Moonlight in Odessa (19 page)

‘It’s not a date. It’s a walk. He’s invited me to restaurants and to the opera, but I refused.’

‘You love the opera. What’s wrong with dating a young, handsome man?’

‘Who’s an extortion king, mafia don, and possibly a killer?’

‘No one’s perfect,’ she said. ‘At least he doesn’t smoke.’

At five o’clock, Vlad returned for our walk. He extended his arm, and I laced mine through his. It would have been churlish not to. We walked down Pushkinskaya Street then turned on Malaya Arnutskaya towards Park Shevchenko, an immense, neglected oasis with tall trees and long grass. Even in the summer, its paths were dark – perfect for clandestine meetings.

‘What were you . . . before?’ I asked as we walked along the leafy boulevard.

‘A marine biologist,’ he replied. ‘I studied dolphins in the Crimea. We even had a program for children of Chernobyl who came in the summer and swam with them. Those kids were great, so strong and optimistic despite cancer and the other illnesses they faced. When you looked at them, serious eyes stared back. They were already old souls. The treatments and doctors’ visits had sucked the youth right out of them. But they loved the sea and watching them play with the dolphins at our center was like watching them become children again, even if it was only for an hour.’

What was he doing to me? I could feel my body swell with empathy and even love . . . for those children. I felt my mouth soften and form an O. I turned my head so that if there was any tenderness radiating from my eyes, Vlad would not see it.

‘If it was so great, why did you stop?’ I asked sharply.

‘I loved it, but my salary was barely twenty dollars a month, if I got paid. Hell, we could barely afford to feed the dolphins. It wasn’t a life. So I came back to Odessa.’

His quiet answer only intensified my desire for him. I resented this surge of emotion and tried to expunge my feelings. First, I thought of Tristan, but his crinkly, blue eyes and soft smile paled when compared to Vlad. I repeated phrases I’d read about California: bordering the Pacific; possessing a beautiful climate and immense resources; San Francisco has a magnificent harbor; Los Angeles, the largest city, is the center of the moving picture business; nickname: the Golden State. I remembered that in America Jane earned in a week what I earned in a month. I repeated the litany of charges I’d filed against Vlad: an extortion king, mafia don, and possibly a killer. A powerful, rich man who would never be content with just one woman. Again, I tried to turn my thoughts to Tristan, my gentle schoolteacher. Tristan, modest, simple Tristan, the opposite of Vlad – he wanted a quiet family life in beautiful California. No bodyguards required.

‘How can you live like this, being watched all the time?’ I asked, gesturing to the man trailing us. Vlad tensed. And stopped walking.

‘You get used to it,’ he shrugged. We continued toward the sea. After a moment, he said, ‘When you weren’t at the shipping office today, it was a blow. I realized how much I looked forward to seeing you.’

At the beach, he turned to me and ran his hand through my hair, then caressed my face and neck with the back of his hand. And I craved his touch. I closed my eyes and let the tips of his fingers trace my cheeks, eyelids, and lips. I listened to the waves approach and retreat. I inhaled the salty air.

‘Why did you give the bracelet to Valentina Borisovna?’ he asked.

‘Are you angry?’ I asked, my eyes still closed. His fingers traced my neck and jaw line.

‘Surprised. You’re the only girl I know who isn’t crazy about jewelry.’

My eyes snapped open. ‘So you give jewelry to lots of girls?’

‘Not anymore. I have a past. You do, too. I can’t do anything about the past, but I can work on the future. With you.’

Chapter 9

Monday

He is forty-six. She is twenty-four. His hair is salt, hers pepper. He only speaks English – fast and with a heavy nasal accent. She only speaks Russian. Near the opera house (the third most beautiful in the world), at the Bondarenko restaurant (the best in all of Odessa) they sit next to each other. I sit across from her. She fiddles with her fork. He looks at the ceiling and clears his throat.

It is my first time on a date alone, away from the throbbing music and the camaraderie of the socials. I am just as nervous as the couple in front of me.

