Snow: Chapter 2

The train pulls into the station. I grip my suitcase tight, wanting to be first to jump down onto the platform. I know Papa will be waiting for me.

It’s been almost a year since I saw my family. I had a full course load over the summer, then I was offered an internship in December that ran through Christmas and New Year’s, so I didn’t go home for the holidays as I’d planned.

I still speak to my little sister Mila all the time—mostly through text, since she’s busy herself, studying at the St. Petersburg State University. But my mother and father haven’t been calling me as much as they used to. When they do call, Mama seems agitated, and sometimes a little bit muddled, as though she’s already taken her sleeping pill for the night, even when it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon.

On our last call, Papa asked me how my classes were going, and then if I needed any pocket money. I told him I still had plenty from the last deposit he made to my bank account.

“Good, good,” he said, sounding relieved.

Papa’s always been generous with me. Actually, he spoils all his girls—Mama, Mila, and me. Unlike a lot of Russian men, he never complained about not having any sons. He was so proud of me when I was accepted to the best medical school in the country. He even cried a little and said how much he would miss me.

It was hard for me, moving to a new city, being away from my family for six years. I had always lived in St. Petersburg. I’m embarrassed to admit, I’d never even spent a week away from home before. Other than vacations, with all my family around me.

Medical school was much harder than my secondary school classes. Before, I had always stayed at the top of my class without much trouble. I simply had to read through my textbooks once, and I easily remembered the answers for all the tests.

Medical school involved such a mass of memorization that I thought my head would explode. Endless lists of bones and muscles, diseases and symptoms. Not to mention dozens of subjects I’d never encountered before: epidemiology, etiology, pathogenesis, pathological morphology . . . I had expected to drink from the cup of knowledge. Instead I had a firehose shoved down my throat.

I want to be a doctor because I’m fascinated by the human body, and I want to help people. And, I’ll admit, I want the prestige of it. I’ve always been the good girl, the achiever. I like admiration. I like accolades.

I like when my parents are proud of me, and my sister looks up to me.

But at Moscow State, I had to compete against hundreds of other students who had also been the best and brightest in their classes. Not just in Russia—in India, China, and South America too. The international students were brilliant, and hard-working, too. They seemed more than happy to study for five or six hours a night, even though we already had classes from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., six days a week.

It was exhausting. Mind-numbing. Even totally defeating at times. I wanted to cry on the phone to my parents. I wanted to give up and come home.

But I could never do that.

Instead, I buckled down and worked harder than I ever had in my life. I buried myself in work. Ate it, drank it, slept it, breathed it. I took every extra tutorial and lab the school offered. I made best friends with all the cleverest students. I hardly went anywhere except the library. I never drank, and I said no to parties and dates.

In the end I graduated not quite at the top of my class, but at least in the top ten percent. Just this morning I received the results of our final interdisciplinary examination. I passed every section with flying colors.

I’ve got the results in my pocket right now, ready to show Papa. I know he’ll be so pleased. He’ll probably frame them and hang them on the wall in his restaurant.

As soon as the train doors open, I hurry down the steps onto the platform. Just as I expected, Papa is waiting there for me. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me hard.

I’m so pleased to see him that tears fill my eyes, and for a moment I can’t actually see him clearly. But when he pulls back a little to kiss me on both cheeks, I’m dismayed to see that he isn’t looking well.

I was always so proud of how handsome Papa was, and how beautiful Mama was too. Of course, they’re getting older—Mama is forty-nine, though she won’t admit it, and Papa is nearer to sixty.

Still, they hadn’t changed much to my eyes. Papa is always nicely dressed in tailored suits. Wearing the same cologne he’s worn for forty years, Novaya Zarya. His hair is gray, but he still had plenty of it, combed straight back from his brow.

I’m noticing now, however, that his hair is not so thick anymore. It has noticeably receded since the last time I saw him, particularly around the temples. I don’t like to see this. It makes me think of terrible things like my parents actually getting old and dying.

His skin looks more thin and papery than it did before, especially around his eyes. Papa looks tired. His suit seems to hang off his shoulders. This is an old suit, starting to get a little shiny at the knees and elbows. I’m surprised to see him wearing it. Also his shirt-collar looks limp, not crisp and starched as usual.

I don’t want to notice these things. I’m trying not to.

I just want to be happy in our reunion.

