Beautiful Evil Winter Read online

  I might as well be naked in the North Pole.

  The cold ices Ethan’s mustache during the short walk from the airport terminal to the car, just our luck that this particular winter marks one of the coldest periods in Moscow’s history.

  With the heater working at maximum capacity, the windows inside the car remain frozen for the trip. I squint trying to sightsee through a sheet of ice while the van speeds down the road, blurring the world around us. In the back seat, Ethan closes the gap between us, putting his arm around my shoulders. He smiles a little smile with cautious hope in his eyes. And we venture further into the beautiful evil winter.

  6. LOCKDOWN

  The apartment overlooks an icy park bordered by a busy sidewalk and street. We climb two flights of stairs, no elevators in sight, to reach a landing with an almost airtight metal door, sealed shut with multiple locking devices like a bank vault. Natasha leads the way. Ethan and I follow, Viktoria trailing closely behind Ivan, who’s carrying an extra suitcase. Like a human caravan, we soldier single file toward an important target. Ivan, a strong blockish, man is the driver and helps with any needed tasks. He’s wearing a black fur cap and a very thick wool coat. We enter the outermost door to find another innermost security door with more locks. Looking to the left, I notice a small, simple, private bathroom with a freestanding bathtub and a gravity-driven flushing toilet. The tank rests over the toilet seat and a pull chain connects to the tank. Looking to the right, the small, crowded, dark living room area slaps us to attention with gold, brown, orange and white accents. A black rotary dial phone and TV set resplendent with rabbit ears adds to the ambiance. The kitchen, located directly across from the front door, intrigues me.

  To satisfy my curiosity, I scan the area—no dishwasher, no coffee maker and no recognizable sources of nourishment. A breakfast nook area complete with a dinette set dominates the room, whispering intimacy and warmth. To complete the picture, a small, fall-inspired bedroom with tiny closets, completely utilized for storage, and a large double-draped window, all of which will serve as our home for a while.

  Natasha huddles with Viktoria. They speak rapid fire Russian, the sound like high-powered machine guns blasting entire clips of ammo, a girls’ club of two having a serious talk. “The rules are the same, Ethan. Do not answer the door. We will call before we come to the apartment. You always check to see that we are standing at the doorstep. Above all, do not leave the apartment without us for any reason. You stay here with the door locked until we come for you. You risk being robbed, kidnapped or killed or all three. Do you understand these instructions?” Viktoria translates and looks to us for agreement. Her demeanor and tone are both serious and patronizing, a warning to the mischievous children.

  “Yes, we’ll follow the rules,” Ethan agrees with a sigh. “Will you give us a phone number to call you?”

  “Ah, this is good. You not come here with my phone number. No, there is no reason for you to have it now. Food in the apartment for you. You have all that you need. You call me too much when you in the States,” Natasha remarks with a roll of her eyes.

  “Why you!” I growl as I step forward.

  In a flash, Ethan grabs my arm firmly to hold me back.

  “No, no! Let it go, Sophia. We’ll be okay. Pick your battles—not everyone is worth the effort,” he coolly instructs.

  ***

  Once we “unpack”, our luggage, clothing and personal items fence the perimeter of the bed, footholds are treacherous and difficult to find. Momentarily, I stop to breathe in the here and now.

  We now live in another country, in another culture and in another decade, but Thank God it’s only temporary.

  Although our Russian friends consider this apartment to be very luxurious, it pales when compared to an American counterpart.

  We’re going to miss the comforts of home—fresh vegetables, M & Ms and Mexican food and the comfortable wing back chair in front of the fireplace. Not to mention the ability to walk out the front door to inhale fresh air and bask in the sunshine.

  Nostalgia cooks and bubbles in the apartment as distinct and savory as the aroma of hot chicken noodle soup. Daily, we crave the luxury, abundance, effortlessness and comfort offered in our homeland—we even long for the celebrity buzz shows, news programming and commercials. In fact, there is no mention of the US in Russia news. Even more surprising is the type of entertainment programming available at almost all hours, vaudeville acts and soap operas. Stuck in the apartment for hours and days at a time, we quickly become TV literate.

