Stalina (17 page)

The building where Nadia’s parents live on Neptune Avenue has a cement path lined with short, spiky, almost dead bushes leading up to two glass doors. It is known as a high-rise. We have something similar in Russia, except they are made entirely of cement, and there is rarely a living plant anywhere to be seen.

*  *  *

“Apartment 15D,
D
as in
do svidaniya
,” Nadia told me before I left.

“Shall I call them when I get there?” I asked

“I’ll call them before. Don’t worry, they will be expecting you,” she said.

I wanted Carmela, my new assistant, to run the motel while I was gone. But Nadia insisted on being there with one of her boys to show him how it all worked. The Liberty Motel was still the busiest of all the short-stays on the strip. In my opinion, I had helped to create a good atmosphere at the motel, and our customers liked it enough to return over and over.

“If you have any questions, Carmela will help you. She is learning the business quickly,” I assured Nadia.

Carmela was from Nicaragua. She walked up to the motel one day looking for work. I hired her on the spot. Impressed by her assertive nature, I trusted her right away. On her first day, Carmela reorganized the linen room so she could have a desk and a chair to sit at while waiting to clean the rooms. She studied English and wrote letters to her family back home. Svetlana quickly became very attached to her, sitting on a shelf above the desk, watching her every move. The cat followed her from room to room when she cleaned. They had become a very charming team. Carmela also endeared herself to the crow, Zarzamora, by offering her treats of apples and hot dogs. She would let Svetlana out whenever ZZ called for her from under the pine trees.

Carmela said, “That crow is like a jealous lover; she keeps the other crows away when she is with Svetlana.”

Carmela read many romance novellas.

*  *  *

Before pushing the buzzer for 15D, I reached in my bag and touched the pouch with my mother’s ashes to remind me of my mission.

“Is that you, Stalina?” a woman’s voice yelled in Russian instantly after I pressed the buzzer.

“Yes, that’s me. I am here,” I answered in Russian.

“Arkady, it’s Nadia’s friend Stalina,” I heard Nadia’s mother say as she turned away from the intercom.

Back into the buzzer and even louder than before she said, “Come up, Stalina, fifteenth floor. I’ll buzz you in.”

“Do you think she knows about us, Radya?” Nadia’s father said, not aware that his wife still had a finger on the intercom.

“Yes, I know, Mr. C. That’s why I am here,” I said as I pushed through the buzzing glass door and saw in my reflection that I had misaligned the buttons of my coat. As I went up in the elevator, I fixed my coat and pulled my hair back.

Arkady and Radya were tiny and crooked with age. Both of them standing side by side barely filled the doorway. The apartment was decorated with glass tables and a couch and chair set made of leather and brass. Not a very cozy place, but then again I was not there seeking comfort.

“Stalina, make yourself comfortable,” Radya said, gesturing to a folding chair that had been awkwardly placed between the white leather couch and its bulky matching side chair. I sat and thought for a moment about the last conversation I had with my mother.

“They did not care about anyone but themselves, Stalina,” she said. “Under the pretense of being good servants to the state, they were bad Communists. They were not about the people, they were about themselves.”

*  *  *

The view from their living room looked out over the ocean. It was a spectacular sight. I could fall in love with such a view. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and my eyes felt caressed by the light from the ocean. The haze from the rain was disappearing as if the sun were sucking it up like a milkshake through a straw.

“You certainly have a beautiful view,” I said.

They both remained standing while I sat. It all felt very awkward.

“Yes, Nadia made sure we had a view, and she had a friend furnish the apartment. It’s not quite to our liking, but they say it’s very up-to-date. I’ll make tea,” Radya said.

“I’ll help you,” I said.

“No need—Arkady likes to do it his way,” she said.

