Pasha made the marks in his notebook with a German fountain pen that had a picture of a woman on it. Her clothes would come off when he tilted the pen, and come back on when he tilted it the other way. He thought it was such a marvelous invention that he set up a pen-importing business with a friend in Moscow. But then one of the girls got ahold of one of the pens and tried to gouge his eyes out, and in the fight the pen was broken. After that the girl—Ukrainian, perhaps—disappeared, and all the girls were fined, because harm had come to Pasha’s pen.
He didn’t find a new favorite until a Finnish customer made him a gift of a lotto pen. The Finn spoke a few words of Estonian, and an Estonian girl named Kadri had to translate for Pasha what the sommi was trying to say about the significance of the lotto in Finland.
“Very important. Lotto is to us as the future. In lotto, every man is equal. Everyone’s equal in the lottery and it’s Finnish and it’s a wonderful thing. It’s Finnish democracy at its best!”
The man laughed— Future!—and gave Pasha’s shoulder a shove and Pasha laughed and told Kadri to tell the sommi that it would be his favorite pen now.
“Ask him how much you can win.”
“Kui palju siin võib võita?”
“A million marks! Or several million! You can be a millionaire!”
Zara was about to say that there was a lotto in Russia, too—plenty of lotteries—but then she realized that to Pasha that wasn’t the same thing at all. He might win at the casino, and he made a lot of money off the girls—a lot more than an ordinary person could win in a lottery—but all of that was work, and Pasha complained about it all the time, constantly complained about how much work he had to do. In Finland anyone at all could become a millionaire; anyone could win a million without doing any work or inheriting it or anything. You couldn’t win a million marks in the Russian lotteries. Not just anyone could become a millionaire in Russia. You couldn’t even get into the casino if you didn’t have money or connections. Anyone who didn’t wouldn’t dare to try and get in. In Finland you could just lie around on the sofa in front of the television on a Saturday night and wait for the right number to come on the screen, and a million dollars would just fall into your lap.
“Think about it—even a chick like you could win a million!” Pasha laughed.
The idea was so amusing that Zara started laughing, too. They busted their sides laughing.
1991
Berlin, Germany
Zara Looks Out the Window and Feels the Itch, the Call of the Road
The customer had a spiked ring around his dick and something else, too. Zara couldn’t remember what it was. She just remembered that they tied one dildo on Katia and another one on her, and she was supposed to fuck Katia at the same time that Katia fucked her, and then Katia was supposed to hold Zara’s pussy open, and then the man started to push his cock in, and Zara didn’t remember anything after that.
In the morning she couldn’t sit up or walk; she just lay in her bunk smoking Prince cigarettes. She didn’t see Katia, but she couldn’t have asked Katia anything; it would have made Pasha angry. She could hear Lavrenti on the other side of the door telling Pasha that Zara was only going to do blow jobs today. Pasha disagreed. Then the door opened and Pasha came into her room and ordered her to take off her skirt and spread her legs. “Does that look like a healthy pussy to you?”
“What a damn mess. Tell Nina to come in here and give her some stitches.”
Nina came, stitched her up, gave her some pills, and left, taking her pearlescent pink lipstick smile with her. Lavrenti and Pasha sat in their spot on the other side of the door, and Lavrenti talked about sending flowers to his wife, Verochka. Their anniversary was coming up—twenty years—and they were going to Helsinki.
“Invite Verochka to come to Tallinn, too,” Pasha said. “We’re going to be there, anyway.”
Tallinn? Zara pressed her ear against the crack of the door. Did Pasha say they were going to Tallinn? When? Maybe she just thought she heard him say that. Maybe she misunderstood. No—that’s not the kind of thing a person misunderstands. They were talking about Tallinn, saying that both of them were going there, and they must be going soon, because they were talking about Lavrenti’s anniversary and a present for Verochka, and his anniversary wasn’t far off.
The lighted sign on the building across the street blossomed like wood sorrel, her cigarette lit up like a lantern, and everything was crystal clear. Zara felt her bra for the photograph in its hidden pocket.
When Lavrenti was alone for once, sitting outside the door, Zara knocked and called him by name. Lavrenti opened the door and stood on the threshold with his legs spread wide, a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. “What do you want?”
“Lavruusha.”
People are more agreeable if you use their first name, so Zara used his, and she used the affectionate form for good measure.
“Lavruusha dorogoy, are you going to Tallinn?” “What business is it of yours?”
“I speak Estonian.”
Lavrenti didn’t say anything.
“Estonian’s a little like Finnish. And there will be a lot
of Finnish customers there. And since Estonian is a bit like Finnish, I could handle the Estonian customers and the Russians and Germans, like I do here, plus the Finns.”
Lavrenti didn’t say anything.
“Lavruusha, the girls told me that tons of Finns go there. And there was a Finnish man that was here who said that the girls were better in Tallinn, and he preferred to go there. I spoke Estonian to him and he understood me.”
