Beautiful Evil Winter Read online

  “I can’t imagine drinking a shot or two of vodka during my lunch hour and going back to work at the bank. That would be scary in a lot of different ways.”

  “Did you notice that there are one or two “community” glasses? And the glass moves from one customer to the next without being washed? Proving my point about sharing vodka—it’s germ-free and guilt-free. After all, it’s alcohol.”

  “Hey, why don’t we have red caviar and sturgeon for lunch and go to a vodka bar afterwards? I’m curious to look around after what Natasha told us about them.”

  “We’ll ask Natasha if it’s safe.”

  How ironic! We’ll ask Natasha if it’s safe to go to the vodka bar, but we won’t ask if we’re in danger of being slaughtered or kidnapped by the police.

  I stare down at my next spoonful of lumpy white mush for a few seconds.

  “Do you think we should tell her now?” I ask.

  “No, I really don’t. We just always need to be aware of the fact that we have to think and re-think our every outside-the-room decision.”

  That means no vodka bar. Guess will make dinner an eating adventure. I’ll probably balloon up by 30 pounds while we’re here.

  Dinner is short for dinner party—a meal lasting several hours with several courses segmented by shots of vodka. A carafe or two of vodka sits in the middle of the table, displacing a flower arrangement or candles, for easy pouring. The last course consists of a box of Russian chocolates and hot tea. And the Russian chocolates are irresistible—treasures for the tongue and bounty for the brain.

  Ethan enjoys the vodka tradition a lot and tries to heed Dad’s warning:

  “Don’t trade shots with the Russians. They’ll drink you under the table. Vodka consumption here is about 28 bottles annually for every man, woman and child. I know you think you can drink and hold your own, but don’t go there. Sip your shot. Drink the toast shot or two, then, call it quits for the night.”

  Gosh, I hope Mr. Party Boy can follow that advice.

  15. A KNOCK AT THE DOOR

  We’re sleeping soundly in our hotel room when a knock at the door followed by loud banging awakens us. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s 7 am— and the sky outside is still pitch black. Ethan jumps up and dashes to the door.

  “Who’s there?” He asks angrily while I sit up in bed, clutching the covers around my neck.

  My thoughts, once raked into an organized pile, travel like fallen leaves on a windy day.

  Can it be Mikhail? Oh, God, we don’t have the gun beside the bed. I fling off the covers, grab the gun, hidden behind the ironing board in the closet, stash it under the covers and climb back into bed.

  “Natasha. Open door,” she answers tersely.

  What’s going on? Why is she here at 7 am in the morning? Could she have heard about the bar?

  Natasha, dressed in designer finery and cloaked in mink, rushes into the room followed by two confused strangers. For once, Natasha’s eyes show fear like a deer discovered. Without a word of greeting or explanation, she begins speaking Russian to the women, one tall and one short, who enter the room.

  Who are these people? What’s going on here? I vault out of bed, thankful to be wearing pajamas.

  Ethan and I stand bleary-eyed and bewildered in our untidy room. A pile of dirty clothes lies in a corner and the remnants of an unfinished meal rests on the dresser. The white room adorned with grey curtains, one light oak triple dresser and queen bed flanked by two nightstands, seems no worse for the wear. A faded paper print of a winter scene hangs over the bed, a nod to bus station charm with a luxury price tag.

  Why didn’t Natasha explain or introduce us to these people? It’s obvious the way they’re talking that they’re arguing. We shouldn’t just stand here, doing nothing. Ethan begins picking up dirty towels, and I start tidying up around our suitcase.

  Then, without a smile or a word of explanation or even an introduction, the group hurries out of the room. Natasha slams the door as the last one out.

  What’s this about? Who are those people? Why bring them here? Why were they arguing?

  We try for several hours to reach Natasha, but she doesn’t answer our calls. After breakfast, we lay in bed “watching” TV, a “permissible” activity.

  “Well, obviously, it was adoption-related,” Ethan remarks with a frown.