“How was the train, nemnogo lyubvi?” Papa asks. He always calls me “little love,” and Mila “little darling.” He calls our mother moy angel, “my angel.”

“It was good, Papa! Only, it seemed to take forever. I’m excited to be home.”

“Of course you are!” he says. He takes my suitcase. I almost don’t want to let him carry it—it has no wheels, and it’s heavy, stuffed with everything I took away to university with me. But I know he’ll be insulted if I don’t let him help me.

He’s huffing and puffing, trying to carry it down from the platform. I’m looking around, expecting to see Papa’s silver Mercedes-Benz. Instead he stops next to a car I’ve never seen before, a rather ugly brown Volvo.

“What’s this?” I say.

“Oh.” Papa struggles to open the trunk so he can stow away my suitcase. “I got a new car.”

There’s nothing new about this Volvo. It must be twenty years old, at least.

I don’t know what to say, so I just get in the passenger side door and try to find something to compliment. “The seats are very comfortable,” I tell him.

They’re soft enough, but they stink like cigar smoke. Papa doesn’t smoke, because Mama detests it. I’m surprised she consents to ride around in this car. She’s always been so conscious of what sort of car she’s seen in. She won’t ever take a common taxi. On occasions when he doesn’t want to drive, she makes Papa call for a town car.

I’m so confused. Papa seems strange, not as warm and excited as I expected him to be. I haven’t even mentioned my exam results yet. And, unusual for him, Papa hasn’t remembered to ask.

“Are you hungry?” he says distractedly.

“I’m starving!” I say. “Can we stop at Golod?”

I haven’t eaten at my family’s restaurant in almost five years. There wasn’t time during my last few visits. I could only come home for a few days, and even then, I had to bring schoolwork with me.

“Well . . .” Papa says hesitantly. “Your mother is anxious to see you . . .”

“Please, Papa!” I beg. “I haven’t had goulash in so long.”

“Alright,” he relents.

He drives me over to Borovaya, the wealthy old neighborhood where our family has served the elite of St. Petersburg for three generations.

The sight of the venerable stone building fills me with pleasure. It’s not plain and utilitarian like so much of the Soviet architecture. It has a beautiful facade, built in the Style Moderne, with soft, rounded corners, and lovely floral stonework over the doorway and windows.

However, when Papa holds the door for me, I’m startled to see that there’s almost no one inside. It’s 5:20 p.m., nearly dinner time, and yet only two tables are full, with a single waiter in attendance.

I don’t recognize the waiter—he looks young and rather unkempt, with long hair tied back in a ponytail.

“Where’s Emmanuel?” I ask Papa. Emmanuel has been waiting tables at Golod for as long as I remember.

“He had to take a job at a bank,” Papa says unhappily. “His wife has diabetes, and I think his expenses were such that . . .” He trails off, hurrying over to our usual table by the window.

He pulls out my chair so I can sit down. I notice that the tablecloth has a small stain on it, and my wineglass is water-spotted. These are details that my father would never have missed, before.

I feel as if I’m being pricked over and over again by hundreds of tiny needles. None of these things I’m noticing would be so terrible on their own, but added together, I’m becoming very frightened.

The waiter comes and stands next to our table, pad and pen at the ready. Emmanuel always memorized the orders, even for a table of a dozen customers.

“Sergei, this is my daughter Sasha,” Papa says politely.

Sergei gives me a curt nod. He looks bored, impatient for us to place an order, though it’s not like he has anything else to do at the moment.

“I’d like a glass of the Rostov and the goulash, please,” I say.

He writes it down with no acknowledgment.

“Nothing for me,” Papa says.

“You don’t want anything?” I ask.

“No, no,” he says, shaking his head.

He runs his hand through his thinning hair, a nervous gesture I know all too well. The movement pulls up the sleeve of his suit jacket. I see he’s not wearing his gold wristwatch that Mama bought him for their twenty-fifth anniversary.

“You forgot your watch, Papa,” I say.

“Oh, yes . . .” Papa says.

In that moment, I know without him saying another word that my father doesn’t have the watch anymore. And that frightens me more than anything. Papa loved that watch. It was his most cherished possession.

“Papa, what’s going on?” I say.

“Nothing!” he says. “What do you mean?”

“Why is it so empty in here?”

