I’m embarrassed that I cried in front of the boxer. I don’t know why it happened. I didn’t cry when Krupin signed me into indentured servitude, or when Yakov grabbed me, or when Stepanov wouldn’t stop undressing me with his eyes. I’ve been fending off constant advances from these gangsters who think they can grab and take anything they want.
Then Snow came in, looking meaner and tougher than any of them. He was so disdainful at first—I know he didn’t believe I was a doctor. In the moment, I didn’t feel like one. I felt like an inexperienced child, fumbling around with the equipment. He wouldn’t let me give him the injection of anesthetic—because he didn’t trust me.
I was so frustrated. I felt that he wouldn’t have been stubborn if I were a man. I would have authority. He’d respect me.
None of these men respect me. They only see me as something to use.
As if to prove my own worthlessness, tears burned in my eyes.
Snow looked at me and his face softened. He stripped off his glove and put his hand over mine.
I’ve furiously avoided being touched by these men.
But somehow, this was different.
It was the first time anyone touched me with kindness instead of lust.
I couldn’t believe his big, rough hands could be tender. I was surprised by the sympathy in his face as he looked at me.
The moment stretched on and on. I don’t think either of us wanted it to end. For that instant, I didn’t have to be defensive, and he didn’t have to be brutal.
But then he pulled his hand away, turning cold and harsh once more.
He said to hurry up and stitch him, which I did. Then he left the infirmary without another word.
As soon as he was gone, all the strength seemed to go out of me.
I had experienced such a quick rise of emotion: annoyance, frustration, sorrow, then gratitude . . . dropping down into disappointment again. It wrung me out.
Yet there were several boxers left to see. The next one had his nose smashed to a pulp, and he was furious about it. His entourage had to hold his arms so I could examine him, because he wanted to jump up and rage around the room.
I checked the break, looking as best I could for signs of injury to the eye or brain. I couldn’t do anything the right way, with the paucity of equipment. The boxer really should have gone to a proper hospital for an MRI, or an X-Ray at the very least.
“I should reset it and splint it,” I told him.
“No fucking way!” he howled.
“It’s been broken before,” his trainer said callously. “It’ll probably break again.”
“The airway can be impeded if it’s not set right . . .” I tried to tell them.
They didn’t seem to care. I sent them away with a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory and a fistful of painkillers.
I stumbled home at 2:00 a.m., utterly exhausted, my clothes filthy and bloodstained.
No one waited up for me. I didn’t expect Mila to do it—I knew she had class in the morning. I didn’t expect it of Mama, either. I never expect anything from her. But I did hope that Papa would support me at least. I hoped he could be a listening ear. A source of comfort.
Instead, I think he’s trying to pretend the whole thing isn’t happening. He doesn’t ask me what I’m doing for Krupin, where I’m going or when I’ll be back. Only Mila and I talk about it in private. My parents act like nothing’s changed at all, as if I’m out with friends or at an internship.
For Papa, the daily work at the restaurant is much the same as ever. Probably better, as more customers are coming in. It’s all Bratva. But that’s not so different than the old days—he used to serve them before, along with the businessmen and socialites.
Of course, all the profit goes to Krupin now. I don’t think Papa minds—it all went to Mama before.
Mama is the one who feels the most like a victim, I think. She’s been drinking more than ever since we took away her credit cards. She mopes around the house, sighing tragically.
I’m almost starting to hate her. I don’t want to; it makes me feel horribly guilty. But I’m so angry at her.
Growing up, I always adored Mama. She was the prettiest of all the mothers, the sweetest. She was always kissing me and complimenting me and buying me little gifts.
All her cheerfulness has melted away under the harsh glare of reality. Her high spirits, her affection for all of us, is just spun sugar that can’t stand the heat of actual adversity.
I try not to resent her. I know she was spoiled and coddled, raised to be pampered, not to struggle.
But so was I. And I’m not melting into a puddle of goo.
I’m strong, because I have to be.
In a bid to keep my spirits up, I’m actually going to be social today. I got a call from an old friend from secondary school, Galina Melnik. Her father owns a mining company.
We’re going to meet up at a cafe, with a few other friends. Most have graduated from university by now, taking jobs in government or finance, or with their fathers’ companies.
Of course if Krupin calls me, I’ll have to rush away. But he only summons me about half the days, so my odds aren’t bad of making it through our coffee date.
Galina runs over squealing as soon as she sees me. I compliment her on her new haircut, a sleek black bob. For a moment, everything seems warm and comfortable between us, as if no time has passed at all. She still laughs in the same way and tells the same kinds of jokes about the people we knew in secondary school.
As more of our old friends arrive, I feel buoyed up by the hugs and cheerfulness, and by the quick flow of news. Galina has a new puppy. Vera and Samar are engaged—though not to each other. Kolya just came back from a holiday in Spain.
I could almost forget where I’ve been, and what I’ve been doing the last few weeks. I almost believe I’m as happy and carefree as I’m pretending to be.
I find myself coming up with easy lies to answer all their questions.
“What hospital are you working for?”
“Oh, I’m actually working for a private client. A wealthy older man.”
“Is it very boring?”
“No, it’s not boring.”
“How’s your family?”
“Good! Only tired of winter.”
“Aren’t we all!”
Almost two hours pass by as we order several rounds of lattes, croissants, and the cafe’s famous crumb cake.
