Moonlight in Odessa (13 page)

I devoted the rest of the morning to forgetting Will and finding a solution to the Stanislavski puzzle. Or tried to. Strange noises came out of Harmon’s office. ‘Bah! Bah!’

‘What?’ I asked, peeking in.

‘This thing,’ he said in a disgusted tone of voice, gesturing to his computer. ‘It’s just like you! It has a mind of its own.’

I was actually glad that Harmon was having technical difficulties. It was humorous and frankly, it felt good to be needed. I walked around his desk to look at the screen. I clicked on the mouse a few times. ‘When it freezes up like this, you just turn it off and on again.’

Ten minutes later, he called me into his office again. He couldn’t open Word. I put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his mouse, and re-explained the concept of double clicking. He smiled up at me. I smiled back.

And this was exactly how Olga found us.

Harmon and I said hello, he in English, I in Russian, but she didn’t answer.

I tried again. ‘It’s good to see you, Olga. Did you go to the Vigée-LeBrun exhibition?’

Nothing.

‘All her portraits from the Imperial collection of the Hermitage are at the museum . . .’

Still nothing.

I straightened and returned to my desk. She slammed the door behind me. Which, of course, did nothing to muffle the screaming. ‘I no like. She bad, Daria bad. She go. I stay. She go.’

I heard Harmon’s deep voice soothe her. When she giggled, it was like a high-pitched jackhammer on my skull. I crept out of the office and made my way to Soviet Unions. Over lunch, I told Valentina about Will’s defection. She cracked the safe and pulled out a bottle of
kognac
. ‘To God with him,’ she said. ‘You can do better. Now will you give my matchmaking program a try?’

I scoffed; she laughed.

When I returned to the shipping company, Olga had gone, but Harmon was hovering near my desk. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor. ‘I, uh, have something to tell you.’

I swallowed hard. Was the axe about to drop?

‘I’d like you to start dressing more conservatively. You know, turtlenecks, baggy trousers.’

Relief was quickly followed by anger. I crossed my arms and raised my voice. ‘My clothes are neither tight nor revealing. They are entirely appropriate in the business world.’

‘I know, I know. You always look fabulous. I mean appropriate. But you know how other women are. They get jealous.’

I felt my mouth tighten and barely got the words out. ‘Other women or the other woman?’

Silence.

I had my answer. ‘That witch,’ I muttered in Russian.

‘What did you say?’

‘You’re no fool. Use your imagination. And since when is she the boss of you? Or of me?’

‘She’s jealous. She sits at home all day, imagining things.’

‘Whose fault is that? She could get a job, or she could fire the nanny and actually take care of the three children she brought into this world.’ With each word, my voice got sharper. I couldn’t help it. I worked
hard
to keep this job. I’d done everything – submitted to Harmon’s flirtations, dealt with damning office gossip, handled a physical attack, and found the old dog a new bone. And now his mistress wanted to dictate to me? We’d just see about that. I decided to allow myself to brood for the rest of the day. I looked at my palm tree, but my eyes focused on the bars that covered the windows. There has to be a way out of this prison, I thought to myself.

After bringing me a tray with cookies and coffee exactly the way I liked it – two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of hot milk – he asked about Boba. This was usually more than enough to coax me out of a snit. When he saw I was still angry, he magnanimously told me he would write the weekly logistics report himself (something he was supposed to do that I always ended up doing). I just stared at him standing in front of my desk, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, running his fingers over the top of his hand, trying to figure out what else he could say. Looking at my furrowed brow and jutting jaw, he realized that he would get nowhere and wisely left for the day. Good riddance. ‘The mare’s work is easier when the farmer gets off the cart,’ I yelled to no one in particular.

I took a sip of café au lait, allowing myself this pleasure. He made the best coffee.

At five o’clock, I left the office. Vera ran after me and said, ‘You lose!’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘The office bet! Olga moving in with Mr. Harmon. I won! I had the fifteenth!’

