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A Shadow In The Fog
Part One
Copyright 2007 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Psalm 37:4
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
The short version: I had a vision, which inspired this story.
The long version: The Summer of Siberia
ABOUT THE SECOND DRAFT:
No first draft.
Around the time I wrote this, I was researching pre-medicine, with a focus on psychiatry.
After observing individuals with autism or autism spectrum disorders, I thought
the main character might have autism. I'm not so sure now, so that may change.
The character of Mikhail was inspired by ballet dancer and actor Alexander Godunov.
This is part of a larger project, but I'm not sure yet if it's a three-part story or a novel.
I will have to change the name Menshikov to something else. Menshikov is the surname
of several esteemed Russian men and women.
One of my favorite stories that I've written.
* * * * *
DAY 31
I could barely see Mikhail through the pale blue Siberian fog. He walked perpendicular to my path -- from my left to my right -- as I aimed for my apartment. Since he plodded along, as opposed to my quick steps, I would arrive first.
Despite the fog, I could see something in his right hand.
I hoped it was the Russian edition of Pravda.
* * * * *
DAY 5
"... he say 'okay' to deliver English edition of Pravda," Pavel translated -- with a bright shiny smile -- for Mikhail and I a few days after I had arrived at the central Siberian apartment where I would be staying for a year.
"I'd like the Russian version," I said in English. I could have spoken in Russian, but refused to do so in front of them. I didn't trust them.
Pavel said, "Misha," and translated again.
Mikhail, who was examining a small Thomas Kinkaide print I had brought with me, stopped whistling Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride And Joy" and muttered without looking up.
Pavel turned to me. "He say absolutely no problem to deliver Pravda in English. Da?" That smile again -- a flash of perfect white teeth in a dark olive face.
"Nyet."
Mikhail glanced sideways, apparently aware of the first Russian word I had spoken since meeting him. He and Pavel had a lengthy conversation. Mikhail believed I might feel homesick and lost without a familiar language; Pavel insisted "Misha" might be too aggressive with his "agenda" and to back down a bit.
And what agenda was that? But that was a foolish question. It was probably a government thing. I had already seen Mikhail's I.D. -- he was an FSB agent. He was tall, serious and bony, with a face like a rock -- stiff and blank. He was probably my age, about forty-four. As for Pavel -- he was also middle-aged and short, dark, friendly, and insisted he was a reindeer breeder from the village of Omyakon, but that was hundreds of miles away. I found it hard to believe he visited this town regularly from the taiga ... through the early winter snow ... in sub-zero weather.
I was sure they were both agents looking for a good reason to undermine my intentions to spend a year in Russia on the outskirts of this central Siberian town.
Something beeped inside Mikhail's long wool coat. He flinched then said solemnly to me, "Dobri dyenya." To Pavel he said, "Pasha," and walked out of my apartment.
Pavel grinned again. "You get English edition," he said. "You like."
* * * * *
DAY 2
I met them one morning on my way to the grocery store for the first time.
Pavel waved to me from the sidewalk as I walked down the steep stairs from the small gray brick apartment building, which was up on thick sturdy pillars to allow room underneath for the utility pipes. These pipes could not be buried underground; they would melt the permafrost and the building would sink.
At the bottom of the stairs, I studied Pavel. He wore a fur hat, fur coat, thick gloves, jeans and heavy work boots.
"You new?" he asked, gesturing toward the building.
I nodded. Say something, I coached myself. You're supposed to be socializing, not surrendering to the autism.
Just as I was about to comment on the pillars/utility pipes set-up, a car door opened nearby. Mikhail stepped out of a shiny little black car. He adjusted his long black wool coat around his shoulders, felt for something through his left pocket, then joined us. He didn't look like he laughed much but he certainly had the most gorgeous slate blue eyes. He also had an impeccable gray-blonde crew cut and great taste in clothes: he wore a dark gray wool suit; pale gray shirt, and a maroon tie.
A headline flashed through my mind: "American writer seduced, kidnapped, tortured, killed by Russian agent and his sidekick."
"Misha!" Pavel said.
"Pasha!"
They embraced.
"This is ... my uh ... my um ... brother! Yes, my brother! Mikhail!" Pavel announced with a cheeky grin.
