The Final Fabergé (6 page)

Patsy Abromowitz's Seville had dealer plates, which meant she was waved into VIP parking. Lenny's eyes took in all the sights, then his ears were assaulted by the Top 20 hits blasted over a dozen speakers and interrupted by the rapid-fire voice of a local radio DJ broadcasting live from the showroom floor, urging everyone (eighteen and older) to enter the giant sweepstakes that promised a grand prize of a week at a deluxe motel in St. Petersburg, Florida, free airplane tickets, five thousand in spending money, and an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible which the lucky winner would claim at Carson Olds & Pontiac, located a hundred yards from the motel.

A pair of clowns, one female and one male, watched over the kiddies while mother and dad were shown the newest in automotive luxury. In the evening, the New York commuters came in larger numbers, the ones who lived in Glen Cove and Oyster Bay, the ones with the real money.
Patricia's advertising agency had scouted the territory and mailed expensive invitations to homes in the correct zip codes; the research department predicted, based on previous history, that 2,734 adults and 3,411 children would visit the showroom during the three-day grand opening.

Patsy grabbed hold of Lenny's arm and ushered him past young men and women dressed in the Carson uniform, gray slacks or skirts and maroon blazers, each wearing a badge with name and title, all smiling broadly as they handed out grand opening packets that contained product literature, service specials, and sweepstakes entries. Then the two went by a Cutlass Supreme convertible that overflowed with balloons and gift boxes wrapped in gold and silver, and with a sign suspended over it that said the car was the Sweepstakes Grand Prize. Flanking the car were two stunning models wearing dangerously brief bathing suits, one in Carson gray, the other in Carson maroon. Lenny was momentarily dazed by the immensity and cluttered noisiness. Patricia's expression was watchful, searching for mistakes, of ways to do things better the next time.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to the escalator that connected to a mezzanine. Her badge contained her photograph, and the word “Executive” across the bottom assured entrance past a huge man wearing a size 50 extra-long blazer. Dennis LeGrande had recently retired from his position as defensive tackle with the New York Giants, and though he was in training to become a Personal Transportation Consultant, his assignment during the grand opening was as a kind of marshal. He was anchored at the foot of the escalator to keep the kids from running up the down steps, and vice versa.

Patsy said, “Mike's waiting for us, and remember, it's Mr. Carson.”

On the mezzanine, eight clusters of desks, chairs, and low cabinets surrounded the communications center, each work station separated by leafy plants or small trees in pots. Along the inside wall were private offices, none large, except for one that had a commanding view of the showroom below, and in the doorway to that office stood two women and two men in their company blazers talking animatedly. They gave way to a man who came out of the office, paused briefly, then seeing Patsy, walked toward her, one hand held high, waving to her.

“Let 's go.” Patsy smiled broadly and waved back. “There's your man.”

Lenny studied the man as he walked toward him, a surprised look on his face, as if the man he saw was not what he expected. But what
had he expected? Did Mike Carson look too ordinary? Was his hair receding, or was his hair an early gray or very blond? Were his teeth crooked or was there a gap to one side, a small but noticeable gap? Did he look younger then thirty-five as Patsy said he would be on the 22nd of November?

“This is Leonard Sulzberger,” Patsy said efficiently.

Mike Carson's smile was still in place. “Welcome, Mr. Sulzberger, Patsy told me you were a good writer.” His hand went out.

“Hi, Mr. Carson,” Lenny said with a firm voice, certain not to make an immediate mistake. “I'm very happy to meet you.” His hand caught hold of Mike's and he shook it affirmatively.

