Liberty Page 12

  The very best thing is, Raynes was drinking a soda, and now that soda is everywhere.

  He turns to me, annoyed.

  “Jesus!”

  “I’m so sorry. God, I’m such an idiot. I just—I tripped and I think there was, like, a french fry or something and—”

  “What?”

  “On the floor? I think there was a french fry? And I slipped on it.”

  My entire face is a squiggly mouth.

  “Wait a minute.” He squints at me. “You! Were you at Café Treplev the other day?”

  Aha! He remembers me.

  “Guilty.”

  I try to smile demurely. I don’t think I’m pulling it off.

  “You were wearing an Elliott Smith T-shirt, right?”

  “Guilty again. Wow. Quite a memory you have.”

  “Well, you don’t exactly see that many girls walking around Moscow in a ‘SAY YES’ shirt.”

  “You don’t say . . .”

  Now it’s just a little bit awkward. The waitress comes over to clean everything up and, I swear to God, gives me a look like WTF is wrong with you?

  “Well, I’m sorry. Again. For like the millionth time. If there’s anything I can do . . . I’d offer to pay for your dry cleaning, but you’re wearing a T-shirt, and that’s just, like, weird—I mean, who dry-cleans their T-shirts? Plus, there’s no, like, environmentally sound organic dry cleaners in Moscow, I’m assuming, so I would have to, like, send it back home, have it dry-cleaned there and then sent BACK to Moscow, and that would probably take forever and it would more than likely just get lost, but it’s an ethical and moral issue really . . .”

  And now both the waitress and Sean Raynes are staring at me.

  I hear there are new technologies involving invisibility cloaks and, I have to say, if I could put on an invisibility cloak right this second and just kind of disappear—POOF—I totally. Effing. Would.

  Ladies and gentlemen, Frendy’s American Diner in Moscow is completely silent. I mean, I think a tumbleweed just rolled out between the counter and the jukebox.

  “Do you want to get a drink?”

  Sean Raynes says it out of nowhere. Like it pops out of him. An involuntary spasm of What the hell?

  “Um. Are you talking to me?”

  I look around behind me.

  The waitress rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, I am . . . talking to you.”

  “Oh, that was just my Robert De Niro imitation.”

  He cocks his head. He’s kind of looking at me, honestly, the way you would look at your kid sister if she was rolling around on the floor at your birthday party. It’s not hatred. It’s just a curious look of endearment.

  I don’t think I’ve blown it. Implausibly. Somehow.

  Finally, the waitress just can’t take it anymore.

  “You know this girl is weirdo, yes?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “I know this girl is weirdo. C’mon, weirdo, let’s go.”

  23

  Have you ever been on a romantic stroll involving you, an internationally famous expat, and a swarthy bodyguard? I have to tell you, it’s a bit awkward. Raynes and I walk out into the brisk, autumn air and down the path next to the Moskva River. All very intimate. Except the surly bodyguard part.

  The three of us (or likely more but whoever else is with us is in disguise) duck down an alley somewhere behind the Bolshoi Theatre, and Raynes walks familiarly up to a dark brown door with no distinguishing qualities.

  He knocks. Oleg stands there looking impatient.

  A teeny-tiny rectangular slit opens up and a set of eyeballs looks through.

  “пароль?” the mysterious eyes ask. (Password?)

  “беспредел,” Raynes replies. (Bespredel.)

  (Translation: lawlessness.)

  The sluggish brown door opens, and Raynes and I, escorted by our dearest Oleg, wind down a long hall, taking two rights and then a left, into a hallway with a black door. There’s an enormous man in a gray turtleneck and black pants standing stoically in front of this door. He nods imperceptibly at Raynes before opening the door.

  Walking into this place is a bit like walking into a 1940s film noir set in a Bangkok opium den. As soon as you step through the curtains, under the dim light of the red lanterns, everything becomes a smoldering shade of red.

