Snow: Chapter 4

Papa and I drive the rest of the way home in silence. I know he’s too embarrassed to speak. I’m simply terrified.

We pull up to the house, which is one of many standing in a row in the quiet neighborhood of Volkovskaya. It’s nothing special from the outside—just a simple stone facade, partially blocked by an overgrown Linden tree. It looks just like the houses on either side. Still, I could pick it out anywhere.

I know the way the paint has worn on the door, and how the knocker hangs a little to the left. I know how the stone steps have sunk in the middle from Mila and I jumping down them every day on our way to school.

I expect Mama to be waiting for us, but the house is dim and quiet when Papa opens the door. It smells a little musty, like the windows haven’t been opened in a long time.

All the drapes are drawn. The carpets look dusty. The same rapid aging process that seemed to have affected the restaurant has hit our house even harder. The cleaners must not be coming anymore. Mama was never any good at household chores.

We find Mama in the sitting room, laying down on the sofa with a cloth over her eyes. She’s lying very still. She doesn’t move until Papa goes over to the sofa and shakes her shoulder. Then she sits up, looking slightly dazed.

“Oh, Sasha!” she says. “You’re home early!”

Actually, we’re quite late, since I asked Papa to stop at Golod.

I don’t bother to correct her. I hug Mama and kiss her on both cheeks. Her skin feels powdery and dry beneath my lips.

Mama was a great beauty, the prettiest of her sisters. After the older girls married so well, everyone was surprised that she chose Papa. He had the restaurant, but his family isn’t aristocratic or connected.

Mama and Papa just loved each other so much.

Papa always says how lucky he is to have her. I know he’d do anything in the world for her, or for me and Mila. That thought used to make me so happy. Now it fills me with dismay. What has he done already, to keep us happy? Terrible things, foolish things.

Mama has her hair nicely waved as usual, and she’s wearing a pretty silk blouse and slacks. But her blue eyes look slightly unfocused. Either she’s been drinking, or she took her sleeping pill early. Or both.

“How was the train?” she says.

“Good, Mama. Very nice.”

“Your sister isn’t home yet.”

“Yes I am, Mama,” Mila says from the doorway.

Mila hurries over and hugs me hard.

We’re three peas in a pod: Mila, Mama, and me. All tall, fair, blue-eyed. I have white-blonde hair like grandmother, and Mama’s hair is still a rich, autumn red. Mila’s is something in between—a soft strawberry blonde, so pretty that strangers used to come up to touch her curls when she was a child.

I badly want to talk to Mila, but I can’t with Mama and Papa standing right there. So I just say, “I missed you!”

“Me too,” Mila says, squeezing my arm.

“Do you want dinner?” Mama asks.

“You didn’t make any dinner,” Mila says sharply. “Remember, I asked you if we should make something and you said you were going to lay down first.”

“Mila,” Papa says in mild reproach.

“It’s alright,” I tell her quickly. “Papa and I stopped at Golod.”

Mila raises an eyebrow at me, communicating in the silent way of sisters. Or at least, as we’ve always been able to do. She’s asking me if I saw how bad the restaurant has gotten.

I tighten my lips to show her that I saw that, and worse.

“Maybe just some tea, then,” Mama says.

We all crowd into the small kitchen. Dishes are piled up in the sink. Crumbs cover the tabletop.

Mama putters around for a bit, messing with the kettle ineffectually, before Papa helps her sit down and Mila makes the tea.

At least great-grandmother’s porcelain tea set hasn’t been sold yet. It’s still whole, except for a single cup I smashed as a child. Mila took the blame for that. She’s always been very tender-hearted—she never told anyone it was actually me.

Mila gently clinks her cup against mine, grinning. I know she’s remembering the same thing.

Mama brings out biscuits and cake from the pantry. I notice Papa isn’t eating any of it. He’s just sitting silent, like he did at the restaurant.

Mama finally remembers to ask about my exam results. I bring out the paper to show them all. Everyone congratulates me with real happiness and pride. For a moment, things feel like they used to.

Once we’re done eating, Mila and I wash the dishes. Papa says he has to do some work in his office, and Mama says she’s going to go to bed early. She kisses me on the cheek once more, leaving a smear of lipstick on my face, which I wipe off immediately, out of habit.

When Mama and Papa are gone, Mila and I finish drying the cups and saucers, placing them carefully back in the cabinet. Then we go up the stairs to Mila’s room.

She lives at home while she’s studying at the state university in St. Petersburg. Her room, at least, hasn’t changed. Still papered with posters of foreign films, and delightfully messy—full of books, magazines, and vases of dried-up flowers from all the boys she dates. I shove a pile of clothes off her bed so I can sit down.