  Security is a daily concern. Moscow ranks as one of the most dangerous cities in the world, best described by the richest man in Russia “As the Wild Wild West with no sheriff.” No doubt, strolling the city unescorted, without our entourage, would be completely reckless and dangerous for us.

  Natasha and I sit at the kitchen table one afternoon with a few rare moments to talk about nothing in particular. We both sip our tea and gaze at the park across the street.

  “It’s tough for us to stay in this apartment for a long time. We’d love to see Red Square or the Kremlin. Can we arrange to do anything different?”

  Natasha stares at the icy park across the street as if I had said nothing at all. The snow falls like confetti at a ticker tape parade. Sitting straighter in the chair, she drums her long red manicured fingernails on the table, acknowledging me in an irritated way. Her jaw flexes as her mouth forms a hard straight line. Her eyes devoid of warmth or caring, the eyes of a hired hand burdened with a very unwanted assignment.

  “My job is keep you safe. No Kremlin, no Red Square and no Bolshoi Ballet. No sightseeing take place. Nothing.”

  Her gaze returns to the sidewalk.

  “Someone died on that sidewalk yesterday. Murdered for the $100 US discovered in his pocket, a lamb eaten by the bears. Without us, you are three-legged prey. I have no time for play tour guide. I have more important job to do.”

  I swallow hard to clear the boiled egg of disappointment in my throat. My face and lips pucker as if I stepped on fresh road kill.

  Okay, that was fun. No cheerful ambassador award for you.

  “You know Mafia control everything here,” Natasha continues. “Life, death and business at all levels. You can buy anything here—a driver’s license, a university degree. Even a murder. You not on radar screen now. I keep it that way. Entertain yourselves in apartment.”

  I picture idle exhausting days. Our bodies slumped in the chairs, our eyes glazed over like TV drunks. The remote lying on the floor next to empty sardine tins, cracker sleeves and plastic bottles of that awful fizzy salty water, as tasty as premixed Alka Seltzer on tap.

  So, we pass hours and days watching the pristine snow mask the dark side of the city, watching vaudeville acts in Russia on black and white TV, consuming mystery food and waiting to take the next step toward the realization of our dreams. In some ways, we feel so powerful to be in Russia in these circumstances. Yet in other ways—in all the ways that matter—we’re powerless.

  7. OUTDOORS

  Well, it’s TV hangover, reading, Ethan didn’t bring a book, or sex for the day again. Can’t call friends or family and chat because of the expense. Cabin fever begins to get the best of us.

  At 7 am, I stand looking out the window in the breakfast nook, dressed in my long pink square necked nightgown. My thoughts scatter like the unrelenting snow. I think about the man who died on the sidewalk in front of the park a few days ago as I touch the window and recoil in pain. The contrast couldn’t be more dramatic—the toasty warm condo “jail” and the harsh cold park outside, where the snow falls in sheets like rain.

  Ethan walks up behind me and put his arms around my waist.

  “Good morning, Sophia. Are you ready for the day?” He nuzzles his face into my hair, inhaling deeply.

  “Ready for another day of waiting? Blah….”

  “Well, we can do more than wait” he laughs, squeezing me and pulling my hair away from my neck on my right side.
He plants several gentle kisses there and then bites softly up and down the length of my neck leaving a strip of heat lamp warmth.

  “Haven’t we had enough sex? I just want to get out of this apartment,” I whine.

  “Just go with it. Or would you rather watch TV? Whatever you want. Last night was for me and this time is for you,” he says as his voice becomes noticeably deeper.

  I push his hands away and turn to face him. He cradles my face and kisses me gently and then more passionately, his hands moving like combs through my hair.

  His hands drop to my shoulder. He pushes aside the strap of my gown as he begins kissing down my neck to my shoulder. He nibbles at my bicep. The top button holding my bodice pops as if by remote control. He reaches down and unbuttons another button.

  I’m sunk now.

  Looking down, smiling like a miner with newly discovered treasure, Ethan’s eyes soften. I bite my lower lip and look up at him looking at me. My breathing becomes louder and more erratic while his becomes slower and more deliberate.

