“You don’t have the job anymore?”
“No. I got so mad I stopped showing up, so I said they switched me to the night shift and I go over to Dmitri’s… or Lyosha’s…”
“Elena, what are you going to do?”
“I told you. I have to keep doing this. You don’t.” She shifted uncomfortably and tapped the teacup, then smiled, but it wasn’t genuine. “I’m going to England, you know. They’re taking me to England, and then we’re going to Thailand. I keep some clothes over there, and I get to wear dresses like you wouldn’t believe. I have this one dress—it’s Chanel. It debuted in the Paris Fashion Week in 1989. It’s the prettiest gold, with this bunched-up crimson fabric on the back. And I get to wear it.” Her face tensed, and she blinked rapidly to chase away the tears. “I get to wear it.”
There was more to say, but the door whined and Mama and Maxim returned. I hurriedly shoved the papers back into Elena’s purse while she sat and silently stared at her teacup.
* * *
Vitali returned and I said nothing to him about Misha or Elena. Of course, he brought flowers. There were always so many flowers. Too many, and soon I’d have to ask him to stop because they didn’t die fast enough to make room for the new ones.
He showed up twice a week, and we talked on the phone almost every day. Mama stopped giving me a hard time, I think in her mind I was already married off. She didn’t mind all the time we spent together as long as it wasn’t overnight. Of course, he never even gave an indication that he wanted to, which pleased her and infuriated me.
By this point, it had been months and he still hadn’t kissed me. What’s worse—he still wouldn’t hold my hand. The contact was always lower back, neck, knee, and thigh. Sometimes his handmoved so close to my heat I thought I was going to lose my mind. One time, I accidentally let out a moan and he immediately pulled back, swearing under his breath. Vitali never swore, and hearing that frustration could have made me cum right there, in the passenger seat. So then I knew he wanted it, but for some reason (I was afraid to ask) he practiced this absolutely psychotic self-control.
It was a week before New Year’s when he arrived out of breath with his face comically red and dragging a huge fir tree.
All he said was‘the elevator’s broken’while Mamaohh’dandahh’d, twirling around it and trying to make a cup of hot cocoa for him at the same time. I asked why he didn’t just have an employee deliver it, but he only shrugged.
“I can have a gold necklace delivered. Would it mean as much as if I’d put it on your neck myself?”
I was enamored, and every day the guilt died a little more. I convinced myself it was all a misunderstanding with Elena, and Misha had been talking about someone else. Looking back, they were stupid thoughts of a stupid girl, but I had no way of knowing that at the time. All I knew was being completely and tragically caught up in Vitali Konstantinov.
* * *
He didn’t come over to decorate the tree. Maxim and I did that, hanging garlands and silver pine cones, and fragile ornaments Mama had since she was a girl. We sat on the floor and tied threads over individual wrapped candies, then hung them between the lights and streamers. You weren’t supposed topluck them off and eat them until New Year’s Eve, but Maxim still did when no one was looking.
I strung up lights across the wall, wrapping them over picture hooks and the colorful carpet decorating the wall. There weren’t many, and we only got to decorate the living room, but I was afraid to buy more because Mama would get suspicious. I’d been so careful to keep my spending low, or I would have to explain how I was able to buy everything on my‘salary.’
The salary Vitali gave me for being a good girl.
By that time, Mama had already known no one was getting paid, but just like me, she chose to believe the dressed-up lies rather than the devastating truth. I guessed she told herself I was still getting paid in the same way I told myself Vitali was getting paid.
On December 29, he came without a phone call. By this point, he may as well have had a key. Two large blue and white checkered bags hung off his arms, and I followed him curiously to the kitchen as he told Mama about his day. Inside were foods we probably wouldn’t otherwise see in our entire lives.
Pomegranates, Baltic sausage, black caviar, pineapple, and an assortment of cheeses piled up on the tabletop as he proudly paraded them in front of Mama. She hadn’t even seen the marbled steaks yet.
It was generous, and very thoughtful, and when he glanced at me with that satisfied expression, I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around him, kissing him on the cheek—right there in front of Mama (she was kind enough to pretend she didn’t see).
But he winced, and stiffened. His Adams apple moved in a hard gulp. Even his smile was gone.
My joy quickly turned into mortifying embarrassment, and I left the kitchen before anyone could point it out.
I was nearly crying, and pretended to look out the frosty window in the living room when I felt him behind me.
“Don’t cry,” he said, and his arms wrapped around my waist from behind. “Katya don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re crying.”
I was, but there was no way he could see that because I wasn’t facing him and I would be damned if I let him know that.
“It’s not the time for some things,” he said, leaning his chest against my back and pulling me in. “I am sorry, Kotik. Don’t cry.”
I wiped my cheek before I remembered I wasn’t crying, and his arms tightened around me.
