Moonlight in Odessa (7 page)

I spent another month researching positions and writing letters. It was worth it – in the West, I could earn in a month what I earned in a year in Odessa. Though new banks were popping up every week, Boba and I didn’t believe in them – we kept our money in the icebox. I tried to imagine the size of the freezer we’d need to hold the salary of my new job in America. It would surely take up our whole kitchen. I laughed.

‘You crazy girl!’ Harmon yelled from his office. ‘What are you cackling about?’

Sigh.

Finally, I got a response. Apparently, I was a strong candidate, but they weren’t able to hire me because I didn’t have working papers. They wished me much success. Another, then another wrote the same. Perhaps my friend Florina was right about emigrating to Germany. She said it was easy for Jews to get citizenship.

While searching for engineering positions, I’d seen many advertisements for Internet dating services. The photos of smiling, happy couples made me envious. And curious. I’d spent some time in the Odessa dating pool, which was slimy and black. Perhaps I’d have better luck dating someone abroad – I certainly hadn’t had any luck dating Ukrainian men. In the last year, I’d had only first dates – an alcoholic, a mama’s boy, and a snout (Russian slang for ‘pig’ – one pink body part represents the whole). Of course, I’d spent time with Vladimir Stanislavski, but he could hardly be considered a date. Not a respectable one, anyway. In designer sunglasses and black cashmere coat – the typical mob uniform – he sailed past our security guards each week to collect the protection money. As always when he saw me, he took off his sunglasses. I looked at his dark eyes and sensual mouth. As always, he asked me out. As always, I rolled my eyes and pretended to be annoyed. Who could take him seriously? Odessan men flirt with anyone in a skirt. As always, he smiled, a sexy, confident smile. It was the best part of my week.

Just then, as I handed Vlad the envelope, I heard giggling behind Harmon’s door.

‘What’s that horrible sound?’ Vlad frowned.

That horrible sound was my friend simpering for my boss. What had I done? She’d gone from a sensitive artist and friend to a stranger. The door opened and Harmon and Olga came out. She wrapped herself around Harmon. His eyes widened when he saw Vlad. Olga continued to stroke Harmon’s lapel but eyed Vlad with interest; he dismissed her. I supposed that was one point in Vladimir Stanislavski’s favor.

Once, Jane teased me for having a crush on her boyfriend, Cole, a Peace Corps volunteer stationed in Khmelnitsky. Of course I didn’t. That would have been rude. He was just so courteous and handsome, hardworking and sincere, smart and funny. I wanted to find someone just like him. Maybe it would be possible on the Internet.

Since Harmon spent much of his day shut away in his office with Olga, I had time to look at matchmaking sites. Dates.com offered a free membership, so I filled in the questionnaire, then looked to see what the men wrote. Some profiles were incomprehensible, like TurboGuy who wrote, ‘I love NASCAR.’ When asked the question, ‘What are you most grateful for?’ Pirate37 replied ‘presents.’ I smiled at that. One offered no photos of himself, but did post three of his red truck. When asked about his job, another wrote, ‘I drive a school bus because I love to hug little kiddies.’ I started corresponding with seven. (Odd numbers are lucky.) Jeff, a construction worker in Bend, Oregon, loved Jesus and wanted to know if I was saved; Al in Albany wrote in abbreviations, ‘
hope 2 c u cuz i m lonely
’; Davis, a Tolstoy fan, seemed more preoccupied by war than by peace; Shakir wrote, ‘I want to come to your cuntry.’ As diverse as they were, all had one thing in common: they wanted to see ‘a pic.’

How could I feed my photo to the computer? I saw an ad for an evening computer class and signed up. I was tired of being dependent upon computer technicians. Harmon agreed to buy a scanner for our office, and I hooked it up. He complimented me on my new skills as he went out the door to meet Olga. Perhaps things were looking up.

I sent the photos. Upon receiving them, all seven proposed. Boba was right. Men are so superficial.