  My gown falls a little closer to the floor and my barely contained cleavage strains to be released. He drops his other hand and strokes the front of my neck, stopping at the hollow. The oven warmth travels. A slow explorative kiss at the hollow. Slowly, he draws an “S’ shape on my chest close to my cleavage. A kiss above the opposite collarbone and one more push of fabric toward my elbow. Just breathing would make it fall. The oven becomes a hot tub of bubbly heat. Ethan scoops me into his arms and carries me into the bedroom.

  ***

  At 9 am, Natasha calls to tell us she’ll be stopping by.

  “We travel today,” she announces when she arrives at the front doorstep wearing a fur coat, a matching fur hat and black leather gloves.

  “You must make ready to go outdoors.”

  Ethan and I look at each other, excited and relieved.

  Natasha walks to the hall closet, grabs a full-length mink coat, and hands it to me along with a silk Chanel scarf.

  “Wear this and wrap the scarf around your head and neck like mine.”

  As happy as I am about the prospect of leaving the apartment, I bristle at the hypocrisy of me wearing fur.

  My family would howl with laugher now, the vegan wearing fur.

  Natasha’s supercilious stare feels like sunburn.

  “Is there a problem?” she asks, her voice laced with anger.

  Another culture. It’s too difficult to explain my choice. It may be insulting to her to refuse to wear the coat. Have to abandon my vegan nature here in this frozen tundra or shiver and starve. Be gracious. The best policy as Mom would say.

  “Oh no, it’s beautiful, I’ve just never had the chance to wear such an expensive coat.” As I slip it on, I can almost hear the giggles and laughter.

  “You be glad you wear this today.” Natasha comments with a half smile. We descend the stairs to street level. Natasha examines her vehicle, a Hyundai, buried beneath inches of snow. “Go back upstairs and wait while I clear snow, “she instructs. Within twenty minutes, she returns to the apartment to escort us back to the car.

  “And this is my car. “She extends her hand toward the vehicle as if introducing the latest in Lamborghini at a car show. Before opening the car door, she de-activates the car alarm.

  “I had a special expensive alarm installed,” she says smugly.

  She seems so awe-stuck by that car. I mean a Hyundai is not a Bugatti.

  Her lips and face tighten as she registers the apparent surprise on my face.

  “Here in Russia cars very expensive and very valuable. We can’t borrow money to buy a car or home. We must to save the money for large purchases.”

  Turning away from me as if to dismiss my ignorant response, she presses down hard on the accelerator. The car tires claw out of the street side space. A plume of snow marks our escape. And the car roars down the milky white street.

  As we travel the icy roads seat beltless, seatbelts not an option, we discuss the next stop—the child house.

  8. ONWARD TO THE CHILD HOUSE

  It’s two in the afternoon after a long drive to the airport, and we’re boarding a plane to go somewhere. The trek to the child house is surreal. It seems like a hallucination anchored by a shot of tequila and a pickled worm. As we board the plane, a large dog sitting in a first class seat catches my eye. The dog sits happily positioned next to his owner, and no one gawks except us.

  After we settle into our seats, the first pint of liquor appears. Someone sitting behind me shoves a bottle into my seat space.

  That’s really odd—passengers carrying liquor and drinking it on the plane. I look at Ethan with my “what do I do now?” eyes. His head rolls back and he laughs at the absurdity of it all.

  “He’s offering you a drink,” he says smiling.

  “Yes, I am offering both of you a drink,” the man says in textbook perfect English.

  “Where are you from?” I ask curling my body around from my aisle seat.

  “We’re from New Zealand” the white-haired clean-shaven man replies. He doesn’t look a day over 50. Smiling, he offers us the bottle again. His wife has both arms curled around him in an affectionate hug. She smiles and looks intently at us, gauging our response to the offer.

  I pass the bottle to Ethan who accepts the offer and passes it back to me. Ewww…! Seeing him drink from that pint is almost as surprising as seeing the pint being shared in the first place.

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” I say handing it back with my lips tightly pressed together.

  “Look, he’s passing it down to the next row of seats across from us,” I lean over and whisper to Ethan.

  “How could you drink after a bunch of strangers?”