He takes her hand. ‘I love her. Tell her I love her.’

‘But you’ve only known her sixteen hours.’

‘I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to translate.’

I tell her. He expects her to be happy when she hears the words. She is anything but. In her eyes, I see that it is over.

Tuesday

He is fifty-three. She is twenty-two. He is divorced. She is divorced. He lives alone. She lives with her parents. At the Bondarenko restaurant, we each have a flute of champagne – he ordered the most expensive bottle on the menu. I sip. He gulps. She pretends to drink. She is sharp and wants to stay sharp. They sit next to each other. I sit across from her. She is stunning. So stunning that even I stare.

As time passes, he gets louder. The waiters look at me. I shrug. They are lucky that they can’t understand him. She is lucky that she can’t understand him.

‘The death penalty is the only answer,’ he bellows.

I translate.

‘I agree,’ she murmurs, stroking his thigh.

‘Some people don’t deserve to live.’ His words are slurred.

I translate.

‘You’re so smart,’ she says. ‘Let’s go back to your hotel room.’

His jaw slackens in surprise, but he rallies and throws his arm around her shoulders. Her smile is tight, but he can’t see it. I wonder if she is planning on marrying him or simply rolling him. Maybe her boyfriend is waiting for them outside. The man takes out a large roll of cash and throws some money at me. They leave arm in arm.

Wednesday

He is forty. She is twenty-four. He is a businessman looking for a blonde, she is a veterinarian looking for an animal lover. At the social the previous evening, I tried to tell him that it wouldn’t be a good match. But alcohol and jet lag and lust dulled his common sense. Or perhaps because I told him no, he fought to prove me wrong and insisted this was the girl for him. Near the opera house, at the Bondarenko restaurant – lights soft, staff discreet – they sit next to each other, I sit across from her. They can’t think of a single thing to say. Neither can I.

Before the second course comes, he tells me, ‘It’s not working. Get me another girl.’

‘But you haven’t given her a chance.’

‘We aren’t clicking.’

‘Clicking?’

She looks at us, trying to understand the tense exchange.

‘I paid three thousand dollars and only have a week. I don’t want her.’

I look into her doe eyes and try to figure out what to say.

She doesn’t need me to interpret. She’s understood perfectly. She throws her
champagnskoye
in his face and walks out. The perfect Odessan exit.

He wipes his face and shirt with a linen napkin. Too bad it wasn’t red wine.

I use the restaurant’s phone to call Valentina, and she sends over another girl.

While we wait for her, he takes my hand and says, ‘You’re a very attractive lady.’

Thursday

He is fifty. She is twenty-eight. They both have sad eyes and gentle souls. Near the opera house, at the Bondarenko restaurant – food superb, décor elegant – they sit next to each other, I sit across from her.

He leads with, ‘I was married for twenty-five years. Been divorced for three. I have two kids.’

‘He has two children,’ I translate.

It’s her turn. ‘I dated this guy for four years. Thought he was the one. Came home from work and found him in bed with my best friend.’

‘She doesn’t have children,’ I tell him.

‘I thought I’d be married for ever, you know?’ he says. ‘When she left, I thought I would die.’

‘I thought I’d be married by now. You know, with kids, the whole deal. Why did I waste so much time with him?’

Friday

He is thirty-six. She is twenty-six. He is a poet and a professor at a community college. He is soft-spoken and asks good questions. She’s a withdrawn Botticelli, which makes her seem mysterious, ethereal. Near the opera house, at the Bondarenko restaurant – we can hear the orchestra rehearsing in the courtyard behind the opera house – they sit next to each other, I sit across from her.

He does everything right. He listens. He doesn’t press to hold her hand. He doesn’t talk about his ex. He makes eye contact without staring. He doesn’t complain about grasping American career women or tell off-color jokes.

She doesn’t make eye contact. She is melancholy. I know her story: no degree, parents dead, works as a maid. Her hands are rough. She is rough. But he cares for her. He is patient enough that he thinks he can nurse her back to happiness.