The old man had actually spoken a mixture of Finnish, German, and English, but Lavrenti couldn’t know that. He had stood by the window in nothing but his socks and a cocky attitude and said, “Girls in Tallinna are very hot. Natasha, girls in Tallinna. Girls in Russia are also very hot. But girls in Tallinna, Natashas in Tallinna. You should be in Tallinna. You are hot, too. Finnish men like hot Natashas in Tallinna. Come to Tallinna, Natasha.”
Lavrenti left without saying anything.
A few days later the door flew open. Pasha kicked Zara in the side.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Zara was curled up in a corner of the bed. Pasha pulled her by her leg onto the floor.
“Get dressed.”
Zara got up and started dressing quickly—she had to be quick, had to be quick when she was told to do something. Pasha left the room, yelled something, a girl shrieked, Zara didn’t recognize the voice, she heard Pasha strike her, the girl shrieked louder, Pasha struck her again, and she got quiet. Zara put on an extra blouse, felt to make sure the photo was still in her bra, shoved a scarf and a skirt in her coat pocket and filled her breast pocket with cigarettes, poppers, and painkillers—they didn’t always give them to her, even when she needed them. She put her makeup in another pocket and some sugar cubes in a third, because they didn’t always remember to give her food, either. And she brought her Pioneer badge. She had carried it with her in Vladikki because she was so proud to get it, and it had traveled with her through all the nights and all the customers. Pasha had seen her with it once, grabbed it from her, laughed and tossed it back.
“I guess you can keep it.”
Then he laughed some more.
“But first you have to thank me.”
Zara undressed and thanked him.
Pasha had left the door open. The new girls were huddled like cattle as Lavrenti prodded them into the yard. A truck was waiting there. There was a sob among the herd. The wind was strong, even in the courtyard—it whistled along Zara’s body, a delightful wind, and she breathed in the wind and the exhaust. She hadn’t been outside since she was first brought here.
Lavrenti waved to her and told her to get in the Ford that sat waiting behind the truck.
“We’re going to Tallinn.”
Zara smiled at him and jumped in the car. She caught a glimpse of the expression on Lavrenti’s face. He was surprised. Zara had never smil
ed at him before.
This time she was allowed to go without handcuffs. They knew she wasn’t going to go anywhere.
There were lines at every border crossing. Pasha would run his eye over them, disgusted, get out to smooth out the situation, then come back to the car where Lavrenti and Zara were waiting and step on the gas, and the car would brush past the line and over the border and they’d be on their way. Through Warsaw and Kuznica to Grodno and Vilnius and Daugavpils, always at top speed. Zara sat with her nose against the window. Estonia was getting closer; there were pine trees everywhere, dairies, factories, telephone poles and bus stops, fields, and apple orchards with cows grazing in them. They made little stops sometimes, and Lavrenti would remember to get food for Zara from some little stand. They drove from Daugavpils to Sigulda. They had to stop in Sigulda because Lavrenti wanted to send a postcard and take a picture to send to Verochka. Her girlfriends had been there years ago and brought back walking sticks as souvenirs, with Sigulda burned into them for decoration. Verochka had been pregnant at the time and couldn’t go with them, but they told her that the sanatoriums there were charming. And the Gauja River Valley! Lavrenti asked the way and told Pasha to take a detour to the end of the Gauja River cable railway.
They stopped the car far away from the ticket window, under the trees.
“Let the girl come with us.”
Zara gave a start and glanced at Pasha.
“Are you nuts? Get going! And don’t take too long!” “She’s not going to try anything.”
“Go!”
Lavrenti shrugged his shoulders at Zara as if to say
maybe next time and went to the ticket window. Zara watched his retreating back and gulped in the smell of Latvia. There were white ice-cream wrappers on the ground. She could feel the children’s vacations and families’ shared moments, the bosoms of the party leaders’ wives’, the Pioneers’ zeal, and Soviet athletes’ sweat all lingering there. Lavrenti had said that his son had come here to train, the way the pride of the Soviet Union always did. Was his son a runner? Zara should start paying more attention to what Lavrenti said. It might be useful. She should get Lavrenti to trust her—he might make her his favorite.
Pasha stayed with Zara in the car, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers—whap whap whap. The three onion domes tattooed on his middle finger jumped. The year 1970 rippled with the rhythm, a faded blue number on each finger. A birthday? Zara didn’t ask. Now and then Pasha dug in his ear with a finger. His earlobes were so small that he actually didn’t have any. Zara glanced at the road. She wouldn’t be able to run that far.
“The boys from Perm are expecting us in Tallinn!” Whap whap whap.
Pasha was nervous.
“What the hell is taking him so long?”
Whap whap whap.