  He shrugs. “Liquor is alcohol-based. There’s no germ issue. It’s strong enough to kill anything in its path. Your mouth will be cleaner after you drink actually.”

  “Hmmm…never thought of it that way,” I say.

  “Ewww…!”

  “What? “

  “Water is dripping on my head!” I say. “And it feels like a worm of sticky slime is inching down the middle of my back.” I run my hand across my hair and grimace.

  “The ceiling is apparently dripping water,” says Ethan. “Probably condensation.”

  As I glance around the plane, several passengers enjoy their favorite “poison” on board and drink liberally. The plane drips in several places and makes creaky, groaning noises—complaining like a VW bug trying to pull a flat bed filled with iron pipe up a mountainside.

  “Wonderful! I mutter “Chinese water torture with no escape.”

  I drink from the pint this time, stand up and hand it to Ethan.

  No wonder everyone drinks on these flights! We have to rely on a worn-out squeaky leaky airplane to haul us up through the clouds.

  A few passengers coax us into sampling their favorite liquors. It’s a pass the bottle, gulp and smile party game with the passengers across the aisle. The liquor sedates and calms us as we cope with the unsettling drips that fall from the plane ceiling and the sounds of struggle as the hard-working aircraft makes a Herculean effort to reach its destination. In just an hour, we begin to disembark.

  Rickety as the Russian plane is, I can’t help but admit to myself as we climb down the steps that the flight was more fun than the US first-class, hot towel, warm nuts and freshly baked chocolate chip cookie, experience going to Russia.

  Ethan and I walk slow alcohol-pickled steps on the ice-covered metal stairs and concrete runway while other passengers rush around us. We move like senior citizens caught in the path of Boston Marathoners. Natasha quickly hails two taxis, one for people and one for luggage, and we race along the glacial roads to our hotel.

  Even though we stay in the best hotel in the city, the hallways and common areas are not heated. Extra rolls of toilet paper, with the texture of commercial grade paper towels, are provided sparingly and only when requested. Since cleaning staff only cleans rooms by daily request, Ethan and
I scout regularly for cleaning assistance and cleaning supply rooms, to build toilet paper reserves. Also, of course, if illness strikes, leech therapy, blood suckers attached to remove any toxins, are always available in the lobby for the asking. And if questions arise about safety or security, a group of uniformed policemen huddle in the lobby on a daily basis.

  “Natasha, is there an exercise room?” I ask eagerly.

  “This is best hotel in area! No, there is no exercise room!” Natasha answers, her brow furrowing. Obviously, I’ve insulted her once again.

  “Can I run the stairs for exercise?” I persist, looking at her squarely in the eyes.

  “No, you cannot. The cold can permanently damage your lungs if you do that, no heat in the stairwells.” She smiles a tiny smile, but her eyes are straight lines. And with that, she buttons her coat and tightens her scarf, throwing the long end over her shoulder like a feather boa. Then, she spins on her heel to leave, dismissing us from her radar for the time being.

  The invalid stay-in-your-room program in Moscow drives me stir crazy. Only a broken back would be more limiting.

  For fun, we treat ourselves to the heated pool experience; however, at an ice cold 40 degrees, it proves too numbing. As I bolt from the pool, I feel the immediate smoky cold embrace of the unheated indoor common area surrounding the perimeter of the pool. I scramble to remove the wet bathing suit while I hide behind a freestanding bar.

  If I could swim in wintry Lake Michigan naked, I might stand a chance in this country. My body can handle hot tropical weather, but I become a human Popsicle here.

  Ethan, who enjoys wearing short-sleeved shirts year-round, races away from the area minutes before I do. In the room, our bodies thaw completely as we entangle ourselves in an oasis of pillows, blankets and sheets.

  Thinking back to years before, we lived our daily lives together yet apart. Although we shared the same roof, we orbited around one another. He pursued his weekend activities with his friends, hunting and fishing and I pursued my weekend activities, riding lessons, horse shows and reading. Aside from our common goals to pay-off the mortgage early and maintain our property, we share very little, especially quality spare time. We loved one another, but we became lazy about our relationship. Only the work toward the adoption forced us to share our feelings and our lives more with one another.