There was too much about Mike Carson's background that did not comport with the way he came across in the flesh. In every respect he seemed regular or average, nothing at first meeting glistened or stood out. The thinning hair Lenny thought he saw was, in fact, a heavy thatch of blond, the kind most women would kill for. Then his face, his features. All standard except when looked at individually were better than average; strong nose, alert, solidly blue eyes, an expressive mouth with even a tiny cleft in the chin. And yes, there was a small gap in the teeth on his left side, but a minor flaw. He stood five eleven, no flab at the waist. His voice was solid, and if there was any accent at all, it was Rochester, New York, or was it Ogden, Utah? This, in spite of having spoken only Russian until he was fourteen? But something else. A supremely confident aura surrounded Mike Carson. He seemed relaxed and mature, traits that usually came from a secure and wellprovided environment, not from a broken family, or from a youngster who had emigrated on his own terms when he had barely reached his teens.

Mike's hand went to his side. “I'll call you Leonard, and you call me Mike. Okay?”

“Okay, but make it Lenny. That's what everyone calls me. Can we talk now? Is that good for you?”

“Whatever Patsy says.”

Patsy said, “Sooner you get started, the sooner it will be over.”

“Before we do anything, let me show you the store. It's our newest design, something you might use in your story.”

They were about to go down to the main floor when a loud squabble broke out at the bottom of the escalator. Dennis LeGrande and a small, balding man were jawing at each other, the man obviously frustrated
in his attempt to make himself understood, but unable to find English words to help his cause.

“What's the problem, Denny?” Mike looked curiously at the man, who started to scramble up the steps toward him.

The man broke into an enthusiastic smile. “
Mikhail! Mikhail Vasilyovich—myenya zavut Sasha Akimov.
”

For a split moment Mike Carson was confounded, then greeted the newcomer warily. “Akimov, it's a surprise to—” He didn't complete the sentence, instead, he took hold of the man's arm. He called over to Patty Abromowitz and Lenny Sulzberger.

“An old friend of the family. It shouldn't take long.”

Sliding glass panels completely covered one side of the office that was Mike's when he visited the dealership, an office with a conference table, and a view past the floor-to-ceiling glass to the showroom immediately below. It was there that Mike took his unexpected guest, repeating that he was surprised by the visit.

Akimov said, in Russian, “I am not good with English, will you speak in Russian?”

Mike nodded his grudging reluctance. Akimov spoke rapidly, spilling out a polite and more formal greeting, one he had probably rehearsed during the long journey, moving all the while to the wall of glass, where he stared intently down at the growing crowd. Mike watched, amused.

“Are you expecting someone?”

Akimov said he was not, then retreated to the table where he produced a package out of which came a bottle of vodka. “A toast, Mikhail?”

“I am not Mikhail,” Mike said forcefully. “I am called Michael. Mike Carson . . . not Karsalov, not Vasilyovich.”

Akimov took two glasses from the tray on the conference table and poured vodka into both and handed one to Mike. He proposed a toast to their reunion and drained his glass. Mike sipped. Akimov was a surprisingly small man, smaller even as he had aged. His body was no longer stout, but more like that of a young boy, and covered with a dull, wrinkled gray suit that was brightened by a row of military ribbons pinned above the breast pocket and a necktie that lay against a shirt with frayed collar and cuffs.

He refilled his glass and toasted to Mike's success, then said, “Please, you sit, and allow me to tell you why I have come to New York. And
please, also, allow me to call you Mikhail, as that is the name I knew you to have, even on the night you were born.” He gave a warm, paternal smile. “You will be Mike when I go away.”

Mike glanced quickly at his watch, then at the door to be certain it was closed, and sat back and sighed, the merest hint of an ironic smile on his lips. “Mikhail,” he whispered to himself.

“I knew your mother also,” Akimov continued. “Anna was very pretty, and very proud of you. But there was a bad feeling between your mother and father, so deep it caused them to fall away from each other. Do you know?”

“My father was never good to her, always forgetting and getting drunk, spending money. There was nothing I could do.”

“Too much of this.” Akimov lifted the bottle of vodka, then set it down noisily. “Do you know what happened to your father?”

Mike's eyes strayed from Akimov. “He was sent away, I never knew why. To a Central Asian country I recall.”

“To Uzbekistan. And for what reason? You know?”

