Stalina (7 page)

I had been at the Liberty for more than two years, and Svetlana for almost six months. Each of us was at home here now, perhaps strange to say. The motel was very quiet this afternoon. I got Svetlana and brought her into the office. Mr. Suri liked to play with her.

Caw! Caw!

That crow was very protective of Svetlana. I’d never seen anything like that. She did not fly away when I picked up the cat.

Caw! Caw!

“Svetlana, you are a feisty kitty. Come here. Mr. Suri is back. Let’s get back to the office.”

As I scooped her up, I saw the remnants of Mr. Suri’s drawings in the dirt under the pine trees. He had drawn a map of Windsor Avenue with arrows pointing in several directions and circles around squares that seem to be the other motels. I wondered what sort of plan he was thinking of. The wind had stopped as it often did at this time of day. The trees here reminded me of Lake Ladoga near my family’s dacha in Karelia. Pine trees surrounded the water. There was always a bed of fallen needles three or four inches thick that we would walk through to get back to the house. A soft scent of pine followed us as we stirred up the ground in our bare feet. Sticky bits of sap would stick to our toes and heels. I would do a little jig to show off my needle-covered feet, and my parents would clap out the fast rhythms of the
barnya
, a folk dance that builds to an uncontrollable frenzy.

Here at the motel we used a very strong pine disinfectant called King Pine to clean the rooms. It hung heavily in the air and burned the eyes, but ultimately did the job of masking the smells of spilled liquor in the carpets and cigarettes in the drapery. My dream was to scent every room to match its fantasy scene. After all, I was an expert in the arena of aromas. The smell of rain and wet roses for “Gazebo in a Rainstorm” and cotton candy for “Roller Coaster Fun Park.” At our lab in Russia, the manufacturing of scents became a cover for the vats of arsenic and anthrax we had in storage for covert operations. Make the poison smell sweet, even if it was an odorless killer like anthrax. I could be arrested for revealing such secrets. Most of the people working in the lab did not know we were making anything poisonous. I knew what was there because the technicians had to come to me for the chemical compositions and the delicate balances needed to stabilize each vat of poison and to create its camouflage bouquet. We mastered over one hundred scents. In addition to the sweet smells of lingonberries and such, we found ways to make the scents of freshly printed newsprint and an electrical storm. Of them all, my favorite was that of freshly baked bread.

“Svetlana, I bet you’d like a room scented with catnip or tuna, wouldn’t you, little kitten?”

Mr. Suri came into the office; he looked agitated. There was something about him I found very attractive. It had been a long time since I had felt anything for a man, but he intrigued me. I wanted to know more about him. I liked watching Mr. Suri walk. He had long legs, and his slacks danced around them as he moved. He was graceful, and I thought that he must be a good dancer. I like that in a man.

*  *  *

“Mr. Suri, how was your day?” I asked, coming in from outside with Svetlana in my arms.

“In order to be approved for a new septic system, it seems I have to join the Kiwanis Club.”

“I am familiar with these kinds of things. It was typical in Russia.”

“I’m not a joiner,” he said. “I just want a decent place for the you-know-what to go.”

“Mr. Suri, we have a situation.” I attempted to tell him about the comatose customer.

“We will have a very bad situation if I can’t properly deal with people’s—”

“Yes, well we have a man unconscious in room two.”

“Oh great, now the police will come. That’s all we need.”

“His lady friend didn’t want any help.”

“He’s alive, I hope?”

“I haven’t seen him, but all she wanted was ice.”

“I could use a drink myself.”

I liked how honest he was. “I have vodka,” I told him.

“They want me to contribute five hundred dollars to become a member of the local chapter, and then they’ll give me the permit to hire another member to dig the leach field that we need to make a proper septic system.”

“Leeches?” I asked.

“I wonder how many of the Kiwanis Club brothers are motel customers,” he asked. “I’ll see at the next meeting I go to.”

“That could be very good for business. Five hundred dollars is a small investment,” I added.

He played with his mustache. “What about this gentleman in room two?” he asked.

“I added another hour to their stay.”

“They have until four forty-five?” he asked.

“Correct. I’ll go knock on the door to see how they are doing.”

“I don’t think you should get involved, Stalina.”

“His lady friend sounded upset. I don’t mind helping out.”

“It’s on your own time,” he said sternly.