I still tried to talk to Olga when she came to the office. After three long months, she finally started to acknowledge me – and my belongings. All the tokens that Harmon used to shower on me, from the videocassettes and clothes that came on our ships, to the perfume and trinkets that clients gave me as a thank you, now went to Olga. Her appearance had improved; she looked well rested. Unfortunately, her style had not – she was wearing a gold lamé top and no bra. And she watched me suspiciously, as though I hadn’t spent months avoiding Harmon, as though she expected me to steal him back. Of course, I tried to remain on pleasant terms with my boss. Did she really expect me to stop talking to him entirely?

Now all she talked about was money – the first word she’d learned from the English tutor Harmon had engaged for her. ‘
Ooh, tee!
How much this cost?’ she asked with her eye on my phone. Harmon had hired a nanny so that she could paint, but instead, she shopped. She showed me her new purse and matching gloves. I admired them. As always, I asked after her little ones. ‘How is little Sveta doing in school?’

‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, perusing my desk.

‘Has Ivan stopped teething?’

‘I think so.’

Her eyes darted from object to object. If she could have fit my computer into her new Escada clutch, she probably would have taken it.

‘He’s surely waiting for you in his office,’ I hinted. She certainly had him in her clutches, I thought sourly.

‘Ah! Just what I need,’ she said, and grabbed my stapler and stuck it in her purse.

‘That’s
mine
. Give that back!’ I whispered furiously in Russian. ‘What do you need a stapler for anyway?’

‘
Jadna!
’ she said, the word for cheap or stingy, then grabbed my tape. ‘What do you care? You can always get more.’

‘So can you. He’s your sugar daddy.’ I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.

‘Uptight bitch. You’re just jealous.’

She eyed my digital clock, so I put it on my lap.

Olga drove me crazy, always ignoring me in the office, always taking my things. The worst was that I hadn’t a leg to stand on – I’d chosen her. I realized that I should be patient with her, that this new life of hers was easier in some ways but more difficult in others. But my resolve snapped when Harmon came out of his office. Before he could greet her, I complained in English, ‘She stole my stapler
and
my tape. Yesterday, she took the bouquet and box of figs that Playtech sent me. The day before that, my favorite CD.’

Harmon used to take me seriously, but now he just smiled.

Olga’s brow wrinkled when she didn’t understand, which he seemed to think was adorable. She’d been trying to learn English so that they could communicate. But so far her vocabulary was limited. When I’d asked him about it, Harmon said he didn’t mind, sighing, ‘It’s like she graduated summa cum laude in massage.’

‘Please tell her to return my belongings,’ I said stiffly. ‘Don’t you think you should send her home so that we can go over the logistics report? The deadline is tomorrow. I need you . . . your help.’

Olga shot me a dirty look and moved to Harmon. ‘Hhhhello.’ Like a cat in heat, she rubbed her body against his. ‘Daria, be a dear and make us a coffee,’ Olga said condescendingly in Russian. ‘And go get me a pack of cigarettes.’ She reached into Harmon’s pocket and stroked his thigh before pulling out a money clip and throwing three one-dollar bills in my direction. I let them fall to the floor at my feet. I looked to Harmon, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he wasn’t used to women fighting over him. Not that we were fighting over him, exactly.

He was the most security she’d ever had.

He was the most security I’d ever had.

Neither of us would give it up without a fight.

‘What about the report?’ I asked. ‘We need to do it together.’

He looked at the stack of invoices on my desk. ‘You’re right. It has to go out tonight.’

Good. He’d sided with me. He turned to tell her, ‘I work. Bye, bye,’ but just as he opened his mouth, she kissed him and plastered herself to his body.

If English was my weapon, sex was hers. He went cross-eyed with lust and she pulled him into his office. Olga gave me a pointed look and laughed. Clearly, she’d won that battle. She continued to cackle and I left, taking my clock with me. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty and I could sit and let my temper cool. If only I could understand
what
exactly I was angry about. Was it just the office supplies? Or the loss of control? I watched the minutes pass. When I returned to my desk, I could still hear Olga, even though the door was closed. She was saying in her pathetic English, ‘She no work. Daria lazy. She go. I work.’