“I never wanted to know. Whatever little scraps of memory I have about my father I have tried to erase. He never knew I was sent to an orphanage, and that's where they put me when I was eleven.” He turned back to Akimov. “I was in four of them until I ran away, and I kept running until I found my mother's brother in London. I was fourteen. Did you know that?”

Akimov nodded. “Yes, and much more. Shall I tell you?”

Mike had picked up and put down his glass a half dozen times, and now took a long sip from it. The vodka burned going down and seemed to ignite into a ball of fire when it hit his stomach. “Tell me, Sasha.”

“When you were about eight, a group of us were transferred to Petersburg. I was assigned to the same department with your father, but within half a year, he was working strictly by himself, including the paperwork that I had been responsible for. I discovered he had been parceling out a portion of each shipment of food received at the commissary, then transferring it to a warehouse in the city where a partner, a local merchant, sold it. They had been stealing meat, liquor, and cigarettes, selling to whoever paid the highest price, always in dollars. Your father was never caught, not for stealing food.” Akimov shook his head slowly. “They arrested him for murder.”

Mike didn't like what he was hearing. “Murder?” he said, disbelieving. “I was never told that. Who did he murder?”

“Your father had made a lot of money, but he couldn't mix any better with money than he could with vodka. I don't know what happened between your father and his partner. I suspect the partner was cheating. Whatever it was, he was found with his throat cut, and your father was accused of murder. He was drunk when they arrested him. They say he confessed, but I never believed it. There was a military trial, secret as always. A week later I learned he had been given a lifetime assignment to a military department in Uzbekistan. It was like exile. I saw him briefly after the trial, and he would say nothing except he was innocent. Then he was gone.”

“My uncle never mentioned this.”

“What could he know?” Akimov looked carefully at Mike. “He hated your father. Your mother told me that.”

“How is it that you know so much about my family?”

“Your mother and I are both from Sochi, on the Black Sea. Our families had been friends and it was easy for her to talk to me. I think she liked that. It is also the reason I knew your uncle, though we only talked on the telephone. When the trouble between your mother and father began, she could not deal with matters, and spent days closed off, alone, talking to herself. The navy doctors tried to help and finally she was sent to an institution.”

“My uncle never told me what sickness she had. Only that she had been sent to a good place.”

“You were young. He was being kind.”

“She is my only link to Russia that matters. I haven't tried to find her and I'm not proud of that. I was afraid of learning the truth. That she had abandoned me.”

Akimov got to his feet and fished out a pair of smudged eyeglasses from a pocket and put them on, and from another pocket found an envelope that he placed on the table. Then he buttoned his jacket and inhaled deeply. Each movement was deliberate, as if he were about to present a solemn salutatory.

“I am not here to trouble you with the past, Mikhail, but it is important that you understand the relationship I have with your family.” He took a small piece of paper from the envelope and handed it to Mike. “Here is where you can find your mother if you wish to see her or perhaps write to her. She is not an old person, and perhaps the doctors have helped her.”

Mike looked at the address, then folded the paper neatly and tucked
it into his wallet. “I suppose you have another piece of paper with my father's address on it?”

Akimov nodded. “I have an old address. If you write to him, they may send your letter to where he is living now.”

“Then, he's alive?”

Akimov nodded his head once more. “Very possible. You will write to him?”

“I may. I don't know.”

“I will leave the address. Then you can decide. Your father once owned something that should be of special interest to you.”

Mike folded his arms across his chest. “What would that be?”

“On the evening of the day after you were born, your father invited four of his friends for a celebration. Two were lieutenants, as he was. I was a chief warrant officer. The fourth was Artur Prekhner, a civilian. As you would suspect, we drank, and heavily, too, as we played cards and began to gamble. We drank toasts to you and your mother and your grandfathers and grandmothers and Khrushchev and to the assassination of John Kennedy.” He lowered his glasses and said solemnly, “Were you ever told of that night?”