Stalina: A Novel Part 7

"That's not a line in the poem," I said, amused.

"No, it's not."

His lips had a slight red hue from my lipstick. I loved how his lips were full in the middle and went a bit crooked when he smiled, almost a secret smile just for me.

"Trofim," I said as I took a deep breath, "I think I need a drink."

"Yes, let's make a toast."

Through the test tube, I saw his face, stretched and twisted like in a fun house mirror. He looked beautiful to me.

Chapter Thirteen: Manicured.

I retrieved the plastic cellophane-wrapped cups from the bathroom. The photograph of the roller coaster hung over the toilet, I had to say, was a nice touch. I peeked into the shower to check on Mara's cleaning job. Her work was just short of a proper sparkle. You had to get rid of all the residue in order for the chrome to glisten. I had to control myself from pulling out a cleaning rag and finishing the job.

Ring. Ring.

"Stalina, will you answer that?" Joanie said as she sat on the bed combing Harry's thin pate of hair. I picked up the phone.

"Stalina?"

"Yes, Mr. Suri."

"How long do you think they are going to be? I have two couples waiting."

"I'm not sure; we're doing what we can. Business has been good lately."

Click.

"He wanted to know how long we would be," I said to Joanie.

"Harry's sleeping like a baby. Maybe he just had to catch up on some sleep. How about that vodka?"

The "roller-bed-coaster" was designed for physical antics and not necessarily for comfortable sleeping, but Harry seemed very peaceful with his feet raised and slung over the hump. I poured the thickened, cold vodka into the plastic cups. The vapor from the alcohol felt peppery in my throat.

"I hope Harry doesn't wake up; he would have a fit if he saw us drinking out of plastic cups. He says it's disrespectful to the drink," Joanie said as I handed her a cup of vodka.

"Nostrovya," I said.

"Here's to Harry, my best friend."

We gulped the vodka down together.

"Harry would like you, Stalina. He likes women who can drink."

"Thank you. There is a Russian saying, 'A drink in time saves nine.'"

Harry made a gurgling sound.

"A drink in time." Joanie laughed. "You Russians."

"Why, is that not the saying?"

"We Americans are just so prissy. We say, 'A st.i.tch in time saves nine.' I love your accent."

"Thank you. I am very proud of my English."

Harry gurgled again and lifted his right arm in the air.

"Maybe he's waking up. Quick, let's have another shot," Joanie suggested.

I went over to get a closer look at Harry. His arm came down with a flop, but it was not only his arm that had risen.

"Look, Joanie, your man is thinking about you."

We both laughed and stared as if watching a newborn's latest discovery.

"That's my boy; he's been having trouble with that lately."

Ring. Ring.

"That trouble seems to be gone," I said as I picked up the phone.

"Stalina, what's going on in there?" Mr. Suri said.

"Mr. Suri, you called only fifteen minutes ago. I think we are making progress."

"I have people waiting. Can we carry him out to his car?"

"Give us a half hour. The hen only eats a grain at a time, but eventually she gets full," I said.

Click.

"What's that?" asked Joanie.

"He's anxious because there are customers waiting for rooms; the motel has become quite popular."

"I like that saying, 'The hen only eats a grain at a time.' I never heard that before."

"Mr. Suri is not a very patient man," I added.

She went over to Harry's blue serge suit and pulled out a large roll of bills from the pocket.

"How much do we owe you for the extra time?"

"Two more hours. That's another thirty-three dollars."

"Here, take a General Ulysses S. Grant."

"Fifty? Ulysses S. Grant was the eighteenth president of the United States."

"Keep the change. You know more about the presidents than I do."

"I have been studying," I said.

Harry gurgled again, and I thought how happy Mr. Suri would be about the extra cash, in spite of his impatience. Joanie and I sat on the floor, watched Harry, and drank another shot of vodka.

"Tell me more about Russia," Joanie said.

"It's still very cold there this time of year," I replied.

"You grew up with all those Communists?" she asked.

"We were all part of a great socialist movement."

"This country dislikes Communists."

"We were friends at one time."

"You guys fought the Germans?"

"The n.a.z.is. They invaded us and we beat them," I said proudly.

