The Imperial Wife (14 page)

Igor finally hangs up and turns to face me. “We were not properly introduced at the party. Igor Mikhailovich Yardanov.”

“Is it the Hudson Yards development that brings you so often to New York, Igor Mikhailovich?” I ask. New York: always a good starting point. Begin with New York, then turn to the beauty (or if the client prefers, the pollution/congestion/traffic) of Moscow, then end with their homes in the south of France. Like dogs that have been cooped up in cages, then so recently set free to roam, these men love talking travel.

“There is some of that, yes. But now I am here to bring back the Order of Saint Catherine.” The wine is poured, he tastes, then dispenses with the ritual with a brief nod. “Yes, that is my sole goal for being in New York this time around.”

I like how he puts it, the “bring back.” Is he a fellow conspirator, a preservationist? I try not to worry that we have not yet heard back from the famously slow Catherine historian. I taste the asparagus soup without actually tasting it. “I should warn you, there's serious interest by very determined people.”

“Medovsky.”

“I really can't say.”

“Listen, all that bastard wants is to curry favor with our president. It would be such waste to have this Order fall into his hands. I have plan for it that is not self-serving, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't need to tell you that it is an open market.” I vacillate between ordering the halibut and a duo of rabbit, whichever will be daintier to eat.

“You can trust me, that Medovsky's a bastard.”

“I'd prefer not to discuss clients,” I say, an unexpected protectiveness of Medovsky creeping into my voice. “But just out of curiosity, what would you do with the Order? If you did win the lot, I mean.”

He adjusts his chair. His face is like a piece of paper smoothed of creases. I can make out the red pinpricks of a recent Botox injection on his forehead; the furrows between the eyebrows so prominent in Medovsky are completely absent here. He's a stretched canvas. Still, in the splash of sunshine, there's no doubt he's more handsome than in pictures, if a bit waxy, sepulchral. His hair is too neatly combed and pressed down to his scalp, his neck unnaturally moist and hairless. Centered above a starched button-down shirt is a violet silk tie. Only his teeth are a hint to his former life: jumbled, dotted with fillings.

“Tanyechka, can I call you that? I've asked around about you and what I hear is that you are of utmost moral character. People who trust no one, trust you. That
Financial Times
piece did not do you justice.”

“So you read that.” On the plate that has just arrived rests a tiny fillet on a bed of wilted watercress, the plate elegantly smeared in green. Maybe Marjorie was right after all. That article has resulted in more business. I fold a napkin across my knees. “That's very flattering. I'm honored if that's my reputation.”

“That is why I thought you would help me. I want Order for good cause I am sure you would approve of.”

My gut says it's authentic, and it's been wrong just once before. My fork sinks into the meat of the fish. “Which is?”

“Look, I don't want to say too much right now. You know Medovsky's character. If he is determined, there is no outbidding him.”

The fillet of bison is cooling on his plate, all that brown of the foie gras and truffles contrasted with the milky sheen of his nails, the thin layer of clear varnish. “In that case, we have other lots you might be interested in. If you would tell me a little bit about an artist or two that impresses you.”

“I'm more than happy to buy a few other things.” He takes out the Worthington's catalogue from his briefcase, flips through it. “Like this, no offense intended, crappy Grigoriev. Throw that in.”

“Igor. If I may.” So he's like the others after all, always working to entrap me, to trick me into bending the rules. Would Carl like this guy or hate him? I realize how accustomed I've become to my moral compass pointing in the direction of his opinions. “There's really nothing I can do if you choose not to bid higher than the highest bid. But I will be your supporter, your friend, the entire time. We can be on the phone personally during the auction if you like.”

“Medovsky won't stop if he wants something. You may have realized this already.”

“I'm sorry. Like I said, there's nothing I can do.”

He leans his chin on his hand in a theatrical gesture of defeat. C'est la vie! My plate is removed and an apricot crumb cake appears, a strawberry soufflé in front of him. He dips his spoon in the custard and holds it out to my mouth. “To sample, yes?” The spoon is dangling inches from my mouth, his eyes focused there.