He put his hand on top of mine. His touch embarrassed and distracted me, and I dropped Svetlana. She scrambled under the desk and was trying to wiggle through a hole in the wall.

“I hope that cat will earn her keep and catch some mice,” he said, suddenly placing the hand that touched mine into his slacks pocket, and he jingled some loose coins. I stared at the pocket. The bottle of vodka was in the cabinet under the desk in between a broken fax machine and several rolls of toilet paper. I fumbled around for the cat and at the same time picked up the vodka.

“What’s that cat’s name again? Vodka?”

“No, Svet-lana,” I pronounced her name slowly, “like Stalin’s daughter, but Vodka’s a good name for a cat. Why leeches?”

“Stalina, didn’t you have plumbing in Russia?”

“Leningrad is a very civilized city. There is central plumbing. Sort of.”

“And what about in the country?”

“Leeches had nothing to do with it,” I said indignantly.

“Some other time I’ll explain about leach fields. What about room two? Or excuse me, the ‘Roller Coaster Fun Park.’ Those rooms might be causing more trouble than we need.”

I loved his efficiency, but he worried too much. Little Svetlana would be a good mouse catcher, and the rooms would make him money.

“The kitten needs to go back to the linen room, and then I’ll see what’s going on in roller coaster land.”

“Let her stay here—maybe she’ll catch something. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Stalina, please stop calling me sir.”

“Suri, I meant, Mr. Sur-i.”

Outside the wind had picked up again. I’d been monitoring the cracks in the concrete path along the front of the motel. They were getting bigger. The roots from the pine trees were growing under the driveway and breaking up the cement. Mr. Suri’s Delta ’88 was parked near the trees. He loved that car. It was his symbol of America. My symbol was the Liberty Motel and all it offered its guests. The freedom to love, to share an intimate time away from all your worries. Through my room designs, I had made a place for my customers to let their minds travel beyond their difficult circumstances. They could enjoy happiness, no oppression, for a short time, and it did not cost so much. There was great freedom in the value of my fantasy rooms. They might not be for everyone, but those who came kept returning. I took great pride in this, and it was here I found happiness I had never known. I thought the Liberty Motel was a place of beauty for the soul.

I walked with the vodka bottle in my hand over to the linen room, where Mara was asleep. I hoped she had brought the ice to the Roller Coaster Room couple. The pink door to the linen room stuck like all the other doors.

“Mara,” I said as the door whined.

The light was out.

“Mara!”

“Huh,” she responded, sounding dazed. “I was having such a bad dream.”

“Did you bring the ice to room two?”

“I knocked, but no one came to the door. There was something about a vacuum in my dream. I was outside vacuuming, and one of those crows that lives in the pine trees got sucked into the tube. The vacuum took over and was pulling up everything in sight, including the clouds and the stoplights on Windsor Avenue. I couldn’t let go, and the whole time the crow was screeching
CAW! CAW!
from inside the vacuum.”

“I think it reflects your conflicts about work.”

“Please, don’t analyze me. Isn’t your shift over?”

“Never mind,” I said, closing the door.

“Stalina, what are you going to do with that bottle of vodka?” she said as I closed the door.

“It is to help a difficult situation,” I replied.

The door to room two looked like all the others, painted pink with a hammered copper number nailed to the front. I could smell cigarette smoke, menthol mixed with our pine disinfectant. A nice smell, I thought.

Knock. Knock.

No answer.

Knock. Knock
.

I hear a bit of scuffling.

“Who’s there?” a raspy woman’s voice asked from behind the door.

“It’s the front desk receptionist. We spoke on the phone.”

Still from behind the door she said, “I thought someone was going to bring me ice for Harry’s head.”

“I have the ice.”

“Door’s unlocked.”

The door scraped against the wood frame and concrete entrance as it opened and was tilted to one side like an old person stiff and pitched at an angle by arthritis.

“Hello, I’m Stalina. I thought you might need some assistance.”

“I’m Joanie. I don’t think Harry is getting up anytime soon. Maybe I should throw a bucket of water on him,” she said, leaning on the door.

“How about we get him off the floor? Sometimes if you put the feet up it can help.”

“He’s too big for me to lift.”

She was very thin, and like many women in America she had her hair dyed bleach blond. I myself find black hair has more mystery and drama. Claudette Colbert and Greta Garbo were my role models. Dark and sultry women.

“I can help you.”

I put down the ice bucket in which I had placed the vodka.

