Moonlight in Odessa (12 page)

I knew that Boba would be happy for me when Will sent the ticket. She said I should go abroad and encouraged me to find a man at the socials. She wanted me to get married and have kids, and she knew that in Odessa, I was unmarriable – what man would want a woman who works more and earns more than he does? Maybe a Western man wouldn’t mind, but an Odessan man would.

Olga hadn’t been to the office in three days. Vita and Vera said her kids had the chicken pox. I worried about her little ones, but was glad that she couldn’t come in. Harmon and I worked side by side, getting more done in a week than we had in a month. It felt good.

After work, I walked to Soviet Unions. In front of the office, a wiry man in black leaned against a Mercedes. I hoped that the car was the Grande Dame’s, but feared that the Stanislavskis had finally heard about her matchmaking operation and wanted their unfair share. Something told me that even if she could afford a new car, she wouldn’t have a driver/bodyguard with a Kalashnikov.

When I walked in, I saw three dark-haired brothers in designer sunglasses and identical long cashmere coats. Vlad was the tallest and the best-looking. The middle brother was passable, and the youngest was ugly and, as my Boba would say, far from being the sharpest knife in the drawer. The Grande Dame stood behind her desk, wringing her hands.

I tried to move towards her, but Vlad was in the way. ‘You’re like a scarecrow in a field of melons,’ I hissed.

He smiled. I frowned, which made him grin. He really was incorrigible.

‘Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?’ he whispered.

‘We already did.’ I was with Will now. Will who’d invited me to America.

‘That was months ago,’ he protested.

That day had been divine. But then any walk on the Black Sea is superb. The gentle lapping of the water, children building sand castles, babushkas selling
boobliki
, the ships in the distance. Life.

My heels had sunk into the sand, so we had to walk slowly. Of course at the sea you breathe more deeply. You relax, you let your guard down. When your sleeve brushes his, it sends a jolt up your arm straight to your heart. You let it happen again and again, wondering does he feel it, too? I tried to ignore him but it was hard. Something in me responded to him. Lethal charm, lethal looks, lethal to my heart. I couldn’t help the way I felt, the way he made me feel, but I could hide my feelings so that no one – especially him – knew that they existed.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ I said as I moved around Vlad to Valentina Borisovna’s side. ‘Looking for wives? We’ve got a fine selection.’

I looked at Valentina Borisovna, but I could feel his eyes on me.

‘Daria, you know these men?’ she asked, clearly surprised.

‘They visit the shipping firm for “rent,” too,’ I whispered.

‘Does Mr. Harmon know you work here?’ The youngest asked.

I could just see the little snout trying to hold it over my head.

‘Of course,’ I lied. Tomorrow, Harmon would have to be told before he found out from someone else. I cringed when I thought of his reaction. The yelling and foul language. The accusations of divided loyalty. I hoped he wouldn’t fire me.

‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ poor Valentina Borisovna tittered, ‘but I just can’t let you introduce . . . ladies of the night into my socials. I have a sterling reputation abroad and don’t want to sully it.’

The men hadn’t moved or changed expression, but the room was charged with menace. Business owners who balked before the Stanislavskis had turned up dead. One of Harmon’s colleagues – a foreigner who did not know our ways – had told them to ‘sod off’ when they’d first come to our office. The next day, Harmon had found him alive, but unrecognizable. A helicopter came and took him to Vienna for treatment. Harmon had never described what they’d done to the man, but our cleaning lady said it took days to remove the blood from his office, which became a large, mostly empty storage room. I didn’t want to imagine what they would do if she refused them.

‘Valentina Borisovna, it’s a capital idea and will certainly liven up the dull evenings,’ I said.

She looked at me as though I’d grown a red, bulbous nose like Yeltsin’s.

‘Listen to Daria, Valentina Borisovna,’ Vlad said. ‘She understands business. She’s a very intelligent young woman. You’re lucky to have her.’

His words warmed me.

