The Summer Garden (49 page)

The next morning at eight, Balkman said, “Have you talked some sense into that wife of yours?”

Now nearly three years with Balkman, Alexander remained convinced that this was the right job for him, the right place for him. He was so convinced of this that he tried yesterday, after everyone had left, to convince Tatiana. That perhaps they could consider, just consider, Balkman’s offer. He was met with such uncommon, unusual and unwelcome hostility from his normally mild wife that he had to drop the subject before he said some things himself he would later regret.

This morning Alexander stood in front of Bill, his eyes cold, his arms crossed, trying to forget the sight of Tatiana yesterday, her eyes cold, her arms crossed. “This has nothing to do with my wife, Bill,” he said. “We’ve been offered quite a lot of money for that land. Ever since Scottsdale incorporated two years ago, the land’s value has gone out of control. It’s now worth $5000 an acre. That’s a return of nearly half a million dollars on our original investment. Believe me, if we wanted to sell it, we would sell it. We’re not interested.”

“But there’s so much money to be made!”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about the land,” Alexander said. “You’ve seen our life. We live simply. I realize it’s not for everyone. There’s much to be said for making more and spending more, but as long as we have enough for our small things, that’s plenty for us. And we have enough for our small things. The home is paid for. The cars are paid for. We want for nothing.”

“What about—”

Alexander stopped him. “Enough. Please. Let’s talk about our present business. Have you put together a budget proposal for the Schreiner house, or do you want me to do that? They’re eager to get financing and get started. And they’re willing to spend thirty a square foot to get the marble in all the bathrooms, not just the master.”

“Stop changing the subject. 50–50 profit on three hundred land parcels, Alexander! I tell you what, to sweeten the pot, I’ll split the builder’s commission on the houses with you, 75–25. You’re only getting a three percent commission now. Think how much twenty-five percent is going to be on—what did your wife say yesterday? Twenty-six million dollars? She was right, by the way.”

Alexander sighed. Of course she was right. And yes, the money was incredible.

Balkman must have seen his conflict. “Your wife is advising you poorly,” he said. “You should not listen to her. You should do what you feel is right. This is for your future and the future of your family.”

Bill was a fine one to talk about a family—not marrying Margaret so he could keep his options open. Well, Alexander thought, that’s right, why buy the cow when you can have the milk—

And suddenly his mind cleared. He remembered something. “Bill,” he said, “do you know how much cows were worth in Soviet villages?”

“What?” Bill said dumbly. He looked as if he had misheard. “In what villages?”

“Cows. In Soviet villages. Do you know how much you could sell your cow for, if you had one?”

“No—but—”

“Fifteen hundred rubles,” Alexander said. “Now, fifteen hundred rubles is a colossal amount of money to a Russian peasant, who makes maybe twenty rubles a month selling his fish to the collective. But if you sold the cow, your money would be gone in three months, while the cow would feed you for seven years.” He smiled. “I’m not selling my cow, Bill.”

Visibly aggravated, Balkman hit the desk with his fist. “Fucking cows. What are you talking about? I’ve taken very good care of you, Alexander.”

“I know. And I have taken very good care of you.”

“Yes, but what’s good for the business is by definition good for you.” Balkman paused. “The reverse is also true. How would that wife of yours feel about that?”

Alexander stood straight up in silence. To the left of Bill was a larger, more graphic picture of a naked Miss Viva Las Vegas. Something regretfully boiled up inside him. “Bill, if you don’t want me to work for you, fire me. Don’t threaten me, just do what you have to. But the land is not for sale. And do me a favor, leave my wife out of it.”

Balkman growled something in reply. Alexander waited, his arms crossed. He knew Bill couldn’t fire him—he needed Alexander to run the business. They didn’t talk about it again, but Balkman made it clear that he felt Alexander’s intransigence in matters of the ninety-seven acres was all Tatiana’s doing, just like Alexander’s not playing with the boys in Vegas.

The Boys and the Girls

“Dad really wants you to come to Vegas with us next month,”
Steve said to Alexander, as they were having a drink after work with Jeff. “The International Builders’ Show is coming up. You must go. He’s going to have to insist.”

