CHAPTER 15
Vaughn
I remind her of the day she stopped to talk to me in the lobby of the Grand Foyer, staring at the book of Russian poetry in my back pocket as I vacuumed the carpet. I gave her the book despite her protestations, and she invited me to meet her on the terrace to discuss it.
“I did, didn’t I?” she asks, reaching for some jam. “I asked you out. I’d never asked out a boy before.”
“You did a good job,” I tell her, sampling a curry chicken sandwich square. “I’d never had challah before that afternoon.”
“But you liked it.”
“I loved it.”
“I should have known then that you were Russian,” she says.
“Did you really like Marina Tsvetaeva?”
Her eyes water again. Letting them fill without blinking, she asks me, “ How is your life, my beloved? Hard as mine with another man? ”
In reciting Marina Tsvetaeva, she has answered my question in a way that slices open my heart.
“I read her poems over and over again after you left,” she confesses, wiping her eyes with a napkin.
“To answer her question—or yours, I guess—there was no one after you. There’s never been anyone but you.”
First, she recoils from the table. Then, she levels me with her eyes, anger making them fiery. “That’s a fucking lie. There were many .”
“But they didn’t mean anything.”
“They still happened.”
She clears her throat and takes a salmon and dill sandwich triangle from the elegant silver tray. There is no cream on it as there normally would be. I called ahead to be sure our table would be completely dairy-free.
“Should I go on?” I ask after a few minutes of silent eating.
“Yes.”
I talk about our second date, when she friend zoned me before dancing to “Somethin’ Stupid,” and our third, when we held hands walking home from the movies.
“Why didn’t you kiss me at that street corner?” she asks. “When that lady bumped into me and pushed me against you?”
“I’d kissed girls,” I say, flirting with her, “but not goddesses.”
She guffaws. “Give me a break!”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Kissing you was something I’d barely dared to dream about.”
“But you did kiss me,” she says with a shy smile. “At the park.”
“Under a tree, after Prokofiev, Holst, and Gershwin.” I grin at her. “I can’t fly United, you know. They play ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ too much.”
“‘Jupiter’ is ruined for me,” she confesses. “Some British composer used the melody for a hymn called ‘I Vow To Thee, My Country.’ They play it everywhere in London. I can’t escape it.”
“You hate it so much?”
“I hated the memory of it. I hated you ,” she says, staring at me for a second before dropping her eyes and taking another scone from the silver tiered tray.
“If you hated me,” I point out, “you wouldn’t have come today. You’re here—by your own admission—because you’re curious and hopeful.”
“I never—”
“Curious about why we broke up…and hopeful that Vaughn is still inside of me.” I say this while pressing my palm over my heart and holding her eyes with mine. “Right?”
She looks down, but not quickly enough for me to miss the twin tears that well in her eyes.
“Should I go on?” I ask her.
She nods without speaking, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at the white roses on the table.
***
“It wasn’t puppy love.
“Irina asked me that once—if what I felt for you was a crush or ‘puppy love,’ as she called it. Instead of answering her, I threw a glass against a wall, shattering it into tiny shards.
“I loved you.
“I loved you madly, Sasha. Wildly.
“After that concert in the park, you went to New York, and a day later, Chelsea’s nurse contacted me.
“Chelsea Warren was the first foster mother I remember, though it turns out she wasn’t a state-sanctioned foster parent. When I visited her, I found out that I was sold to her by the people who kidnapped me at the zoo. Chelsea’s partner didn’t like me. I spoke Russian and wet the bed and didn’t understand where I was or how I’d gotten there. I missed my parents and siblings. I was confused and frightened and a lot of work. So one day, Chelsea dropped me off at a local emergency room and told me to sit there. I sat there all day, into the night. Eventually a social worker was called and—to make a long story short—I was put into the U.S. foster care system.
