"We leave tomorrow," I said.
"But you said you just got here," the small one said.
"We did," I said. "Ten minutes ago."
I really wanted them to say yes. I wanted to talk, for once on this trip, to young women who were not for sale.
"We're buying," I said.
"You should come tomorrow," the taller one said. "Why not come back tomorrow? We eat tomorrow. Tonight we are busy."
We said we'd be back, knowing we wouldn't, and left and checked into a hotel in an ancient building the color of wet sand and next to a block-long McDonald's. We dropped our things and for a few minutes watched British news. They were covering the Paris to Dakar race -
"Holy shit."
"I can't believe it."
– though it seemed like weeks ago when we'd last seen news of it, but of course it had been one day, and two days before that the cars had been hurtling toward us, in Dakar, in person.
But now the race was over; someone had won, someone had died. A well-known driver had died, and this was big news, while the incidental deaths of seven pedestrians along the way was not.
We showered and dressed and had the concierge direct us to the restaurants. It was colder than before. It was so unreasonably cold. People hurried from amber-lighted door to amber-lighted door across the narrow cobblestone streets walled by ornate and tidy European storefronts, framed in ancient brown brick, offering food, compact discs, souvenirs, lingerie.
We got lost; we were hungry. Hand asked a young woman, with hands stuffed stiffly into her coat, if she spoke English. Without breaking stride she lied: "No."
We started jogging, looking for the place recommended. With help from a pair of middle-aged men who looked local but sounded Australian, we found the restaurant and inside everyone stared. The place looked medieval and knew it, with great tables of oak and long benches crowded with loud friends. We ate as people stared. We left as people stared. Was it my face? It was always my face. Everyone hated seeing a face like that. We wanted to be everyone's friend, wanted us all to sing hearty songs together, but instead they laughed privately and stared at us. We walked out and wanted to drink. The cobblestones soaked in our footsteps.
"Look at that." Hand was stopped and pointing to a small engraved sign above us. "The Jewish Museum."
"So?"
"I didn't think there were any left here. The Germans killed every Jew in the Baltics. I thought so at least."
We stood for a second. I breathed into my hands.
"That's got to be the grimmest place in Riga," he said.
"Yeah."
Hand shuddered. "I could never walk in that place. Can you imagine coming back here? Being Jewish and coming back here? Fuck. No way."
We continued and when we couldn't stand the cold anymore, walked into a small bar and down a spiral staircase and stopped at a Lasertag labyrinth.
"Is this Lasertag?" Hand asked. The teenager at the counter stood up -
"It iz!"
– and led us into the room, painted in mid-eighties dayglo, like a retro disco built for bachelorette parties. The place was a half-bar, half-Lasertag outlet, which seemed to us like a plainly great idea. We went upstairs and ordered two beers. We watched people walk through the cold muttering, grimacing, planning.
"It's colder than Chicago," I said.
"The latitude must be similar. The air feels exactly the same."
"Everyone walks fast here."
"They all wear black."
"And fur."
"Right!" Hand said, "So much fur!"
"Almost all the women wear fur."
"Especially the over-forty women."
"But why all the black?"
"They are expressing their inner darkness. Their gloom. [Now in sociologist voice] The Latvians, many believe, cover themselves in large coats and furs because they want to disappear. They are ashamed of their bodies. And the hats. Notice the large hats, some also covered in fur. These they wear because they are ashamed of their heads -"
Two women near us, sitting at the bar, nodded hello. We said hello. Actually, only one spoke to us. She was about fifty, with short black hair, a masculine jaw and wide-set eyes, looking very much like someone's mom. She tipped her drink to us and asked questions – where from, having fun, where staying. We told her. She moved from the bar to our table and sat down. Her name was Katya. Her friend, wearing a fuzzy blue fur coat that tickled her face like a feather boa, stayed at the bar, legs crossed on a high stool.
"How long are you stayingk een Riga?" she asked.
"We leave tomorrow," I said.
"Tomorrow! You come here for one drink!"
"Yes," said Hand, very seriously. "We heard the beer in Latvia was very good."
"Where in America do you live?"
Hand said Chicago.
"Chicago? Is it very dangerous?"
"Very!" he answered.
This comment somehow changed the tenor of the conversation, and prompted the advent of the furry woman. Her coat was green. She slid off her stool and descended to our table.
"She speaks no English," said Katya.
The second woman smiled, then held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "A little." She smiled again. Her eyes examined me and then, more closely, Hand. She squinted then opened them wide, in a way you'd have to call feline. She did it repeatedly. At some point some idiot must have told her that was sexy. Her name was Oksana.
"I am sorry we do not speak Latvian," Hand offered.
"We also don't speak Latvian," Katya said.
"What were you just using with your friend?"
"Russian. We are not Latvian. We are Russian."
"Oh. So you're visiting too?"
"No. We were born here."
"How are you Russian then?"
She said something to the green-fur friend and they both laughed – quick mean coughing laughs, laughs like the throwing of clenched fists.
"Half of Latvia is Russian," she said.
"Oh," we said. We had to accept this as true, until we could get back to our guidebook.
"But they treat us like [tongue out and hand waving away, dismissively, like brushing a cat off a tabletop]."
"They treat you not well? Why?" – Hand again. I wanted to beat him.
"Why? How do I know why? They are corrupt."
"Who?"
"The government. Run by the mafia. The people here, they are fine. But the government don't want us here and they make it hard. They are criminals, mafia."
"The government is the mafia?" Hand was really interested. The bartender, our age and goateed, was watching us.
"Of course. In Russia there is mafia too but they are not organized. They are broken and they [then gestures for stabbing through one's heart and the cutting of one's throat]. The mafia here is organized."
Here I knew what Hand was going to say – I saw it coming from miles away, a slow steamtrain chugging and hooting – and I could do nothing to stop it.
"So you might call it… organized crime?"
"Exactly," she said, nodding her head slowly, then pointing to Hand while taking a squinting sip of her drink. She didn't get the joke; Hand knew she wouldn't. He was such a prick.
A large man, bearded and ugly, the hooked face of a rooster, who was at the bar, was now standing behind the women and talking to me and Hand.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
We told him Montreal and gave him a bitter French-Canadian look, like he too was trying to oppress us.
"You like these women?" He swung his hand over their heads like a game show model would over a washer-dryer set.
We both nodded. We liked them fine.
The man scoffed. "A lot of people like these women. Real nice ladies!" A small woman slipped beside him, touched his shoulder and they started for the door.
"Have fun," he said to us over his shoulder.
Katya and Oksana glared. I glanced at Hand and we both knew. If we'd been smarter we'd have known sooner. But why are almost all of the women we meet in this line of work? Because who else would talk to you? I don't want to think that way. And what line of work are you two in, if not the exhange of money for love? Oh c'mon. It's not that different, is it? I want to think it's different.