They had just been talking about their girls, who had had lunch earlier that day. What do
you
think they talk about? the boys wondered. Do you think they complain about us? Oh, sure they complain. We ask them to do things they don’t want to do, said Jeff. We won’t marry them, said Steve. Alexander wanted to say that his wife did not complain about him—but what if she did? What if she told the girls he thought he was always right? That he had to have almost everything his way? That occasionally he came home late and not sober and took his fill of whatever he wanted?

Now they were back to Vegas. “Something tells me you don’t get a lot of work done when you go.” Alexander grinned. “And what are you, your father’s fucking secretary? Bill wants to tell me something, he can tell me himself.”

“Come on, Alex, aren’t you the least bit curious about the bestial cauldron of libertine decadence?” asked Jeff. “I was.”

Alexander palmed his beer glass. His whole life in the Leningrad garrison before Tania was a bestial cauldron of proletarian decadence—with weekends off, officer duds, drinks and perks, and hot and cold running ladies.

“Boys, I have something to tell you,” Jeff announced solemnly. “I fear my Las Vegas days are over. I’m going to marry Cindy.”

“Oh,
no
,” said Alexander. “Not marry Cindy.”

“Cut the shit. Yes. She has informed me that there are other interested parties.”

“She’s lying,” said Steve. “Amanda tells me that once a month, like clockwork. I set my watch by it. Don’t fall for it; it’s a mantrap.” And laughed loudly at his double-entendre: mantrap had cruder meanings. “Don’t do it, Jeff, save yourself, don’t do it.”

Jeff turned to Alexander. “What do you think I should do?”

“Cindy will make a fine wife,” said Alexander.

Jeff lowered his voice. “I like her. I love her. I guess I’ll marry her.” He sighed. “But Alex, there are some things Cindy just won’t do. Is it unreasonable to expect your wife to do some of the things the ladies in Vegas do?”

“Amanda does them,” Steve said with a grin. “She does what I tell her. But her heart’s not in it. She does them just so I’ll marry her. It’s a mantrap.”

They all laughed. “Man, are you fucked up,” Alexander said. “She does what you want, mantrap and all, and you’re still not happy?”

“What do you think, Alex?” Jeff said. “Wives one thing, Vegas girls another?”

“Our boy hasn’t been corrupted by the Vegas girls yet,” said Steve with a shoulder shove at Alexander.

Yet?
Steve had drunk too much too fast, and was now loose-lipped. “Jeff, man,” said Alexander, “you better pray this is not the kind of thing the girls talk about—how Cindy’s other boyfriend compares with you. What if you don’t stack up?”

“Hey, Alex, is it true?” Steve asked suddenly. “Manda told me the other day that Tania’s never had another boyfriend?”

Jeff laughed. “Oh, man, you’re so fucking lucky! No wonder you’re so cocky. You’re not stacking up to nothin’.”

Alexander jumped off the bar stool. His beer glass swilled on the counter unfinished.

“What, have to run home already?” said Steve. “It’s early.”

“It’s not early, it’s late,” said Alexander.

This is what Amanda, Cindy and Tatiana talked about at lunch: What was wrong with their bodies. Their feet were too big, their nipples too little, their ears stuck out, their behinds not enough. They were too big, too small, too flat, too tall. It was a Dr. Seuss book for nitpicking women. Staying out of it, Tatiana ate her fettuccine and thought about making it for dinner, with a little garlic bread and lemon chicken, or lime garlic chicken with salsa? Or…

“Tania, did you hear us?”

“Sorry, what?” She had forty-five minutes before Anthony’s bus and wanted to order a slice of cherry pie before she had to run. She continued eating. The bodily analysis was singularly uninteresting to her—she had moved far beyond the magazines and their counseling quizzes. “The Real Secret to a Long and Happy Marriage,” “A Thousand Things You Are Doing Wrong.” “Five Hundred Things You Can Do to Please Your Husband.” Alexander said and showed he was pleased, and she didn’t think about it beyond that. She and Francesca never talked about this. They talked about sons and cooking—and beergaritas. Tatiana smiled.
That
was the real secret to a long and happy marriage. She wanted to counsel the girls regarding wasting valuable time on things they could not change–but what if they listened to her? Then what would they have to talk about?

“Tania, Cindy thinks Jeff is finally going to take the plunge.”

“Oh, that’s great, Cind,” said Tatiana.