I almost laughed. Pavel: short, dark, earthy; and Mikhail: tall, light-skinned, rather elegant. I almost asked if they had different fathers AND different mothers, but decided that would not be a good start to the interrogation process. Maybe I'd scream the comments later if they hurt me.
Mikhail mumbled; Pavel handled more formal introductions. Both men kissed my right hand, pronouncing my name with an exotic rolling of the "R" -- "Audrrrrey."
Mikhail spoke again; Pavel translated: "Miss Audrey. You visit town yet?"
"No, not yet."
"You will find it delightful."
"Thank you. I hope so."
"Perhaps ... my ... uh ... brother! ... Pasha and I may visit. Soon. Pasha one of your neighbors. Me too. You become familiar with neighbors, da?" Mikhail put his glove-clad hands inside his coat on his hips, revealing an FSB I.D. on his shirt ... and a holster with a small gun.
"Uh ... okay," I said. "Do you like tea? Coffee? Pastries? I can make a snack and we can talk."
The spoke simultaneously before Pavel translated again. "Yes. We like coffee. Pastries good. Very good. We come back ... uh ... three days?"
"Fine. See you then."
* * * * *
DAY 5
That was when Mikhail saw the Russian edition of Pravda on the coffee table in the front room: as we drank coffee and ate oatmeal cookie bars. The conversation was polite but I noticed that despite their good manners they looked around frequently, as if searching for something.
* * * * *
DAY 6
The English edition arrived for the first time. I attached a note: "Please send the Russian edition tomorrow. Thank you," and left that day's paper, unread, in front of the door.
* * * * *
DAY 9
After a sharp rap on my door, I opened it to find the mismatched pair in the hallway.
Pavel said, "We check on you. Make sure you okay."
He looked odd. He still wore the gray fur hat and coat, but with dark brown wool dress pants and black loafers. Also, his hands were smooth and clean, with nicely-cut and -buffed nails. Reindeer breeder, indeed.
He slowly put his hands in his pockets, then looked at his pants.
"Oh," he said. "I uh ... go to ballet with wife. Tonight! That why I dressed up. Yeah!"
He was such a liar.
Meanwhile, Mikhail sidled in and started examining the apartment as if he were in his own home. I heard him whistling Stevie Ray Vaughan's version of "Shake It For Me."
I sighed. I sat and continued sewing; I was working on a blouse.
After a while I got curious about the whistling and asked Pavel in English, "What's the deal with the whistling?"
"Deal? Ah. He like American music. All kinds."
"Oh."
On his way out of the kitchen, Mikhail watched as I stitched a cuff. He frowned and muttered. Pavel said, "He ask why you don't have--"
"You are not moving a sewing machine into this apartment. I forbid it."
Mikhail blushed and hung his head; Pavel said gently, "No one will deliver sewing machine. He simply ask why you sew by hand."
"Because it's relaxing."
Mikhail regarded me sideways -- a flash of slate blue in a sea of pale skin.
They walked into the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, then joined me again.
"You like it here?" Mikhail asked, courtesy of Pavel's Translation Services ... which we didn't need, but I was enjoying the formality.
"Yes ... so far."
Pavel said, "You come to family dinner. My wife make Sunday dinner every week. You come."
I snorted. "To the taiga?"
Pavel frowned. "No. My wife here. In town. With children."
Whatever. "Uh ... okay."
* * * * *
DAY 11
The house was filled with a crowd of small drunk Asian people, my sober self and one large pasty drunk Mikhail, who had dressed down just a bit in brand new black jeans and a stiff navy blue chambray shirt. Out of his coat and suits he looked a lot thinner. He needed to eat ... which he did ... several times. Maybe he had high metabolism.
"You like?" Pavel asked as I enjoyed small servings of potato piroshkies, salmon, caviar and cucumber salad.
"Yes. This is nice. Thank you."
We sat down to a sweet prayer from one of the children, followed by a meal of beef borscht, baked chicken, several hearty salads, cheesebread, apple torte and plenty of vodka, which I had to decline.
"It gives me stomach pains," I protested to Pavel's wife in Russian. "I'm sorry. Do you have any wine?"