“Anyway…speed up twenty years and Chelsea’s in hospice, dying of cancer. She felt guilty about what had happened and wanted to talk to me, to make amends before dying. While you were in New York, I went to see her. I sat by her bedside, and she told me—I mean…it turned out she suspected who I really was. At the time, my kidnapping was all over the news. I was the right age, clearly in distress, and speaking in a foreign language that sounded like Russian. She said she thought that I might be Ivan Stepanov. That’s why she left me anonymously at an emergency room. She didn’t want to be accused of kidnapping me.
“When I left her hospice, I went straight to a library. I got on the internet and read about the Ivan Stepanov kidnapping and the Stepanov family, and even though I couldn’t see myself in the pictures of little Ivan…I wondered if it was possible we could be the same person. I sent a letter to Irina Stepanova, care of her non-profit, with my picture.
“Two weeks later, you came home from New York.
“I took the bus to Delaware with Sayaka and spent that perfect day on the beach with you and your family. You told me that you were moving to New York and asked me to come with you. And Sasha, I swear to God, it felt like my life was finally beginning. I planned to join you there. It was a fresh start in a new city with the woman I loved. I could see it. I could taste it. It was…everything.
“But two days later, Irina Danielova Stepanova showed up backstage at the Kennedy Center and changed the entire direction of my life.”
***
“Why didn’t you tell me about Chelsea?” Sasha asks, pouring herself another cup of tea.
“When was I supposed to do that?”
“We talked every day while I was in New York that summer.”
“Oh. So I was supposed to drop that casually into conversation while you walked from your dorm to the theater?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“I was supposed to tell you that my first foster mother, who actually bought me from the people who kidnapped me from a zoo, was dying of cancer, and told me I might be the little Russian boy from the news?” I lean forward, my eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Yes!” she cries. “I’m serious. I wish I’d known!”
“Well, excuse me for keeping things light when you were in New York and I was in D.C, but we’d only been dating for a few weeks, and I didn’t want you to think I was nuts.”
“You could’ve told me,” she says softly. “I could’ve handled it.”
Something I’ve had a lot of time to think about is retroactive vision, retroactive evaluation. And it sucks. You think you would’ve . You think you could’ve . But the reality is that you don’t know, and it’s unfair to speculate about outcomes.
“Okay. Fine. Sure. I guess I could’ve,” I say, sitting back in my chair and viewing her from weary eyes. “But it would’ve been a pretty deep and weird thing to share when it wasn’t even confirmed. Almost like a conspiracy theory. A Charles Dickens story. I was the child of billionaires, kidnapped from the zoo. And remember the context in which I learned this news: a dying woman, semi-delirious, trying to deal with her guilt, and ease her conscience before she died. I had no idea if what she was saying was true.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I was supposed to tell you I was the son of Russian billionaires? The son of Irina Stepanova, whose name you would’ve recognized? Come on, Sasha. I would’ve sounded totally unhinged.”
Her lips twitch, then grimace. “Fine. I get it.”
“You can’t be pissed that I kept it to myself.”
“I just…I wish you hadn’t,” she says, sipping her tea again.
“That’s so unfair,” I tell her. “All I wanted—in the whole world—was to be loved by you. I didn’t want to sound like some crazy orphan who thought his biological parents were rich and loving. Like I was a kidnapped prince. That’s the stuff of fairytales. I would’ve sounded ridiculous.”
“And yet, it was true.”
“It just went too fast,” I tell her, feeling frustrated.
“You came to my apartment that night,” she says, “and I was packing for New York…”
Her voice drifts off, and I know she’s caught in a reverie. I am, too.
“Irina was standing in the doorway behind you,” she says.
“Yes.”
“I thought you met her at the theater and brought her to my apartment to meet me.”
I gulp, and it’s painful. “I did, in a manner of speaking.”
She sits back on the couch, hugging a pillow to her side and staring at me with sad, tired eyes. “Keep going.”
***
“Irina took me back to Moscow.
“And that’s where the next part of my life began.
