Chapter Seventeen
Viktor
I spend the next day at Konstantin’s with Aleksio, Yuri, and Tito. We focus on our many operations—the brothel pipeline, the money-laundering robbery. These things we can affect.
But when I think of my Tanechka trapped inside that nun, I feel helpless.
And when I think of that clerk behind a desk somewhere keeping us from the information that will lead us to Kiro, my face feels hot. Wherever he is, Kiro is vulnerable.
It’s a good thing I don’t know this desk clerk’s name. But I tell myself, Leave him alone. We’re protecting Kiro by moving under the radar.
I don’t truly believe it.
I bring the old man a quilt to put over his legs, and I push him outside to feed his ducks. He gets cold. He wears an old man’s hat over his bald head. “You’ll meet her soon,” I say. “You’ll like her. She’ll remember who she is soon. I’m sure of it.”
“It’s only been a few days, Viktor. Give it time.”
“It’s…frustrating. To have what you want most in the world in front of you. But it’s an illusion. Like a mirage in the desert. I surround her with her favorite things, and she resists. Her favorite poetry.”
The old man throws bread. The ducks come, quacking.
“They sound always like they’re complaining,” I say.
“Ducks. Whadya gonna do.” He throws out more bread with the unsteady hands of an old man. “Maybe she needs to feel like you understand her,” he says. “You bring her books the old Tanechka liked. What about the Bible? Why not bring her the Bible and ask her to read you her favorite part.”
“I will not encourage her delusion.”
“But you give it power when you oppose it. You give things power when you oppose them—you understand that, right?” Konstantin is a great strategist, but I can’t abide this advice.
“In Russia, some crazy people think they’re Stalin. We’d never think to cure them by playing along.”
“It’s a little different, becoming a nun. Don’t you think?” This he says in a voice like I’m a child.
I sigh. “Even if I thought it would help, I’d feel like I was betraying the old Tanechka. She’d hate this nun, Konstantin. I didn’t fight for her before, and sometimes I feel like she’s calling out to me to fight this nun.”
I stop at a different Russian bakery on my way back. The Russian Mafiya guys here tell me it’s the best, where all of their wives go. They have many lemon things for Tanechka.
I choose a selection of lemon jellies shaped like stars and lemon wedges, then I pick up a bottle of pink champagne. We used to drink vodka mostly, but in certain moods, Tanechka would drink pink champagne like soda. She never considered champagne to be an alcoholic beverage on the level of vodka.
Once she starts drinking pink champagne, she doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Such a sweet tooth.
It’s wrong. I no longer care. I need to get past the nun, to get to Tanechka. Her mind doesn’t remember, but her body does.
At home, I set the bakery bag on the counter and loosen my tie. Pityr comes up and tells me she’s been quiet, except to ask for a Bible. This she is not allowed to have—I don’t care what Konstantin suggests. She gets only the volume of poems by Anatoly Vartov. She also asked for water, but he gave her none, as I instructed.
I want her thirsty. Yes, she could drink from the bathroom faucet, of course, but the old Tanechka would not like that so much.
I take a belt of vodka, then I grab the champagne bottle, two glasses, the bag, and the rest of it, and I trudge upstairs.
I stop at the doorway. She’s lying in front of the fire.
She wears the black jeans still—she has no choice, being that she’s chained by her leg to the radiator, but she changed her top. She wears an oversized white button-down shirt.
My shirt.
I suck in a breath and imagine the scent of my shirt on her skin.
I want to drop everything and take her in my arms and press my face to her breast. I want to pull the shirt off of her and kiss every inch of her.
She makes no sign that she knows I’m there—she refuses even to look at me.
Angry.
Just as well; my hands are trembling. I take a deep breath and stroll in casually. I put down the bottle and the glasses.
Did she change into the shirt to mess with my mind? Or is it because it’s the least form-fitting thing in her closet? Either way, I love her in it. I love her.
I need her back.
This is what I did to my Tanechka. It’s my fault she’s a nun, and it’s up to me to undo it. I owe it to her. To yank her back.
I take off my suit jacket and holster and set them on the bed. The gun I set on a small chest well out of her reach.
“Come here.” I spread the rug back out.
She refuses to move from her place on the hard floor.