Ring of Truth (22 page)

Nicholas chuckled at her mother's next remark. “She wants to know what you're waiting for.”

Veronica raised her eyes from the photograph to Nicholas's face. “You may tell her I haven't found the right man yet. And my career doesn't make it easy.”

“Why not?” Nicholas wanted to know. “What is it about being an opera singer that would make it tough to be married?”

“I don't hear you translating, Nicholas.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and said something to her mother. Then followed an extensive conversation, involving Fedosia, which Nicholas didn't bother to translate. Finally he spoke again to Veronica. “I asked if there were more photos you could see, but apparently there aren't.”

“Really? Not even one of my father?”

“Your mother says they have almost no good photos and she's embarrassed to show you poor ones.”

“I don't care about that.”

“She says photos are a luxury this family can't afford.”

Veronica quashed her disappointment. “That's a shame.” Though she shouldn't be surprised. The family might live hand to mouth. Again she regretted that she hadn't brought something. “Do my sister or any of my brothers live close by?”

“Your sister and two of your brothers do,” Nicholas reported. “One of your brothers moved to Moscow.”

“Is it rude to say that I had hoped at least one of them might be here today?”

There was another barrage of conversation among Veronica's mother, Nicholas, and Fedosia. Finally Nicholas spoke again to Veronica. “Your mother says she couldn't be sure you would come today. You and Viktor were supposed to arrive in the afternoon but then you were delayed. And your siblings all have jobs, they have families—”

“But when you called earlier, Nicholas, didn't you say for sure I'd be coming today?”

“I did.” He met her gaze. “I don't know how to explain it. Maybe something got lost in translation.”

Again Veronica's mother grabbed her arm. Veronica twisted to face her and give her hands another squeeze.

Though they exchanged smiles, and Veronica's mother freed one of her hands to smooth back a lock of Veronica's hair, Veronica couldn't deny a certain sinking of the heart. Though she tried very hard to fight the feeling, she found this, all of this, a bit of a letdown.

She hadn't known what to expect from meeting her birth mother, not really, but it wasn't this. There was a tepid quality to the evening that flew in the face of all her fevered imaginings. She had expected these moments of first acquaintance to be more epic, more momentous. She had anticipated a warm connection, if not immediately, then in short order. She had longed for a meeting of the minds with her birth mother, a resonance in both hearts—and fully expected both. After all, she and this woman shared the profoundest of bonds. But try though she might, she couldn't shake a certain awkwardness. She sensed a distance between herself and her birth mother she didn't know how to bridge.

It was exactly what adoptees warned of. It was why so many did not try to find their birth parents. Parents and children who spent all their lives together sometimes failed to find a deep connection; why should parents and children who'd been separated be spared that fate?

Veronica, ever the diva, had been sure she'd be one of the lucky ones. Even when she knew her birth mother was dying, she'd still been convinced that she would enjoy the rapturous, tear-filled, Hollywood-perfect reunion of mother and child. She would be a mini me of her mother: the same in look, build, and style. They would share many of the same gestures. They would laugh at the same silly things—even though they spoke different languages. They would like the same foods—even though they lived in different culinary cultures. The fact that this scenario played out for no mother and daughter pairing that Veronica had ever known did not impinge on her fantasy.

Her mother raised Veronica's right hand to examine the ring, then motioned to Fedosia to come closer to scrutinize it as well. Far from the lamp's glow, the emerald gemstone appeared almost black. Veronica was surprised: She had expected it to gleam with pearliness here in her mother's presence. The two women twisted the ring this way and that, cooing with an admiration that embarrassed Veronica. She couldn't take credit for the ring's magnificence; she was its keeper for a short time only; but though she couldn't pinpoint why, she had the idea her mother wouldn't believe that. She considered regaling everyone with how it had come into her possession but bit back the impulse.

“Your mother says your ring is very beautiful,” Nicholas said.

“Please thank her. It was a gift.” From whom, she would never know.

“Nevertheless, your mother says, you're a fortunate woman because you could afford to buy a ring like this for yourself.”

Veronica didn't know what to say to that. Her mother went on speaking.

“Your mother wants to know if you sing all over the world?” Nicholas said.

“Europe and the U.S., mostly.”

“San Francisco,” her mother said, her accent making the words hard to understand.

“I live in San Francisco, yes.”

“In Victorian,” her mother added.