“We flew all night, but when we arrived in Moscow, it was afternoon. A limousine was waiting for us at the airport, and it took me to her home in Rublyovka, where she lives with my sister, Sofia. I was assigned an apartment of rooms in the lower level of the mansion—my own bedroom, bathroom, living room, dining room, gym, sauna…the lap of luxury. She told me I could drive any of the dozen or so cars in the garage, but I didn’t even have a diving license.
“For the first week I was there, I slept all the time, my body trying to figure out the time difference and emotionally exhausted from everything that had happened. I didn’t speak any Russian. Luckily, they spoke decent English, but I was confused all over again, just as I’d been with Chelsea. My life had doubled back to where I was when I was four years old. I didn’t understand what the fuck what was going on.
“The first time, my heart was in Russia with my family, and I was lost in America.
“The second time, my heart was in America with you, and I was lost in Russia.
“My mother and sister took me shopping and to a salon, but no matter what I looked like, I felt out of place. My mother had dermatologists sand my face, and I bulked up in my personal gym. I started to learn what clothes were trendy,and started to appreciate Russian food, but I was longing for home.
“For home…which was you , Sasha.
“Do you remember those days? We were trying to keep in touch via text, trying to adjust to the eight-hour time difference between New York and Moscow. You encouraged me to get to know my family. Remember? But I didn’t want them. I wanted you. After a lifetime of wanting to know my family, I had met them, but I didn’t fit in with them. It was such a heartbreak. I just wanted to go home to you.
“I was on the brink of leaving Moscow to find you in New York when someone miraculous happened…
“After a few weeks of trying to fit in and failing, Mikhail showed up. My half brother returned to Moscow to meet me. And I knew —Sasha, I know he’s an asshole—but I could feel it the second we met. He loved me. Mikhail loved me.
“That. Changed. Everything.
“For better or worse, that changed everything.”
***
Sasha
“For worse,” I hear myself mutter.
I’m about to add, He ruined you , but I stop myself. I don’t want to put Ivan so much on the defensive that he stops telling his story. I’m learning so much, and I’m desperate to know everything so I can put all the pieces of the puzzle together and see everything clearly.
“In some ways,” he agrees with a deep sigh.
“You see it? You know it’s true?”
“Of course,” he says. “I lost you . That’s the biggest tell of all.”
“Why did you let it happen?”
“Because he was my brother. And he loved me,” he says simply. “For all my life, I wanted to know my family—my real family—and be one of them. To feel that innate sense of kinship that most people are born with. With my mother and Sofia, I didn’t feel that emotional connection. But with Mikhail, I did. And for a while, I was drunk with it.”
“‘Drunk’ is the right word.”
“Drunk with belonging,” he says. “Only two people in my life have ever made me feel like I was truly wanted. You.” He pauses. “And him.”
It is at once poignant, pathetic, and profoundly honest, and I find that despite his behavior, which was repugnant, I can’t fault him for the deep, intense love he must have felt from and for his brother. It’s the manifestation of that relationship that I object to—that Ivan somehow evolved from the negation of everything that was wonderful about Vaughn.
“What were those years like?” It hurts to ask, but I must.
He averts his eyes from mine, staring at the roses again. His neck and ears color red. He is ashamed and embarrassed, in which I take a bit of comfort. It means he may not be morally lost.
“You already know. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s part of you now. May as well own up to it.”
“Fine. Yes. I—I partied. I drank and did drugs and slept with a lot of women.”
I flashback to the way Mikhail treated the waitress at the Skladmann exhibition. To the way he tosses around the words “slut” and “whore” when he talks about women. I remember the pictures I found on the internet of the Stepanov brothers with the famous madam and a handful of her “best” girls.
“Who were mistreated by you and your brother and his friends.”
“Hold on!” His head whips up. “I never forced anyone. I never hurt anyone. I would never do that!”
“Oh! That’s great. You didn’t hurt anyone, which means you never exploited anyone. So…let’s see…you were only with women of commensurate net worth and social standing, right? Socialites? Nepo-babies?”
He doesn’t answer, which twists the knife already in my heart.
“You were only with women making informed choices about their bodies in a way that wasn’t out of desperation or purely transactional?”