What was Olga up to? Could she be attempting a takeover?

I looked past my palm tree, past the bars on the windows and waited for five o’clock. I had to face the truth: I’d lost my friend, I’d wasted months applying for jobs I’d never get, I’d never find love in Odessa or anywhere else, and I’d probably lost the most security Boba and I had ever had.

Chapter 4

Moonlight. I love this word. So romantic. There is a hint of secrecy, of deeds done at night when no one can see. I love its transformation from noun to verb. To moonlight: to work a second job on the sly.

When I told Boba I needed a second job, she said, ‘But I barely see you now. You don’t eat enough – look at you! Skin and bones and not much else. And you certainly don’t get enough rest!’ But Harmon was a man and if history had taught us anything, it’s that you can’t depend on a man. I needed to feel secure. At the shipping company, the waters were choppy and a storm could come in at any time.

I also like the phrase ‘to put out feelers.’ I imagined that Boba and I were caterpillars, putting out our feelers to find me another job. Our neighbor’s cousin needed a waitress. One of Boba’s former colleagues told us that his son-in-law in faraway Kiev was looking for an engineer. My friend Florina’s aunt was looking for someone to translate letters from American men to our women at her matchmaking agency. This job would be an opportunity for me to practice my English and maybe even meet someone. The office was located on a quiet street five blocks from the shipping company. Three times I passed the ground-floor flat with lace curtains made of thread as fine as any spider’s before I realized that the agency was located in someone’s home. I glanced at the scrap of paper with the address written on it. This was the place. I rang the bell. My friend’s aunt answered the door and introduced herself with a hearty Western handshake.

Valentina Borisovna was of indeterminate age, had large pink glasses that slipped down her nose, calculating blue eyes that could sum up any situation, a blond bouffant shellacked into place, and a bullet-proof brassiere that made her ample breasts seem like pointy weapons aimed at the person in front of her. In a previous life – that is to say, before perestroika – she’d been an influential Party member. However, connections hadn’t protected Valentina Borisovna from poverty – her bank account had been emptied like everyone else’s. So this once ardent communist became an entrepreneur and named her agency Soviet Unions. It was like she hadn’t wanted the Party to end, so she’d created her own.

‘I need full-time help to sort things out. Some of my girls are nuclear physicists, but some of them! Look at what they write!’

She handed me a questionnaire filled out in pink ink. I read, ‘Name: Yulia Shtunder; Age: 19; Sex: Yes!! All the time!!’

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. She did, too. ‘If I showed the men looking for a bride that questionnaire, they’d be lined up at her door, but marriage wouldn’t be on their minds,’ Valentina Borisovna said. ‘So you see, I need help with some of these girls. I want them to be as classy as the women in Moscow. You could teach them manners and basic English, couldn’t you?’ She looked approvingly at my chignon, lightly made-up face, and black business suit.

I nodded. Let the haggling begin.

‘Is this your first job out of college, dear?’

Code: I won’t have to pay you a decent salary since you need the experience.

‘No,’ I sat up a little straighter and preened. ‘I work at
ARGONAUT
.’

Code: I’m smart enough to land a job with a foreign firm.

‘The shipping company?’

That had her attention. Ha!

‘The Western shipping company?’

And her respect.

‘Well, if you have a job, you certainly don’t need this one?. . .’

Code: You won’t be my twenty-four-hour-a-day slave.

Clearly, I was dealing with an expert negotiator.

‘I have plenty of time to translate letters at work. We could train the girls in the evenings and on weekends – after all, most of them have jobs, too.’

Valentina Borisovna couldn’t know that I spoke English better than most people in Odessa, that I was determined to make a life for myself and Boba. All she knew was that her niece trusted me. Of course, she’d just seen that I could fend for myself.

‘You’re hired,’ she said.

As we say in Odessa, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know and how much money you have.