“Not in a
whole
Victorian. I live on just one floor, in a flat.” She almost added:
Sharing with two other women so I can pay the rent
.

Her mother continued speaking. “You stay in hotels all over the world when you sing,” Nicholas translated. “Like Pavarotti.”

At that, Veronica had to laugh. “Not at all like Pavarotti!” It had been decades since the world-famous tenor had stayed in a fourth-floor walk-up guesthouse, if he ever had. “I was lucky enough to work with him once, though.”

Nicholas leaned forward. “That must've been an amazing experience.”

“It was. I did an apprentice program with the Santa Fe Opera, and Luciano Pavarotti taught a master class.” She smiled at the memory. “He helped me learn to pronounce the ‘O' sound in Italian, which can be tricky for non-native speakers. I think if it hadn't been for him I never would've gotten my current role.” Which she dearly hoped she still had. “Leonora in
Il Trovatore
. In Florence.”

“One of my all-time favorite cities. Where are you staying?”

“In a guesthouse behind the Palazzo Vecchio.”

“I envy you.” They smiled at each other until Nicholas switched to Russian to translate what Veronica had said. He stopped, though, when her mother spoke over him. “Your mother says you must have had very expensive training to become an opera singer. Your parents must be wealthy people, otherwise it wouldn't have been possible.”

Veronica shook her head vigorously. “No. It wasn't like that at all. My parents had to struggle to make my training possible. A lot of the time my father had two jobs.”

Nicholas translated, but Veronica could see that her mother wasn't listening. Instead she was resettling herself on her pillows, grimacing slightly.

When her mother uttered a low moan, Veronica flushed from shame. Here she was jabbering on about Italy while her mother was in obvious distress. She rose to plump the pillows herself, a lump growing in her throat. She had feared the specter of death would hang over this reunion, and though it had not, now she was reminded that her time with her birth mother would be precious and short. “Nicholas,” she murmured, “my mother may not want to talk about it, but I have to ask again about her health.”

Nicholas began to speak but Veronica's mother shushed him with a wave of the hand. “She says we can talk about that tomorrow.” His voice registered the surprise Veronica herself felt. “She apologizes,” he went on, “but she's very tired.”

“I can certainly understand that but”—Veronica struggled for what to say—“I would love to see her again tomorrow, but I can't impose on you like that, Nicholas.”

“It wouldn't be an imposition if I offer.” He regarded her steadily. “And so I hereby offer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.” He rose to his feet. “If you're sure you'd like to come again, then I'll bring you.”

“Of course I'm sure.” This time Veronica hugged her mother, and kissed her cheek. The older woman managed a feeble smile.

Veronica and Nicholas stood in the tiny entry to make what turned out to be prolonged arrangements with Fedosia, who referred to a morning visit by a doctor.

Nicholas's expression was thoughtful. “Fedosia says there's a slim chance there may be a special treatment for your mother. Her doctor will come here in the morning to discuss it with her.”

“Really?” Veronica grasped Fedosia's arm. “Is that why my mother didn't want to discuss her health, because she didn't want to raise my hopes? If that were true, that would change everything.”

If it weren't hopeless for her birth mother, Veronica might be able to develop a relationship with her. That's what they needed to dispel this stiffness between them: time. They could write letters and, when she was working in Europe, Veronica could visit. Eventually mother and daughter would find their natural familiarity.

Nicholas and Fedosia spoke at length. Finally: “I asked if we might be here for the doctor visit,” Nicholas said. “Fedosia keeps saying she's not sure exactly when it's going to happen, but now she's named a time.”

Veronica frowned. “I would like to be here but don't you think it's kind of presumptuous? I am her daughter but we've just met.”

“If I knew more about her condition, I might be able to help. Fedosia hasn't even been able to tell me what your mother is suffering from.”

No doubt Nicholas had connections and so could help. “We could hover in the background,” she said, “and you could talk to the doctor before he or she leaves.”

A plan was set. Beneath a night sky obscured by a forbidding mantle of clouds, Veronica and Nicholas walked back to his Renault. “It'll snow tonight,” he said as he held open the car door while Veronica settled in.

“That may make it harder to get back here tomorrow, if there's a big storm.”

They didn't speak again until they were once more on the nearly empty highway leading to Moscow. “You're being so generous with your time, Nicholas,” she said into the silence. “Really, I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you.”

