Mikhail
My maid sets a plate of toast and basted eggs in front of me, and I nod a thanks as I look over my emails, scrolling through my phone with one hand and sipping a coffee with the other.
Across from me, my mother watches with the same expression she used to wear when I was seven years old and came to breakfast with mud on my shoes. Disapproval sharpened by affection. I ignore it.
“You work too much,” she says drolly. She reaches for my hand, and I give it to her. Her fingers are cold, the skin thin as paper against mine. “But I know it is important work. A big politician. I wish your father were alive to see you now.”
The maid sets down the coffeepot and retreats before I can involve her in the conversation.
I tear off a piece of toast and drag it through the yolk of my basted egg.
A familiar pressure settles behind my ribs. “If my father were alive, he would tell me politics is theater for men too weak to hold a knife.”
My mother gives me a look. “Your father said many foolish things.”
“He married you. He could not have been entirely foolish.”
Her face softens. I hate how much I like seeing that. She strokes her thumb over my knuckles. “You should marry too.”
I pull my hand back. “No.”
Mama sits in her wheelchair beneath a wool blanket, her silver hair brushed neatly away from her face. Today is a bad day. I can see it in the tightness around her mouth and the slight tremble in the hand resting beside her tea.
Yesterday, she crossed the sitting room with only a cane and complained when the maid followed too closely. This morning, lifting her cup seems a heavy burden.
Still, she dressed for breakfast. Still, she insisted on coming downstairs. Still, she has enough strength to make my life difficult.
“Mikhail.”
“No.”
“You say this like I asked you to throw yourself into the river.”
“I would have considered that longer.”
She swats weakly at my sleeve. “Don’t be cruel to your mother. I want to see you married to a good woman before I die.”
“My father got the last good woman when he married you.”
That shuts her up. Only for a moment.
Then her expression turns soft in a way that makes me wish I had kept my mouth closed. “Oh, Misha. I won’t be around forever. You’re always so busy. I don’t want you to be alone forever.”
“I’m not alone,” I say.
She looks past me, at the guards stationed discreetly beyond the dining room, at the maid clearing my untouched plate, at the polished marble floors and the towering windows and the house too large for two people.
“No,” she says quietly. “Of course not. You have your guards.”
My phone vibrates beside my plate.
Olga Dobrovaa.
I consider letting it ring.
Mama glances at the screen. “Who is Olga?”
“Minister of Education.”
“For the region?”
“No, Mama. For a small village in Siberia. She calls me each morning to discuss chalk.”
“Do not be sarcastic with me.”
The phone continues to vibrate.
“You should answer,” she says.
“You just accused me of working too much.” My mother is staring into my soul with the icy blue eyes I did not inherit, and I stare back as I answer the call. “Yes?”
“You sound delighted,” Olga says.
“I was eating.”
“You could have finished your bite.”
“That would imply I respect your time. Say what you need.”
Mama’s eyebrows lift. I avoid looking at her.
Olga exhales sharply. “I called to compliment you.”
“Then you have already made a mistake.”
“You approved the revised education budget.”
I take another bite of toast. “Apparently.”
“You sign documents without reading them?”
“Only yours.”
Mama taps one finger against the table. Eat, the gesture says. I obey before she can interrupt aloud.
Olga continues. “You also approved the hospital allocation.”
“That is not your ministry.”
“I am capable of caring about people who do not work in schools.”
“A dangerous habit.”
“And I hear you may support the teacher salary increase.”
“You hear too much.”
“My staff speaks to your staff. Occasionally, government functions.”
Mama mouths, Is she married? I stare at her, and she repeats it silently, slower this time, as if I have lost the ability to understand Russian along with my patience.
I turn slightly away from her.
Olga says, “I think I have finally figured you out.”
The toast stops halfway to my mouth. My thoughts narrow immediately. What has she found? A name? An account? A contractor who speaks too freely when frightened? Something left behind by my father that I failed to bury deeply enough?
Olga is inconvenient, but inconvenience alone is not a reason to kill a minister.
Exposure would be.
If she has uncovered the organization, there are steps before death. Pressure. Compromise. A private conversation about the fragility of careers and reputations. If those fail, removal remains an option.
Not desirable.
Viable.
“What do you believe you have figured out?” I ask.
“You are not really the backward statesman you pretend to be.”
The tension leaves my shoulders so subtly that only Mama notices. Her gaze sharpens.
I place the toast back onto my plate.