He looks up at me, his lips tight, his eyes churning and wild.
“No.” I lean forward, blinking my eyes as they fill with tears. “You were with sex workers, too.”
He takes a deep breath and sighs, dropping my eyes. I can barely hear his voice when he whispers, “Sometimes.”
“You paid women for sex.” My stomach rolls over. “You exploited them.”
“No. I—like you said, we paid them for their services.”
I shake my head with disgust. “Do you really believe the women you were with chose that life? That they wanted it?”
“Some of them.” His eyes are angry when they slam into mine. “And some of them wanted the thrill of fucking a Stepanov brother.”
“Wow,” I say, recoiling from him. “You are so full of yourself, it’s literally gross.”
“What do you want from me, Sasha? Yes. I was with paid escorts. But yes, I was also with socialites. Some women who had money. Some who made money from the act.” His face is crimson. His eyes are narrow. “Most of them wanted it. I’m sure of that.”
“Are you really that delusional?” I wince. “How many of the women you paid were young and vulnerable, desperate for a better life, doing whatever they had to do to make money? To care for children or aging parents? To make ends meet?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I didn’t ask.”
Of course you didn’t. I throw up in my mouth, then swallow it down. My throat burns. I think I’m going to be sick again. Who is this person sitting in front of me? And why am I still sitting across from him?
“…and yes, I snorted cocaine. And yes, I dropped acid and tried ecstasy. And yes, I drank way too much vodka and champagne. There are nights I don’t remember anything.” He sits back in his chair, massaging his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “And no, it didn’t make me happy. But it’s what Mikhail did, and I—at least at first—wanted to be like him, fit in with him, belong with him, live this confusing new life with him.”
My chest actually physically hurts, and my eyes burn with tears. This conversation is a lot. Maybe even…too much.
“I need a break.” I place my napkin on the table and stand up.
As I leave, his hand reaches for mine, gripping it like a lifeline. “I’m sorry, Sasha. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I wrench my hand away. “Me, too.”
***
Looking at my face in the mirror, I’m not surprised to see that my cheeks are blotchy from crying. My eyes are bloodshot and tired. Most of my makeup has smudged or run. I wipe it away, noting that I look a whole lot older than twenty-six right this minute.
It was heartbreaking and humiliating to receive those drunken phone calls from Vaughn, at odd hours, with him slurring his speech and crying. He was obviously drunk or high as he rambled on about the women he’d met and apologized for what he’d done with them.
He was in crisis , I think, though he probably would’ve just called it “partying.”
In some worlds, I guess substance abuse and sleeping around is partying. But not in mine. And not in the world of the Vaughn I once knew. And not in the world of anyone I care to be with now.
I want, as I’ve always wanted, a good and decent life.
I want to inspire others and be useful and leave a positive mark on this world.
I want to dance ballet until I can’t anymore.
I want to find a good man, who loves me, and will love the children we have someday.
I want to build a life with him that includes my Bubbie and my parents, my brothers, their wives, and their children.
I want to watch my own children grow into kind, useful, self-sufficient adults who have deeply ingrained moral compasses, compassion, and goodness.
I want to grow old surrounded by family, celebrating birthdays and holidays, and feeling good about the choices I made and the mark I left on this world.
It’s clear that I can’t have that future—the future I’ve always dreamed of—with Ivan Stepanov. He is lazy and entitled, selfish and exploitative. He has turned into someone I don’t recognize.
I don’t see much of Vaughn in him, aside from his openness today, and his shame at some of his behavior. My curiosity—about whether or not Vaughn still exists—has been slaked. Vaughn is gone…and Ivan sits in his skin.
I hold a cold paper towel to my cheeks until the blotchiness subsides, then splash my face with water, re-do my ponytail and freshen my lip gloss.
Lifting my chin with determination, I leave the bathroom and return to the table.
***
“You’re back,” he says. “I wondered if you’d left without saying goodbye.”