“But what do you think I should do?” Amanda said. “War is over, and it’s been not two war days, like you and Alexander, not three years like Jeff and Cindy here, but seven years! I’m twenty-five, still live at home, and despite all his promises and a ring, he just won’t marry me.”

“So why don’t you tell him to fish or cut bait, Mand?” asked Tatiana.

Amanda was quiet. “Because what if he cuts bait, Tania?”

Tatiana hoped that what she was thinking was not plain on her face, which was,
Hallelujah
. She placed her hand on Amanda’s hand. “You want me to give you a secret way to get Steve to marry you? I don’t have it. I didn’t have it for me. I don’t have it for you.”

“Well, Alexander married
you
, didn’t he?” Amanda said. “You must have done something.”

“Alexander and I are not you and Steve,” said Tatiana, and when she saw Amanda’s fallen face, she added quickly, “Cindy and Jeff aren’t you and Steve either. Everybody is different. You have to do what’s right for you.”

“You know what I did? I told my Jeff there was someone else,” Cindy giggled. “That got him really worked up.”

Amanda waved her off. “I’ve been telling that to Steve for five years. You know what he says? The more the merrier, Mand. Let’s bring him to Vegas with us for a little threeway.”

Oh, he is such a prize, Tatiana wanted to say. Please let
that
not show on my face.

“Tania, tell me what to do,” Amanda said. “Please.”

“Manda,” said Tatiana, “I don’t know why you keep thinking I have all the answers.”

“Because look at what you and Alexander have,” Amanda said resentfully.

“You don’t want my life, trust me,” said Tatiana. “You don’t want to know what it took for him and me to claw our way up that hill off Pima. You won’t believe it if I ever told you. And we’re still finding our way. I’m a terrible example. I was lucky in this—he loved me. But had he not, I would’ve had to move on. I would’ve had no choice, right?”

“Tatiana!” That was Amanda raising her genteel voice in a restaurant. “Are you saying Steve doesn’t love me?”

How did she get drawn into this inane conversation? “He doesn’t want to marry you,” Tatiana said quietly. “That much is clear.”

Amanda got up sharply from the table. “He does love me,” she said, her voice shaking. “He does. You don’t know. He’s a good man. He does love me.” She stormed out of the restaurant.

Across the table Cindy stared perplexed at Tatiana, who shrugged and said, “Why does she ask for advice, if she doesn’t want the advice?” and motioned the waitress for the bill. No cherry pie today.

After coming home from the bar that night, in bed, as Alexander was rubbing Tatiana’s back, he said, his mouth moving down her spine, “Tania, stop talking to Amanda about me.”

“I don’t talk to Amanda about you.”

“You told her you’d never been with anyone else, didn’t you?”

“First of all, I didn’t say that. They were having quite a conversation last week at lunch—these lunches, by the way, that you keep insisting I go to—about whether Cindy was an actual virgin or a technical virgin when she got together with Jeff. I, for one, was having some trouble with the differences. Apparently Cindy has read in one of her magazines that in some parts of the world, in some countries, she would have been considered a technical virgin. So I asked,” said Tatiana, “if they stamped that sort of thing on her passport when she traveled.”

Alexander laughed; even his caressing hands on her buttocks laughed.

“Amanda joked that on her passport, the words ‘was born not a virgin’ would be printed—at least I hope that was a joke,” said Tatiana. “At this point, I ordered dessert and excused myself from the conversation. However, they pursued me like lions running after a frail zebra. I simply said you were my actual first and gave no other information. What was I going to say? What did you want me to say? That you were my technical twentieth?”

Alexander wasn’t laughing anymore. “What I want you to do is change the subject.” He held her in place with his open palms, his mouth moving over her tailbone.

“I do change the subject!” With uncharacteristic irritation, Tatiana moved away from him and sat up. “I’m the queen of the changed subject, Alexander. Including that burning question. Whether there were some small technicalities that I perhaps overlooked. But eventually I have to say something, no?”

He sat up himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Answer me—did you want me to lie?”

“Just tell them it’s none of their fucking business, Tatiana. Leave the table. But what happens is, you tell it to Amanda, and she goes and tells it to Steve who then tells Jeff, and suddenly I find myself being snickered at by two drinking men at a bar at night. It’s too much information for them, you understand that part, right?”