Chapter Twenty #2
Surprisingly, he chuckles. "I should have picked a better name."
"Tell me something," I ask. "Why the name? And whose house was that? Caroline - my cousin - made me go back a couple of days later. She said that me sneaking out the next morning was not an adult move. The woman who answered the door thought I was unhinged and possibly dangerous, I could tell."
"I was very unhappy that you slipped out like that," he says, “I intended to give you my real name then and ask to see you again. You leaving early was probably what I deserved for forcing you to cry out 'Beauford!' when you came that night."
"Oh god," I moan, going into a full-body cringe.
"I gave you that name because…” He shifts, looking out at the ribbons of light flowing by and then back at me. “I didn't want to be a Morozov for one night. Just a man with a terrible name and a love of Van Gogh."
I can understand that, now that I know his family. The weight of being a Morozov is a heavy one.
"As for the house, it belongs to a friend of our family. They were out of town for a week and offered me their home. I get tired of hotels. Wilhelmina must have been surprised to see you on her doorstep. But she would have denied knowing me if you held a gun to her head. I'm sorry."
Maybe because it's easier to be honest in the dark, I believe that he is sorry.
***
"This is one of yours?" I ask, staring at the bar.
It's squatting malevolently on the border of the Italian Mafia territory, or so Roan tells me.
The Crow's Nest is part of an old warehouse that's been sectioned off.
The sign is sagging in the middle, and the C is missing.
Albanian music pours from the speakers; there are a row of splintery picnic tables scattered in front of the bar and they're nearly all filled.
"Not one of mine," Alexsey says, pulling off his suit jacket and tie.
The crowd here is decisively dressed down, jeans and t-shirts, the women in short dresses.
I'm relieved I didn't dress up too much.
I'm wearing a light green tank top and black skirt.
"I'll be firing whoever's in charge of it, though.
" He's rolling up the sleeve of his dress shift on his left arm and I step closer.
When he gets to his right sleeve, he pauses, then rips the cuff loose, popping off the buttons, and begins a deft movement with the prosthetic, trying to roll the sleeve.
I step closer. "Do you want me to…?" I put one careful finger on his loose cuff.
"Thank you," he says, jaw tight. It's costing him to accept help, I can tell. I neatly roll the crisp dress shirt up to his elbow. He's wearing his black leather glove tonight. It looks cool, a little villainous. Perfect for where we are.
"How inspiring, you two. Has your mutual hatred simmered down to generalized dislike?
" Roan strolls over, holding a beer bottle.
He's in khakis and a golf shirt, the most casual I've ever seen him.
It's unsettling. "Come over, drink some vile beer that tastes more like chilled horse piss.
" He holds the bottle up to the light, eyeing it dubiously.
"Well, I'm sold," I say, heading over, flanked by Alexsey and Danyl. Looking around the picnic tables, I'm a little shocked at how many faces I recognize. "Gjon, Dua? How are you here in New York? When did you leave Boston?"
Dua pulls me into a hug. "Just this month. I was hoping we would see you soon. Remember how we would bake cookies when I used to babysit?"
"And we'd eat the cookie dough before it made it into the oven?" I laugh. "It's so good to see you." Turning to Alexsey, "Please meet my old babysitter Dua and her husband Gjon."
Alexsey extends his right hand and after a moment, Gjon shakes it. "Any friend of my wife's is welcome," he said. "Dua, I'm sure you have some terrible stories to share about Liria's misspent youth?"
"None that I would admit, Mr. Morozov," she says primly.
"I owe you a drink for that," I say thankfully. My husband has a low enough opinion of me as it is.
Conversation dies around us, everyone is staring and I'm wondering if this was a bad idea to bring Alexsey until he engages Gjon in conversation about fertilizer bombs.
Damn him.
How does he slide so easily into being a smooth-talking bastard in front of a hostile audience?
Dua pulls me over to talk to a couple of her friends who are working in one of the Morozov boutiques while Alexsey and her husband are joined by Roan and two other older men.
I see a bottle passed around and Alexsey takes it without hesitation, drinking from it and passing it on to Roan, who does the same.
Knowing how fastidious my dear bodyguard is, I'm sure something inside him has withered and died, screaming, at that moment.
"We got a clothing allowance too, so we could fit the look," Donika says. She's in her mid-forties and very sweet. "The manager says we need to feel comfortable in order to sell better."
"I didn't know the Morozov Bratva ran clothing boutiques," I admit.
"Well, they're definitely couture," Donika says, "until you pass through the door to the storage room and see all the crates of ammunition." She laughs gleefully. "We can't even light a candle in the front!"
Two glasses of Raki later - a fruit brandy made from grapes and plums that boasts a significant kickback - I'm holding a lamb skewer in one hand and singing along with the rest of the girls in my horrible Albanian.
They're giggling uncontrollably as I sing. "What?" I ask, flushed and giggling too for no reason other than they are and wow, that Raki is stronger than I remember.
"You just sang, 'Two pennies, too dude,' instead of the actual lyrics, 'Too late, you're too rude'." Dua wheezes.
"What is that?" Alexsey's back, eyeing my skewer. Roan is with him, and Danyl, who's making his way through a plate of Tulumba, tasty little churro- type balls of deep-friend goodness.
"Want a bite?" I offer my lamb skewer. "It's Sufllage."
He leans forward and does something filthy. Something unimaginable for my chilly husband. Opening his mouth, he pulls a piece of meat off the skewer with his teeth, watching me the entire time. I stare, my mouth open as he chews, staring back and then licking the sauce off his lips.
"Delicious."
To my horror, a high, inarticulate little squeak escapes me.
"Liria!" I spin, relieved for a way out. Dua's waving at me. "Come play." She's standing by a battered upright piano.
"What would you like me to play?" I ask, wiping my greasy fingers with a napkin.
Dua looks around, most of the folks here are drunk or well on their way. The older people are getting nostalgic and sentimental, singing folk songs. "Something sweet," she says.
I dust my fingers lightly over the chipped keys. The piano may be beat up, but someone cared enough to tune it. I start with Duaje emrin tend, one of the few Albanian songs I know by heart.
The light, sweet melody seems to quiet the bar, the notes sailing over the smoky atmosphere.
Closing my eyes, I lean into the music, feeling the song flow through my fingertips and the piano keys.
In truth, I know so little about this side of my heritage.
I learned the language - badly - at my father's insistence, but it took me too long tonight to remember how good the food is, how beautiful the music; it's mournful, pleading, so emotional.
I play everything I can remember and sometimes, people join in, singing boisterously, sometimes they just listen, swaying and humming along. When I open my eyes, I'm startled to see everyone gathered around the piano, arms thrown over their buddy's shoulders, drinking and smiling.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it. For the first time since I came to New York, I feel welcome.