  The scarlet hues and ornate circular room dividers give way from a central bar area to a fairly low-key and empty back area. I’m guessing this is where Raynes likes to hide from the adoring/hateful throngs.

  We sit next to one of the circular room dividers, creating a little nook where no one can really see us. Oleg takes a seat at the bar. Thank God.

  I really did not want to have to make conversation with Oleg.

  (So . . . strangle anyone today?)

  A stick-thin waitress with red lipstick in a deep crimson silk Hong Kong dress approaches. Her hair is in a bun with those little sticks in it.

  I’m too busy being nervous to notice she’s been standing there awhile.

  “Do you know what you want? The big hit here is the mai tais.”

  “Oh, um, okay, I’ll have a mai tai.”

  He orders a whiskey. Mmmm-kay?

  “So, um . . . did you come to Moscow just to spill drinks on strangers?”

  “Yes. I can’t wait to spill my mai tai on you.”

  He smirks. His expression is so warm, and now, so are my cheeks. Something strange is happening here. I don’t want to say it’s, like, Hallmark-card rainbow time. That’s not it. It’s like both of us are trying to talk to each other without really looking at each other. Like without making eye contact.

  Like we’re both thinking what I am thinking, which is, Oh my God, are you actually real? Like a flesh-and-blood person?

  And then . . . we do make eye contact and it’s like an electric shock. Zap. And we both look away.

  And neither of us knows exactly what to do with this. Or, at least, I don’t.

  I remember this French expression: coup de foudre. Lightning bolt. A kind of love at first sight. I remember thinking it was ridiculous. I mean, how can you just meet someone and instantly feel like you can’t look at them because whatever is happening between you is too powerful? That is a fairy tale—like a unicorn or a leprechaun with a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

  Except it sure feels like exactly what is happening right now.

  “So, you’re a student?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  He doesn’t know if I know who he is or not. If I’m aware that he’s the Sean Raynes. I can tell he kind of wants to ask but doesn’t know how to without seeming like a pompous jerk.

  “Look, I’m just gonna be honest with you. I think it would be sort of disingenuous of me to pretend I don’t actually know that you are, um . . . who you are.”

  I leave out the part about being an international spy. Also, the part about my feels. I exclude the fact that my heart seems to be skipping.

  He sighs. I think it’s a sigh of relief.

  “Well, at least now I don’t have to explain the bodyguards. Or bodyguard. Who knows? I can never really tell how many there are. Which is weird.”

  We both look at Oleg. Really, we can just see the back of him, but even his shoulders are mean, slanted forward, ready to strike.

  “Does he follow you into the shower?”

  “Yes, it’s actually kind of helpful. Especially the part where he scrubs my back. You can never really thoroughly exfoliate there yourself.”

  We both laugh a little, but it’s an uncomfortable laugh.

  Our drinks come, and we both sit there a second, slurping in silence.

  I decide to break the ice.

  “Um. Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What does it feel like to be here? And to be you. Here?”

  He looks at me, weighing his answer.

  “Hmm . . . Do you want the cool answer or the hones
t answer?”

  “Maybe both?”

  “Okay, well the cool answer is . . . It’s amazing, it’s fantastic. I did it! I showed them all!”

  “And the honest answer . . . ?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Um. Yes.” I think I’m keeping a really big one right now.

  “You’re not a journalist or anything?”

  “Nope. Definitely not.”

  “It’s kind of lonely. And I’m homesick.”

  He takes a drink and I sip my mai tai.

  Oleg turns to stare at us. He’s not even pretending to be casual.

  “Is that why you were eating french fries at Frendy’s American Diner?”

  “That’s exactly why I was eating french fries at Frendy’s American Diner. And you?”

  “Do you want the cool answer or the honest answer?”

  “Both.”

  “The cool answer is . . . well, there is no cool answer. The honest answer is I’m homesick, too. Which makes me feel like a dumb American. I really thought I was more sophisticated than I actually am.”