Mila closes the door behind us. I say, “Why didn’t you tell me what a mess we were in?”

Mila sighs guiltily.

“I’m sorry!” she says. “I didn’t want you to worry. You were so stressed with your classes and exams. I didn’t want to put anything else on your plate.”

“How long has this been going on?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Four years at least. I only realized something was truly wrong last year. The school told me my tuition hadn’t been paid. Papa got the money somehow, but it took a few weeks—long enough that my professors were threatening to drop my classes.”

Mila bites the nail on her index finger—an old habit she’s never been able to break. While the rest of her is stylish and pretty, her nails are always torn and painfully short. Especially when she’s stressed. Right now, they’re about the worst I’ve ever seen them.

“The money’s gone,” she says. “But Mama keeps spending like nothing is happening. Papa sells things and she goes and buys the same thing over again, like it was simply broken or misplaced. I got a job at a coffee shop. Pay is shit, though. It barely covers my books.”

“It’s much worse than that,” I tell her. “Papa owes money to the Brava. A lot of money.”

“What?” Mila gasps. “How much?”

I can’t even say the amount.

“A lot,” I tell her. “More than we can pay.”

Mila sits down on the bed next to me. She grabs my hand, squeezing it hard.

“What can we do?” she says.

“I still have my pearls from great-grandmother,” I say.

“You can’t sell those!”

“Mila,” I turn to look at her, “you didn’t see the men at Golod today. They were threatening Papa. They said he only has a week to pay. If we can’t come up with money, a lot of money, they’re going to hurt him. Or kill him, even.”

I don’t tell Mila that Papa wasn’t the only person the Bratva were threatening. There’s no point mentioning it to her when she’s already frightened enough.

“Which boss does he owe money to?” Mila asks.

“Anatoly Krupin,” I say.

Mila lets out her breath in a whimpering sigh.

We’re far from the world of the Russian mafia. But everyone in our neighborhood knows who Krupin is. He lives in a vast stone mansion on Andreyevskaya Ulitsa, inside twelve-foot walls topped with razor-wire. He drives around in an armored town car that looks like a hearse. He wears a black fur coat that gives him the size and proportions of a Siberian bear. So, he’s not exactly subtle.

“I suppose I could sell my diamond earrings, too,” Mila says with a pained expression.

At most, our jewelry might fetch us one or two million rubles. Papa owes sixty-five million. Plus interest. It’s not even close to enough.

What can we do?

I feel like a caged animal, turning around and around, only finding more bars on every side.

What could we give Krupin, besides money?

What does a criminal want, or need?

Ever so slowly, a kernel of an idea forms in my mind.

It’s not a very good idea. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.

“I’ve got to go out for a bit,” I say to Mila. “If Mama and Papa look for me, tell them I’m getting a drink with some friends.”

“Where are you really going?” Mila asks. Her blue eyes look suspicious and frightened.

“Don’t worry,” I say, giving her hand one last squeeze. “I won’t be gone long.”

I hope that’s true.

I slip down the staircase, pulling on my navy wool peacoat once more, and buttoning it up to the neck.

Mama is already in bed. Papa works quietly in his office.

I’m feeling very brave while still inside the warm, familiar space of my own home. However, as soon as I open the door and step down onto the chilly nighttime street, I immediately begin to doubt myself.

The wind is blowing hard, as if trying to push me back into the house. Dead leaves skitter down the sidewalk with an unpleasant hissing sound.

Because I’m nervous, I have an irrational feeling that everyone I pass is staring at me, that they know where I’m going. About halfway to Andreyevskaya, I almost turn around and run back home again. But I remember the fear on my father’s face. I remember that he sold his gold watch, his most prized possession.

I press forward once more.

When I reach the stone walls surrounding Krupin’s house, the gates are closed and locked. I press the button on his intercom, expecting to hear a voice respond. Instead, a guard appears so suddenly that I stumble backward from the gate.

“What do you want?” the guard demands roughly.

“I . . . I need to speak to Mr. Krupin,” I stammer.

The guard stares at me a minute, then lets out a laugh that’s more like a scoff.

“What for?” he says.

“It’s about . . . about a debt my father owes,” I say.

The guard gives me a nasty smirk. I’m sure he thinks he knows how I plan to pay that debt. I can feel my face flaming again, but this time I refuse to drop my eyes.

After a moment, the guard unlocks the gate.

“After you,” he says, gesturing mockingly toward the house.

I walk toward the dark house, my footsteps silent in the thick grass. The guard strides along behind me. I don’t like having him right behind me, especially not with an AR slung over his shoulder and a handgun at his hip. Unfortunately, I’m in no position to complain about anything.