I sit down, but I don’t put my napkin back on my lap. I won’t be staying long.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I tell him, shrugging into my coat. “But I’m leaving now.”
“Isn’t there still more to say?” he asks, leaning forward, his forehead furrowing.
“I don’t think so.”
“You hate me that much?”
“I have no room for you in my life,” I tell him honestly and simply. “Over anything else, you chose your family, and I get it. I really do. I choose mine, too. I choose the kind of people they are, kind and good and—”
“I’m not all bad, Sasha!”
“When’s the last time you partied with your brother?”
“I went to a club on Friday night after Lara’s, but I didn’t do any drugs, and I didn’t sleep with anyone.”
“When was the last time you used the services of a paid sex worker?”
His jaw tightens. “A few weeks ago.”
“Before or after we met in London?”
Somehow, he finds the courage to look at me. “After.”
I gasp softly as my eyes widen in surprise. I guess I was harboring some ridiculous, self-important hope that the mere act of seeing me in London would be enough to make Ivan Stepanov change his ways. What a fool I am.
“I see.” I take a deep breath. “What do you do, Ivan? During the day? For a living? Anything useful? Anything that makes the world a better place?”
He stares at me. Blinks his eyes. Doesn’t say anything.
“I see.”
“You’re judging me.”
“I’m asking you questions about yourself.”
“You think you’re a better person than I am,” he rails at me. “You are, okay? You win! You’re a beautiful, talented woman with a wonderful family and a life full of love and support. You had advantages I could only dream of. You haven’t had a hard day in your whole life, princess.”
“How dare you!” I hiss at him. “My hip was crushed in an accident last year…something you’d actually know if you got your head out of your ass and thought about someone else for a second. We’ve been talking about you all day. Never once have you asked about me—about how I’ve been doing, about my family, about my life. You’re a self-centered asshole, Ivan. Believe me, I’ve had some really hard days.”
He stares at me, his eyes wide, his lips parted. “Wh—Sasha! I didn’t know! You—you were hurt? What did—you did what to your…your hip?”
“A car ran into a group of people on a New York sidewalk last January. I was one of them. My hip was crushed. I had it surgically replaced. I’ve been working for a year to get back on the stage.”
“My god! Sasha! Why didn’t you tell me? What can I do? How can I help?”
“You can’t,” I tell him. “You can’t do anything for me.”
“But dancing is your life.”
“So, imagine how that life has been this past year, and don’t ever call me ‘princess’ again.” I shake my head at him, leaning forward and nailing him with my eyes. “Didn’t you wonder—for a second—why I was consulting at the RAB instead of dancing The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center? No. No, you didn’t. Because you’re too self-absorbed to think about other people.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You didn’t ask! Vaughn would’ve asked how I’d been. He would’ve cared!”
“Sasha, I do care about you!”
“No,” I say, buttoning my jacket. “No, you don’t. You care about yourself. About your degenerate brother. About your houses and helicopters and fancy restaurants and how cool or beautiful people think you are.” I put my purse on my arm, and slide to the edge of the loveseat. “But you aren’t cool or beautiful. You were. Oh my god, once upon a time, you were the coolest and most beautiful person I’d ever met. But now? Now it breaks my heart to be around you.” I stand up, and he tilts his head back to stare up at me. “I’m sorry the beginning of your life was so awful. I have so much sympathy for what you went through as a child. But I have no place in my life for what you’ve become.”
“Sasha—”
“I wish you the best, Ivan Stepanov,” I tell him. I half expect my eyes to tear up and my voice to break. I’m relieved when they don’t. “But we’re done. Don’t ever contact me again.”
I slide from the gap between the loveseat and the table and step into the restaurant proper, walking purposefully between tables, through the archway of the Verrière Café, and out the doors of the Intercontinental Hotel. A line of taxis is waiting, and I slide into the back of one.
“I need the train to London,” I tell the driver. “The Chunnel train.”
“ Oui, mademoiselle. You go to Gare du Nord .”
“ Merci .”
He starts the meter, and we drive away.