The Black Marble (40 page)

“My childhood.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I told you about mine, didn't I? I got married in my childhood. To a dirt bag. Then I had a baby. Then I got rid of the dirt bag and became a cop to support my Becky. Then I married another dirt bag who didn't know he hated cops till he married one. Then I got rid of that dirt bag. And I did a hell of a good job raising a kid.”

“I'm sure she's a fine girl,” Valnikov said, sipping his tea.

“At least I don't think she's going to get herself knocked up like her mom did, because I don't think she'd take her skis off long enough to hop into bed with a guy. Can they do it on skis? God, I miss that kid. Do you ski?”

“No, I don't have any talents,” he grinned. “My mother wasted money on piano lessons but I just didn't have the talent.”

“You have talent,” Natalie said, elbows on the table, her chin propped by both hands, her big glasses slipping down her nose.

“What talent?”

“You can catch felons,” she said. “I just bet you caught lots and lots of felonious bastards when you worked homicide.”

“I'll tell you a secret,” he said. “My mother got me piano lessons but do you know what she
really
dreamed for me?”

“What's that?”

“She wanted me to be a ballet star.”

This time the other diners
did
turn and look at the drunken broad with the big frizzy hairdo and the four-inch glasses who was doubled up in snuffling giggles and falling off her chair.

“A … a … ballet dancer!” she screamed. “You! Smokey the Bear in leotards!”

When she quieted down, Valnikov said, “My mother was always appalled by the lack of culture in America. To the day she died she couldn't believe that Americans found batting averages more important than ballet. But I was never quite … delicate enough to dance. And my big brother weighed two hundred pounds when he was thirteen years old, so it was hopeless.”

“Did she teach you to eat the way you do?” Natalie asked.

“How do you mean?”

“I'll bet she was awfully big on table manners.”

“
She
could dance, my mother!” Valnikov said. “Do you mind if I have just one more Stolichnaya?”

“Only if I can have one,” Natalie said. She was still propping her chin in her hands, staring into Valnikov's blue eyes which were getting watery.

“Two,” he said, holding up the vodka glass to the waitress.

“I just wish my mother could have seen the Moiseyev Dance Group. She could do all the national dances: Georgian, Crimean, Ukrainian. And remember, she never lived in a country called U.S.S.R. They'd fled before the Whites were really finished.”

“They were from Leningrad?” Natalie said.

Valnikov nodded and said, “Petrograd, to them. Do you know that the city is filled with cottonwoods? Do you know that in late summer the flowers set seeds by the billions! It's extremely fine and silky. It fills the air. It piles up against the buildings like snowdrifts. You can imagine that it's snowing under a hot August sun. What a place!”

“You ever been there?”

“No. I'll go someday. When I save enough. My ex-wife's remarried. My child support officially stopped two years ago but I still send money. Nick doesn't return it so I guess he's using the money. I'll save enough one day, then I'll go there.”

“Sounds like you could get a bad case of emphysema, all that milkweed blowing through the air,” Natalie said, smiling at the waitress who set the last vodkas before them.

“Maybe,” he said. “But, Natalie, the Paris of the North! Imagine a place with streets full of silky snowdrifts! In the hot August sun.”

“I'm sure it's fantastic,” she smiled, the warmest smile she had ever shown him, and it set his heart pounding. “
Na zdorovye!
That's mel-looooooow!”

“Ah, yes,” he agreed when the vodka was flowing through him.

She looked at his dumb kid grin and said, “Why did you say your father died before your brother was born? That's impossible, you know.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did. The first day we worked together. You've been … okay today. But sometimes you say things like that.”

“Did I say that?”

“Does vodka drinking make you …
confused
the next day?”

“I don't think so.”

“When did your father die?”

“In 1941. I wasn't quite eight years old.”

“What did he do in this country?”

“Anything he could,” Valnikov shrugged. “He never really learned much English. He had been a career soldier. He was a young captain in the czar's army.”

“I see,” Natalie said, feeling her speech getting thicker. “Do you think you meant his
spirit
died before your brother was born? Maybe during the Revolution when his whole world was going to hell?”

