“We only have it in English,” the bookseller told her apologetically as he retrieved the fat hardbound text:The Brothers Karamazovby Fyodor Dostoevsky.
She brought the book to a nearby café, ordered an espresso, and scanned the pages.
Izzy’s description of her childhood, and about Beatrice’s interest in the Russian language, had jostled Nikki’s memory. She recalled a copy ofThe Brothers Karamazovon her mother’s bedside table, and other Russian language books on the family bookshelves—an afterimage of Beatrice’s navy career. Nikki had spent most of her life adamantly incurious about her mother’s passions, and so never read Russian literature. But Sandro’s comment about the book made her wonder if some secret was buried here. She’d probed the idea throughout the night, working it like her tongue on a sore tooth.
Now, flipping through the pages, she hunted for the name Zosima.
It appeared in the fifth chapter. He was a spiritual leader called an “Elder.”
“What exactly is an elder?” Dostoevsky wrote. “An elder is someone who takes your whole soul and your will into his soul and his will. Having chosen an elder, you renounce your individual will and surrender it to him in complete obedience and full self-abnegation.”
She continued reading and found more references to Zosima, but these shone no new light on her mother.
—
Before leaving the café, Nikki checked her phone, hoping for more information from Sonia. Nothing.
She pinged Valerio, who had apparently read but not responded to her text about the identity of the Ghost, Yasen Lazarov.
He didn’t answer.
Glancing at her other messages, she noted with relief and a small pang that Audrey’s usual barrage of emojis and pictures was absent today.
—
Nikki arrived on shift at 15:30 sharp.
Angelo was on the phone, his office door open, bombastic voice filling the room.
“Sì. Sì. Ambassador, I understand. Believe me when I say we are doing everything in our power…Sì.”
Crossing to her desk, Nikki was mortified to find an enormous bouquet of flowers, the vase so large her keyboard and files had been shoved aside to accommodate it.
“It’s unprofessional,” came a voice at her back.
Romano stood at his desk, peering over the grey cubicle wall.
“Excuse me?”
“Having flowers delivered is unprofessional.”
“I didn’t order them.”
She walked the vase away from the cubicles and set it beside the office door, before spotting the handwritten card nestled among the pink and orange blooms.
In gratitude for your care of Audrey. Do let me know if you change your mind and decide to come with us.—Jayston.
—
“Get those out of here,” ordered Angelo. He strode towards her, aiming his finger.
Nikki started to speak: “Where do you want—”
“Out of here,” he barked. “You will keep your personal life out of this office!”
The last thing she needed was another fight with Angelo. Hefting the unwieldy bouquet, she left. The flowers were utterly impractical—so huge she could barely carry them, let alone bring them on her bike. The only reasonable destination was the dumpster. She hesitatedbriefly at the exit, then turned and walked rapidly down the service road.
—
