Hotel Moscow (13 page)

O
LGA DETESTED THE
thought of what public transportation would entail. Sure enough, the first bus that stopped was so packed, some passengers stood on the stairs, blocking the door from opening. Only two people got off, elbowing their exit through the mass of angry, cursing riders who wouldn’t make way lest they lose their spots. Olga could not squeeze in.

The next bus arrived on the heels of the first, but this time she was shoved aside by younger, more aggressive commuters who scrambled up before the impatient driver shut the door. When the third bus finally arrived, Olga was fuming at the injustice of it all. She pushed others to hold her place at the head of the line and climbed the two steps into a hot, sweaty fog of sour breath and coats smelling of naphthalene.

She clutched the leather strap above, swaying with each turn, hoping she wouldn’t fall with a sudden stop. Within twenty minutes, her calves ached, and her feet swelled and throbbed inside
her shoes. If it weren’t for the
zhaba,
the toad, she would have her car.

It started to drizzle. Perfect. She had left her galoshes at the office.

Metal dust and noxious chemical fumes welcomed Olga into Vera Sergeevna’s pots and pans factory. Entering the dilapidated building, she shook the raindrops off her kerchief and coat. A grating, high-pitched whine from the cutting and polishing machines broke through the thin walls,
bsssssszzzzzzz, bsssssszzzzzzz
like a thousand pieces of chalk scratching at blackboards. It made Olga’s skin prickle. She could never get used to working in a place like this, with the noise, the smell of machine oil, and the air polluted with metal dust. Yet, if she lost her job at the institute, she would be grateful to scrub the one toilet at this plant, shared by over two hundred workers.

Neither the matron at the front cubicle next to the hissing samovar, nor the few idle workers passing in the corridor stopped to inquire of her purpose here. As the joke went, “I pretend to work and you pretend to pay me.” Not only did they not care, but years of being expected to be their brothers’ keepers—and their resentment of this role—had taught everyone to mind their own business.

In Vera’s office, her friend’s framed photograph stood on a corner of an organized desk. Olga examined the handsome woman in her early thirties, whose beautiful cheekbones and dark complexion suggested a north Asian ancestry. Olga’s eyes misted at the sight of the luxuriant braid streaming down over Vera’s right shoulder. Long after the burn had healed and her hair grew back, her friend’s soul would remain scarred.

Olga opened the top desk drawer and found a stapled stack of papers with the letterhead of the Institute of External Market Resources. When was such an institute created? She’d never heard of it. What did the title mean? Yet a quick scan told her this was the very document she searched for. How easy! She had her first lead.

In the din of the machinery she could barely think. She stuffed the papers in her handbag and left. The daylight was melting away, and she was far from home, with no car to take her there.

A
T FOUR O’CLOCK
the merchants who had displayed their wares in the conference exhibition hall packed up. Through the tall windows, Svetlana watched the rays of the setting sun painting wispy clouds in coral-colored swirls. A string quartet played at the back of the lecture hall, a touch of culture in honor of the guests, but to her regret, few seemed to pay attention to the musicians. The crowd, like hens eager to flee their coop, was dispersing quickly. With street crimes increasing in direct ratio to the dwindling police patrol and with parliament sympathizers flooding the downtown area while the military suddenly popped up everywhere, Moscow had become more dangerous than ever.

Nevertheless, at least forty attendees still lingered, waiting for a second round of door-prize drawings. This door-prize concept still escaped Svetlana’s grasp. She had obliged when Amanda asked her to distribute the small, red numbered tickets, but told Amanda it was wrong to give anyone something she hadn’t
earned. Amanda only laughed, which made Svetlana even more perplexed. How could Americans think of something so unfair? Not only were the drawn gifts of unequal value but there weren’t enough for everyone. Some people received nothing. Wasn’t democracy supposed to mean true social justice?

Irina, who should have been ashamed of her oily hair and unfeminine dandruff, looked full of energy for the game. Of course, she must have cheated in the first round. How else, with only one ticket, could she have won both a hair clip and a bottle of cough syrup? Eyeing a boxful of yet-to-be-raffled-off goodies, she now tried to coax Svetlana into dispensing one more ticket. When Svetlana refused, Irina went on to say she had another business idea to discuss with Brooke and needed an interpreter.

“I am not at
your
service,” Svetlana responded, her tone haughty.

When Irina pushed her way toward Brooke, Svetlana rushed behind her. Brooke seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of Ziploc bags with precious surprises, and Svetlana wanted to protect her.

“She’s only trying to exploit you for another gift,” Svetlana told Brooke. “She says she has a new idea, but don’t believe her.”

“Let’s hear it,” Brooke said, smiling at Irina.

Svetlana fumed, but had no choice but translate. “My brother, he works for a garage,” Irina explained. “When he’s drunk, I go instead and jump-start cars. Russian cars are bad. They stall all the time. So I make jump-start cables and sell one every time I help someone. Next time they don’t call garage. My brother is mad, but I make money.”