I politely decline a bite from his spoon. “You know what, Igor? I'll be in Moscow previewing the lots. Why don't we meet there and speak further?”

“Excellent, yes. I will then be able to personally show you my plans for the order. This soufflé is lovely, yes? Light, not too sweet.”

“Delicious.”

He's smiling, now. Everything in this environment is perfect, just right, the touches scrutinized, chosen with intention. Sitting here, you feel like the most important of humans on the planet. The staff's sole job is to facilitate your triumphs, smooth away all obstacles. Once in a while, in places like this, the awed immigrant in me resurfaces. The impossible luster of the pool. Unmarred glass, the starch of flawless linen, the discreet scent of food. Silver trays without blemishes, chocolate truffles imprinted with a single lavender bud. Half a bottle of outrageously priced wine unfinished and abandoned on the empty table. And Igor slips his own credit card into the bill folder, even when I remind him the company's reimbursing.

“I cannot allow it, a beautiful woman to pay,” he says.

It is so simply stated, as fact. A beautiful woman. Somehow, I've forgotten that I ever belonged to this category. Has Carl ever called me a “beautiful woman”? He was not one to spell out his feelings. His adoration for me was implicit in the Look, the tone of his voice, in the way he waved over to me in public places as if I were the only face in the world that mattered, in the quiet care with which he folded my laundered clothes and tucked them away in their proper places. But for all his Russophilia, he was determinedly American when it came to gender relations.
A couple should be partners,
he insisted on our honeymoon, while the very idea was ridiculous to my mother.
Partners?
she said.
If it makes him happy, no harm to let him believe this.

Igor escorts me out the door to the street and lowers me into the backseat of a cab. His kiss on the cheek lies differently than that of my other clients. It's an incursion, an imprint. I swivel around to watch him on the curb. He stands immobile, patiently waiting for my taxi to fall out of view.

“How'd it go?” Marjorie calls out when I pass her office.

“Great. He's really interested in the Order.” But of course what she's really asking about is numbers, projections, promises she can make to Dean upstairs. “Should go pretty high since he's bidding against a motivated client.”

“That's fabulous.” Marjorie's desk is invisible for the paperwork and digital printouts; she looks rather lost among them. “I suppose it's no secret that with the political and economic climate being what it is, the Russian department is on the chopping block. But you might be able to convince us with this auction that we can sustain the New York office.”

“No pressure, right?” But Marjorie is holding up a pair of scissors as if confused about the object of incision.

Back in the Russian art area, I'm surprised to find the kiss still there, ingrained below the surface of my skin. I survey Regan's list of missed calls, but the names float away, meaningless. None of them are Carl's. What is he eating? I wonder. I picture him foraging for pretzels, his friend's tiny galley kitchen a mess of open Chinese food containers, frozen pizza. His desk strewn with papers. After we moved in together, we had to adjust for our two bodies in the same space, two conflicting schedules. I would be in the gym by seven in the morning, while he slept on. He would be watching nerdy television shows while my eyes drooped at nine o'clock. That first year was moving away from politeness to showing one another where we placed our limbs, the nature of our true routines. But I never did allow myself to relax. I was always attuned to external expectations.

The
Financial Times
with my photo at the column's head is doubled over beside my keyboard. “Great profile. Never thought of you as a simple girl. Congratulations,” is written on a stickie note. Signed by my old boss in Impressionism, in his looping handwriting. I pick it up. My cool, unsmiling face is staring back at me.

“Regan, book my tickets for Moscow today, will you? Here are the dates. I've got to run to one of my Jewish lectures tonight.” The tip of the girl's auburn head is the only movement in her cubicle, but her fingers dash over the keyboard.

