“I’ve seen caviar in the grocery stores.”
“Grocery stores? Oh yes! I remember those too. We used to have places by that name before they were converted.”
“Converted?”
“Yes, to museums.”
“What museums?”
“Museums dedicated to the memory of taste! You don’t think I’m serious? Last week, I walked into one of these…museums. They had cheese in the window—just like this cheese. I went in and asked for half a kilo, and the store clerk—pardon me, the tour guide—told me it wasn’t for sale, only for show.”
He took a whiff of bread and tossed back a drink. “How long will you be in Moscow?”
“A year. Who knows? Maybe longer.”
A crease appeared between his brows. Lest he think she’d come to hang on his neck, Florence added quickly: “I have my own four walls. I have a job. Beyond this, I have no plans. Though I’m taking classes.”
But he seemed uninterested in that. “And your visa?”
“That’s a simple matter. An overnight train to Helsinki, and the embassy there extends it another six months or a year.”
“So you really mean to stay?” he said.
“Is that so strange? I feel like I’m a part of everything here. What was I doing at home that was so tremendous?” There seemed to be no way for her to talk about what she was doing in Moscow without coming across as discontented and defensive. “Here I get letters on my desk from some of the most important people in the world,” she continued. “Economic advisers, prime ministers. Did you know that I’ve helped raise funds for the building of the new House of Culture? I’m helping build socialism.”
In the vacuum of Sergey’s amused silence, her earnestness sounded hollow and boastful. Sergey was trying to do a good impression of looking impressed, but his friendly effort was starting to irritate her. It was time to change the subject. “I’m not going to ask if you missed me,” she said, more irritably than she’d aimed for.
Sergey tipped back another brandy. “Disastrously,” he said, in a tone both avid and ironic. “It has not been an easy year.”
Before she could stop herself, she said, “And did you drown your sorrow with many girls, or just one?”
He wiped the corner of his mouth thoughtfully with the back of his hand. “I’m not a monk, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What does it matter, really? Even if you’re married…”
“I’m not married.”
“But you have someone.”
His silence suggested an affirmative answer.
“I didn’t expect you to clear your evenings for me,” Florence resumed. “You’re here now, and that’s good. Come when you want.”
He examined the shot glass in his hand, turning it between his thumb and forefinger. He set it down, refilled her cup with wine, and offered it to her.
“No more. This wine is making my head spin.” She brushed a moist strand of hair off her face. She felt cold suddenly. Anyhow, she was glad she’d said what she’d said. Glad it was out in the open. Let him be the one to think about it now.
Sergey shook his head sympathetically. “For a headache, only one cure.” Delicately he tipped a porcelain pot to pour tea into Florence’s cup, before raising his brow in disappointment at the contents. “What is this piss? Are we rationing?”
“I always make it like this.”
“Florentsia, my dear, in Russia you must know two things: how to drink vodka and how to brew tea. Where is it?”
Florence found the black lacquered box in which she kept her loose tea leaves. Sergey took a generous pinch to demonstrate. “Tea has to be thick, like blood, and dark, like the soul.” He closed the box, and turned it over in his hand. “This is where you keep tea?”
“Yes, why not?”
As the tea steeped, he turned over the object in his hand, as amused by its prosaic use as he might be by a child wearing a stethoscope. Florence had bought the oval box at an outdoor market, picking it from among similarly gorgeous items. In tiny brushstrokes on its black lacquer veneer, a young man clutched the tail feathers of a flame-colored bird. “It’s the Firebird, right?” she said.
“Zhar-ptitsa,” Sergey corrected. “Not Firebird. It means Heatbird. You know the story?”
She poured herself the darkened tea and reclined in her chair, ready to listen. Sergey scraped his chair closer to Florence and, with a breath warmed up with spirits, began to tell her the legend of the Heatbird.
“In a faraway kingdom,” he began, “there lived a brave prince named Ivan. He’d been chosen by the king to guard the tree of golden apples that stood in the center of his father’s orchard. Ivan’s lazy brothers had already failed at the task by falling asleep. So, when Ivan’s turn came, he tied bells to the branches so he’d be woken up when an intruder approached. In the middle of the night the bells sounded. Ivan opened his eyes and thought the sun must be shining. A great flame-colored bird with a hawk’s talons was picking the apples. Ivan, leaping to grab at its tail, caught hold of a single feather before the bird flew away. Captivated by this glorious animal and hypnotized by his still-warm souvenir, Ivan vowed to follow after the Zhar-ptitsa.
“With his single feather lighting the way like a torch, he entered the forest, and after much wandering he arrived at a clearing where a princess was bathing with her maidens. Forgetting temporarily about the bird, he began to frolic with these alluring creatures. But soon darkness crept over the forest, and the princess told the smitten prince that she and her companions were obliged to return to the castle of an evil magician-king who turned trespassers to stone. ‘Don’t follow us,’ warned the princess, ‘for it will bring you nothing but pain.’ Ivan, heeding no warnings, sneaked in after the maidens just as the gates of the castle were closing.”
Here Sergey paused to refresh himself with another drink. Florence waited for him to resume the story, but he seemed content to let things conclude there.
“So who was Ivan following—the princess or the Heatbird?” asked Florence.
“Maybe one. Maybe the other.”
“But then what happened?”
“What happened,” Sergey said dryly, “is, Ivan was captured by the magician.” He folded the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed it.
“There’s got to be more.”
“Oh, there is much more. Do you want the version with the gray wolf or the talking bear?”
“Does Ivan rescue the princess? Does he get the Firebird?”
Sergey nodded, chewing. “Yes, yes, much later. After many misfortunes.”
“Does he return home?”
“Many years later. In beggar’s clothes. Nobody recognizes him.”
She stopped stirring her tea and wiped some caviar off the corner of his lip.
“Go home, Flora,” he said.
She stared at him. “What?”
“Believe me when I say socialism doesn’t need your help.”
She gave a weak laugh. “It was you who wrote to say I should come and see everything that’s being built in the Soviet Union.”