“You know how to make jumper cables?” Brooke asked.

“If I can get black and red cables and those big—” Irina made a clamping motion.

It irked Svetlana that Brooke took Irina’s hands in hers with obvious delight. “Write me a list of the steps you must take to manufacture a large quantity,” Brooke said with enthusiasm. “Ask around and find out where to buy the raw materials you need—and research their costs. Calculate what you need now and the quantities you will need a year from now. Find out how much these jumper cables cost in the open market.” She waited until Svetlana translated. “Figure out a facility where you can work. Maybe rent a small warehouse? Talk to people who may want to invest with you or give you loans.”

“What people?” Irina asked.

“Friends, neighbors, family,” Brooke said as if it was self-evident that anyone had money to spare—or that money had any value from one day to the next. Svetlana wanted to explain this to the American, but Brooke was too excited as she pointed at the packet of class notes in Irina’s hands. “Write a business plan. Think where else you can sell your jumper cables, not only through your brother’s garage calls. Then telephone me at Hotel Moscow. We’ll talk more. Okay?”

Svetlana wished she could come up with an idea that would make Brooke similarly thrilled, but none came to mind. No wonder she couldn’t even manage her cooperative.

AS SOON AS
the Americans climbed onto their bus and she waved them good-bye, Svetlana hurried to the Economic Authority building, a fifteen-minute subway ride. It was past work hours, and she was scared of the purpose of the meeting.

When Sidorov had called Svetlana at home early that morning, she told him she must first fetch the accounting books from the factory, but he’d said not to bother. Already a bad omen. She was behind, yet again, in repaying the loan the factory had received thanks to the Economic Authority’s recommendation. What could she possibly say in her defense? That she had to pay protection money before all else? That she had paid the wrong gang, clearly, because it had failed to show up and fight off the attackers? Sidorov had already insisted that the Economic Authority couldn’t tolerate her delinquency just because she claimed to have paid the mafia. Now her factory lay in ruins.

Svetlana clutched the workbook she had received at the conference. It would be hard to write a marketing plan, but she was determined to somehow do it. Brooke had said it was necessary for the cooperative’s success. She said that Sidorov would respect her vision if he could see how she planned to handle the factory’s recovery.

Before entering his office, Svetlana stopped in the washroom, where she rinsed her face and quickly applied makeup. When Svetlana had complimented Brooke for the rust-color shade of her lipstick, the American insisted that she accept the tube. And Jenny had given her the green eye shadow “to match your eyes,” she had said, and added a mascara.

But Sidorov’s wrath still scared her. Examining the effect of the makeup in the mirror, Svetlana thought that Brooke would never let a man intimidate her—and neither would Jenny. She squared her shoulders and walked the short corridor into Sidorov’s office.

To her astonishment, he smiled. “I plan to join the sexy Americans for dinner tonight.”

“I . . . tonight?” She wished she sounded more intelligent. “They have tickets to the circus.”

He hooked one thick, rough-skinned finger into the soft hollow under her chin, forcing her head up, his face much too close. She avoided looking into the waxen blue eyes that scowled from under tufted brows and focused instead on the few hairs at the tip of his bulbous nose. The smell of vodka hung heavy on his breath.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

She tried to nod, but the movement caused his finger to dig deeper into her chin.

“What were the Americans doing at the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory yesterday?”

A worm wriggled in her stomach. “It was on their itinerary! I was to meet them at the airport and later bring them there for lunch—”

Sidorov let go of her head and walked backward to his desk. His gaze assessed her body from top to bottom. “I see you got the idea.” He perched on the desk’s edge, and his finger beckoned her.

She didn’t like the gesture. Fear snaked its way up her throat, yet how could she not approach? Her factory and its workers depended on this man’s goodwill. “What idea?” Taking tentative steps, she crossed the Persian rug.

His loosened his tie, then flattened down the imaginary hair on his bald pate. “You gussied up for me, yes?”

She gulped. She had only meant to show confidence, like the elegant Americans.

“Tell me, do you know what it means, ‘Do not cut the bough you’re sitting on?’” Without taking his eyes off her, he pushed off from the desk, and in a few large steps walked over to the door. He turned the key in the lock, then returned to his spot close to her. Too close.

“Nikolai Antonovich—”

He cupped her breast. His fingers found her nipple and squeezed hard. Dark patches swayed behind her eyes. “No, please. . . .”

His voice, heavy and smooth as cream, cut her off. “Come now. Be a good sport and turn around. I want you to sit on the bough.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Oh, uh, no. . . .”

“You’ve been a bad girl. You took our guests to where they were not supposed to be.”

“I— I didn’t! You’d told me to. Because I speak English, you said!”

His fingers pawed her other breast. “Don’t you want to continue working with the Economic Authority?”