Arkady said nothing. They left me alone in the living room on the folding chair. It felt as if they had gone off to discuss how to interrogate a prisoner. I surveyed the apartment to find a place for my mother’s ashes. There were several fake potted plants under the windows. My mother detested fake plants almost as much as she hated weak tea. On the mantel there was a collection of glass figurines and an urn. The urn would be perfect for the ashes; that’s what urns are for, containing remains. Perched on the mantel, Mother would be able to spy on Radya and Arkady’s every move. As they worked in the kitchen, I took the urn down from the mantel to see if anything had already been stored in it. I would have to reconsider if it was already occupied. For instance, Nadia’s dog Trala would not be a good bedfellow for my mother. I’m sure that yappy little weasel of a canine was coddled right up till its yappy demise and then given a ceremonious burial. The urn was painted with Chinese figures. Ladies in waiting serving tea to their master. They were dressed in robes of pink, green, and blue. Butterflies and bluebirds flew around their heads. On the bottom there was lettering that I could not decipher. The urn was empty. I pulled out the plastic bag with the ashes and dumped half of them into the urn. A small cloud hung in the air, but it quickly disappeared into the stillness of the room.

“We’ll be right out, Stalina,” Radya said from the kitchen.

“That’s fine. I’m admiring your wonderful view,” I said and quickly placed the urn back on the mantel. As I was positioning it, I grazed one of the glass figurines, a ballet dancer in pirouette. The dancer tumbled through the air headfirst and landed unharmed in the plush pile of the white shag carpet. I placed her back on the mantel just as Arkady and Radya were returning from the kitchen. On the side table next to the couch there was a small frame with a photograph of Stalin standing on a bridge with two men at his side. The picture was very familiar. I had a similar one in my collection.

“I was just admiring your glass figures,” I said.

My heart was pounding so hard I could see it pumping through my blouse.

“I’ve been collecting them for years. I like the way the light hits them at different times of the day,” Radya said.

“Amalia also collects them,” I said.

“Amalia, don’t you live with her?” Radya asked.

“I used to,” I replied.

She leaned over and whispered to me, “Nadia got me the bra I’m wearing from Amalia. It’s one of those sexy ones from home.”

“I miss the lingerie from home,” I said, still furious.

At that moment the sun was hitting the glass figures from the side and below. The mantel looked like a stage ready for a performance. The bright points of light on the curves and angles of the statues made it appear as if there were footlights. At any moment the orchestra would start to play and the glass dancer, hound dog, snail, grasshopper, and bear would dance around the Cathedral of the Spilled Blood. Amalia had this very same figurine. The urn was the backdrop around which the players could make their entrances and exits. My mother would be backstage calling all the cues.

Lights fade up.

Arkady put down the tray holding a tea set, some small cakes, and a bowl of sunflower seeds. My father used to eat sunflower seeds when he had tea. The technique for shelling the seeds with his teeth and spitting out just the shell was a highly developed skill.

Tea was poured. I sat on the folding chair with my cup of tea and a slice of lemon cake. Radya sat on the couch by herself. Arkady went to the mantle and pulled the urn from the shelf and took it with him to his chair. Radya got up and gave him a cup of tea and the bowl of sunflower seeds. There was nothing I could do or say. Arkady held the urn under his arm as he popped the first handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. It took a minute or two before he had shelled the seeds and stored them in his cheek. As he spit the cracked shells into the urn, a cloud of dust instantly formed around his head. I choked on the lemon cake that was halfway down my throat.

“
Ack! Ack!
Radya, what is this? You said you cleaned out the urn!” Arkady screamed and his arms flailed. The cloud of my mother’s ashes hung around his head.

“The urn was empty,” she said.

I forcibly swallowed the lemon cake and gulped loudly.

“Stalina, take a sip of tea,” Radya said. “Was the cake all that hard?”

“I burned my throat earlier on some hot coffee at a bakery. It’s still very sensitive,” I told her.

“Radya, never mind that. Help me here, take this,” Arkady said.

He tried flicking the ashes off his shoulders, but they only became more ground into his shirt and stuck to the tips of his fingers.

“Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said and grabbed the urn.

“Let me see that, Stalina.” Radya grabbed it away from me.

“Just throw whatever it is in the garbage,” Arkady said, standing and brushing himself off.

Radya put her hand in the urn. Her fingertips emerged looking as if they had been turned to dust. The ashes sparkled in the light. For a moment I thought I saw my mother’s form taking shape in the floating ash, but Arkady’s flailing arms disrupted the vision as he grabbed the urn back from Radya.

“Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said again, trying to take the urn from him.

“Don’t touch it, Stalina,” Radya screamed. “Arkady, what is it? What is this? Get it off of me.”

“Help my wife while I get rid of this,” he said, holding the urn over his head.

“Not the urn, Arkady, I just bought it!” Radya screamed again.

“Oh shut up, woman!” he shouted back at her.

Arkady headed for the balcony off the living room. Radya was chasing after him. My mother’s ashes were swirling in the chaos. Out on the balcony Arkady overturned the urn and flung the contents to the wind. I watched as my mother’s ashes sailed away from the balcony and out toward the ocean. Radya joined Arkady on the balcony and grabbed the urn from him. As they scrambled, I took a longer look at the photograph on the side table. It was of Arkady with Stalin and Ezhov.

“Don’t throw it down there—you’ll kill someone.”

“Didn’t you look inside this thing when you bought it, woman?”

“It was dark in the shop. I thought it was empty.”

“Where did you get it? Take it back and get another,” he said, handing her the urn. “This one was used—by someone’s dead grandmother, apparently.”

“The man at the flea market told me it was one of a kind,” she said.

“The short guy with the crucifix tattooed on his neck. What’s his name, Jesus?” he asked.

“Arkady, his name is Rafael, but everyone calls him Shorty. The flea market reminds me of the ones at home,” she added.

“They’re all con artists, Radya; of course they want you to think there is no other like it,” he said as he turned to come back inside.

My mother had clearly exacted her revenge. Any disruption to their perfect little life would have pleased her.

“Thank you both for your hospitality. I really must be going. Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

I had taken the photograph from the table and was hiding it behind my back. I wanted it to add to my collection and to remember this day. The Chernovskys might miss it, but I did not care.

“Nadia wanted us to take you to the boardwalk,” Radya said.

“That’s perfectly fine. I can go myself,” I said. “I should be getting back to Connecticut soon.”

“Stalina, why did you come to Brooklyn?” Arkady asked.

“My mother sent me to take vengeance for my father’s disappearance and ugly demise.”

Arkady laughed. “He wore the wrong hat; he could not stay among us.”

“Arkady, how could you?” Radya said as she fidgeted with a doily from one of the tables.

Now I knew the truth.

“I’m just kidding, Stalina. No one will ever know why your father was sent away.”

“Actually, I came because I heard there were good bookstores on Brighton Avenue with Russian newspapers and books. I was homesick for them.”

They both stared at each other silently, and then Arkady got his voice. “The best shop is called St. Petersburg,” Arkady said.

“I like the one next to M&I,” Radya said.

“M&I, that’s where I had the coffee that burned my throat,” I said.

“They always keep their coffee too hot,” Arkady said.

“But they make the most delicious meringue cake with chocolate and walnuts,” Radya added.

“I actually heard someone talking about it on the street,” I said.

I had to get away from them. There’s something foul about informers, and Radya and Arkady had started to reek. They made me ill. “I’ll stop there on my way to the bookstore. I better get going,” I added.

“Stalina, I forgot to ask you with all the confusion—how is your mother?”

“Radya, would you let the poor girl go,” Arkady said as he grabbed another handful of sunflower seeds.

I looked at the urn. Both of them looked at me looking at the urn.

“Nadia didn’t tell you?” I said. “My mother passed away in Petersburg not long ago.”

“Where is…” Radya tried to ask.

“I had her cremated.”

“And her ashes?” Arkady asked.

“Scattered in the Baltic Sea,” I said.

“Radya, maybe this urn you bought was filled with someone’s ashes. I feel sick,” Arkady said.

“Oh Arkady, stop fussing. Whatever it was is gone. Stalina, your mother will be happy in the sea; she was a beautiful swimmer. I am sorry for your loss,” Radya said.

“Thank you, I appreciate your hospitality,” I said. I felt my palm sweating as it clutched the photograph. I grabbed my bag and held it behind my back as I slipped the frame into a side pocket.

Arkady’s mouth was already filled with sunflower seeds when I went to shake his hand. He nodded and said nothing. The door closed behind me with a whoosh of air from the vacuum created in the windowless corridor.