At my sliver of window, the corner of Third Avenue and Fiftieth Street is filled with the sound of drilling, men belting out orders to other men. My hand hovers over the phone to call Carl. Instead, I dial the number of a Georgian restaurant around the corner from the address he gave me and order Carl a delivery of kachapuri and lula kebab.

After a few minutes, Regan cries out, “Done.”

*   *   *

“We live in a world where God is hidden and we are fully responsible for our own actions. In the absence of accountability, human action turns to destruction. The challenge to our secular Russian Jews is this: take power, connect yourselves to the generations of history, perfect the world a little at a time.” I pop into the room while the rabbi's in the middle of his lecture and find a seat behind Alla. The man next to me has his chin lodged upright in his palm, openly snoring.

“We're now fully aware that many Soviet Jews who were subsidized for yeshiva had a difficult time with integration. But if you delve into that experience, you will find that the education provided you with a necessary foundation…”

Alla passes back a note that says, “Rescue us!”

We're poised to clap, to acknowledge the climactic plea, but the rabbi turns the page of his talk and we slump back in our seats. “So you see, Russian Jews, despite having lived under a regime that tried to eradicate their Jewishness, can still play an important role in transforming the world because we are all part of a partnership between the generations. Through the Bronze Age, through modern civilization, through the chain that continued with your grandparents who did their share.”

I sit among a row of crossed legs, a file of black pumps and logoed necklaces, polite manicures resting on Fendi bags. These are supposed to be my people, Russian-American professionals carefully selected by the Jewish Community Center to bring religion back to our wayward former-Soviet brethren.

Alla leans back in her chair and I'm enveloped in citrus perfume. “What's going on with Carl? Is he done with his thinking or what?”

“It's been less than a month,” I whisper.

“Babes, you're in major denial.”

Even though she's also married to an American, Alla belongs to my mother's philosophical school of gender relations—a Russian woman doesn't wait, a Russian woman acts.

“It's temporary, Al. Don't worry about me.”

“I'd check out someone promising here if I were you.”

“I thought you were the one who said to hang in there. That the first two years were the tough ones. And now you want me to just find a new guy here?”

“Basically, at least to scare Carl a little. He's taking you for granted, thinks you're going to just wait around while he makes up his mind,” Alla says. She is unclasping her purse and checking her lipstick in the mirror.

“I don't think that's what he's doing.”

The rabbi continues, “So our task is to tune in, not to transcend the secular nature of your Soviet past, but to harness it. We cannot depend on miracles from heaven.”

The organizer of the night is cuing him to wrap up by noisily arranging the wineglasses in neat rows by the bar.

“What about that one?” Alla points to the sleeping man.

“Carl needs some time for himself, he's coming down from a lot of work stress. He'll be back any day now. You know better than anyone how much he loves me.”

Alla leans back in her chair, purse in lap, tawny hair voluminously arranged around her shoulders. A brooch of inlaid sapphire and gold is carefully attached to a violet silk blouse. She's the kind of Russian woman I'll never be. “So what the hell's he doing then? Is he really ‘thinking' about your future? If that's really all he's doing. I bet one of his cute new students is helping him think.”

“There is no new student. You're being ridiculous.”

“Don't wait too long, Tan. You've got to take matters into your own hands.” I feel the softness of my friend's hand on my wrist. “I'm just telling you how it is. No more waiting around. You might be losing him right now.”

I sharply pull back my arm and press a flushed cheek against the tall glass windows. My heart is flexing, contracting. Below me, along the FDR Drive, a blurry string of unmoving lights wait in the final gasp of evening rush hour.

The rabbi begins to notice the restless noise in the audience, and opens the floor for questions. The sleeping man is the first to raise his hand.

“Can you please explain to us where is the virtue in unconditional love?”

The rabbi is puzzled. His lecture probably said nothing about unconditional love. “Of course, when we think about Moses descending from the mountain with the commandments, he discovers his people have betrayed God with the golden calf. No doubt there was the initial temptation to abandon them…” The man sinks back to his original position. No one else dares raise a hand.