She smiled brightly just like Pavel, nodded and patted me.
A few minutes later Mikhail stood to my right. Pavel said from across the table, "Red or white?"
I chose the red -- a cabernet sauvignon. Mikhail gallantly poured.
Afterwards, he walked me home. As we exited the warm house and stepped into the frosty evening, yet another headline came to mind: "Russian agent plotted for days to terminate American writer."
But he just walked me home, looked around the apartment, and left.
* * * * *
DAY 12
A week's worth of English-language Pravda newspapers piled up -- the war between myself, Mikhail and Sasha, the delivery boy.
* * * * *
DAY 15
Three days later I took a ten-day accumulation of English-language Pravdas to a recycling bin. Stupid FSB agents. And their little delivery boy, too: "Sasha" -- a surly, tall, dark teenager who seemed way too smug for his age. I read the Russian edition online, scowling the entire time.
Later, in the early evening, when the temperature had dropped, along with the outside light, someone knocked at the door.
I looked through the peephole: Mikhail.
I sighed and opened the door and found a short, plump, gray-haired woman standing next to him, wearing a large apron around her large dress and ample waist. She held an egg timer.
"Good evening," she said. "My name Eva. Mikhail Ivanovich Tolkachov ask me to translate. I tell him for five minutes. After, I go. My husband hungry." She looked me over; I was about the same height as she, at five-two, but about forty pounds lighter, at one hundred ten pounds. She raised one silver eyebrow and said, "You too skinny. Maybe you eat dinner with us. I make you fat for winter."
Meanwhile Mikhail slowly examined the apartment as he usually did, looking around, as if searching for something.
He started asking questions; Eva translated.
"You like kitchen?" he asked as we went in there.
"Yes, of course."
"Stove is adequate?"
"Yes."
"Freezer works?"
"Yes."
"No drafts?"
I hesitated. I had noticed a chilly breeze above the sink, and told him.
He pressed on the wall over the sink, reached up high.
"One minute remaining," Eva said to me, then to Mikhail, "Adna minoota."
His face stiffened for a moment as he pressed the same spot several times, then moved his hand away along with his gaze and examined my cookbooks.
I looked at the wall and noticed a slight indentation the size of a four-inch-long half-moon. Was something hidden there? I thought I was apartment-sitting for a nice decent couple. What if they had something unsavory going on?
Eva's egg timer rattled. She turned and exited the kitchen.
"Spasiba, Eva Borisovna," Mikhail said.
"Pazhalsta."
He washed his hands, bowed slightly then gestured for me to go into the living room, where he stood near the door and bowed again.
"Ah," he said, reaching into his left pocket.
I watched with caution.
He pulled out a roll of pale rose thread and handed it to me while pointing at my sewing box.
Fine. I had plenty of time on my hands. Why not indulge the whims of an FSB agent. I pulled out the blouse and held his thread against it.
The color was perfect.
I smiled up at him. I wanted to speak Russian but held back, fearing anything I said might be used against me. Was there a Miranda Warning in Russia? I had researched a lot of things, but not much about Russian laws.
"Thank you," I said.
He bowed one last time and left.
* * * * *
DAY 20
They were back again, and they smelled like the inside of a blues bar. Pavel smiled dreamily rather than brightly; Mikhail was relaxed and soft-faced; they bickered softly in Russian.
"Pasha, why penguins mate only once a year?" Mikhail asked as he examined the living room.
"Yuh nye znaiyoo," Pavel responded. "I don't know."
"Neither do I."
"Your jokes weak."
"Why polar bears white?"
"Perhaps to blend into their environments and avoid predators."
"Yes. But if they red, north pole look like abominable snowman with measles."
"Of course, Misha." Pavel rolled his eyes.
Mikhail ran a long slim finger across the spine of "The Brothers Karamazov," which I was trying to get through. In a very low voice he said, "My most blessed mother. Anna Tolkachova, may you rest in peace." He pulled out a flask and took a long sip.
Pavel watched with an uncharacteristically sad face. "Misha, why you come out today? You grieve."
"Life goes on, Pasha. I must do my job."
After they left, I searched the Internet and found an obituary for Anna Romanovna Tolkachava, who had passed away exactly a year ago, leaving among her survivors her husband Ivan and her son Mikhail. She had been a professor of literature, focusing on Dostoyevsky.