Pasha got out two warm bottles of beer, opened one, and gave it to Zara, who emptied it greedily. She felt an itch for the road outside the window, but Estonia was close now. Pasha jumped out of the car, left the door open, and lit a Marlboro. Their sweat dried in the breeze. A family walked by, the child singing, “Turaida pils,” a Latvian murmur, “frizetava,” the woman fluffed her dry-looking hair, the man nodded his head, “partikas veikals,” the woman nodded, “cukurs,” her voice rose, “piens, maize, apelsinu sula,” the man’s voice became angry, the woman’s eyes fell on Zara, who lowered her gaze instantly and pressed herself against the back of the seat, the woman’s gaze slid away without registering her, “es nesprotu,” the pressed pleats of her skirt fluttered softly, “siers, degvins,” her toes reached through the straps of her high-heeled sandals and touched the ground, they passed by, her broad hips swung away, and eau de cologne drifted from them to the car. An ordinary family, disappearing into the railway. And Zara still sat in the car, which smelled of gasoline. No, she couldn’t have yelled, couldn’t have done anything.
The road was deserted. The sun shone on the bushes. A motorcycle with a sidecar bumbled past; then the burning road was empty again. Zara fumbled in her bra for a Valium. If she took off running, would they shoot her in broad daylight or catch her some other way? They would catch her, of course. A girl riding a too-large bicycle came into view. She had on sandals and kneesocks, and there was a plastic basket on one side of her handlebars and a toy milk can on the other. Zara stared at the girl. She glanced at Zara and smiled. Zara shut her eyes. There was an insect crawling on her forehead. She couldn’t bring herself to brush it away. The car door banged open. She opened her eyes. Lavrenti. The trip continued. Pasha drove. Lavrenti took out a bottle of vodka and a loaf of bread, which he scarfed down between swigs from the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. A gulp of vodka, the sleeve, gulp, sleeve, gulp, sleeve.
“I went all the way to Turaida.”
“Where?”
“Turaida. You can see it from the embankment there.” “What embankment?”
“Where the cable car leaves from. Beautiful view. You can see to the other side of the valley from there. There’s a manor house and the Turaida castle.”
Pasha turned up the music.
“I went there by taxi. The manor house was a sanatorium —I took a taxi from there to Turaida.”
“What? Is that what took so long?”
“The taxi driver told me about the Turaida rose.”
Pasha hit the gas. Lavrenti’s voice trembled from vodka and emotion. Pasha turned the music up louder, probably so he wouldn’t be able to hear Lavrenti, who was leaning against Zara’s shoulder. The liquor on his breath smelled cold, but the voice that came pushing out of it was heavy with melancholy and longing, and suddenly Zara was ashamed of having recognized that in his voice. It wasn’t a person’s voice, it was her enemy’s voice.
“There was a grave there—the grave of the rose of Turaida. The grave of the faithful lover. A wedding couple was just leaving, and they left roses there. The bride had a white gown . . . They brought red carnations, too.”
Lavrenti’s voice broke. He offered the vodka bottle and Zara took a swig. Lavrenti dug the bread out from somewhere and offered her some. Zara broke off a piece. He had softened toward her. People pay less attention when they’ve softened. She might be able to slip out of Lavrenti’s hands. But if she tried to escape now, she would have to go somewhere else, not where Pasha and Lavrenti were going. And she couldn’t get there any other way.
Pasha laughed. “Does the rose of Turaida have blue eyes? Does she make the world’s best sashliki?”
Lavrenti’s bottle hit Pasha on the forehead. The car swerved suddenly to the edge of the ditch and then across to the other side of the road and back again.
“You maniac!”
Pasha got the car back under control, and the trip continued, with Pasha ranting about his plans for Tallinn.
“And casinos like they have in Vegas. You just have to be fast, you have to be the first—Tallinn lotto, Tallinn casinos. Anything’s possible!”
Lavrenti drank his vodka, chewed his bread, offered some to Zara, and the bass from the stereo shook the car more than the potholes in the road. Pasha went on and on about his own Wild West—that’s what Tallinn was to him.
“You idiots don’t understand.”
Lavrenti puckered his brow.
“Pasha’s heart misses Russia,” he said.
“What? You’re crazy!”
Pasha smacked Lavrenti, then Lavrenti smacked Pasha, and the car was headed into the ditch again, and Zara tried to hide on the floor. The car swerved and wove, the woods flew by, black pines, Zara was afraid, there was a slurp of liquor-soaked spit, the smell of Pasha’s leather coat, the fake leather seats of the Ford, the pine tree air freshener, the car rocking, the squabbling continuing until it leveled off and Zara let herself drift into a doze. She woke up as Pasha pulled into the yard of a business associate. Pasha spent the evening visiting with his associate; Lavrenti ordered Zara to come with him to his room and got on top of her, repeating Verochka’s name.
That night, Zara carefully
removed Lavrenti’s hand from her breast, crept out of bed, and leaned against the window latch. It looked like it would be easy to open. The road visible between the curtains was a thick, enticing tongue. In Tallinn, she might be in the same old locked room again. Things were going to have to change someday.
The next day they came to Valmiera, and Lavrenti bought her some prianiki cakes, and they drove from Valmiera to Valga. Pasha and Lavrenti didn’t talk any more than was absolutely necessary. Estonia was coming closer. The road itched and beckoned, but Estonia was already near. And she wouldn’t run away. Of course not. She couldn’t.
When they came to the border at Valga, Pasha dug a crumpled map out of his pocket. Lavrenti snatched it away from him. “Don’t go through the checkpoint. Go around it.”