Natasha. How would I feed her? And what about all the workers? Each of the women—her friends—had children at home, or sick mothers to take care of. And what about the Americans? If Sidorov removed her from this assignment, her dream to learn from them would shatter.

“Turn around and lift your skirt.” His hand still gripping her breast, Sidorov brought his other to his collar under his double chin and released the top button.

She stared at his moving fingers, “No. Please . . . Nikolai Antonovich—”

His brows raised quizzically. She could tell he thought her stupid for making such a fuss. He swiveled her body around. She clutched the desk as he lifted her skirt and tugged at her underwear over the garter belt.

Her palms pressed the cold, smooth mahogany. She grasped the corners and squeezed hard, staring at her whitening knuckles, wanting them to hurt. He fumbled behind her, and the fabric of his pants brushed against the bare skin of her thighs. The sound of the opening zipper made her jump, but his hand on her hip pinned her in place.

“This rump is made for fucking.” His hand caressed her right buttock. “A good-size shit basket.”

Stinging tears blinded her as his fingers searched her opening, pushing her forward. Her head tipped downward, and her necklace with the tiny gold cross dangled near her face. She grabbed it in her mouth and sucked on it, tracing its hard edges with her tongue. Wordless prayers formed around the cross.

“You see why you shouldn’t cut the bough?” Sidorov shoved himself into her.

Svetlana felt her mouth twist in a silent scream, and the cross fell out. She’d always been terrified of an attack by strangers, in dark woods and deserted stairwells, not in well-lit offices. But this was different. She had seen Sidorov’s photograph in the newspaper with President Yeltsin. He was a powerful man. You couldn’t fight someone like him.

Natasha. God help me, but I have to. For you, for us, for my friends at the factory.

Sidorov’s breath came in short gasps. “All you bitches want a real man.”

Loud drums beat in Svetlana’s head. She willed her soul to turn to ice, as she had done with the gang and later, with her husband when he had forced sex on her between beatings. She told herself that like in marriage, it wasn’t a rape if the man was the boss. Sidorov had such rights. He had power, and this was what powerful men did.

“Show appreciation,” Sidorov huffed from behind. His hands on her hips commanded her to gyrate in widening circles. “Or I’ll remember you didn’t want to sit on the bough.”

A metallic taste filled Svetlana’s mouth as he climaxed with a shudder and a low moan. Crying openly, she bent down to pull up her frumpy cotton underwear that lay in a small heap at her ankles.

“Stop making such a big deal. I did you a favor.” Sidorov opened his desk drawer and pulled out a roll of toilet paper. He cleaned himself and, aiming like it was a basketball, tossed the crumpled tissue into the wastebasket. He passed Svetlana the roll and she wiped herself, still trembling, tears streaming down her face.

He opened another desk drawer and withdrew a Hershey bar. “Here.” His tone was almost kind. “For your kid. Next time I’ll get you pantyhose.”

Next time? She forced her hand to take the chocolate. She should throw it away as soon as she got out of there. But how could she not give it to Natasha? Or sell it?

She turned to leave and felt a slap on her buttocks. At the door, blinded by tears, she fumbled with the lock.

“Svetlana,” he called to her. “You be good, and I’ll arrange for another business loan.”

Another loan? If she weren’t so distraught, so eager to escape, she would have told him that the factory couldn’t pay the interest on the few loans already stolen right at the bank lobby by gangsters. She would have begged Sidorov to help erase those loans, not add to the factory’s debt. But the door was now open, and she couldn’t begin to speak.

In the bathroom, she inspected herself in the mirror over the sink. Since there was no soap, she used her handkerchief to violently wipe away the green eye shadow and the brown smears of mascara. Red patches appeared where she rubbed her skin too hard. So much for using makeup; it was all her fault for giving Sidorov the wrong impression. She hadn’t fought him; she’d even gyrated a bit, helping him along so the ordeal would be over. It wasn’t rape if it was her fault.

A woman of loose morals, the committee had once decreed. That’s what she was, for life.

Her fingers yanked at her curls, ruining the rigid set of hair-spray. She pulled the tendrils in all directions until they stuck out and gave her the look of the madwoman she now was. She scrubbed away Sidorov’s stickiness, swiping at the back of her thighs with her panties. Again. More. Harder. Anything to undo the imprint of his flesh.

She wanted to run away, to jump out of her skin. She couldn’t face going home; she couldn’t face Zoya and her harassment, nor could she ever face Natasha without breaking down. Yet, there was no other place to go. Nowhere in all of Moscow to hide.

Outside the washroom window, an oppressive blanket of inky
sky had descended over the city. Svetlana folded the leather coat Katerina had loaned her, straightened its sleeves and lapel, and placed it in her string bag. Never again would she attempt to look elegant. It attracted the wrong kind of attention. She stepped out to the street, into the familiar darkness, permeated with the stagnant smell of the city.