Читать книгу Tatiana and the Russian Wolves - Stephen Evans Jordan - Страница 9

Before I arrived, all of the Russian staff, except for one secretary, had resigned, so I contacted Boris Izmailov at the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank. Boris headed the North American desk and introduced me to his people, all of whom spoke excellent English. Boris and his senior management hosted a lunch; I explained my staffing problems and asked for their assistance. We sealed their assurances with vodka toasts.

After lunch Boris walked me to the elevators, and I asked, “Can we talk?” He nodded yes. “What happened to Ivan?”

“About six months after our encounter, he died: lung cancer. I went to the burial to make sure they nailed his coffin shut, with him in it.” Stepping closer, Boris continued, “I didn’t say a word to anyone about Ivan. Universal Bank will be the lead American bank for the pipeline project. So no problems from your end?”

“In my memorandum, I emphasized that you were forced into the situation, which had nothing to do with your bank. I also explained that Ivan was an alcoholic but had the power to force people to do his bidding. I sent the memo to Human Resources, where it was filed.”

“Would anyone at Universal tell my bank what happened?”

“There’s no reason to, and it might get in the way of the Sov-Gas financing. When I was applying for a Soviet visa and work permit, HR suggested that I attach an addendum explaining my grandfather. I did, and the work permit came back with a letter assuring me that my grandfather was not an issue.”

“Children and grandchildren of the émigrés are coming back as businessmen; many speak old-fashioned Russian like yours.” We laughed. “My bank will help. We’ll keep in touch. I must repay you for helping me.”

“Getting my office staffed will be more than enough.”

Boris looked over his shoulder. “I would sell my soul to get out of here; it’s collapsing.”

Boris’s colleagues sent over two retired women who spoke good English and a young man, Anatole Semenov, a recent university graduate. The Soviet bank would lend Anatole to us for as long as we needed him; the tradeoff was that Anatole would learn some American banking and improve his English while reporting our activities to his superiors, not that there was much to report. We were in a holding pattern, waiting for a permanent representative to be hired, and I spent most of my time working with Sov-Gas coordinating a proposed US Export-Import Bank component of the pipeline financing.

Early in September, I flew to San Francisco to interview a prospective Russian-speaking candidate, but my boss and I found the fellow unacceptable. The HR lady who had arranged the interview reminded me that I would stay in Moscow until a representative was found. A month later, HR, working through a headhunter, found a Russian speaker at a Canadian bank’s London branch. I flew to London for an interview that went well and continued through dinner. Two weeks later, the candidate flew to San Francisco for more interviews. He accepted the position and returned to London to wind up his affairs and start moving his family while I prepared to leave.

Anatole invited me to my going-away supper on a Saturday evening. He suggested a hard-currency restaurant with good food and service and hinted that I might expense the meal.

My expense reports from Moscow were on the gray side of bank policy, such as the shopping list Boris Izmailov gave me before I went to London: Scotch whiskey, French perfume, American cigarettes, and pantyhose for his wife. The bank had rejected many of my claims, and there was a good chance I’d end up paying for my going-away party.

The party was inexpensive for seven of us: US$500 for Georgian champagne with Caspian caviar and blini, wild mushroom soup, shashlik, plum sambouk (a thick mousse), Armenian brandy, and good coffee. Throughout the meal, we fortified ourselves with toasts of potato vodka. Pacing the alcohol during Russian celebrations is tricky, but getting fairly drunk is almost expected. When the meal ended, all of us were singing, and the older secretary and her husband were sobbing—hallmarks of a successful Russian party. After brushing cheeks, I walked back to my hotel, hoping the frigid night would clear my head.

At that hour, most people on the streets were hurrying to get out of the cold; those who were too drunk to care might pass out and die from exposure. Militsiya, uniformed police, were busy picking them up and shooing home the drunks who could still walk. A tipsy Westerner was noticed but not bothered.

I had a two-room suite at a hotel catering to foreigners. When I entered my suite, the phone was ringing, a surprise since it hadn’t worked for the past week. I answered, “Zdrazdviytye, Alexander Andreivich.”

“Roman?” a faint, crackling voice asked over a bad line.

“Da?”

There was a burst of static followed by a pulsing buzz. I could barely hear an English-speaking male voice: “Alexander Romanovsky?”

“Who is this?”

“Drew, Drew Faircloth. I’ve been trying to get you for hours. What time is it there?” The buzzing stopped.

“Around midnight. Where are you?”

“Fiona’s. She gave me this number. How are you?”

“Okay, and you?”

“You sound funny,” Drew said, “or is it the phone line?”

“Just back from a party. I’ve been drinking.” I found a pack of cigarettes in my coat pocket and lit one while Drew struggled to start a sentence.

“So, what’s it like?” he asked.

“The old parts of Moscow are interesting. Last month, I took a long weekend and went up to Leningrad. I could have spent a week at the Hermitage; the collection is incredible.”

“Your grandmother worked at the Hermitage after the Revolution, didn’t she?”

“I’m sure this line is tapped. Drew, how’s—”

“Oh dear, wasn’t thinking,” Drew interrupted. “Have you been in Russia all this time?”

“I had a meeting in San Francisco and flew right back. No time to call you, sorry.”

“I see.”

“How’s Fred?”

“Died late yesterday afternoon.”

“Drew, I’m so sorry. Before I left, I spent some time with Fred. I knew it was the last time I’d see him.”

“I appreciate that. As it progresses, AIDS can be disagreeable, too much for some of our friends.”

“How are you doing?”

“As best as I can, considering.”

I said, “You two really cared for one another.”

“Please stop.”

I reached into the nearby cupboard for a Scotch bottle and a glass. “When is the funeral?”