“I just want you to be careful, Veronica.”

It was a different man in a different car on a different highway, but he was speaking almost exactly the same words Dominik had spoken three nights before. “What are you talking about?” she asked, though of course she knew.

Nicholas appeared to choose his words carefully. “I'm a little concerned about all this.”

So am I.
She banished the thought. “I'm concerned about my mother's health, absolutely.”

“How do you feel now that you've met her?”

It was hard to put into words. “I think I'm in shock. I know for most people it's totally normal, but it's the first time in my life I've been around someone who's blood.”

“Is that how she feels to you?”

“I feel a connection to her,” Veronica lied.

Nicholas said nothing. A snazzy German car rocketed past on their left, maybe driven by an oligarch hastening back to Moscow.

“You might as well get it off your chest,” she said a few minutes later. “When you said you were concerned, what did you mean?”

It took him a while to speak. Then: “Even before the conversation with Fedosia, which I will tell you was pretty bizarre, a few things troubled me.”

Veronica fiddled with the ring. A few things troubled her, too, but she was trying to ignore them. “What did Fedosia say that was so bizarre?”

“I didn't translate all of it because she would say one thing, and then she would say something else that contradicted it. But I promise you that when we get back there tomorrow, the doctor will have come and gone.”

Snow started to fall. Veronica watched flakes dance in the black sky above their speeding Renault. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if my mother didn't want us there while the doctor is examining her. It's an invasion of her privacy.”

He ignored that. “The way Fedosia was talking about the quote unquote special treatment—”

“Why do you say it that way? You don't believe it exists?”

Again he seemed to be picking and choosing his words. “I'm just concerned they'll ask you to pay for this treatment, which, I'll be honest with you, Veronica, I am not sure exists.”

“First of all, not
they
. Fedosia. My mother didn't breathe a word about any of this. And you know what? Even if my mother did ask me to pay for it, what would be so wrong with that? I'm her daughter, and even though I'm far from rich, clearly I have more money than she does.”

“Veronica, I'm on your side here.”

She knew that was true. She didn't need the ring pulsating with white light to clue her in on that. For what seemed like the millionth time that day, and for who knew what reason now, tears again stung her eyes.

“I don't want you taken advantage of,” he went on.

The tears were so close to the surface that she had to choke out the words. “Nicholas, you are being incredibly kind to me, but I am not some idiot you have to protect.”

“You just have to remember that corruption is ingrained in—”

“Yes, there's a lot of corruption in Russia. That is not news to me. But do not try to tell me that all Russian people are corrupt.”

“You know I'm not saying that.”

“Maybe you've gotten cynical from living here so long. Maybe you've seen too much. And besides, all I really hear you saying is that you don't trust Fedosia.”

Nicholas didn't speak for a time while he maneuvered around a few slow-moving vehicles. It seemed to Veronica that he was using the interruption to gear up for an even touchier subject.

She turned out to be right.

“I wasn't comfortable,” he started, “with everything your mother said.”

She bit back her agreement. “Do you mean when she was asking about my opera career?”

“She was mostly asking how much money you make.”

“That's got to be high in the minds of people who don't have much money.”

“She barely listened when you talked about your master class with Pavarotti. She didn't ask a thing about the production you're in now, or about any of the productions you've ever been in. And the only thing she wanted to know about your training was how much it cost.”

And she didn't ask me to sing.
It was the one constant of Veronica's life: People she just met were always asking her to sing. Masha had earlier that day. Strangers did all the time. But the woman who had given her life didn't request a single note.

“I thought she would ask you to sing,” Nicholas said, unsettling her even further by echoing her thoughts. “Hell, I wanted her to.
I
want to hear you sing, Veronica. But I wanted her to be the one to ask.”

Veronica said another thing she didn't really believe. “You can't expect a woman on her deathbed to be demanding an aria.”

Nicholas was silent. All the same Veronica knew what he was thinking.
Yes, you can. Because if she doesn't hear an aria from her daughter now, she never will.

Veronica's tears had receded. Now she was feeling combative. “I bet you're going to tell me you don't think she's really sick.”

He hesitated. “I heard that cough. I don't think she's well.”

“Well, I'm glad you don't think the entire thing is a pretext to get the rich American opera-singing daughter she gave away to give her money.”

He was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “It will anger you to hear me say this, Veronica, but that is a possibility I want you to consider.”