Once we reach the front door, I’m handed off to a different guard. He looks pretty similar to the first one—they all seem to be in their twenties or thirties, dressed in a semi-military fashion. I try not to look too closely at their faces or their tattoos. I don’t want to know these men. I don’t want to remember their faces.

Once I’m inside the house, I try not to gawk around like I usually would do in a place this grand. This isn’t a museum—it’s the home of one of the most brutal men in Russia. And probably a place where he does business, too. I don’t want to witness any of that. Peeking into the hidden world of the Bratva can get you killed faster than looking into the face of Medusa.

It’s hard not to stare, however. Even with most of the lights off, Krupin’s house is as opulent and outrageous as the Bellagio. Or at least, how I think a posh hotel in Vegas must look, based off the movies I’ve seen. I’ve never actually been to America.

My footsteps echo across the marble floors. The darkened chandelier over my head looks as if it contains half the crystal in Russia. Paintings in ornate golden frames cover the walls—most of them nudes or other erotic subjects. The second guard sees me looking, and he says, “You like art?” with a lewd grin.

I whip my head back straight again.

“No,” I say firmly.

He laughs.

“Sit here,” he says, pointing to a padded bench that looks like it was taken from the Winter Palace.

I sit down.

I’m starting to worry that Krupin might be sleeping. I know it’s late, but I thought that’s when gangsters got their business done. Maybe I should have come in the morning.

The guard disappears. He’s obviously not worried about leaving me here all alone. He rightly assumes that I’m not about to go poking around.

I’m tense with anticipation, thinking I’m going to see Krupin any moment. But as the minutes tick past, it becomes obvious that he’s not coming down anytime soon. A half-hour passes, then a whole hour. Maybe Krupin isn’t even here. There’s no one to ask, no way to tell how long I’m supposed to sit here.

It’s getting later and later—past midnight now. Despite how anxious I am, my eyelids are starting to get heavy. I lean back against the wall, trying to rehearse what I’ll say to Krupin when I finally see him.

Thoughts turn into dreams, tangled and disjointed. I’m not sitting in this palace anymore. I’m drifting far away . . .

“Sasha Drozdov, is it?”

My head snaps up.

Krupin is standing right in front of me, surrounded by four of his men, including the guard who let me inside. I recognize one other goon—the one with the fancy suit and the gold tooth. The one who threatened Papa.

I jump to my feet, dopey and disoriented.

“Sorry!” I say. “I’m sorry, I don’t stay up late very often . . .”

Even when I’m on my feet, Krupin towers over me. I’ve seen him from a distance once or twice before, but having his eyes fixed upon me is a much more terrifying proposition. He has a large, squarish face, his brows fixed in a scowling position. His eyes are long and narrow, as black as his fur coat. He has a large, straight, aristocratic nose, and a jaw like a bulldog. A large purple scar brands his left cheek—I’m quite sure it’s a gunshot exit wound. I don’t let my eyes linger there long.

“What do you want?” Krupin says shortly.

Judging from his coat, and the chill that’s blown into the entryway, he must have just come inside.

“I . . . I wanted to speak to you about the debt my father owes,” I tell him.

Krupin looks at me a moment longer, considering. He’s evaluating me. What he sees when he looks at me, I have no idea. But it’s enough that he nods.

“Upstairs,” he says.

He shrugs off his coat, handing it over to one of his men.

Underneath, he’s wearing a tailored pinstripe suit, no tie, with a crisp white dress shirt beneath. There’s a dark smear across the chest of his shirt that looks suspiciously like blood. I don’t let myself stare at that either.

Instead, I follow Krupin up the stairs to his office, keeping a respectful distance. Two of his men stay right beside him, but the other two drop back to flank me. The way these men move is jarring—they’re silent and coordinated, like pack animals.

I know the Bratva are only men, but there’s nothing normal in the way they move or speak. They have their own culture, their own way of doing things. I’m so far out of my element, all I can do is keep stumbling forward.

The man with the gold tooth is standing behind me. He makes a hissing sound, as if he’s deliberately trying to unnerve me.

Once we’re inside his office, Krupin takes a seat behind his desk. He gestures for me to take the chair opposite. It’s a low leather armchair, in good condition, but probably an antique.

I sink down into it, feeling smaller than ever by comparison to Krupin. I’m sure that’s intentional, to have his visitor’s chair sit so much lower than his own.

I wish the guards would leave—I feel foolish enough without an audience. Two stay inside the room, standing on either side of the doorway. Thankfully, gold tooth isn’t one of them.

