his waist and was taking a good look at it, when a guy started making a racket in the next stall. It was more than just a racket. Novak quickly rolled up the poster and evacuated the restroom.
Sighing with relief, Peter thought amusedly that he’d just executed a performance worthy of The Wizard of Ass. Wait! A performance. Of course, it was just Peter who was deathly afraid of public speaking. To Tristan, it was no biggie. Peter simply had to take his method acting to the next level. If anyone could pull this panel thingy off, it was Tristan Drimov.
As Peter washed his hands, he watched his reflection in the mirror. He sensed himself virtually transforming into the seasoned KGB officer. He observed his hands. Two beautiful, manicured hands that had saved countless women and children all over the world. The hands of love. Yes, he could do it! All he had to do was stay in character for the duration of the panel discussion.
Stay in character.
56
The throngs of people were moving away from the dance floor, toward the Sequoia Room, when Tristan emerged from the restroom. He made his way over to the dance floor and found Mary talking to a tall older gentleman.
“Tristan,” she said, beaming, “meet Nikolay.”
Nikolay extended his hand. No tissues had been left in the dispenser, so Tristan’s hands were still wet. “I just came from the restroom,” Tristan said, shaking Nikolay’s hand.
“Zdravstvuyte,” Nikolay said in fluent Russian, “menya zovut Nikolay.”
Tristan froze. What kind of mind game was this guy up to? Was he talking Elvish or maybe Klingon? He sort of reminded Tristan of Worf from Star Trek, minus the mountainous forehead. Struggling not to break character, he glanced at Mary.
“Nikolay is Russian,” Mary said. “Like you.”
“Oh, of course. I mean … da.”
Nikolay wiped his moistened hand on a handkerchief. He continued in Russian: “Ochen priyatno. Otkuda vy?”
Tristan had only practiced a couple words and sentences. He said in cru
de Russian, “I am Tristan. One, two, three. KGB.”
Nikolay frowned. “Kak dolgo ty znaesh Mary?”
Tristan understood that Nikolay had mentioned Mary’s name, but that was it. As part of the training leading up to the operation, Peter had received some Russian materials to memorize. Struggling to stay in character, Peter thought of a short poem that Brian had pieced together for him. Tristan had no idea what it meant, but he needed to say something in Russian. Yes! He remembered the Russian words: “Violets are red. My balls are blue. Honk if you’re horny, and … I’ll show them to you.”
“Ty moshennik,” Nikolay said.
Tristan nodded as if he understood what the Russian gentleman was saying. Before Mary could pick up on more of their awkward exchange, Tristan said adios to Nikolay and hustled Mary toward the Sequoia Room.
“Wait,” Mary said. “Don’t be rude to my business associate.”
“Do you want me to speak on the panel or not?” Tristan said.
“Of course, but—”
“Your so-called ass-ociate said that my Siberian family is worthless, and he said that he was, in fact, a better man for you than me.”
“What?” Mary said. “But why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s some Slovenian in him.”
A voice over the PA system: “Tristan Drimov to the Sequoia Room. Tristan Drimov, please come to the Sequoia Room.”
“That’s me.” Tristan—no, Peter— felt his knees tremble. He inhaled a lungful of hot, perfumed air. There’s a method to my acting, he told himself.
I am Tristan. I am, I am, I am. One, two, three. KGB.
57
Tristan and Mary stopped in the doorway to the large, elegant Sequoia Room, which was filling up fast. The fundraiser official stood on a podium at the front of the room, and every member of the panel was on stage and seated, except for their Russian guest.
“There he is!” Pointing, Brian shouted drunkenly: “Tristan!”
“We’re happy you could make it, Mister Drimov,” the official said. “Please, have a seat.”
“Good luck,” Mary said, squeezing Tristan’s hand.
As Tristan Drimov made his way to the stage, Mary found a seat on the other side of the aisle, far away from Brian. Then Michael arrived with Melissa. Her parents beckoned for her to join them. Before she left Michael’s side, she gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Hey, playa!” Brian waved at his son. “Saved you a seat.”
Michael took a seat in the back, by himself.
Brian shrugged and turned his attention to the fake Russian on stage. “Go get ’em, you Siberian tiger!”
Amber and Candy giggled and clapped.
On stage, Tristan formally greeted his three co-members of the panel: Professor Sarah Yates, Professor George Burton, and Professor Richard McGraw. Tristan Drimov sat down on the far right, feeling intimidated by the distinguished and very serious-looking panel members. Each of them had a laptop, which made them look even more professional.
The room was packed, and everyone had taken their seats. The chattering and commotion died down and were replaced by silence. A terribly oppressive silence, Peter thought. Stressed-out and struggling to stay in character, he grabbed a pitcher and filled his glass with water. He downed it, wishing it were vodka. As he put down his glass, he spotted Novak in the back. What the hell was he doing here? And the bastard was wearing his sports jacket! This was all his fault! Peter wanted to leap off stage and beat the crap out of that Slovenian shit herder. But Mary was watching; she even winked at him. Peter as Tristan cracked a smile. If he nailed this performance, Mary and half the kingdom would be his.
The pudgy fundraiser official cleared his voice into the microphone. “Welcome to the Solvang School Board of Trustees panel discussion.” He introduced the three distinguished members and their independent guest, and gave the podium to Professor Sarah Yates.