"You have such nice nails. Are there beauty parlors in Russia?" she asked, holding and admiring my manicure. She tipped back the remaining vodka in her gla.s.s.

"Yes, there are many. I do my own nails; I learned as a child."

Joanie leaned back on her elbows. Harry started to snore.

"We hardly sleep together, so I rarely get to hear him snore. It's kind of cute, don't you think?" Joanie giggled.

"Oolnya's House of Beauty was where I learned about manicures."

"Ool-ya-I love the Russian names, they're so...vodka!" she exclaimed.

"Would you like a little more?" I asked.

The bottle of Kremoyna shifted in the ice as if it was trying to get our attention. I just realized then that we'd never used the ice in the bucket for the b.u.mp on Harry's head.

"I remember from that movie with Omar Sharif-you drink the vodka frozen even in the winter."

"That is the best way. Dr. Zhivago-it was banned for a while in Russia."

"Vodka was banned?"

"The book, not vodka, never, just discouraged, without much effect."

"Let's drink to Ool-ya and her manicures," Joanie said with her gla.s.s high above her head. "Maybe Harry needs a sip of vodka."

"It's Oolnya, with an n. Put the gla.s.s under his nose like smelling salts," I suggested.

"I don't want him to wake up yet. We bought some more time; I want to hear about manicures."

I filled her plastic cup halfway with more vodka and did the same for myself.

"It would be nice to have some herring with this vodka," I said and settled back onto the floor. The room could use a chair or two. Perhaps a bench from a carousel to go with the fun park theme.

"Herring? What about caviar? Isn't that your Russian gold? Fish eggs worth thousands. How strange you Russians are," Joanie said as she went over to Harry and kissed his lips with hers still touched with vodka.

Harry sniffled and turned over, but with a smile on his face.

"Shhh!" Joanie added. "Let's not wake Harry."

"We have another forty-five minutes. Mr. Suri will be calling in a half hour."

"Please, Staliiin-aaa, tell me about Oool-NYaaa."

The vodka had taken effect.

"She called her shop Oolnya's House of Beauty. My friend Olga's mother and my mother would go together for weekly appointments, and we would tag along. Oolnya had ma.s.sive b.r.e.a.s.t.s that were always half exposed, and her behind was so large it made a shelf off the back of her purple satin robe. She sat at the forward edge of her swivel chair because of the size of her behind. She was a bleach blond."

"She sounds fabulous!" Joanie said, enjoying my story and the vodka.

"The banyas all have busy salons. The scent of hairspray mixes with the smell of the saunas and steaming birch leaves right down to the street."

The vapors of the hairspray and acetone took form in the swirling cigarette smoke of Oolnya's clientele. Under those low-hanging clouds, the women made gossip. My friend Olga was destined to be a hairstylist-even at eight years old she could create a hairstyle before touching scissors or curling iron to hair. She also knew everyone's story. It was she who told me that Mrs. Yvashkaya was actually a man, and that the staff at the salon was forbidden to say anything because he was such a loyal customer.

"Oh my. Where is your friend Olga now?"

"She's a legend in St. Petersburg. People come from all over to have her do their hair," I added proudly.

"Hotsy-totsy!" Joanie exclaimed.

"Olga and I would sit under the bubble dryers and read to each other from ladies' magazines and give each other manicures when we were eleven and twelve. She had the most delicate fingers and would paint the polish on every nail with perfectly even strokes. Between the hair dryers going and the piped organ music-this is common in Russian salons-no one could hear us. One time while Oolnya pa.s.sed by, Olga said, 'Her b.u.t.tocks are as big as a battleship and softer than the goopiest jar of hair gel.'

"I told Olga, 'I've seen her eating pigs' feet in brine from a jar in between appointments.' Olga told me more details. 'Her lover, Lazlo, sends them every week from the Ukraine in cases labeled as hair spray so the police won't steal them.'"

"No wonder her a.s.s was the size of Finland. Some men like that, but not my Harry," Joanie said confidently, slapping her bony hip. "He likes to slap this skinny a.s.s of mine."

"Every man is made of different desires."

"And for that I am thankful," Joanie said. "Tell me more."