Chapter 9 The Hungry Dog #2
Much like Vitali, Misha was trapped for dinner. He took up an entire side of the table, and even then looked strained. But, he made Mama very happy with how much he ate—complimenting her cooking all along the way. She made borsch, and he said it was his favorite. ‘Just like my babushka makes.’
“One day I’ll be a babushka,” Mama sighed, tragically shaking her head. “Although maybe I’ll grow old and die before that happens.”
I rolled my eyes.
When she began clearing the table, Misha wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and leaned forward, doing his best to keep the volume down. He wasn’t very successful.
“You okay?”
“What? I’m fine,” I said.
He shook his head in frustration, then his eyes darted to the door where Mama disappeared with the nearly empty pot.
“Listen here, Katya. I’m supposed to tell Vitali if anything happens. Well, things happened. And I need to tell him. So.”
My fingers dug into my lap under the table. “I’m fine.”
“There’s traffic, and it’s cold as ass out there. I’m already late—even if it’s a worthy cause, and let me tell you, this isn’t a worthy cause. So make it short.”
I opened and closed my mouth. The sound of water splashing said Mama began the dishes.
“Were you—? The man who..?” I asked under my breath.
“No,” Misha said matter-of-factly.
I sighed, placated but not defeated. “Yes, I’m fine. I fell and my butt is a little bruised, but I’m fine. I didn’t go to work today.”
“Hm.” He seemed satisfied and leaned back, just to bump his shaved head against the bookcase. “So not hurt? Nothing was taken?”
“Can I talk to Vitali?”
“No.”
I crossed my arms. “I’ll tell Mama you like mint chocolate. She’s been reserving a box since her birthday in February for just such an occasion. You won’t leave for hours.”
His nostrils flared. “I do like mint chocolate, but—”
“MAMA!”
It surprised me once again how fast Misha moved, because his giant hand was clasped over my mouth before the word was out, but the damage was done. In ten minutes before us sat tea and mint chocolates… and some crumbly cookies that probably predated World War II.
“I smell her pre-heating the oven,” I told him, tapping my fingers on the table. “You don’t have long.”
“You’re a war criminal with your tactics. You want a job?”
“Why was that man following me?”
Misha rubbed his head, then tried to pinch the delicate teacup between his fingers. “Aren’t you glad he was?”
“Misha—someone got shot right in front of me last night. Shot.”
“Kindness of strangers.”
I didn’t touch my tea. “I can’t… I can’t be the reason someone dies. I don’t care who it is. I’m responsible.”
“Ah, yes,” he agreed, taking a sip. “Very responsible for standing there, minding your business. Downright criminal.”
“Did he hire someone to watch me?”
“We just all want to see you safe, don’t we? Do you have lemon?”
“No.”
He sighed and listened for Mama, then for Maxim, and when he was satisfied we were still alone, he leaned in.
“I’m not the one you should be asking these things and I sure as hren am not going to be the one to tell you.
You’re not hurt, and nothing important was stolen, right?
That’s all I needed to know. Everything else is between you and Vitali. ”
Tap-tap went my fingers on the porcelain.
“I can see if we have powdered lemon,” I said.
“…What uh… what is she pre-heating the oven for?”
“Vetrushka. I saw her mixing the sweet cottage cheese.”
He considered this. “I’m not going to get on Vitali’s shit side for you, or anyone. Deal?”
“Deal.” I smiled before I knew it. “You can’t tell me where he is but… do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Those are nice roses.”
I glanced at the vase. “How many dozen are there?”
“Two.”
“Are they… were they picked today… or a different day?”
“The day he called you. Roses are retroactive growers.”
“That’s not a real thing. But… by the New Year?” I asked, hopefully.
To my relief, he nodded, then paused his chewing and took a moment to stare blankly at the tea set. “You should invite him over for that,” he said finally, the words forcefully squeezing through his teeth. “He isn’t busy.”
“Alright,” I smiled and tried to choose my words with care. “So… he doesn’t go out with the… the guys?”
Misha shook his head. “He does. But that’s work. And we all have mamas to visit.”
All but Vitali.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
His face twisted like a man who’d never been surprised in his life. “Why?”
“You could come over too, if you want. I’m sure Mama will make plenty of food.”
His nostrils flared again, and he chewed the cookie some more, then took a sip from the comically small cup. “I’m going to see my babushka in Tyumen.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Listen,” he said, setting the cup down, “you don’t need to know where I grew up.
I have to go. Here is my cellphone number.
You don’t call it unless you have to. It doesn’t mean you’ll get Vitali—it means you’ll get me and I’m moody when I don’t get my beauty sleep.
You don’t say a word more than you have to, and you sure as fuck don’t say it near listening ears. ”
He stood, only bumping into the couch once, and headed for the hallway. I stared at the roses. Just over a week left.
I took off after Misha in time to catch him being assaulted with leftovers wrapped in plastic.
A whole freshly baked vetrushka was among them.
I heroically rescued him, shoving him out the door and onto the landing before Mama tortured his entire life story right out of him. It was good to leave some mystery.
He didn’t press the elevator button right away, just stood there in that sad lighting, thumbing the still-hot food in his hands. Then, he glanced at the door. I took the hint and softly shut it, and even leaned against it so Mama couldn’t muscle it open to tell me to put on a hat.
“I like you, Katya,” Misha said hesitantly. “You ever been to Tyumen?”
I let out a ‘ha!’ “Are you inviting me?”
“The rural area—that’s where my babushka lives,” he said, ignoring me. “It’s not always good people out there. Sometimes a drunk asshole—he’ll tie up a guard dog outside to keep the thieves and rapists away. But then, it’s winter. And he will forget to feed it. You understand?”
“Yes…?” I said. I didn’t.
“He will forget to feed it and days will go by and the dog is starved. The next time the drunk goes out there, the dog does not have an interest in rapists and thieves. It tears its master’s throat out instead.”
“What… what does that mean?”
“It means the dog will never be a guard dog again. What it will remember for the rest of its life is hunger, but you see, there is no chain anymore.” He drew in a breath and pressed the button.
The elevator lit up, two floors away. He wasn’t facing me when he said, “If you happen to come by money, maybe money you have already, it would be good for your family to see Crimea. Hell, St. Petersburg. Ass-fuck Siberia. Somewhere the dog can’t find you. Because it is a very hungry dog.”
The elevator rattled under his weight, and the doors trembled and squeaked as they closed.
* * *
About Russia:
borsch – traditional beet soup
hren – swear word equivalent to ‘hell’
ushanka – traditional fur hat with ear flaps
vetrushka – sweet cottage cheese pastry