* * * * *
DAY 24
The next time, I had food ready for Mikhail, believing that the loss of his mother had 1)affected his appetite and 2)reduced his access to healthy home-cooked meals.
I made spicy beef borscht, cheesebread, meat and potato piroshkis, cucumber salad and an apple torte. I also made sure I had plenty of vodka.
I opened the door to Mikhail and Eva, and invited them to dinner, and her husband, too. We had good food, good conversation and a polite argument about why the Russians had beat the United States into space. Afterwards, I received several courteous air kisses from the couple, and a moist lingering kiss on my right cheek from Mikhail.
* * * * *
DAY 27
"Young Sasha," I wrote in Cyrillic letters. "Please deliver the Russian edition of Pravda. I have moved to this country in order to experience it fully. That means speaking, reading and writing the language as much as possible.
"I would like to be immersed in the language. It has unlocked the tangles in my autistic mind and helped me to communicate effectively. It has made me smile more and has allowed me to feel more comfortable when speaking. The English language sounds like French and German men arguing with each other. The Russian language sounds like Tsars dancing at a royal ball.
"Please allow me to experience the newspaper as I wish.
"Audrey Santiago."
* * * * *
DAY 29
Pavel and Mikhail arrived around five p.m., both dressed in suits, fur coats and fur hats. Pavel showed me an FSB I.D. card, and his gun was exposed when he removed his coat for dinner ... which I had decided to prepare, just in case they showed up.
"We find what we look for," he said in a much less animated way than before, but still with a cheerful smile. "The renters before the Menshikovs hide stolen art work. We find in kitchen. We fix hole in wall and patch. No more draft, da?"
"No. I guess not. Thank you for doing that."
Mikhail muttered; Pavel said, "We sorry for walking through apartment."
I nodded politely.
After an awkward silence I asked, "Am I in trouble? Are the Menshikovs?"
"No," Pavel said. "Guilty parties in prison. No one else will suffer."
"Oh, good."
Mikhail raised his shot glass. "To pleasant resolution of situation. And to yet another lovely meal."
* * * *
DAY 31
I stood at the top of the stairs. Mikhail examined my footsteps in the snow and on the staircase, saw me near the front door, and walked upstairs.
He handed me a newspaper: Pravda ... in Russian.
"Spasiba," I said.
"Pazhalsta." He blushed, looked around, blushed again, shifted, studied the snow.
I said in Russian, "Perhaps it is time that we speak without an interpreter," relishing every syllable of the buzzing, blocky, exotic language.
"Perhaps."
After another awkward silence he said, "You speak Russian well."
"Thank you."
"Know you the spreading-branch tamarack?"
For a moment I felt surprised. I thought we would suffer through yet another silence followed by his departure.
"Of course," I said. "It is a tree that can survive in the low temperatures of Siberia."
"One wonders where such a tree came from."
"Perhaps from a place where it could not thrive?"
"Perhaps."
"A place to where it should not return."
"Precisely."
I could identify. I did not want to return to America. I wanted to stay here, and explore this part of the world.
Mikhail said, "Certain ... interested parties probably helped tamarack survive in its new home."
"Such as birds?" He had called Pavel "ptitsa" once: "bird."
"Yes. And associates of the birds."
Our gazes met and held for a few seconds. I said softly, "How kind."
He blushed and cleared his throat. "I have a nephew who has autism. If not much trouble ... we need advice on how to help him."
"I would be happy to help you."
We smiled, looked around awkwardly, studied the fog, which had changed from pale blue to a bright cornflower blue.
"I go now," Mikhail said. "Please, come to Pavel's family Sunday dinner. We talk."
"I will go."
"Until then ... good evening, Miss Audrey."
"Good evening, Mikhail Ivanovich."
"Just Mikhail."
He bowed, took my right hand, kissed it, then walked slowly downstairs. When he was just a shadow in the fog he started whistling.
When I recognized the song, I smiled at all its implications.
It was an American song from the 1960s made popular by Diana Ross and the Supremes ... "Some Day We'll Be Together."
~ * ~ TO BE CONTINUED ~ * ~
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