  “It was almost like a spur-of-the-moment inspection, but it was too brief. And they only debated. There was no interaction with us,” I add, looking out toward the window.

  Unspoken mental gymnastics overpower all senses—a somersault of what ifs and cartwheels of what went wrong, a handstand onto the balance beam of success or failure and fast spins on the uneven bars of what to do next. Shrill, noxious silence feeds our frustration. Our swollen hearts and tired bodies increasingly ache for closure. A ringing phone forces us back to the confines of the room.

  “You meet me for lunch today for adoption officials talk to you.”

  “What happened this morning?” I ask, gritting my teeth. “Were they the people we’ll meet with? Why were you arguing?”

  “No questions. You know what you need know, the restaurant around the corner at 2 today for lunch. We pick you up and drive you there at 1:45.”

  I hear the click of the phone as she finishes her sentence.

  Yes, we know only what we have to know… Got that loud and clear.

  What’s scarier—what you know or what you don’t?

  16. THE MEETING

  “Well, it’s time to be judged as good people and worthy parents or not,” I remark as I glance anxiously at the clock, the face of which reflects the smears of a quick swipe with a washcloth. The untidy room is now completely clean and organized, one of the things we do to satiate our mutual need for instant gratification and some semblance of control.

  Ethan paces repeatedly across the floor, with metronome-like rhythm.

  “What could they be looking for or at? Natasha didn’t coach us at all.” I cross my arms and stare at Ethan.

  “All we can do is be ourselves and hope that’s good enough.” Ethan stops pacing to look into my eyes. I can’t help but notice that he’s wringing his hands.

  “Are you worried like me that Mikhail may crash our meeting or be working behind the scenes to sabotage our efforts?” I ask with a frown.

  “Can we possibly do anything different than follow the plan at this point?” he answers glibly as he takes my hand, leading me out the door.

  The ice cube burn of the cold weather follows us into the quiet space. I shiver from cold and the importance of the moment. White walls and square dark wood tables, covered by white tablecloths, positioned closely together fill the room.

  A rainbow of igloo colors—white black and brown—fill the room. Thank goodness for a sunlit day. Sunlight from many oblong windows adds warmth and more heat to an area devoid of artwork, plants and color. Displaying our brightest smiles, we greet our examiners as Viktoria shadows us to translate our thoughts. The penetrating stare that we expect upon introduction does not occur; instead, both officials gaze quickly at us and look away. As the waitress begins to cover the table with caviar and other expensive foods, a tall, thin woman with black hair, Yvegeniya, leans forward and begins to ask questions.

  “‘How many people are in your family? Do you have other children?’”

  ‘“How close does your family live to your home?’”

  ‘“Are you …?’” She makes the sign of the cross in the air and looks at Viktoria.

  “‘Are you Catholic?’” Viktoria translates.

  “We’re Christians, but we aren’t Catholic,” I reply evenly.

  Viktoria translates the reply and waits patiently.

  What’s wrong with this picture? I study her body language. She might as well be rehearsing a speech. She’s very disconnected. She’s looking beyond us even when questions are being asked and answered. Meanwhile, her short, large, sullen companion, Svetlana, watches disinterestedly while she
chews. We may as well be sparrows resting on the tree branch outside the window, bird-like in importance. We’re the interesting diversion to observe while she savors a good meal in a boring situation. A rousing interrogation would be better. At least, they would have to be engaged and committed to conversation.

  Perhaps, due to the Svetlana’s obvious boredom and indifference, I notice Viktoria become more animated while conveying lengthy, detailed translations to the simplest of questions.

  Hmm…What’s so strange? Svetlana is not making eye contact. That’s not good.

  Yvegeniya is more interested in the whereabouts of the waiter than our answers.

  Have we been disqualified? Maybe, there is an interface with the police department.

  As the questioning ends, Natasha and Viktoria continue to talk with the officials as we maintain physical invisibility. As if abruptly awakened by the meal just consumed, the brooding Svetlana speaks eagerly, confidently to Natasha and Viktoria.