‘How do you know? He didn’t say anything to me.’

She smirked. ‘You think he tells his secretary everything? I heard him talking to my boss. You were way off.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said bitterly and handed over the money.

After work, I went to work. Valentina Borisovna had a liter of vodka on her desk and an ice pack on her head. She moaned and downed a shot. I was worried that she’d switched to the hard stuff. ‘The Stanislavskis dropped by,’ she said.

‘I know you’re scared, but anyone could walk through these doors,’ I reminded her gently.

Immediately, she snapped to and the Grande Dame persona was back. In Odessa, illusion is everything. She whipped her fake Chanel compact out of her fake Louis Vuitton purse, tidied up her make-up, then put the vodka back in the safe. She only had thirty dollars in cash and photos of her grandchildren in there. Anything of value, she tucked in her bullet-proof bra. She put her pink glasses back on and looked up her nose at me.

‘What can we do?’ She covered her face with her plump, manicured hands.

‘I have an idea.’

She looked up at me. Her blue eyes narrowed.

Just then, two girls in fluffy angora sweaters walked in and asked how much our services cost. The Grande Dame pasted a smile on her face and gave them her spiel. ‘We make the men pay! Give it a try! What have you got to lose? Americans are richer and more stable than any man you’ll find in Odessa.’

On cue, I handed them forms. Name, rank, marital status. Likes, dislikes. Age, profession, etc.

‘What if I’m married?’ one asked.

‘Write divorced,’ the Grande Dame advised.

While they filled in the forms, I whispered the plan in Valentina Borisovna’s ear. She looked up at me in disbelief.

‘It will work, you’ll see,’ I said.

‘I hope you’re right.’

When the women handed me their forms, I typed their profiles for the program. ‘Vika, 25, originally from Odessa, enjoys playing tennis and taking long romantic walks. She seeks an athletic man who wants to have a family.’

The Grande Dame snapped their photos. (If a girl was plump, she took a headshot. If she was svelte like Vika, the photo revealed the girl’s body.) We thanked them for choosing Soviet Unions and handed them the list of upcoming events.

After they left, I continued the conversation as if we hadn’t been interrupted. ‘I’ve dealt with the mafia for over a year at the shipping agency. You can’t go through them, only around them. Trust me.’ Still, I was nervous and hoped that if Vlad figured out our ploy, he would only be annoyed, not angry.

She nodded. ‘In the meantime, Daria, our girls must look pristine next to the prostitutes. We’ll have to call them and explain.’ Of course, when Valentina said ‘we,’ she meant me.

‘Explain what?’ I asked.

‘That we have a planeload of rich,
conservative
men arriving.’

I phoned the first number on our list. ‘Irina? It’s Daria. Listen, this weekend we have a group of rather wealthy traditional gents, I thought I should warn you . . . Yes, yes, Irina. You’re absolutely right, conservative clothes, natural make-up. Smart girl. See you Friday?’

‘Only 199 to go,’ Valentina Borisovna said.

I groaned and slipped out of my heels. I supposed that soon Harmon would want me to start wearing orthopedic shoes. And why not curlers in my hair? I sniffed. That man. And Vladimir Stanislavski was no better.

Seeing my day had gone just as well as hers, Valentina Borisovna dialed the safe combination and brought the bottle back out. ‘To unexpected occurrences and mitigating disasters.’

‘To mitigating occurrences and unexpected disasters,’ I seconded, and we downed the shot.

I called the second number. ‘Allo, Sveta? Daria. You should know that we have a large number of Mormons attending the next social . . . you might consider wearing less make-up and more clothing, that’s all . . . No, no I’m not telling you what to do. You’re an adult. It’s just . . . we don’t want anyone mistaking you for a hooker.’

Valentina Borisovna chortled at that, but number two was not amused. ‘Fuck off,’ she said and slammed down the receiver.

‘You call number three,’ I said.

‘Vera? Verochka, listen . . .’