“I don't know. I don't remember saying that.”

“Do you ever notice your mind wandering? Maybe find it tough to understand or answer questions?” Natalie's elbow slipped off the table and her face almost went in her plate.

“I think you've had enough vodka,” Valnikov observed.

“You got
your
case to solve, I got mine,” she said belligerently. “Let's go to my place.”

“
Your
place!”

“No, on second thought, I can solve my place, I mean, case, better at your case, I mean place. Let's go to your place.”

“My place?”

“You got any Russian vodka at your place?”

“Yes, but I don't think you should have any more.”

“Okay, but I wanna go to
your
place. You gonna refuse a lady?”

Valnikov drove bleary-eyed down the hill to the Sunset Strip, careful not to run over any kids eating raisins and nuts. He spotted a flower child in bib overalls and rubber fishing boots. The flower child was doing what flower children so often do on the Strip—selling flowers. Little bunches of forget-me-nots and violets.

Valnikov weaved to the curb and jumped out of the car. When he came back he had a bunch of violets in his hand.

“Maybe you won't let me light your cigarettes, but you can't refuse me this,” he said. “I'm not being chauvinistic or anything. Honest. It's just that Russians
love
to give flowers.”

“Valnikov,” she said, shaking her head and pressing the violets to her face. “You're a crazy crazy man, do you know that? I'll bet you
would
run into a burning house to save a bowl of goldfish.”

When they were parked in front of Valnikov's furnished rooms on Franklin Avenue, he got thinking how the bachelor apartment looked. The daybed was, of course, unmade. The underwear and socks were still strung from the cage to the door. The pile of dishes in the kitchen. My God! Were the toilet and sink clean?

“Uh, Natalie, could you just sit here for a minute and finish your cigarette? Give me a couple minutes to straighten things out.”

“You live upstairs, Valnikov?” she asked, a bit anxious about negotiating any stairway at this time. Now her fingers had feeling, but her toes were numb.

“Number twelve, right at the top of the stairs and turn left. Just give me two minutes, okay?”

“Two minutes,” Natalie said, rubbing her nose which also had lost feeling. Stolichnaya. Siberia. Oblivion.

Valnikov didn't take the stairs any too gracefully himself. He had lots of trouble finding the lock. Then he was in and running through the apartment, grabbing underwear and socks and dirty dishes. He tossed the underwear and socks in the oven and the dirty dishes in the refrigerator. He picked up dozens of loose records off the floor and stacked them on the tired and shabby coffee table. He pulled up the cover on the daybed, smoothed hastily over the lumpy sheets, tossed the sleeping pillow under the daybed and arranged some throw-pillows for atmosphere. Then he saw that two of the pillows had tomato soup on them. He put them on the floor and kicked them under the daybed too. He heard Natalie climbing the stairs with no little effort. He dashed in the bathroom and inspected the toilet, shower, and sink. Okay except there was toothpaste smeared all over the sink. He grabbed a bath towel, did a quick wipe of the sink and ran into the kitchen, tossing the towel in the refrigerator with the dirty dishes. He was out of breath when she knocked.

Then he panicked for a second and ran to the seven-foot animal cage. Thank God! It didn't look too bad.

“
Gavno
,” said Misha to his master, who was indeed thinking about
gavno
on the cage floor.

Valnikov threw open the door and held the screen door for her. “Welcome, Natalie,” he puffed. “I don't get too many visitors, I'm afraid. But welcome!”

Natalie weaved sideways as she crossed the room and sat on the only upholstered chair, cracking a loose record in three places.

“Oh, sorry!” Valnikov said, when she jumped up. He picked up the broken disc and said, “Mussorgsky. Not one of my favorites anyway.”

“That's a lumpy-looking couch,” she said.

“That's a daybed,” said Valnikov. “Let me smooth it out.”

“Why?” Natalie said suspiciously, missing the cigarette with her match again. “You think I'm going to lie on your
bed?
”

“No!” Valnikov cried.

At which time Natalie got up and sat on his daybed. “Lumpy,” she complained.

“I can smooth it out,” he said quickly.