“Vodka? Good going, I could use a drink. You must be Russian; I like your accent.”

“I thought the situation might call for vodka. It is like smelling salts, and yes, I am Russian.”

“I had a Russian boss once. Harry looks pretty peaceful like this, don’t you think? He was having such a good time on the bed, or roller coaster, whatever it is. He got carried away, landed on his head.”

“I’m glad he was having a good time. The ‘bed-coaster’ is of my own design.”

“I was cheering him on,” she said as she touched his forehead with her hand. Her nails were long and painted with elaborate designs. She had dressed Harry in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.

“I gave him these.” She waved her hands, indicating the shorts with red hearts. “He likes to wear them when we’re together,” she said coyly.

“And the shirt?” I asked. It was blue with the word “Waikiki” spelled across it in letters that looked like bamboo.

“His mother got that for him in Honolulu. She used to buy him T-shirts from wherever she went.”

“She must love him very much,” I added.

“She passed away last year, but Harry was a momma’s boy—still is.”

Mothers. My mother, Sophia. I’m due to send money to her this week.

“Harry likes to wear nice clothes,” Joanie said as she stroked his blue serge suit that hung over a chair. She picked it up and hung it in the closet.

“His suit always smells of menthol cigarettes and spicy cologne, mmm.” She buried her head in the sleeve and reached into the pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

I decorated the area outside the closet to look like a game booth at an amusement park. I painted stacks of bottles on the back wall and nailed a lime green snake, a pink pig wearing a tutu, a purple spider, and a monkey with a top hat securely to the wall. At first Mr. Suri thought people might steal the stuffed animals. No one has touched them, and Harry’s suit moving in front of the fan looked like someone gearing up and waving his arms—no hands—to throw a ball at the targets.

“Harry once won me a giant panda bear at a fair.”

A panda bear is a good idea for an addition to my design.

“Where was the fair?” I asked. “I like to do such things.”

“I gave the bear to my niece. About an hour and a half from here in Millerton. No one knows us there. We have to go places where no one will know us.”

I had sympathy for her situation. She lit a cigarette. The menthol smoke circled our heads and spread over Harry like a fog.

“Careful with Harry. He’s heavy around the middle.”

I waved my hands to spread the smoke. “I’ll count to three and we’ll lift,” I told her.

Joanie took off her high heels. The cigarette was dangling from her lips. We counted together.

“One, two, three, lift!”

Harry’s weight slowed us down, but with a couple of steps and one final heave we landed him safely on the bed. A moment later one of his legs started to slide off the side. I put my hip against it and pushed his limp body into the middle of the bed. Joanie and I sat next to each other. She stroked his forehead again with her hand. His eyes twitched, and he breathed deeply as she caressed his face.

“Harry’s a good guy,” Joanie said. “He can be a lot of fun when he’s not too stressed out.”

The expression was new to me.

“Are there many pressures in his out-stressed life?” I asked.

“I like that, out-stressed. That’s putting it mildly,” she answered.

“Does he have a great deal of money?” I thought to ask something practical.

“Sort of, but he has two ex-wives and a new wife, who is soon to be another ex-wife. They all cost.”

“And you?” I wondered where she fit in.

“I’ve known Harry forever; we went to high school together. We started spending time together when he was leaving his first wife, Felice. She was a friend. We’re all from Hartford.”

“So Harry is his real name?”

“It is, but that’s not what he wrote on the motel register, is it?”

“No, I think it said Alfred E. Smith.”

“Harry’s in local politics. He budgets the city’s money. Smith is one of his heroes.”

“He was a politician in New York. I know, I’ve been studying for my citizenship. He’s the answer to one of the questions. I don’t mind waiting with you until Harry wakes up.”

“Who is known as New York’s ‘first citizen’? I bet you that’s the question. He studied that guy’s life. Maybe we should change his name in the register to Rip Van Winkle.”

“I’m not familiar with this political figure.”

“Never mind, Stalina. How about a drink?”

I dialed the front desk.

“Front desk.” Mr. Suri sounded very efficient.

“Mr. Suri, it’s Stalina.”

“Yes. What’s going on in there?” he replied.

“She needed my help to get him on the bed. He’s breathing well. It will be another hour before he comes to consciousness at least.”

“They’ll owe us for two more hours,” he reminded me.

“I know, I’ll get the money.”

Click.

“Let’s have a drink, and then perhaps you can tell me more,” I said to Joanie.