We’re like spies as we leave town. We go to the parking garage under a cover of darkness. We pick our bags up from the back of the building. There are no signs of Egorov or his henchmen, so once we’re safely in a black car with tinted windows, I touch Alexei’s hand and then squeeze it. “That was clever. Very good.”
He opens the console and points inside to a white box. “That’s for you.”
I open it and gasp at the round chocolate-covered treats.
“Kartoshka,” he says.
I pop one of the cake balls in my mouth and moan as I chew. It’s not completely traditional but actually it’s better. There’s a bit of liquor, chopped nuts, and pieces of chocolate. So good it’s diabolical.
“My dear,” I say, giving him a quick kiss next to his mouth. “No one gives me treats! Egorov forbids me, and when I escape there is no money to waste on candy.” I have a second sweet and then drop the lid on the box and close it away in the car’s compartment. “I must stop, or I will make myself sick.” I lick my lips and then smile. “What do you want in exchange? Real sex?” I tease.
His face looks very tough and serious. My gladiator is not a very playful person by nature, I decide. I’m not normally either, but a belly full ofkartoshkamakes me almost as smiley as an American.
“The way you don’t speak freely—you’re very Americanized. This is the right word?”
He nods. “I’m Americanized because I’m American.”
“I overheard it was supposed to be only Russians at the club on the night you fighted?”
“The night I fought. Yeah, I guess I’m considered a Russian. My parents are Russian and my mentor was Russian.”
“What is this word mentor?”
“It can mean different things. My mentor was like a foster father to me. He taught me about business and gave me advice about life.”
“What happened to your first father?”
“He left when I was young. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”
“I have no parents either. Very sad.” I say the words, but I don’t know what they mean anymore. I never really knew my parents, so it’s hard to miss them except in the abstract sense. What I miss about home are my friends.
Leaning back, I rest one leg over the other. I’m content to be with him in the dark-windowed car. I don’t think Egorov will find me right away now.
“So tell me about this place where we go. We will see your friends?” I pause, thinking about what I’ve just said and decide it’s right. My English is starting to sound pretty good—at least to me.
Alexei is the first American I’ve spent time with. Egorov, the Russian strippers, the cleaning service manager were all Russians. We didn’t speak English to each other, which made it harder to learn and get comfortable with the language.
“What?” I ask. My gladiator has been talking, and I’m not even listening. “I’m sorry. I am distracted. Please tell to me again,” I say. When he doesn’t speak, I say, “Please, Alexei. I am listening very well now.”
His black eyebrow rises skeptically, but he does continue. “It’s a party to celebrate a couple getting remarried. The man and his friends are in business together and are expanding their operations to New York. After the reception, there are some meetings. A man I’m in business with now invited me because he thinks it would be a good arrangement for me to work with them, too.”
“What is your chosen profession?”
He flashes a smile.
“So very American,” I say.
“What?”
“Russians don’t smile unless someone tells joke. Americans get smiley for many reasons. When I first came and people smiled to me on the street I thought they were so strange, and maybe lunatics.”
Now he laughs, which makes me purse my lips because it feels like he’s laughing at me.
“Is it funny for me to ask about your work plannings?”
He shakes his head.
“So then, why do you laugh? If I say it wrong, you should tell me why.”