Krupin glowers at me from across the desk, waiting for me to speak. My mouth is dry, and I’ve forgotten everything I planned to say.

“I know Papa owes you a lot of money—“ I begin.

“What’s a lot of money?” Krupin interrupts.

“Well, uh . . .” I don’t know what a lot of money is to Krupin. From the look of it, a year’s salary to me is probably pocket change to him. “I guess a lot of money is anything you can’t afford to pay,” I say.

He nods, keeping his dark eyes fixed on me.

“True,” he says.

I take a deep breath.

Krupin isn’t a fool. He probably knows more about my family’s financial situation than I do. Lying to him isn’t going to help anything.

“We’re broke,” I say. “My father has already sold most everything he can. The restaurant is failing. We could sell that too, and the house, but it still won’t be enough.”

Krupin nods his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on me.

“So,” he says flatly. “what do you propose?”

“I’d like you to let my father keep the restaurant and the house,” I say. “And I’ll come work for you instead,”

I see a flicker of surprise in Krupin’s eyes.

“You?” he says. “What do I need a girl for?”

Thankfully, unlike the rest of his men, he doesn’t make the obvious assumption while undressing me with his eyes. Despite the art on his walls, Krupin is professional. Women are not his focus. Business is.

“I just finished medical school in Moscow,” I say. “I graduated in the top tenth percentile of my class. I did my internship in trauma and emergency medicine. I think that could be useful to you . . .”

I trail off, stopping short of stating the obvious.

Krupin is a gangster. Gangsters get shot, stabbed, beaten. You walk into the hospital with those types of injuries, and the doctors are supposed to make records. They’re even supposed to pass the information along to the police, though I doubt they’d be stupid enough to do it in Krupin’s case. Either way, I’m sure a Bratva boss has need of a discreet doctor from time to time. If not for himself, then definitely for his men.

Krupin is looking me over, considering my offer.

I try to sit as tall as possible in the deep, low chair. I try to look intelligent and capable, while feeling young and foolish.

At last, Krupin says, “As of today, your father owes me seventy-one million, five hundred thousand rubles.”

I nod, my mouth dry.

“What does a doctor make in St. Petersburg?” he says. “Let’s be generous: let’s say fifty thousand rubles per month. That means you could clear your father’s debt in . . .” he pauses momentarily, rapidly calculating the math. “One hundred and nineteen years,” he says. “And two months.”

My heart sinks like a stone.

I had hoped that a pocket doctor would have more value to the Bratva. But I realize now how naive my assumption must be. Doctors in Russia are underpaid and overworked. There must be dozens of them, hundreds even, who would gladly work for Krupin in return for even a small increase in their pay.

Krupin sees my look of dismay.

His face softens, ever so slightly.

“Moye ditya, ne otchaivaysya,” he says. “Don’t despair, my child. Do you know, I never married or had any children of my own.”

I look down at my hands twisted in my lap, trying not to let tears fill my eyes.

“If I would have had a daughter,” Krupin says, “I would hope that she would offer her life for mine, as you have done.”

I’m not stupid enough to think that means he’s going to forgive the debt.

“Your father will sell the restaurant,” Krupin says. “To me. He’ll continue to run it, for me. And you will come work as my personal physician. I will pay you 30,000 rubles per month, to support your family.”

“For how long?” I say.

“Twenty years.”

It sounds like a prison sentence.

Even though this was my idea to begin with, now that the moment has come to shake hands on the bargain, I feel like I’m nailing down the lid on my own coffin.

Twenty years. Twenty years of being at Krupin’s beck and call, never moving, never traveling, never free to make my own schedule or goals, never able to marry or start a family of my own.

I’ll be forty-four before this indentured servitude is done.

And what will I see in that time?

Too many things.

I’ll witness crime, bloodshed, and the inner machinations of his empire.

In twenty years, Krupin will never let me go.

I’ll be lucky if he keeps me alive that long.

Even so, his offer is generous. More than I could have hoped for.

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I accept. Eta ochen’mila s Vashey starany.” You are very kind.

Krupin nods his head magnanimously.

He reaches into his desk and pulls out a cellphone.

He pushes it across the polished wood toward me.

“You will keep this on you at all times,” he says, “and answer it whenever it rings.”

“Tak, tochno,” I say. Yes, sir.

I pick up the phone. It feels heavy in my hand.

This is my collar and chain. Krupin can yank it whenever he likes.

I slip the phone in my pocket, getting to my feet.

“Show her out,” Krupin says to his men.

I follow them silently out of the room.

I got more than I could have hoped for, coming here.

Yet, somehow, I’m more miserable than ever.