“Fred downed a bottle of sleeping pills and slipped away. He was a Catholic, so I didn’t bother asking for a funeral Mass.”

I fumbled the phone, the Scotch bottle, and glass. “My God. AIDS is terrible, but suicide…suicide is…I…”

“I shouldn’t have told you, like this, on the phone.”

I managed to pour some Scotch into the glass and drank it. “The suicide’s survivors never get it settled.”

“Fred’s death is quite settled. Fred’s resting. Toward the end, that’s all he wanted to do.” Drew stifled a sob. “Tatiana’s death haunts you… and me. But Tatiana’s was different; Fred was desperately ill and had to escape.”

My mother was ill and killed herself. But she was mentally ill; I assumed that was the difference Drew saw. “Will there be a service?”

“Yes, a memorial service.”

“I’ll be leaving here Wednesday and getting back to San Francisco next Thursday.”

“I know, Fiona told me. I’ve scheduled the service for Friday afternoon. You’ll be there?”

“Of course.”

“Afterwards, we’ll have supper?”

“Supper, that night?”

“I’m arranging my affairs and hope you’ll assist.”

“Sure.”

“That summer was such a long time ago. We were boys, young boys.”

“Drew, this call is costing you a fortune.”

“It’ll be a pleasant evening; I promise.”

***

That summer my mother told me to leave her. I implored her to explain, but she said, “Leave, I beg you.” She turned her face to the wall and refused to answer me. “Alexander, I beg you, leave me.”

I did and went to Drew. Around that time, the doctors told Fiona that my mother was self-destructive and should be institutionalized. Fiona asked for my advice. I was confused and couldn’t think, didn’t say. And my mother, well, she was Fiona’s problem.

Drew and I were the same age and had known each other for years. His father lived in Texas, and he spent summers with Fiona. When Drew was fourteen, Fiona sent him to a New England boarding school without discussing the matter. Drew charmed his way through the interviews but couldn’t charm Fiona out of her decision. For that Fiona would pay.

At fifteen, Drew was playing Fiona against his father; at eighteen, he was taking Fiona’s money with a sneer. With exquisite sarcasm, Drew goaded Fiona into rages that left her speechless. Fiona retaliated by acceding to Drew’s demands and replacing affection with frigid civility. Drew upped the stakes; Fiona withdrew ever further. Their hideous relationship was fascinating and repellent.

I couldn’t imagine treating my mother that way. But when she sent me away, Drew was there and understood such things. He told me my elegance had captivated him; I loved Drew for loving me. We were vivid young men with a passion for the arts, not artists per se, but prophets of a refinement uncommon in America and virtually unknown in California.

Contemptuous of the philistines who would send us into the professions, we scorned American colleges as middle-class vocational schools for dreary types who would spend their jejune lives toiling in commerce. With my breeding and Drew’s sophistication, the dreams we had fashioned were a far richer sustenance than any college could provide. As Drew put it, we had to “fly into the sun”—New York—where our talents would be appreciated and would flourish.

Fiona told me that she could not bear sequestering my mother in a mental hospital and requested my approval for twenty-four-hour homecare. Again, I had nothing to tell her. A few days later, Drew told Fiona that we were going to Santa Barbara to visit his friends from school. Fiona was consumed with my mother and agreed without a word.

Drew and I took all the Montrachet from Fiona’s wine cellar and headed off for a week at the Sinclair summer home overlooking Lake Tahoe. Alone in the idyllic world we had fashioned, the languid summer days were spent embellishing our dreams; the evenings, we drank the wine and fascinated each other. Late one morning, Drew and I were in bed and heard a car approaching up the steep driveway. It was Fiona.

My mother had killed herself around dawn the day before, and Fiona had tracked us down. I don’t remember the drive into Reno, the flight back to San Francisco, or the preparations for my mother’s funeral, such as it was. A suicide, she was denied an Orthodox funeral, and Fiona arranged a service at a funeral home nearby.

Facing my mother’s closed casket, Fiona, Drew, and I listened to Fiona’s minister speak to us. I couldn’t remember his sermon, or whatever it was. I do remember Shostakovich’s haunting Opus 97 that Fiona had chosen. Mother was denied burial in consecrated ground next to my father, and Fiona gave her a secluded corner in the Sinclair family plot. Later Fiona would arrange for a granite Russian cross with my mother’s name and dates in Cyrillic.

At the gravesite, the minister led us in prayers that I didn’t hear. I do remember Fiona giving me a rose to place on the casket as it was lowered into the grave. I can’t remember what went through my mind. Perhaps nothing at all, or too much to comprehend. I didn’t cry.

I accepted that my mother was gone, and that was pretty much that. Drew convinced his father that art school in New York was a better idea than Princeton. Dazed and depressed, Fiona agreed before Drew could torment her. Knowing that Fiona was vulnerable, I told her that I was going with Drew, but she refused to allow it.

As much as I longed for Drew, Fiona intimidated me too much to argue. I spent the rest of that summer wandering around San Francisco, smoking cigarettes and sitting in movie theaters. In the evenings, Fiona retired early while I drank whiskey or wine in front of the television and slept late. She tried sitting me down to talk about my mother.

Fiona’s guilt had numbed her into a stumbling incoherence, and I had nothing to say. Since we couldn’t talk, Fiona sent me to a psychologist without consulting me. I convinced him that starting college that fall was unwise given my mother’s suicide. Armed with his opinion, I tried persuading Fiona that I belonged in New York instead of a freshman dormitory. Fiona told me that I was going to college.

Early that September, she drove me to Palo Alto and left me at a Stanford freshman dorm. A week later, I hadn’t attended a lecture or a class, and my faculty advisor called. The meeting was brief; I told him that I belonged in New York, where my talents would be appreciated—end of discussion. Fiona drove me to her home the next day.