“Since last year,” Professor Yates said, “we have met our goals in terms of a three percent decrease in the middle and high school dropout rates. However, we did not succeed in our ambition to augment the pool of students. I would like to direct the panel’s attention to this task: How can we bring more students into our programs?”
Seated next to the distinguished professors, Tristan shifted in his seat. His forehead was gleaming with sweat as he poured himself another glass of water.
Professor Burton started talking: “Generally speaking, we should target select courses to specific student segments in order to …”
As the professors droned on for a few minutes, Tristan focused on breathing calmly and sitting up straight. His hands were shaking, so he clasped them together. Then he noticed his palms leaving sweaty prints on the table, so he leaned forward and wiped the palm prints with the sleeves of his jacket. In doing so, he nearly knocked over his glass. To Tristan’s chagrin, a few audience members sniggered.
“Great ideas. Thank you.” Professor Yates made a note on her laptop. Then she looked to Tristan. “We are fortunate to have a new guest on our panel,” she said, eyes fixed on the newcomer. “All the way from Russia, Mister Tristan Drimov. We would appreciate your take on these issues.”
Tristan swallowed hard. He had downed two glasses of water and his mouth was still cotton dry, and he also hadn’t paid attention to the professors’ takes or the issues. Struggling to come up with anything meaningful to say, he leaned forward and cleared his throat into the microphone. “Da … In Russia, we always welcome a challenge, and whenever there’s a challenge, there certainly is a way.”
As over three hundred people quietly stared back at him, Peter nodded at his own words, desperately searching for the Tristan zone. Where was it? Where was the method when he so sorely needed it?
Professor Yates arched an eyebrow. “And this way might be …?”
“Well …” Under the table, Peter wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “I think you should consider catering to the blondes with augmented frontal areas. They are an overlooked segment of the population and deserve equal attention. Equality is very important in Russia.”
Professor Burton adjusted his glasses. “That is a strange thing to say.”
“Strange?” Peter felt a surge of confidence. Perhaps his elusive muse, his method, was returning to him. “A part of the word ‘strange’ is range. Range. Taste the word, swirl it in your mouths like a sip of the bubbly.” Tristan gave a pretentious laugh. “Mm … yes, if an issue is within our range, success may be right around the corner. And the corner is always within our range.”
Tristan noticed that the professors and numerous people in the audience, including Mary, were gazing wide-eyed at him. They were no doubt impressed by his phenomenal Russian input. Brian was even grinning. Novak and Michael, sitting several seats apart, also appeared to be enjoying the show.
Professor Yates tapped her pen against the table. “You mentioned the importance of equality?”
Tristan leaned back in the chair and used his arms to underline the importance of his words. “Mm-hmm. We’re all equals, and yet we’re different. On one hand, you have blondeness. On the other, baldness. Then there’s naturalness.” He groped the air with his right hand, imagining a soft yet supple breast. “And then, on the opposite side of the spectrum, we have augmented-ness.” With his left hand, he groped at something too big for his palm, so he finally used both hands for the imaginary breast.
The professors adjusted their spectacles, squinting and frowning at the guest speaker’s hand movements. Tristan as Peter could no longer remember the original point he was trying to make, or what the professor chick had asked him, but he knew this material well from experience and pressed on. “I mean, if we look at certain aspects of the adult … I mean, motion picture industry, some of these professionals are just so jaded they need to retire. And that opens plenty of doors for young fresh talent.”
Professor Burton folded his arms. “So you’re suggesting that we encourage our daughters to join the ad
ult entertainment industry?”
Peter became aware of scattered grumbling in the crowd. He shut his mouth. Shit. He’d screwed things up. He felt naked, abandoned. The cowardly KGB character had left the building.
Melissa started sniffling. Glaring at Tristan, her father gave the girl a shoulder to cry on.
“No, of course not,” Peter said, trying his hardest to re-enter the Tristan persona. In his mind he called for inspiration, help from above, a tender blowjob from his muse—anything to put him back on track. But the hostile scrutiny from everyone in the room prevented him from connecting with anyone but … himself. No, he had to go back to the beginning, to when he was rehearsing with Brian and Michael for the whole operation: the glorious student days a few weeks ago. “Listen, I remember when I was a young man, a college student in Moscow, working hard while also trying to live a little. But the rise in tuition and the cost of living made me want to drop out and join the circus, where they kept Siberian tigers.”
“Those big cats are beautiful,” Professor McGraw said.
“Yes, they’re wonderful animals. As long as they don’t bite the hand that feeds them.”
Professor Yates leaned forward. “So how did you manage to stay in school?”
“Well, in my humble opinion, you have to think about the wholeness of the student. The holistic-ness of humanity, so to speak. You have coursework and the professional aspect on one hand, and on the other you have the human aspect. What do we all want and yearn for?”
“Success,” Professor Burton concluded.
“Happiness both professionally and in our private spheres,” Professor McGraw said.
“Yes! We must employ a holistic approach that encompasses studies, friendships, romance, and alternative ways of combining the this and the that of student life to boost both morale and bank accounts.” Tristan was on a roll now, Peter thought happily. Keep on rolling, baby! “So we might want to consider, even encourage, a sense of sex education for reimbursement purposes.”