“Oh,” he says, “You know how it is. There’s so many fancy new restaurants. Young people want sushi and cheeseburgers and all sorts of crazy things. They don’t eat the traditional food so much anymore.”

“But you have so many loyal customers! People who have been coming here for thirty years . . .”

“Well,” he says, “this isn’t such a fancy neighborhood as it used to be. Wealthy people have moved to Kristovsky Ostrov and Primorsky Prospect. They don’t want to drive all the way over here just for dinner.”

That doesn’t entirely explain the decline. From my seat, I can see the wine racks that used to be full of French and Italian and Spanish wines, some of the vintages older than my father. The racks are completely empty now. Not a single bottle left.

“You’re not telling me everything.” I say to Papa.

He squirms in his seat. He’s always been terrible at lying.

“As some people moved out, other people moved in,” he says. “I have to pay new rent, new protection money . . .”

He means that he’s being squeezed by someone. Bribes and payoffs are as much a part of Russian life as borscht and vodka. My father used to pay a reasonable amount, a respectful amount, to the Bratva.

I know there’s more to this story. But the food has arrived. My goulash, at least, looks the same as it ever did. Thank god Lyosha hasn’t quit. He’s been cooking here since my father was a boy.

I take a bite, my spirits lifting at the taste of the delicious, meaty stew—our restaurant’s specialty.

The waiter forgot my wine. I don’t remind him. Once I’m done eating, I want to sneak into the kitchen to say hello to Lyosha. I want to ask him how his granddaughter is doing—I tutored her in chemistry, when I still lived here.

Because Papa is so quiet, I look around the restaurant, seeing all the familiar items that I know almost as well as those in my parents’ home. Probably better, actually, since Mama doesn’t “redecorate” here like she does at home.

My favorite is the portrait of great-grandmother on the wall, when she was young and beautiful, seated on her father’s horse with her blonde hair down to her waist like Lady Godiva.

How many times I blew a kiss to that picture when I’d drop in here after school. Saying hello to all the waiters and hostesses and line cooks who felt as much like family as my own uncles and cousins.

Nothing feels the same. All that time in Moscow, working and studying, I thought my home here in St. Petersburg was just waiting for me. I was so looking forward to coming back to it—everything just as it had been, except I’d be a doctor instead of a kid.

Now I realize how foolish that was. While I was changing, so was everything else.

It’s bitter and unexpected. And I’m afraid I haven’t come to the bottom of it yet.

I finish my food and push aside my plate. Standing up, my father considerately holds up my jacket so I can slip my arms into the sleeves.

Just as I’m about to nip back to the kitchen, two men in wool overcoats push through the restaurant doors. At first, I think they’re here to eat. From the look of fear on my father’s face, I soon realize the truth.

I know they must be Bratva. I see the tattoos on their hands and necks. They both wear sunglasses, though it’s a cloudy day. One is tall and bearded, the other middling height, slim, with a gold tooth in the front. It glints malevolently as he looks at me, parting his lips in a smile.

“Dobriy den, Oskar,” he says politely to my father.

“Dobriy den,” my father replies nervously. “Can I get you a table?”

“We’re not here to eat,” the gold-toothed man says.

My father tries to pull him to the side without actually touching the man’s arm.

“Please,” he says in an undertone. “My daughter is here with me. She’s home from school, and I—“

“I can see that,” the gold-toothed man interrupts. He’s looking over at me again, his eyes running up and down my body, though I’m completely bundled up in boots, pants, and a wool coat, so there’s nothing to see. He’s not leering because he can actually see my figure—he just wants to make me uncomfortable.

It’s working. I fold my arms across my chest, my cheeks flaming. I wish I didn’t blush so easily, but I’m so pale I’m practically translucent. My every emotion is painted across my face.

The other man, the taller one with the beard, is less patient. He steps closer to my father and says, “You made a promise to us last week, Drozdov.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” my father sputters, still trying to keep his voice down though the other men are speaking so loudly that half the restaurant could hear—if there were any customers at the tables. “I need just a little more time . . .”

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘time is money’?” the gold-toothed man says. “If you want an extension—“

I can’t keep quiet any longer. The way these men are looming over my father, threatening him, and the look of terror and humiliation on his face, is more than I can bear.

Before I can stop myself, I’m stepping forward, crying out, “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The Bratva turn toward me, the bearded man looking astonished and annoyed, the gold-toothed man smirking in amusement.