  She has the demeanor of an affected aristocrat dealing with the plowmen.

  She glances up and down in our direction and sneers.

  Great! Let’s not skip the large box of chocolates as you torture us.

  This silence makes me dizzy. The meal ends finally. We watch as the Russians exchange good-byes, excluding us from the group.

  They don’t even acknowledge our presence because we don’t exist to them. We aren’t really important now. In total silence, we retreat to our room as “breathing wallets”—nothing more, without character, heart or brains.

  “Have you ever felt like a chess pawn?”

  Ethan looks very serious, his brows knit.

  “Have you felt like a chess pawn on a board dotted only with bishops and queens?”

  “So much for first impressions. Do you think we made any positive impact?”

  “No, but I don’t think it matters.”

  “Why do you think we were made to feel unimportant? Do you think there will be a second meeting? Maybe, there is some bar scene residue tainting this process.”

  “I hope not. You’d think they wouldn’t go to all of this trouble if there was a police mandate. I guess it could be a trick to get money before the process ends.”

  Even though we received no coaching, it seems unlikely that Viktoria would translate a wrong answer, given the seating arrangement. We sat directly across from the interviewing officials while Natasha faced Viktoria. Natasha positioned herself to be successful with or without our assistance. Several subterranean currents of communication and activity traveled back and forth, never fully revealed to us. It reminded me of my days in middle school as the girl being whispered about while watching, wondering and waiting for a clue.

  “Well, after two hours of work, I can tell you that I must meet with women tonight for drinks.”

  “What did they say about us? What do they think of us? Are we acceptable?” I ask.

  “That all for now.” Click

  Give us a bone! Give us some hope!

  Did Natasha overlook something again? Did she miss another important step?

  “Well, that makes for another sleepless night, “I remark in disgust.

  Ethan looks down, shaking his head in disappointment.

  Okay, it’s a mental marathon tonight, a mental marathon of what ifs.

  17. THE BAITED QUESTION

  The next day, Natasha calls. I move away from the phone so Ethan will answer it. My head aches with “hangover” pain, and I feel very grumpy, not the best time to talk to Natasha.

  “What’s the latest news? Ethan asks for both of us, his voice laced with barely disguised anger. “What happened at dinner last night?”

  There’s silence for almost ten seconds. It feels like an eternity.

  Finally, Ethan’s face lights up. “Are you sure?” He grins with joy, signaling me with a thumbs up. Then, he tells Natasha, “That’s great! Thank you!”

  Slamming down the phone, he turns to me.

  “We’re going to the child house!” Before I get the chance to process the news, he grabs me and swings me around by my waist.

  “What a relief!” My eyes fill with tears. He holds me close, and I cry on his shoulder, the tears turning to breathless sobs.

  Obviously, Mikhail didn’t taint that process, but I can’t help but think he will intervene at some point. He must know about the adoption, this city is an international adoption hub. He knows Americans travel here for that reason. He probably knows everything about us by now.

  I look at Ethan and know why he seems ecstatic and distant.

  He’s thinking the same thing I am.

  “What was the purpose behind the dinner? “I ask later.

  “She wouldn’t say, but she did say they were sharks.”

  Given their cold disinterest at lunch, that’s not really a surprise. Thank goodness, Natasha is dealing with them.

  “Speaking of meals and food, we need to tidy up this room—yesterday’s snack food is turning to rock on the dresser, we need another roll of toilet paper, the trash cans are full, and all of the towels are dirty. We’ve been so caught up in the day-to-day drama, we sort of lost track of our immediate surroundings. Apparently, the maid service doesn’t clean the room unless we request it. How odd—huh?” I say as I gaze at our space.

  “Maybe, not considering the Mafia presence here. I wouldn’t want to know too much or see too much. Would you?” Ethan comments acidly, refusing to meet my eyes.

  He’s right, of course. I can tell he wonders when the axe hanging over our heads will fall.

