“Is he married?” Olga was constantly on the lookout for men with connections. She continued, “Chocolates at the salon would be nice for treats.”
“Ludmilla never had the heart to tell her son that the chocolates gave her indigestion. She gave them away to the nurses and kitchen staff. My mother used to complain that Ludmilla got special attention because of the chocolates. She told me, ‘They gave her an extra piece of chicken the other day. Maybe you could do something for me, Stalina?’ That was when I gave her the toilet tissue and gifted the brassieres to the nurse.”
Olga explained, “Ludmilla told me that evening noodle soup with fish balls was served in the commissary for dinner. When the bowl was placed in front of your mother, she picked up one of the balls with her spoon, flung it against the wall, and screamed, ‘Capitalist pigs! They hoard the caviar for themselves and let us eat this slop!’ The nurses tried to calm her down with a cup of tea. She apologized for the bad behavior and assured them she was actually fond of fish balls, but had been possessed by a bad memory.”
I told Olga, “Mother must have been thinking of the time when Nadia’s parents were giving a party and served caviar. She left the party and went behind their house with a full mouth. I ran after her, thinking she was ill. She spit out the caviar and said, ‘I feel like I just sucked the cock of a KGB operative.’ Nadia’s dog, Trala, came out and started barking at us. ‘Are you the house informant?’ she said and spit at the yapping poodle. ‘That would figure.’ ‘Mother, it’s just a dog,’ I said. Then a stray cat with a split ear crawled out from under the house and began to lick the caviar from the leaves of the hydrangea where it had landed. We went back to the party, leaving the cat picking at the bits that got caught between her claws. ‘That must be Ezhov; he was known for licking Stalin’s ass,’ Mother said about the cat. ‘Mother, it’s just a stray cat,’ I assured her.”
Olga described how she’d been told. Mother’s roommates had returned from dinner only to find her standing at the edge of her bed facing the picture of my father—the one with the shovel. With red lipstick she had scrawled these lines on the starched white bedsheet:
This was another poem of my father’s we found amongst his things. According to Ludmilla, the roommates stood by their respective cots, chanted the words, and were soon dancing around the room swinging in one another’s arms.
Frieda, who has one leg shorter than the other, got up on her cot and challenged the room, “In what year did Leonid write that poem?”
Many knew my father’s work; I made sure his poems were passed among other poets and friends.
“If I know, do I win something?” asked Talia, the shy one who had long gray braids.
“It was like we were children again,” Ludmilla told Olga. “Then the nurses came and made everyone go to bed. Your mother refused to have the sheet changed, so with the words draped over her body, she went to sleep, fully dressed.”
Olga went on to explain how the rest of the night unfolded. Lights-out was ten o’clock. Around three in the morning, Ludmilla heard my mother talking. She had taken the photograph of my father off the wall, laid it next to her on the pillow, and was whispering to it.
“Is everything all right?” Ludmilla asked my mother.
There was no answer, but my mother continued talking to the photograph. Ludmilla heard her crying and was about to get up when my mother sat up and reached her arms out as if to embrace someone. Her face was filled with a big broad smile, and then her eyes closed. She fell back onto the bed, barely making a sound. Ludmilla waited for my mother to move, but she remained still.
“Ludmilla said it was as if someone had come to greet her,” Olga said.
I wonder who it was. Maxim? My father? It was a relief to hear she was happy about whoever or whatever had taken her to the other side.
“Could it be that you get to spend eternity with the person you truly love?” I asked Olga.
“Now wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants. Having to wait till you die to be happy. What a silly plan,” Olga said. “It would be nice to have some happiness while we’re here.”
I had nothing to say, but I thought about how nice it would be to spend an eternity with Trofim.
As I spoke with Olga, the weather changed dramatically. The temperature dropped and the rain turned to icy snow. Three geraniums in the window box under the office window, surprised by the cold and ice, went top-heavy and touched the dirt. The whitening branches of the pine trees looked very Russian.
“Is there snow in Petersburg?” I asked Olga.
“What a question, Stalina. There’s been snow on the ground since October,” she replied.
I heard a dog yapping in the background. “Is that a dog?” I asked.
“That’s Neptune. I found him near the Neva by the Admiralty, shivering in the cold.”
“Neptune?”
“He fell into the sewer. It’s a miracle he survived, so I thought I’d give him an impressive name. He’s actually very small.”
“It’s a big bark he has. Are they keeping the metro stations warm?” I asked.
“Yes, of course, like always, and we still go there to meet after work,” she said, “like always.”
She laughed, and I cried.
“Stalina, why don’t you come and retrieve your mother’s things? You don’t have to give anything up. Just come.”
“It’s too soon. I am trying to be happy here.”
“And what about here? Many things will never change, but everything feels different. That’s almost like happiness.”
“Here it is about the pursuit of happiness, and that is what I want.”
“You could do that anywhere, Stalina.”
“The motel brings me happiness. It’s mine now.”
“Did you kill your boss? Did you marry him?”
“Did you know Nadia is here?” I asked.
“Did she have her boss eliminated? I heard she has adjusted to America very easily.”
“She arranged for me to have the motel; she’s in the business.”
“You, beholden to Nadia. Stalina, I think you should come home. You don’t want her to own you.”
“She’s letting me do as I please. Olga, you could open a hair salon here,” I added.
“We both have our hands dipped in darkness, Stalina. You with Nadia, and I get my supplies from the black market. Everything they do happens behind a door, as they say, and my beauty salon provides the perfect façade. I always have plenty of hair spray, shampoo, and polish. Otherwise, my business would be nothing.”
“It’s not so different here, but I like the motel life. It suits me.”
“Send Nadia my regards. I never thought you would be friends.”
“It’s not about friendship, it’s about business.”
“Stalina, where should I mail your mother’s things? Tell me quickly, I need to take Neptune for his walk.”
I looked out the window and saw Svetlana’s crow digging in the snow under the pine trees. “I have a kitten named Svetlana,” I said.
“Only one? What’s the address, Stalina?”
I picked up a card from the front desk and read the address to her. The Liberty Motel, 345 Windsor Avenue, Berlin, Connecticut, 06037. Mr. Suri’s and his brother’s names were still on the card. I crossed out their names and wrote “Stalina Folskaya, Manager/Designer” and added “Rooms for the Imaginative” underneath.