Truth be told, I can’t really afford the expensive food at Buzz, not with the meager salary Krupin pays me, which all goes to support my family. Luckily Galina and the others have been buying my food, in celebration of me coming back to St. Petersburg.
Krupin’s cellphone has yet to buzz. Now and then I slip my hand in my pocket to clutch it convulsively, like a cursed artifact I long to lose but can’t live without.
I had planned to go home directly afterward. Galina convinces me that we ought to walk the shops along Sadovya Street. I can’t buy anything, but it would be fun to window shop.
“Why not!” I say.
We all get up in a bustle of coats, scarves, gloves, and last bites of pastry. We’re a boisterous bunch, full of laughter and jokes many years old. The rest of the cafe patrons are probably glad to see us leaving.
As we push out the front doors of the cafe, I walk straight into a man with the mass and solidity of a brick wall.
He puts his arm around my waist to stop me from stumbling backward. That thick, calloused hand, the arm like an iron bar, the ice-blue eyes looking down into mine . . . I recognize it all at once. It’s the boxer called Snow.
“Hello,” he says.
Staring at the pair of us, my friends have gone silent. They would have already stared at Snow, with his terrifying size and brutal face. But when he greets me, they realize that we know each other.
I can feel their curiosity, their shock.
Snow looks more alarming than ever, wearing the kind of rough canvas jacket that dock workers wear and a sweatshirt underneath with the hood up. He’s got the manners and bearing of a criminal. Galina and Vera exchange glances, noticing the tattoos on his hands and the gash above his left eyebrow—the cut I stitched myself only the day before.
Snow perceives the obvious distaste of my friends as quickly as I do. He’s not stupid, whatever his brutish appearance might suggest. He lets go of me as soon as he’s set me on my feet. He stuffs his hands back in the pockets of his jacket, his expression surlier than ever.
He pushes through the crowd of my friends, striding off down the street.
For a moment I’m relieved. I don’t know how I could possibly introduce him to my school friends. The questions that would bring up would be unanswerable.
However, I feel a twinge, watching his broad back disappearing among the crowd of afternoon shoppers.
As impossible as it seems, I thought I saw a hint of hurt on his face when I didn’t reply to his greeting.
In truth, I was simply shocked to see him.
I think he thought I was embarrassed of him.
“Who was that?” Vera cries, wrinkling her nose.
In one of those strange twists of perspective, for a moment I see my friends as Snow must have seen us: loud, arrogant, frivolous, and spoiled. I see our designer purses and imported shoes—not the flashy stuff the gangsters buy in the shops at the mall, but the preppy Italian and Parisian brands you get abroad, traveling over spring break.
I am embarrassed.
But not of Snow.
“I’ve got to go,” I say to Galina.
“What?” she says. “Where are you—“
I don’t hear the rest of her sentence because I’m already running down the street, dashing off in the direction that Snow disappeared.
It’s crazy running after him. It’s only going to confuse my friends all the more. And I have no idea what I’ll say to Snow if I actually find him.
Still, I hurry along in suede boots completely unsuited to running, growing increasingly hot and sweaty until a deep voice says, “Are you chasing me?”
Snow is leaning up against an Audi, hands still stuffed in his pockets, watching me run right by him.
I slow down, pressing my hand against a stitch on my side.
“Yes,” I puff, “I was, a bit. Is that your car?”
“No,” he says.
He doesn’t stop leaning on it.
“So?” he says.
“So what?”
“What were you chasing me for?” he says patiently.
“Well,” I pant, “you said ‘hello.’ And I didn’t say ‘hi’ back.”
Snow snorts. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. I wasn’t actually sure, up until this point, if he had any teeth, or if they’d all been knocked out by other boxer’s fists. I’m surprised to see that he has very nice, white, even teeth. Even more shocking, he has dimples on either side of his mouth.
“That’s a lot of trouble to say hello,” he says.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” I tell him. “I was just surprised to see you there.”
His smile drops away, his face darkening. He straightens up, reminding me how extraordinarily tall he is. I feel like a little mouse next to him.
“Is there some law against walking down Sadovaya?” he says.
“Well, no . . .” I stammer.
We both know that I was surprised because it’s a posh neighborhood, full of tourists and wealthy students, not people like him.
“Do you . . . live there?” I ask, hesitantly.
“No,” he admits. “I live in Kupchino.”
He waits for me to say something else stupid, like, “That’s what I figured.” I’m not going to do that, though.
Instead I say, “Where are you going?”
He hesitates a moment. He doesn’t seem to want to tell me, which makes me think he must be visiting a girl, or else doing something shady. At last he says, “I was going to see the Aurora.”
“The cruiser?”
“Yes,” he says defensively.
It’s so odd that I almost want to laugh, but I wouldn’t risk offending him again.
“Have you seen it before?” I ask him politely.
“A few times,” he says.
What an intriguing mystery. The Aurora is basically a floating museum. I wouldn’t have pegged Snow as someone who liked to wander around museums on his afternoon off.
I’m coming to realize that I don’t know this man at all. My assumptions have all been shallow and foolish.
“Could I . . . come with you?” I ask him.
Now it’s his turn to look surprised.
“I suppose,” he says.
It’s not exactly a warm invitation, but I’m determined to go. Before I can think too much about it, I slip my arm through his, the way I do with all of my friends when we walk together. Of course, his arm feels nothing like theirs—more like solid steel than human flesh. Still, he’s warm, and his grip is firm.
I quite like the way it feels.