  “Do you mind looking in the hall for a supply closet? Bet we’d find clean towels and toilet paper in there. You may even want to peek at the inventory in case we need something else.”

  ***

  The dawn of a new day, and we venture forth so that I can meet our baby. Before we leave, I take two one hundred dollar bills from my purse fold them in half—putting them at the front of our passport pouch and place it in my top drawer.

  Ethan watches me, a look of sudden understanding shadowing his face, and grabs a penny putting it at the left most corner under the pillow on the bed.

  For Mikhail, if he or his team searches the room when we’re away at any time, we’ll have an opportunity to know. Two hundred American dollars may be a temptation to a thief. After all, in third world Russia, there is no middle class—you’re either sultan rich or stinking poor. I’ll bet these henchmen are desperate. Good grief, doctors here only earn a couple of hundred a month, but the penny may be the perfect trigger wire since it’ll move quietly if the mattress is lifted.

  With a quick peck, we lock the door and leave.

  Our taxi speeds recklessly down the icy two-lane road to our destination. Small, non-descript, makeshift houses and homogeneous multi-story clay or grey apartment buildings monopolize every view. The majority of the homes lack central air and heat and indoor plumbing, as evidenced by the backyard out houses.

  Bbbbrrrrrrrr.

  I shiver and goose bumps pimple my arms as I picture families gathering wood for heat and using the heat-free outhouse in this killer cold. Snow falls in a way that a torrential rain would, cloaking the entire area white. The car travels farther into the center of town where businesses stand at attention shoulder-to-shoulder lined up along the street like soldiers ready to march in formation. Suddenly, the car veers sharply into an opening between buildings and parks.

  The taxi stops, and we step out. I take a moment to look at my surroundings—a large square flanked by an inconspicuous two-story building; in the center of the square, a gated play area peeks from beneath the snow. Dusted with snowflakes, I respectfully travel the icy steps leading to the front door. Once inside, I look left to see an office with a desk, someone sitting at the desk, a couch and a couple of chairs. Straight-ahead just beyond the entry hallway, a staircase rises to the second floor.

  A well-dressed attractive tall red head stands up from behind the desk and motions us into her office. Positioned to t
he right of her desk, a glass display case of toys, arranged like prized awards, catches my eye.

  That’s unusual. Why put the toys in that case? Maybe, it’s a decorative statement.

  I’m sure I must appear puzzled. In response, she watches me intently and immediately begins to speak to us in her native language. With the interpreter’s help, we formally make our introductions, looking at one another eye-to-eye and shaking hands; then, we sit to talk about the baby. The director’s eyes seem to tunnel into my soul to take inventory, her gaze is intense and unwavering. It feels sun lamp hot. She acts both warm and cautious as she should be.

  I have nothing to hide. Our intentions are pure and sincere unlike Mikhail. Has he found her and influenced this process? Will I get to meet Dmitry to see what might have been if there was not a Mafia vendetta?

  I shudder at the thought of his bloodthirsty violent crew in or near this sanctuary.

  As she studies me, I study her, knowing instantly that she cares deeply about the welfare of these children. She is the mother to all of them. And it isn’t just a job.

  My knees wobble as I think about how she may see me, the real me.

  Who am I kidding? I’m not a girly girl. I’m the girl who played in dirt piles, climbed trees, waged war on boys with dirt clods and rocks, captured pollywogs, putting them in my dresser drawers for safekeeping. Poor Mom shrieked at the sight and smell of their rotting bodies when she stored my clean folded clothes in the dresser. I really didn’t even like babysitting. I do want to be a Mom desperately. I just hope she thinks that I’m good enough for one of her kids.

  18. MEETING BABY

  “The child, Dmitry, will be brought to the office in a few minutes,” the translator announces. Quickly, unknowingly, I turn away from the translator and walk toward the window. I gaze outside at the dense, white, patterned art that falls from the sky; how quickly it covers and changes everything within reach! Awestruck, I feel humbled to be in the company of the small, carefully forged snowflakes. My eyes well with tears of joy.