  There’s a moment of nothing here, and then this comes out . . .

  “It’s nice to talk to someone from back home.”

  Uh, we both said that. At the same time. In the same way.

  “Okay, that was weird.”

  “Yes, it was. Obviously, you are a robot.”

  “No, human. I am not,” I say in my best robot voice. God, I’m a nerd.

  He smiles.

  “Okay, I have a follow-up question. If everyone always comes up to you everywhere you go and wants to be nice to you, because you’re famous, maybe that’s not so lonely . . . ?”

  “Yeah, but . . . does that really sound like fun to you? Hey, will you come out with me while I stare at you the whole time?!”

  “Okay, you’re right. Just so you know, that’s kind of what it feels like to be a girl walking in front of a construction site. In case you were curious.”

  “Ah. I see. I never thought about it before.”

  There’s something about him that stays right here, right here in this moment. He’s not checking his phone or trying to think of the next thing. It’s like he’s just taking it in. Letting the wheels go round and round.

  Oleg turns from the bar and nods to him. These Russians sure don’t smile much.

  “I guess I have to get going. They’re really paranoid about me. Like I’m sort of their prize pony. They don’t want to lose me.”

  “I bet you wish the US had revoked your passport over somewhere else. Like Zermatt? Or Edinburgh?”

  “I know.” Then he frowns. “Wait. How did you know they revoked my passport? Most people just think I defected, because I’m a godless traitor commie spy.”

  Oops. I know because my top secret government agency handler told me.

  Deflect, dummy! Deflect!

  “I’m not most people. And, um, I think you’re a hero.”

  God, I hope I didn’t blow it by saying that. Ugh. Why did I just say that?

  “Um . . . Do you want to have dinner sometime?”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the only other person in the room. Besides Oleg. And I have dinner with him every night. So I’ve kind of lost that loving feeling.”

  “Did you just quote Hall & Oates?”

  “Ironically.”

  “There is no other way to quote Hall & Oates.”

  “I can quote many other things ironically at dinner.”

  I giggle.

  Giggling. So not cool.

  “There’s this restaurant I really like. Ramallah Café. Do you like meze?”

  “Oh, I love it. My dad is a really big fan.”

  I don’t know why I said that.

  “Well, I think you might kind of like this place. It’s all sandstone and gardens. It’s like being in the Middle East. Without the explosions.”

  “And the never-ending tension and hopelessness?”

  “Exactly. Maybe you could meet me there . . . tomorrow? Is that too soon? Is that desperate? I’m not really very good at this.”

  “Yes! No! I will meet you there.” God, I’m like stuck in staccato or something. I sound like an engine backfiring.

  “Okay. Good. Maybe meet me there at eight?”

  “Ramallah Café. Eight o’clock.”

  Oleg rolls his eyes and grabs Raynes out of this extremely nervous interaction. Thank God.

  Raynes is whisked away by Swarthy McSwarthington and now it’s just me. Just me and my mai tai.

  There’s a lot of colorful things happening right now. This place is ruby red. The umbrella in my drink is sunset orange. And the butterflies in my stomach are . . . I don’t know. Butterfly colored. Blue. Maybe orange and black. Maybe monarchs. Whatever color they are, they are bustling. They are fluttering around and making me feel like they might just fly me up into the air with them.

  I want to say his name. I want to shout it into the air: Sean Raynes! I am going on a date with Sean Raynes! And then I want to say his name quietly to myself, keep it secret. A whisper.

  What is happening to me? None of this is familiar.

  I don’t have crushes. I have booty calls.

  So this realizing of crushes is kind of a new thing.

  And also, I have to say, I can’t tell if I am excited more by having dinner tomorrow night with America’s public enemy number one in a West Bank–inspired restaurant, or telling Madden I am having dinner tomorrow night with America’s public enemy number one in a West Bank–inspired restaurant.

  Mother would be so proud.

