“Joanie, what are you talking about, cabana?” Harry asked, putting his arm around her shoulder. I noticed then that he was missing the thumb on his right hand. A wound that had healed long ago.
“I’ll tell you later, Harry. Let’s go,” Joanie said as she caressed his damaged hand.
Joanie handed me the key. The nail on her right index finger had broken off, perhaps while she was dressing Harry. He must have had trouble buttoning his shirts with that missing thumb. Joanie saw me notice her broken nail.
“Yeah, it broke. I need a visit to Oolnya’s. I liked your story about that place, Stalina. Bye now.”
I looked back inside and got a last glimpse of Harry slipping on his alligator shoes. Joanie strapped a gun holster to his ankle. A gun—curious. Why would he need one? Had he ever used it? Was someone after him for wrongdoing? Could it be for revenge or protection? He shook his foot and touched the gun, and then he stood up straight as if the gun gave him the strength to face the world. Someday I might want to hold a gun as well. I could have fixed that broken nail for Joanie, but I hadn’t made the offer. Mr. Suri was expecting me.
Chapter Fourteen: Mr. Suri and Me
Walking along the path to the office, I heard the door to the linen room slam shut. Mara would have to come out again soon to clean up after Harry and Joanie.
Caw! Caw!
My cat was under the tree, and the crow was on the ground next to her. She must have escaped from the office. What a strange sight, a crow and a cat together. Svetlana was playing with a pinecone, and the crow was pulling up worms from the ground. I’ve heard that birds use their sense of smell to locate worms. Like a rubber band, fwap! the bird snapped that worm right out of the ground. She shook her head and twisted her neck to get the worm to give up. Maybe she had a nest of chicks and that was why she was so noisy under the trees. She walked over to Svetlana. It was strange how the cat was not bothered by the crow. If she pecked that kitten with her beak, I would throw a stone at her. Gravel. That was all we had here. I’d throw a fistful of gravel from the driveway at her. Wait a minute, Svetlana was opening her mouth—the crow was feeding her the worm. This was impossible. There was a car coming up the drive. The windows in the car were darkened.
“Is there a room available?” a woman wearing a peacock blue shawl asked as she rolled down the window.
“Yes,” I replied. “Drive slowly, please. Watch out for my cat under the tree. The office is over there.”
“Thanks.” As they continued up the hill, I heard her say, “Oh goody, they have a room. I hear this place is awesome, Daddy. Drive slow, watch out for the kitty.”
I could not see “Daddy” through the dark windows. Svetlana was still eating from the crow’s beak. No one would believe this.
“Sveta, Svetlana, come here to Stalina.”
The crow looked at me, said nothing, and flew up to the tree. I crossed the drive and scooped up my bloated kitten.
“Is that lady crow feeding you, little one?”
Svetlana was happily rubbing the sides of her mouth with her ebony and white paws.
“Could it be the crow thinks you are one of hers, my little black cat? The worms are probably healthier than the stuff we feed you.”
The foul-smelling cat food we fed her reminded me of the “tourist’s lunch,” cans of ground fish parts they used to sell in Leningrad in the 1950s when the Baltic Sea had no more fish for the season.
My mother ate the foul-smelling stuff out of some kind of fanatical pride. It was slimy and smelled like a rotten animal carcass. She called it her “fish lover’s paté” and always spread it on soda crackers and drank a glass of vodka to wash it down. I was sure they’d used rotten fish and other refuse in the recipe because when you would puncture the can, there would be a hiss and the stench would fill the room. There were times when I was very hungry and would join my mother in this dreadful delicacy. In order to swallow it, I had to first take a sip of vodka, then hold my nose and place a forkful to the back of my throat. Luckily it was ground up like that crow’s worm, so no chewing was needed. The museums were being gilded with gold while there was nothing for us to eat. Any tourist who dared to eat a forkful of “tourist’s lunch” would have had a true Soviet experience.
“Svetlana, you would probably love ‘tourist’s lunch.’ You can be sure the cats at the Kremlin were never fed that slop. Let’s go see Mr. Suri and ask him what he thinks about your foster mother, Mme Crow.”
The wind made the pine trees bend, and the crow kept shrieking at me. I don’t think she liked to see me touch Svetlana. Mr. Suri was poring over some paperwork at the desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Suri.”
“Stalina, Amalia called. She wants you to call her.”
“I saw something very strange out there.”
“In room two? What happened? Are they going to sue us?”
“No, they don’t want the attention. Something else, under the trees. Svetlana and the crow—”
“What about under the trees?”
“The crow was feeding worms to Svetlana.”
“Did you go where I sit?” Mr. Suri asked, somewhat agitated.
“You mean where you draw? Yes, near there. The crow adopted little Svetlana.”
“You saw my drawings?”
“The wind blew pine needles over them.”
“It sounded like Amalia needed to talk to you.”
“I’ll call her, but what about the cat and the crow?”
“Maybe we should call a vet to make sure the worms won’t poison her.”
“I’m happy you have concern for Svetlana.”
“I need a good mouser for the motel.”
“You hear that, Sveta? You have to earn your keep.”
“Let her grow up to be a big cat with a big hunger,” Mr. Suri said as he held Svetlana’s black face still in his hand for a little moment.
“She’s getting a taste for raw meat from the worms. I have a friend who is a vet; let’s see what he thinks,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Suri.”
“Stalina, what about the guy who fell off the bed?”
“He got a bit carried away on the ‘roller-bed-coaster.’”
“You’re sure he’s not going to sue us?”
“Absolutely not, and besides, he was fine when they left.”
“Call Amalia,” he said, handing me the phone. “She’s at home.”
I dialed. “Preevyet, Amalia,” I said when she answered.
“Da…da…. da…. da…spaseeba. Do svidaniya.”
I put the phone down slowly and quietly.
“Stalina, is everything all right?” Mr. Suri asked.
“It’s my mother; she died yesterday. The rooming house called. They want to know what to do.”
“I’m sorry.” He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you, she was old and…”
“And what?”
“And sad. She missed the old Russia.”
“She missed the Communists?” he asked.
“She believed in our world,” I said.
A heavy weight pushed down on my emptied chest. Mother mourned the loss of Russia’s collective power. Dementia or not, she knew her world was gone, throwing her into a place filled with fear and anger. It was difficult to catch my breath. A car leaving the motel scrunched and spun in the gravel, and the desk in the office shook slightly from the movement.
“Sit.” Mr. Suri pulled up the chair for me. “Is that why she named you Stalina?”
“My name was for protection. Why else would a Jew name her daughter after Stalin? My mother named me Stalina as a joke,” I told Mr. Suri.
“What do you mean?”