“That’s the last of it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. Then my conscience catches up with me. Alexei is the only reason Egorov doesn’t have me. “Come. I share.”
He takes a bit from the dish and eats it, then pours himself a cup of tea and sits.
I try to think about English words and how to arrange them. “I am not angry that you won me. This makes me glad actually. It had to be someone. Of the men I know in America so far, I hate you the less.”
“Theleast.”
“Least,” I repeat.
“I’m the one you hate least, huh,” he says thoughtfully. The corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. In Russian, he says, “Don’t be so affectionate all at once. It might go to my head.”
That eases my tension and makes me laugh. “You say you have struggles. Tell me. Maybe mine will be least, and this will feel good.”
“Maybe yours will beless.”
I curse softly in Russian. “Tell me your troubles.”
“I don’t think that’s a competition I’ll win. We never had our heat turned off in winter. That’s against the law in America.”
“America, so soft.” I poke his bicep. “I think you only have tough muscles because you are part Russian.”
The corners of his mouth tilt up, but only for a moment. Then he’s serious again. “We did have times when there was no food in the fridge for a day. My dad left when I was young. At first, my mom worked two jobs, and she paid neighbors to keep me when she couldn’t be home. It wasn’t great. They weren’t good to me, but I survived it. Later, she got involved with someone who was generous. Our life got easier. And then I started fighting because it paid a lot of money. It led me to other work that also pays a lot.”
“I would like to have job that pays a lot.”
“You do have it. A hundred thousand dollars for thirty days. That’s a good wage.”
“Yes, it is.” I finish my tea and pour myself more. “But this is not nice work. Do you not think I should be sorry and ashamed?”
“No.”
“Reallyno? OrAmericanno?”
He flashes me a smile, and I can tell he knows what I mean. Americans tell little lies to be polite. Russians do not. I wasn’t a liar at all in Russia. I lie a lot in America, but only to survive, not to save anyone’s soft feelings.
“Real no.”
“I did not strip when they want me to. To dance naked gets more money than cleaning apartments, but to this I say no. I clean instead.”
He studies me silently.
“Being pet is not a job I am able to refuse. It is told to me I will do it or suffer very much.”
“I figured.”
“Oh, yes? How?”
“I know how Egorov operates. He takes away people’s choices.”
“Yes, but how do you know this?”
After a brief silence, he shrugs. “One night I was supposed to fight against someone who was a friend. At the last minute, Polasky told me it was a fight to the death. Egorov had promised the spectators. I said no, but armed gunmen blocked the door. I told my friend we would just fight as usual, put on a good show, and drag things out. And if one of us wasn’t knocked out sooner, we’d just stay in our corners after the last round. What could they do? Shoot us both in front of all the witnesses? I told him that when the fight was over, we’d walk out with the crowd.”
I frown. “Is this what happens?”
“No. I knocked him out. But they wouldn’t call the fight over. I refused to kill him or even to touch him while he was down. Eventually while they were talking to me, he woke up. He jumped on me while my back was turned and choked me.”