  24

  Two flights up the steps to my dorm, I see Uri. He’s practicing some actually not horrible pop-and-lock moves, listening to his headphones. I wave my hand in front of him to wake him from his hip-hop slumber.

  “American Paige! Just the girl I see!”

  “Yes, Uri, to what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu dorm break dancing? By the way, you should break-dance outside, where there is less lead to inhale.”

  “Lead? Is bad?”

  “Yes, is very bad. And it’s probably in every building on campus. So stay outside often. Speaking of which, let’s take this out on the green, shall we?”

  Uri frowns. “Are all Americans paranoid?”

  “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

  “Ah! I like this! Just because paranoid doesn’t mean they are after you.”

  “Okay, that’s not—”

  “Great!”

  So, now Uri and I are barreling out the front steps and on to the main green of the quad. A few students give him a passing look, as I’m sure he’s achieved a level of John-Gotti’s-son fame on campus.

  “So, Uri, spit it out. What do you need? Are you here to pledge your undying love for Katerina?”

  “No. I am here for help.”

  “For help who?”

  “For help you. My American BFF . . . F.”

  “And what, possibly, do you think would be necessary in this regard?”

  Uri leans in, whispers, “Paige, remember how you said parents were gone, taken in horrible place and disappear?”

  Oh God. I don’t even know if I want to hear this next sentence.

  “Paige, I can help. You see . . .” And now this is an even softer whisper. “My father, he get things, from strange places. Places you are not supposed to get from.”

  This freezes my breath inside my body.

  “It is possible, he even get little information from man who gets it from man who gets it from somebody else. Someone who has seen parents. Someone who could maybe get parents out. For price.”

  The number of thought bubbles swirling around my head, I would put at around three hundred.

  “USA, Paige, they don’t pay price. They hate negotiate. But my father. He is used to negotiate. He is expert.”

  Okay, so basically what’s happening is Uri is offering me the chance to find my parents and pay a ransom to
bring them home. Good plan. Except I would get the ransom from . . . who?

  “Uri, I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I do. My dad does.” He puffs up his chest and smiles. “I pay.”

  “Uri, I can’t do that. As much as I wish I could. And, believe me, I reeeeeeeally wish I could. I just couldn’t take that kind of money. Nothing good would come of it. I just know it.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe would not be that much?”

  “Uri, have you ever heard the expression, ‘If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas’?”

  Uri pouts. “Am I flea?”

  “NO! No, you are not flea, Uri. You are great. You are wonderful and I like you a lot—”

  “Like for sex?”

  “No, not like for sex. But like for friendship. Closeness. Caring.”

  What am I talking about. Caring? I’ve never said the word caring in my life. But I do like Uri. I do feel a sense of closeness, and I think it’s called . . . kindness with him. Like a human feeling. And the fact that he’s even thinking about my parents, that it’s been on his mind, that means something. He didn’t just shrug it off and throw it away that night at the church. He thought about it. He wanted to fix it.

  “But the thing is . . . I’m pretty sure my parents wouldn’t really want me to get involved . . . in this manner . . . with certain . . . elements.”

  “Like fleas.”

  “Uri, it really means a lot to me that you would try. It does. But I just can’t.”

  “Okay, fine, be that way.”

  “Uri, your English is getting a lot better.”

  “Maybe good, but I don’t understand your culture. Why everybody smile all the time? Petrodollars?”

  “Could be, Uri. Could be that we’re all sort of at Disneyland while the world is burning all around us.”

  “That was dark for American. Maybe you are turning Russian.”

  The sky behind him slices over the campus in sheets of gray, a canopy of wisps, spreading out over the horizon.

  I’m not sure if I want to ask this, but it blurts itself out.

  “Uri?”

  “Yes, dark American.”

  “Do you think it would be possible to maybe ask around, though? Like ask someone if they had maybe heard something from a guy who maybe had heard something from another guy, kind of thing? About—just—whether they’re alive?”