Resigned, she handed over the money with a schedule of the next three socials.

After they left, the Grande Dame sat down in her chair and started to cry. ‘There, there,’ I said, standing behind her and patting her shoulder. I chanted the Ukrainian mantra, ‘Everything will be fine. We’ll think of something.’

‘But what? Things were going so well,’ she sniffled into her limp hanky. ‘I don’t want our girls mixing with call girls! Some of the men who went to the Moscow and St. Petersburg socials said that I had the highest quality, prettiest girls. Better than Moscow! Do you realize? Now all is lost!’

‘Everything will be fine,’ I repeated, whether I believed it or not.

‘Daria, it wouldn’t surprise me if you found a way out of this disaster. You’re so smart, I bet you never had to bribe your university professors to get your degree.’

‘High praise, indeed!’ I said, and we both laughed. Of course, she was wrong. Professors refused to correct exams if students didn’t slip a twenty-dollar bill between the first and second pages. Everyone had to pay ‘reading fees,’ though the dumb and lazy had to throw in a bit more. I didn’t go for my master’s in engineering – I could have afforded the tuition, but not the ‘fees.’

‘Didn’t you want to show me something?’ I asked.

‘The technician finally finished it,’ she said.

She turned on the computer and pulled up the Soviet Unions website. Its homepage featured close-ups of demure young women – a blonde with cheekbones that could cut glass, a brunette with sparkling hazel eyes – as well as a few full-body shots taken at socials. The women looked like models, tall, lithe, sexy. On closer inspection, I saw that one was me. ‘Valentina Borisovna! How could you? You know I have a boyfriend.’
And he’s invited me to go to America
, I thought to myself. I couldn’t stop smiling and had to wrap my arms around my body to contain my excitement. I loved these moments when I was happy, even giddy, and could imagine leaving all my troubles behind.

‘Back to earth, darling! There’s more.’ She gave my shoulder a little shake. ‘Where do you go when you’re gone?’

I shrugged and reluctantly pulled myself out of the clouds. We continued to look at the website together. It was impressive. In addition to the girls, there were links to the prestigious Krasnaya and Londonskaya hotels, a list of restaurants, and photos of the beach, opera house, craft fair, and philharmonic. Because some of the women who applied for a fiancé visa had been denied, the Grande Dame asked me to research the process. She sold an information packet on getting a ‘girlfriend visa’ with everything from the forms (both the G-325A and the I-129F, not to be confused with the I-129, no F) and fees (currently ninety-five dollars). The packet also listed the requirements, including color photos of both petitioners, ways to establish proof that the couple has met, and a sample statement written by the U.S. petitioner.
I met Julia through Soviet Unions, a serious matchmaking organization based in Odessa. Julia and I corresponded for three months before I traveled to meet her. She is planning to visit me in the States and hopefully, we will be married there. In my file, please find photos of me and Julia at the beach, at her home with her parents, and at a Soviet Unions social
. Etc. etc. etc.

Everything on the site was written in English. It looked so professional. In the ‘About us’ section, there was a large photo of Valentina Borisovna that was more repainted than touched up. I scrolled down to her bio, which was a paragraph on her desire for everyone to find true love and to make matches between lonely souls. Directly underneath were my photo and the title ‘vice-president.’ My eyes watered.

‘Brava, brava,’ I said.

She hugged me.

Still, I couldn’t help worrying about our next social. What would happen? Mobsters only brought trouble. That night, I fell asleep thinking of Will in America and how exciting it would be to go there, but I dreamed about Vladimir Stanislavski.

Chapter 6

I made coffee, turned on my computer, and read through the faxes that had arrived – all the time wondering how to tell Harmon about working at Soviet Unions. How angry would he be? As usual, he was late. I stewed in the juice of my guilty conscious. Guilty conscience. I tidied my desk and the boardroom. I even arranged the papers on his desk. Where was he? It seemed that every time I wanted a moment of privacy, he was there, looking over my shoulder. Then when I really needed him, he was AWOL. (I love this expression.)