‘Look,’ she tells me after he’s paid the check. ‘Tell him anything you want. I’m gonna go.’

She says goodbye and leaves. He looks bewildered. I tell him to wait and run after her. ‘Have you thought of your future? He seems like a good guy. And believe me, I’ve seen plenty. Why not give him a chance?’

‘It won’t work,’ she says. She shoves her hands in her pockets and goes.

I return to the table and break the news.

Saturday

On my birthday, my friends come at 4 p.m. In Odessa, you don’t send invitations. Your real friends know who they are and they come. Boba has cooked all week. Valeria, Inna, Alla, Genia, Maria, and Yelena sit at our table. Varvara couldn’t come, her son is ill.

‘Has another year gone by so quickly?’

‘I swear besides work, birthdays and the bazaar are the only occasions for me to get out of the flat!’

‘And buying potatoes, beets, and onions is no fun. Birthday parties are the only time I can enjoy myself.’

‘My little Dima runs me ragged. I wish I had half his energy!’

‘Daria, you’re so lucky to be free! Marriage isn’t what I thought it was . . . I spend more time in the kitchen than I do in the bedroom!’

Before the conversation turns ribald, Boba raises her glass. ‘To Daria, happy birthday! May all your dreams come true!’

‘To Daria, we wish you good health, success at work, and luck in love!’

Around the table they go, toast after toast, course after course. When we were school girls and then students, they stayed the whole weekend. We went for walks, dressed in each other’s clothes, tried different hairstyles, and chatted all weekend long. But one by one they married and monthly long weekends became rare afternoons.

‘Where’s Olga? That slut never misses a chance for a free glass of
kognac
.’

‘Didn’t you hear she’s got some new sugar daddy? A foreigner.’

‘He’ll go home and leave her in the dust. She’ll never learn.’

Sunday

I sleep.

Chapter 10

Surely, one of the reasons that Olga wanted my job was the presents that I received from clients. Jewelry, chocolates, French perfume, figs and dates, thick envelopes. She probably thought I received them for looking good. Neither Harmon nor Olga knew what I did to receive such gestures of gratitude. But they were about to learn. In Odessa, nothing clears customs – coming or going – without goodwill, or what the custom agents call an ‘expedite fee.’ It could be anything, but what? Much depended on the agent and his mood. If the situation was handled improperly, or crudely, shipments rotted. The agents even had the power to put our containers back on the ships and send them back whence they came.

In Odessa, you couldn’t just walk up to business associates and bribe them. This would be vulgar. You had to spend time with each to know which approach to use. The youngest agents wanted electronics. The middle-aged men didn’t want their sons drafted and needed exemption letters from a doctor. Flattery worked best with the old-timers. All received a bottle and an envelope at the end of the year as an expression of gratitude for their great understanding and effort. It went without saying that I walked the most valuable shipments through customs myself. On those days, I packed a picnic basket of caviar (red and black), Black Sea sardines, a wide array of local cheeses, bread, and one of Boba’s cheesecakes as a thank you. Of course, I expected my products to leave customs the same day that they arrived, in the same condition and with nothing missing. It took much time to learn what would make our shipments a priority. Our clients knew that without me their goods would never clear Odessa customs, even if Harmon and Olga did not.

It wasn’t entirely clear what Harmon’s position in the company had been before he arrived in Odessa. He’d told me that his grandfather had founded the firm and that he’d inherited the job whether he’d wanted it or not. Harmon never talked about his ex-wife, his friends back home, his other life. This was what Odessa did to a person – it erased the past and future.

To survive, you had to be in the present – to remark every nuance at work, to keep an eye on the unscrupulous vendors at the bazaar, to watch for pickpockets on the street. I kept my ears pricked; Vita and Vera had stopped talking about me. They mainly gossiped about Olga and repeated what their own bosses said about Harmon – that he was naïve and couldn’t take a decision to save his life or the Odessa branch. When I was still Harmon’s secretary, I had deflected this gossip, but it was hard because they were not wrong.