Once Upon a Grind (19 page)

“T
ELL
me, Clare Cosi. Am I cursed?”

With his spiked blond hair, tight-fitting tux, and crushed expression, Boris looked like a hopeful young recording artist who'd been passed over at the Grammys. Feeling his pain, I sank down next to him.

“Try to understand. Your girlfriend convinced herself that you no longer loved her.”

“But how could she think this? We were happy! Our love does not stink!”

“Yes, but when Esther asked you to move in with her, you took so long to answer her offer that you . . . how do I put this? You opened up a void, a black space in her mind without answers. And to someone like Esther, a void is a dangerous thing. She automatically fills it with worst-case scenarios.”

Boris shook his head. “You know the difference between a half truth and a whole truth?”

“What?”

“All the difference in the world.” He pointed at the night sky wallpaper on Esther's ceiling. “When we look at space, we see black, so much black. But that is not the whole of it. There are bright points of light—
so many!
—between the dark places. This is what's important. This is where life is.”

“Do you have a whole truth, Boris? One that Esther needs to hear?”

With a sigh, he hung his head and slowly nodded. “When my czarina asked to me to live with her, I was flattered, but it did trouble me. That much is true. And then it troubled me that I was troubled. After all, I love her. She loves me. I thought and thought and finally the reason was clear: I do not want to be Esther's
roommate
. I want to be Esther's
husband
. So excited I was by this discovery that I planned surprise proposal.”

“But, Boris, you said it yourself—you ‘thought and thought'—you had time to think through your feelings. Until Esther heard you propose on stage, she thought you were going to break up with her. Now she's very confused.”

“Tell me something I don't know!”

“She may not be ready for marriage. And that may be something she never resolves, but she does love you. Give her time and she'll come around—” (I hoped she would, anyway.) “Unfortunately, that's not what truly worries me tonight. And if you knew the whole truth, I'm sure you'd feel the same.”

“What whole truth?”

“About Red—the young woman Esther ran off with . . .”

Boris hadn't yet heard what happened to Red's friend, Anya, so I explained everything I knew, ending with a simple conclusion—

“I think Anya and Red got themselves involved with the wrong people. One of those people put Anya in a coma. Red knows more about this crime than she's telling. That's why I want to see Esther back here, safe.”

“Is that all you know?”

“I'm afraid so. Red ranted more of the story to me in Russian, but I only remember one phrase. She used it over and over.”

“What was it?”

“
Ya budu ryadom! Ya budu ryadom!”

At those words, Boris's pale skin went ghostly white.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

He didn't waste time explaining. Instead, he jumped up, moved to the kitchen table, and began making phone calls.

While he spoke to a dozen people—all in Russian—I found Esther's French press and made us coffee. This time Boris didn't push it away.

“Another pot, please,” he said after quickly downing two cups.

I stood to make it. “Before you place another call, will you
please
tell me what you're doing?”

“I am contacting my friends in Brighton Beach. They say Roz moved out of neighborhood months ago. No one knows where she lives now. I sent text messages to my contacts.”

“You called her Roz?”
Esther had used that name, too.
“What's her real name?”

“Rozalina Krasny.”

“Will you please tell me all you know about her?”

Boris shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it on his chair. “She came to America as young girl, never knew her father. Her mother died in Russian prison.”

“So her mother was a criminal?”

“Russian government called her that. You would call her ‘political prisoner.'”

“What did she do?”

“She joined radical group. Was like
Voina
. You know
Voina, da
?”

“No.”

He studied the ceiling. “You know Pussy Riot?”

“Sorry.”

“These are artists and performers who demand freedom of expression.”

“Wait. I have heard of Pussy Riot . . .” They'd been in the news—a group of Russian women outspoken about repressive restrictions and antigay laws imposed under Vladimir Putin.

“You must understand,” Boris said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Here in America, poets can go to neighborhood café and rap about president, government, laws that they do not like. Nothing will happen to them. But twenty-five years ago, Russia was in chaos. Freedom was new idea. Not everyone was comfortable with it. The old guard, the
nomenklatura
, they hated the new way.”

“And Red's mother?”

“She was watched because she was outspoken. They convicted her of vandalism against the state when she took part in demonstration where others set fire to police van in Moscow. Punishment for artists and radicals is harsh. Red's mother could not take strain of this. She died of influenza in prison.”

“Who got her daughter out of Russia?”

“Group dedicated to freeing victims of government oppression. Many of these men suffered at the gulags of the old Soviet Union. Here they formed local business collectives. You know some of these men, Clare Cosi. They are friends of mine. I introduced you not long ago.”

“Yes, I remember . . .” (How could I forget a meeting wearing nothing but a towel and a smile in a Brighton Beach bath house?) As I poured hot water over the ground coffee in the press, Boris went on—

“Red has relatives in America. Older couple owned little pharmacy in Brighton Beach. Red was raised by them. They were not nice people—the kind who hit children instead of talk, you know? They sent her to school, told her she must be pharmacist and work for them. But she broke away, was like her mother, wanted artistic expression.”