We were so worried about the women that I’d forgotten we had to say something to the Americans. Most had arrived a few days early and if they explored the city at all, they’d seen prostitutes in front of the hotels and the
vauxhall
– the train station. What to say?

I poured two more shots. Vladimir Stanislavski could drive any woman to drink.

I was relieved we had to spend the whole evening on the phone so Valentina Borisovna couldn’t show me her new matchmaking computer program. I needed a break from men.

The evening of the next social, I gathered all forty-seven Americans in the ballroom. I checked the microphone and cleared my throat. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to sunny Odessa. You have spent a day or two in our fair city and have seen that we have a minor problem with . . . ladies of the night.’

They nodded.

‘Unfortunately, the police send provocatively dressed agents to our socials to try to trap foreigners. Please do not fall into this ambush. If you are propositioned by an ‘undercover agent,’ simply walk away. Trust me, you wouldn’t like Ukrainian prisons.’

They chuckled nervously. I hoped my warning would work.

When our girls entered, for the most part, they looked as wholesome as country maidens, which only made the prostitutes stand out in their worn thigh-high boots, cheap lingerie, and excessive make-up. Each was branded with hard eyes and a mouth set in bitterness. Like a Mercedes or Rolex, they were owned by the mafia but not treated half as well. I didn’t blame these young women, I pitied them. For they were not like the floozies in the shipping office who slept with their bosses and tried to make trouble for the rest of us. They were fighting for their lives. I imagined that they’d sold off their valuables first – a mink hat, a silver serving spoon – displaying them on a small towel on the ground at the bazaar. Then went possessions of little value: books, Soviet knick-knacks, a grubby childhood toy. With nothing left, they sold the one possession that remained: their bodies.

At first, the prostitutes lolled against the wall, certain that the customers would come to them. They seemed surprised that for over an hour, the men stuck to the marmish misses. Girls like Sveta, who had not heeded our advice and wore a leather mini-skirt and high, high heels, were having serious difficulties. Usually, with her teased-up platinum hair and glossy lips, Sveta was chatted up straight away. But tonight when she approached a man, he walked away. Eight times, I watched her advance and the men retreat.

She came to me and said, ‘Daria, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never thought that . . . well, I should have listened to you. You were only trying to help.’ She looked at the professionals leaning against the walls, then at her own clothing. Unfortunately, she’d chosen the same footwear as one of the working girls – shiny silver sandals with tinsel hanging off the four-inch heels.

‘It’s not too late,’ I told her. ‘Wash your face in the bathroom and take off those shoes.’

She did as I bid her and had more success. One man referred to her as ‘my barefoot princess.’ Valentina Borisovna nodded in satisfaction as she looked at our demure girls, ‘Ah, the chaste are chased.’

After an hour, the intruders slinked over to proposition the men, who repeated the one Russian word, besides ‘vodka,’ that they knew, ‘Nyet, nyet, nyet.’

Both our girls and the prostitutes were impressed by the men’s disinterest when solicited, and we made many matches that evening. It is a sad commentary on society when a man becomes a hero simply for saying no to a prostitute. A few of the prostitutes asked to become clients. Valentina Borisovna gave them forms to fill out on the spot. Trust her to find a way to turn adversity to advantage.

Harmon and I knew each other by heart. When he hummed he was in an excellent mood, when he sighed he needed a square of dark chocolate to bolster his courage. I knew he hated scenes, cheap coffee, and bureaucracy. He knew that I had my moods, and when my brows came together like angry thunderclouds, it was better to let me be. He knew that the best time to convince me to do a task was after a meal, when I was sated.

Monday, he set lunch on the boardroom table: olives, hummus, rice pilaf, garlic dip, dolmas.
What did he want?
He watched me soak the
lavash
bread in the creamy dip that he’d topped with the most decadent olive oil. He watched me gingerly take a plump black olive. I closed my eyes and gnawed at the flesh. And sighed. And forgot that he was after something. He poured us each another glass of Bordeaux. He knew everything I could not resist.