I checked my e-mail; there was a message from Will.

‘Dear Daria, This is the hardest e-mail I have ever had to write. The truth is, I have found your American equivalent and decided to marry her. I know you’ll be happy for us. We both wish you the best. Sincerely, Will.’

My mouth slightly open, I stared at the words until the screensaver transformed them into a school of cartoon fish swimming around a fake sea. America, I whispered. Would I ever get there? My throat constricted and tears welled. I swallowed. And swallowed again. I tilted my head up and looked at the ceiling so that the tears wouldn’t fall.
Please don’t let anyone see me upset. Breathe. Just breathe
. I tried to inhale deeply, but the air came and went in jagged little rifts.

I hadn’t loved Will, though I liked him. It had been gratifying to think that an articulate, non-alcoholic man was interested in me. More than that, he was the thin membrane between me and solitude. I told myself that we’d never met, that he was just a figment of my computer. But this truth didn’t take away my feelings of hurt and disappointment. I was surprised at the ache in my chest. I heard Boba’s voice telling me to look for something to be grateful for. It took time, but I found it. I hadn’t told anyone that I was going to America. How mortifying it would have been to tell people the trip was off.

I erased every e-mail Will had ever sent. There. It was like he didn’t exist. I looked at the inbox, still full of messages from Jane and my
ARGONAUT
colleagues. Some revenge. Eradicating him from my inbox didn’t make me feel better. I still felt sad and rejected and a million miles away from America. I hadn’t even realized how much I was counting on Will, on the trip to America, until it was taken away from me. I had been faithful, barely looking at the men at the socials, thinking of him. Apparently he hadn’t been as loyal. Men disappear. How many times had Boba told me that? Why did I think an American man would be different?

Suddenly telling Harmon I was working a second job didn’t seem like such a big deal. The day couldn’t get any worse. I didn’t know what to do with myself and made my way to the kitchen and prepared a chamomile tea. Unfortunately and as usual, the kitchen wasn’t empty.

‘Herbal tea?’ Vita said. ‘Stomach problems?’

‘In the family way?’ Vera asked. ‘No, wait. That’s not possible, you don’t even have a boyfriend.’

Strike-struck-struck
.

‘Shut up, you syphilitic piece of road kill,’ I said to Vera and stalked off.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I heard Vita ask.

Back in my work space, I watered my palm for the third time in a week. I looked out the window, hoping to see Harmon. He would probably just disappear, too. Nothing was keeping him in Odessa. I sat back down and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Dear Jane
, I began. And didn’t stop until I’d covered both sides with my maudlin thoughts and ridiculous feelings.

When Harmon sauntered in, he took one look at me and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I have something to tell you,’ I said, looking up at him. ‘To supplement my income, I’ve been working at Soviet Unions.’

I held my breath and waited for his reaction. I even cringed, thinking of how he could yell.

Instead, he smirked.

‘The matchmaker?’

I nodded, still waiting for the worst.

He burst out laughing. Laughing!

‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.

‘The irony.’ He gasped for breath. ‘Here you work in imports. Over there you deal in exports.’

I felt at once offended and relieved. He slapped his thigh and repeated, ‘Imports, exports.’

He continued to laugh – a hearty sincere laugh, which made me chuckle, too. He really was starting to think like an Odessan. I looked at him, at his jolly eyes, his lips curved in a smile, his tender throat framed by his snowy white shirt. And just like that, he became handsome to me again.

‘What you do on your own time is fine with me.’

I’d forgotten that we were now living in a revised history where I could do as I pleased.

‘Just promise me you won’t get mixed up with those losers,’ he said. ‘There must be something wrong with them if they can’t find dates at home.’

‘No danger there,’ I said, thinking of Will.

My tone of voice must have given something away, because he patted me on the back awkwardly and said, ‘You’re an amazing young woman. Someday you’ll find a man worthy of you,’ before settling into his office.