Olga sounds pleased with herself. “You stand at podiums and talk about tradition and fiscal discipline as though school lunches will bring down the state. Then you quietly approve my entire budget.”
“Not your entire budget.”
“Ninety-four percent.”
“The remaining six was sentimental nonsense.”
“It was arts funding.”
“As I said.”
Mama gives me a look of disgust. I lift one shoulder.
“You approved enough,” Olga says. “And the hospitals. And now the salaries.”
“I have not approved the salary increase.”
“Yet.”
“You are very confident for a woman who has called to beg.”
“I called to thank you.”
“You called to confirm that I am secretly kinder than I appear.”
“And are you?”
“No.”
Mama reaches across the table and nudges my plate closer to me, although it is already directly in front of me. “You have not eaten,” she says.
Olga goes quiet.
I close my eyes briefly. “Mama.”
“Your eggs are cold.”
“Is that your mother?” Olga asks.
“No.”
“I heard her.”
“Then why ask?”
Mama leans toward the phone. “Ask if she is married.”
I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am speaking to her about the regional education budget.”
“She sounds educated.”
“She is Minister of Education.”
“Then she should be.”
On the phone, Olga says, “I can still hear both of you.”
“Good,” I tell her. “Then you understand why this conversation must end.”
“I was attempting to acknowledge that I misjudged you,” she says.
“You did.”
“I assumed your conservatism extended to deliberate neglect.”
“I object to instability, waste, and fashionable ideas promoted by people who will not remain long enough to repair the damage.”
Mama hides a smile behind her cup.
Olga is silent for a moment. Then she says, “But you believe schools and hospitals create stability.”
“Educated children become useful adults. Paid teachers remain in classrooms. Staffed hospitals prevent angry citizens from dying in corridors. None of this is revolutionary.”
“It almost sounds like you care.”
“I care about order.”
“Of course.”
The amusement in her voice irritates me. She believes she has uncovered something tender. She has uncovered arithmetic.
“You should be more careful, Olga.”
“With what?”
“With becoming comfortable.”
Her tone cools. “I am not comfortable.”
“You called my private number before eight in the morning.”
“You gave me this number.”
“So I could reach you. Not so that you could reach me.”
“I take it back. Maybe you are the backward statesmen I thought you were.”
“And maybe you are not the right the person for the position of Minister of Education.”
The line goes quiet. Mama stops pretending not to listen.
I lean back in my chair.
Olga’s position as Minister of Education for Moscow Oblast was not a gift. She is qualified. Intelligent. Persistent. Capable of turning a ten-minute budget meeting into a moral trial conducted entirely through narrowed eyes.
But qualifications are abundant. Appointments are not.
Her name reached the regional assembly because I did not object. The committee chairman supported her because he knew I did. The men who confirmed her understood that she would not become inconvenient to them unless I permitted it.
Olga knows this in theory. I want her to feel it.
“The regional assembly confirmed me,” she says carefully.
“Do you think they arrived at that decision alone? Do you think no one opposed you? I am a powerful friend to have, Olga, and an even more powerful enemy. It would do you well to act like you know it.”
Mama’s lips press together.
Olga’s voice quiets. “I earned this position.”
“Yes,” I say. Mama sets down her cup hard enough to make the spoon jump against the saucer. I glance at her. She shakes her head at me. “And so did many others.”
Olga breathes out slowly. “I called to say thank you.”
“And now you understand the appropriate amount of gratitude.”
“You enjoy making people hate you.”
“Hate is reliable.”
My other phone begins vibrating on the sideboard. Only five men have that number. One is dead. Arkady’s name appears on the screen.
Mama sees the change in my face. Olga continues speaking, but I no longer hear the words. Arkady does not call this early unless something has happened that cannot be entrusted to a message.
“I will sign your proposal this afternoon,” I say. “Now that you understand me.”
“Governor Korolev—”
I end the call.
Mama watches as I stand and retrieve the second phone. “Sit,” she says.
“I need to take this.”
“You are eating breakfast.”
“I am aware.”
“You are always aware. You are never present.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and walk past her to answer Arkady. “Speak.” I leave my plate and Mama and walk toward my bedroom to finish getting dressed.
“There was a problem on the eastern freight corridor.”
Mama follows me into my bedroom, her feet pulling her along the hallway, the rubber of her wheels squeaky against the marble floors. She watches me from the doorway. “What kind of problem?” I ask as I stand in front of a mirror and button my shirt all the way up.