“And Anya?”

Boris shrugged. “Anya has not been here long—two years maybe. No one knows much about her. Some say Anya's mother and Red's mother were friends. That's all I can find out.”

“Well, Red is the only one with answers because right now Anya is lying unconscious in a hospital. And she may die.”

“That's why I am scared—for Red and for my Esther. We must find them.”

“You agree then. They're in trouble?”

“The Russian phrase Red used when speaking of Anya:
Ya budu ryadom! Ya budu ryadom!
You know what phrase means?”

I shook my head.

“I will be next.”

A
FTER
our second pot of coffee, Boris headed into the streets of Alphabet City to check places in the neighborhood where Esther sometimes hung out.

I returned to the Village Blend with a list he'd scribbled of other possible places she might have gone.

Nancy and Dante checked addresses around NYU. Matt volunteered to take a cab to Astoria, Queens, where Esther sometimes worked with a documentary filmmaker. And I remained behind to hold the fort, coordinate the search, and send out text messages to the rest of my staff.

I even texted Harrison Van Loon.

The festival's lawyer texted me back an address for Red, but it was her adopted family's house in Brighton Beach, and Boris already told me that she no longer lived there.

Then I
finally
heard from Tucker:

No sign of Goth Queen. Will watch 4 her. Am crazy busy w/ so many shows this week. Will drop by 2 CU soon.

Esther's married sister in Westchester replied next. She said she hadn't heard from Esther in over a week.

“Is everything all right?”
she asked.

“Fine,”
I texted back—seeing no reason to alarm the woman (yet).
“She's been out of touch and I'm trying to reach her.”

Secretly, I hoped Esther would return to the coffeehouse, so we could have a heart-to-heart. For her sake and (to be honest) for mine.

My discussion with Boris about love and misunderstanding, dark spaces and disappointment, had unnerved me. But I had no one to talk to about my conflicted feelings, certainly not Matt, who was apoplectic about the possibility of my moving to Washington.

But the more I considered Boris's crushed expression, and Quinn's elated singing in the shower, the more I worried about losing the heart of a man I cherished. Maybe not all at once, but little by little, like grains of sand washing out to sea until the softest parts were eroded away and nothing was left but stone.

I didn't like being alone with these thoughts, but Esther never came back. Nancy and Dante returned with nothing but sleepy frowns. And an hour later, Boris called to report that he'd had no luck with his local search.

Finally, Matt fired off a text message. The Astoria filmmaker was out of town, but a neighbor knew about Red, who performed in the area often. So he was heading off to check a few Astoria nightclubs.

I wished Matt luck, closed the shop, and went up to my duplex.

On the way, I got a call from (of all people) Gardner Evans.

“Hey, boss, what's up?”

Hearing my night manager's friendly voice cheered me immensely. He'd spent his day off performing at jazz clubs around town with his group. When they finished their last set, he checked his phone and saw my text message.

“Why are you looking for Esther? Is anything wrong?”

“Lots. I can't explain now. Just let me know if you see her.”

“Will do,” he said. “Me and the guys are heading up to Harlem for fried chicken and waffles. You want to come?”

“Amy Ruth's?”

“You know it.”

Gardner had taken me there a few times. It was a homey little place with a soul food menu, and the best Belgian waffles and honey-dipped fried chicken I'd ever tasted.

Gardner laughed. “I still remember the night you asked Sister Janet how she makes everything so good.”

Sister Janet was the head chef at Amy Ruth's. And her answer impressed us all. She told us there was one simple secret to her soul food—she
prayed
before she cooked. I smiled at the memory, and couldn't help thinking of Boris and his points of light in the dark.

“Thanks for calling, Gardner.”

“No problem. Text me if you want a take-out bag.”

Signing off, I sat down at my kitchen table and drummed my fingers, wondering what else I could do to help find Esther. That's when I noticed the shiny green bag with the
M
, sitting exactly where Quinn left it.

Matt's Magic Beans . . .

I told my ex-husband I'd never drink his Lake Tana coffee again. Just thinking about it sent me into a cold sweat.

If I drank this coffee one more time, would it help me find Esther? Or simply mess with my head? Was there really something to this stuff? Or was it all coincidence and superstition?

I couldn't help thinking of Sister Janet at Amy Ruth's, praying in her kitchen. Was that superstition? Or could an act of faith better focus the mind?

I wonder what Matt's friend “Dr. Pepper” would say about it . . .

Whatever the answer, I didn't have time for lab experiments or religious debates. A young woman I thought of as a daughter could be in danger. She was lost and needed to be found. That meant I needed to try anything and everything within my power, namely—

A little prayer
, which was why I recited one as I walked to the counter and put on the kettle.

And a little magic
, which was why, with shaking hands, I measured out Matt's special beans and ground them.