“Things have changed,” said Miriana, cutting off her mother, not looking at her. “Dmitri and I are getting married. The girls are mine.”
“But Mirya …” the older woman tried.
“No,” her daughter cut her off. “They are mine. The law is on my side.”
Galina looked at Rostnikov, who pursed his lips. He considered touching the grandmother’s shoulder to reassure her, but reassurance would come from action not gesture.
“Then you shall have the children,” Rostnikov said. “They are packed, ready. We anticipated this. My wife and I are looking forward to having the apartment to ourselves. Your mother can join you.
“My mother …” Miriana began.
“Or perhaps she can get a small room,” said Rostnikov. “I know someone who might help.”
Galina sobbed.
“Perhaps …” Dmitri began but stopped when Miriana raised her hand.
“You are bluffing,” the younger woman said.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“You do not want the children to go with me,” Miriana continued.
“I do not want the sun to burn out,” said Rostnikov, “but I believe it is as inevitable as the fact that all of us who sit at this table will die and eventually be forgotten.”
“Dmitri and I have a great deal of traveling to do in our business,” Miriana said, stubbing out her cigarette and holding out her hand for Dmitri to give her another. He did so and lit it.
“I see,” said Rostnikov.
“I might consider leaving my children with you if I can be compensated for being away from them.”
“You have been away for two years and seem to have survived,” said Rostnikov.
“But a mother’s heart has been full of concern,” she said, with no sign of concern in her voice that Rostnikov could discern.
“Understandable,” said Rostnikov. “What would you consider a fair compensation for our continuing to keep these children and your mother?”
“Two hundred rubles a month,” she said.
“Two hundred,” Rostnikov repeated as the old man placed a plate of cake and muffins on the table and retreated. “That is acceptable. Cake?”
Dmitri reached for a muffin.
“You can begin payment immediately, tonight,” said the woman.
“Begin payment?” Rostnikov said, carefully slicing the small cake with a knife the old man had placed next to it. “Yes, the payments can begin tonight. That would be nice. Very generous.”
Rostnikov tried the cake. It was slightly stale but he could still detect the flavor of almonds. He dunked the hard slice in his coffee.
“Well?” asked Miriana. “The first payment.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, putting the cake down on a small plate before him and wiping his hands on the napkin next to it. He put out his hand.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
“Waiting for my first payment,” said Rostnikov. “Time is passing. I’ve encountered no one in my experience who is getting younger.”
Miriana looked at her mother, who had been looking down and now was staring at Rostnikov.
“You expect me to pay you?” she said.
“For keeping your mother and children, yes. The cake is not at all bad. You should try a small piece. I’ll cut it for you.”
He reached forward with the knife to cut the cake. Miriana stood. Her green cloth coat was draped over the back of her chair. The chair looked as if it were going to fall backward. Dmitri, half-finished muffin in his left hand, reached over with his right to steady the chair.
“We’ll pick up the children,” the standing woman spat.
“As you wish,” said Rostnikov, taking the second slice of cake and offering it to Galina, who shook her head.
“I don’t think …” Dmitri began.
“No,” said Miriana, “you do not. He is bluffing. He doesn’t want us to take the children. We will call your bluff. Let’s get them.”
“Let me finish my cake and please have a slice. It really is reasonably good.”
“No more stalling,” Miriana said, still standing.
“Maryushka,” Galina said. “Please.”
“The law,” Rostnikov said, breaking off a small piece of cake and popping it into his mouth. “You mentioned the law. I know a bit about the law. I am a policeman.”
“That doesn’t frighten us,” said Miriana.
Dmitri’s eyes revealed that he might not fully share his companion’s courage.
“After having given it a moment’s thought, I think we will simply keep the girls,” said Rostnikov. “And you and your friend can go away and not be heard from again.”
Miriana leaned over the table, her face a foot from Rostnikov, who met her eyes.
“I am going to take this to the courts,” she said. “We will see what they say. I did not abandon my children. I had an accident. I was in a hospital in Lithuania, near death for more than a year. I thought I was going to die. I didn’t want the girls or my mother to know. Thanks to God I made a miraculous recovery.”
“That is what you plan to tell a judge?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes,” she said. “I have now recovered and want to reunite my family.”
“Or collect several hundred rubles a month,” Rostnikov added.
“If that would be better for my children,” she said, sitting.
Rostnikov wiped his hands and wrapped the remainder of the cake in his paper napkin. Dmitri had already finished the second muffin.
“Miriana Panishkoya,” said Rostnikov. “Father of children unknown.”
“His name was Anatoli Ivanov,” she said. “He died in an oil-tanker explosion.”
“He died in prison,” said Rostnikov.
Miriana looked at her mother.
“Your mother did not tell me,” Rostnikov said. “Nor did she tell me that you have been arrested eight times that I am certain of, in several cities including Moscow, Tiraspol, Minsk, and Yalta. Five of those arrests were for attempts to rob men you had picked up as a prostitute, twice for selling drugs, and once for petty theft of clothing from an Italian-owned shop. You have not spent the last two years recuperating from accident or illness. Shortly after you abandoned your children, you were sent to a women’s prison in Lithuania.”
Miriana sat glaring at Rostnikov, who calmly placed the covered piece of cake in his jacket pocket. Her right hand shot out suddenly, fingernails aimed at his face. Rostnikov caught her hand with his own.
Dmitri moved, grabbing Rostnikov’s arm. Still holding Miriana’s wrist, Rostnikov reached over with his right hand, palm open, into the face of the man across the table. A sudden powerful push and Dmitri tumbled back, his chair falling with a clatter to the floor.
“Sit,” said Rostnikov, calmly releasing the woman’s wrist.
This time he did touch Galina’s shoulder to reassure her that everything was under control. Galina was not at all sure. Dmitri had clambered from the floor and was moving quickly toward Rostnikov, who reached under the table to plant his false leg on the floor before rising to meet the ox who moved toward him.
“No,” Rostnikov commanded firmly.
Dmitri did not obey. He pushed the table aside and went for the older man. Rostnikov took a step forward and rammed the charging man in the chest with his head. Dmitri halted. Rostnikov reached out and grabbed the man around his waist, lifting him from the ground. Dmitri punched frantically at the head of the smaller man, who had begun squeezing. The blows fell on the side of Rostnikov’s head. He squeezed harder. Dmitri groaned and stopped punching. Rostnikov turned and placed the man on the chair in which the policeman had been sitting.
“Ribs,” Dmitri groaned. “Broken.”
The old man who owned the Paris Café appeared, looked at the table, chair, and groaning man and asked, “Will there be anything else?”
“No, Ivan,” said Rostnikov.
“I’m going to be sick,” Dmitri said.
“The muffins,” Rostnikov said. “Ivan?”
“This way,” said the old man, helping Dmitri out of the chair and leading him toward the rest room. “Do not throw up on the floor.”
Rostnikov faced the stunned Miriana, who stood, mouth slightly open, watching Dmitri being led away.