“Oh! The princess is displeased,” the gold-toothed man says.

“Sasha!” Papa hisses, his voice much sharper than it usually is when he speaks to me. “Go wait for me in the car.”

“No,” the gold-toothed man says, holding up his hand to quiet my father. “I want to hear what she has to say. What’s the problem, little princess?”

My tongue is frozen in my mouth. I know I’m only making things worse, jumping in. But I can’t stand by and do nothing while my father makes deals with these men.

“Look around you!” I say, gesturing to the nearly empty restaurant. “Do you think my father is hiding all his customers? If he could pay, he would. We’ve always had a good relationship with the bosses. We’re happy to pay a reasonable price, as we always have. But we can’t afford a king’s ransom.”

The bearded man scowls in irritation. The gold-toothed man just laughs in my face.

“You think this is about protection money?” he says.

“I . . . well . . . yes,” I say, lamely.

He steps close to me, close enough that I can feel his sour breath on my face. He’s nattily dressed, in a three-piece suit and polished shoes. His hair is slicked back with pomade. But that care in his appearance obviously doesn’t extend to his teeth.

“You’re a student?” he says to me.

“I . . . I was,” I say.

“Then perhaps you should educate yourself, before you speak,” he says.

I drop my eyes, embarrassed and frightened. What is he talking about?

He steps back again, addressing my father.

“We’ve been very patient, Drozdov. But our patience is at an end. You have one more week, at the price of an additional ten percent. If you come up short again, you won’t be the only one who suffers.”

He throws a significant glance in my direction.

Their threats made, the two men exit through the front door.

Across the restaurant, I see the diners at one of the only occupied tables watching us. They hurriedly motion for the waiter so they can pay their bill, though their food has barely been touched. Another two customers who probably won’t return.

Papa looks slumped and defeated. He holds the door for me so we can head out to the car.

Once we’re alone inside the old Volvo, I say, “Papa, what’s going on? What were they talking about?”

He starts the engine, refusing to look at me.

“It’s not your concern, Sasha. I have it under control,” he says.

I want so badly to believe him. I always trusted my father before.

But everything is different now.

“Papa,” I say quietly, “I’m not a child anymore. Tell me the truth.”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes still on the road. Then his face crumples.

“We’re in terrible trouble, little love. I owe so much money.”

“How much?”

“Sixty-four million rubles,” he says.

His voice is so quiet and the sum is so vast that I think I can’t possibly have heard correctly.

“Sixty-four million . . .”

He nods his head, miserably.

“How, Papa? How did this happen?”

“I don’t know!” His voice comes out in a sob. “When business first started to slow, I took lines of credit at the bank. When those filled, I went to the Bratva for a loan. I thought it was only temporary—I thought the customers would come back. But the interest was so high—the loan doubled. I tried to tell your mother that we had to be careful, that we couldn’t spend as much as before . . .”

He trails off. He doesn’t want to blame Mama, but I know what she’s like. She was the youngest child of the wealthy Bobrovs. She’s always been able to buy whatever she liked. Her sisters married Ministers and business magnates. They have dachas in Plyos and they fly on private jets. Even when Golod was filled with customers day and night, we’ve never been as rich as our relatives.

Mama has often complained about our house, our cars. She’s always buying new drapes and furniture. And Papa spoils her with jewelry and clothes—trying to make up for the things he can’t give her.

I can well believe that when Papa tried to tell her they had to retrench, she wasn’t very receptive. She might forgo a vacation to Paris, only to spend just as much on a new Birkin bag.

“We have to pay the loans off,” I say to Papa. “We have to sell what we can—Mama’s diamonds. The other cars. Whatever we can.”

“It’s already gone,” Papa says. “I sold it all. We still owe sixty-four million.”

Plus ten percent for another week’s grace period.

My stomach is rolling.

“What about my uncles?” I ask. “Can they lend us anything?”

Papa looks guiltier than ever.

“I already borrowed from Tolya and Andrusha,” he admits. “They won’t give me any more.”

I’m beginning to panic. Papa has dug us in so deep. How can I ever get us out?

“What about the house, the restaurant?” I say, desperately. “What if we sold it all?”

“It wouldn’t cover half,” Papa says. “Then where would we be? Homeless, without the business my parents built? I’d rather be dead.”

If we can’t pay the Bratva, we soon might be.