“Not with
me
in it, pal,” she said.

“Of course not!”

“For chrissake, Valnikov, sit down!”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I'd like some vodka. Russian vodka.”

“How about some tea?”

“Well shove it, then! I can get vodka somewhere else!”

“I'll get you some vodka,” said Valnikov, disappearing into the kitchen.

“How about some Gypsy music?” Natalie said, knocking the sparks from her cigarette all over his napless carpet. “Whoops!”

“Voice or violin!” Valnikov yelled from the kitchen.

“Both! Shoot the works!” Natalie said imperiously.

While she brushed off the sparks from his daybed, Valnikov poured the vodka and selected the records. First balalaika. Why not? Then some folk music. Happy music. Then … Gypsy.

When the first record played, Valnikov suddenly felt giddy and whimsical. He couldn't remember when he'd had so much fun! He was standing in the middle of the floor with a half-empty vodka glass in his hand.

The Russian baritone began with a lively song. Valnikov said, “It's called ‘Kogda Ya Pyan.'” Then to her astonishment, Valnikov began a dance for her, translating the Russian lyric as he hopped and whirled.

First the Russian baritone, followed by Valnikov translating: “I shall drink and drink … and I am always drunk … there is nothing I am afraid of …”

“Sing it, Valnikov!” Natalie yelled, clapping her hands as Valnikov danced.

The Russian and Valnikov sang: “There is nothing I am afraid of!”

“Sing it, Valnikov!” Natalie ordered, spilling her vodka and pouring some more.

Valnikov danced with his vodka glass tight in his teeth, no hands. Then Valnikov fell down on the daybed next to Natalie.

He stripped off his suitcoat and unbuckled his gun belt. The gun and belt went flying into the overstuffed chair.

“Wait a minute, Valnikov,” Natalie Zimmerman warned. “Keep the rest of your clothes
on!
”

But Valnikov wasn't even listening. He was up again. He loosened his tie and threw it off. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Like many burly men, Valnikov was light on his feet. He began dancing to the lively beat of “Kak U Duba Starovo.”

“Dance, Valnikov!” Natalie giggled while she clapped. When the song ended he fell on the daybed again.

“That was terrific!” Natalie yelled. “
You're
terrific!”

“I am?”

“You're a terrific dancer!”

Then a Gypsy woman, who sounded like a man, began singing. Valnikov turned serious and poured more Stolichnaya for both of them. Gypsies. God help us. Gypsies.

“What is it, Valnikov?” she said.

“I don't know. I just get sad with the Gypsies.”

“But why?”

“Because I'm supposed to, probably.”

“You're a lousy American, Valnikov.”

“Listen to this!”

A Gypsy baritone began singing “Starinye Vals,” The Old Waltz.

“That's the most beautiful waltz I've ever heard,” said Natalie Zimmerman.

“Do you waltz?” Valnikov asked.

“Yes.”

He went to the turntable and moved the arm back to the beginning of “Starinye Vals.” The Gypsy sang. Valnikov bowed and extended his arms. Natalie Zimmerman stood unsteadily and leaned toward him. He was a powerful leader. He led her gingerly around the debris in the tiny cluttered apartment while the Gypsy sang.

“The snowstorm howls behind the windows,” Valnikov said, translating the lyric. “And no sound of the waltz is heard.”

“Valnikov!” she said, and pulled away from him, sitting down on the lumpy daybed. “What's happening to me!”

“And I was young.” He translated the Gypsy's lyric.

“Valnikov!”

“And I
loved
you so much!” he said, translating the lyric.

“Do you have any more vodka? I'd like some more vodka!”

“Of course,” he said politely, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Is the bathroom through this door, Valnikov?” she yelled while he was pouring the drinks.

“You can't miss it in this place,” he said. “It's to the left.”

She rinsed her face in cold water, dried, put on fresh lipstick and examined her watery eyes. My God, what's happening to me? Valnikov's a madman. But what's the matter with
me?
When she returned a Gypsy woman was singing as though her heart were breaking. Valnikov was dancing drunkenly in the middle of the floor.