CHAPTER TWO
I awoke to the gentle sound of birds chirping outside my window. It was early morning; the golden rays of the sun tenderly stroked my face. I pulled back the covers and went to the window to take a peek outside. A yellow butterfly caught my eye; I followed its fluttering path with my eyes, watching it softly land on a flower. It was a red rose; there were several actually, growing alongside a wooden trellis that adhered to the side of the house. They were beautiful; I didn’t know why I hadn’t noticed them the previous day.
Feeling refreshed and more confident, I quickly dressed, then unlocked my door. I stepped cautiously into the hallway; it was quiet, but in a peaceful way. I found the bathroom that Harriet had told me about, and went inside. I had always believed that American bathrooms were huge, fancy things; however, this one was no larger or fancier than a Russian one. The top section of the walls consisted of the same white stucco in the hallway; however, the lower section of the walls had black and white linoleum tiles attached to it. The sink was small and white, the faucet a contrasting black color. The toilet was shiny and ivory, the tub was milky-white. The windows were small, yet cheerful. They offered a view of the neighboring house, which was bordered by trees and a fence that separated it from the driveway of the Pavlovich family. I quickly bathed, then left the bathroom in search of the kitchen.
I soon found it by passing through a door from the hallway. The kitchen was medium-sized, with a laminated wooden floor and lemon-yellow walls. An immense, modern-looking refrigerator stood near a corner of the kitchen, next to a shiny black oven. A small butcher-block table was located on the opposite side of the room, next to the entrance. There was an extensive counter, white with black specks, and a cobalt-blue cabinet hanging over it. The narrow sink was located to the right of the counter, with two small windows behind and overhead the silver-colored faucets. A Byzantine painting of Jesus holding a Cyrillic cross hung on one wall, near the telephone. A vivid photograph of the Kremlin building in Moscow hung prominently over the stove. An old cuckoo clock was fixed to the left of this picture. The kitchen seemed warmer than the other parts of the house; I felt safer and more at home here than anywhere else in the house.
I listened for signs of life in the house, but heard none. Apparently, the Pavlovichs were not early risers. I peeked into cupboards, and found various cooking instruments; pots, pans, measurers, whisks, and countless other utensils. There seemed to be anything here that an aspiring cook could want. I then took a quick glance into the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, butter, were all available in abundance. It seemed that Harriet Blom was not lax in her shopping habits.
I decided to try and get off to the right start. I cracked some eggs and melted some butter. I then proceeded to make some Bliny pancakes. I found some teabags and brewed some hot tea. Crying with delight when I happened upon some yeast, baking powder and flour, I baked some Russian black bread, the strong odor filling every corner of the kitchen. I made a Russian Peasant Omelet, using eggs, potatoes, an onion, milk, and some salt and pepper. I cut the potatoes into cubes, frying them in vegetable oil under the lid for about ten minutes. I then chopped the onion and tomato, adding them to the potatoes and cooking for another five minutes. I beat the egg with milk, pouring it over the potatoes, and then cooking it all for a few more minutes. It smelled so good; it made me homesick for my Mama’s kitchen back in Russia.
I found the dining room and started to set the table. It was a dark walnut color, rectangular in shape and very attractive to the eye. I found a red tablecloth, and threw it over the top of the table, placing plates and silverware upon it that I retrieved from the kitchen cabinets. I noticed an old walnut liquor cabinet, with bottles of vodka and gin laid upon its shelf. There were several pictures adorning the walls; there was one of an Indian riding a horse on the plains while he hunted buffaloes, another of a gondola in a canal in Venice. An enormous chandelier hung down from the ceiling, directly above the dining table. It was not a large room.
“So,” a voice from behind startled me. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the dining room. I quickly turned around, only to discover the imposing figure of Harriet Blom, with her hands on her hips and a strange smile upon her face.
“So,” she repeated. “You have been busy little Russian bee, haven’t you?” she said. Harriet looked at the table, regarding the meal with a critical eye.
“I am being sorry,” I quickly said, my face hot with embarrassment. “I should have asked permission before taking liberties with kitchen.”
Harriet walked around the walnut dining table, carefully examining the breakfast that I had just prepared. She was scowling, and for a bad moment I thought she was going to yell at me, or send me packing back home. However, to my surprise she suddenly began to nod her head, her fingers and thumb resting on her chin.
“Not bad, not so bad,” she said, slowly and reluctantly. “Looking good, smelling good…but proof will be in taste,” she said with an enigmatic smile.
A voice from the living room suddenly greeted us. “What is that delicious smell?” Nicholas Pavlovich inquired as he slowly entered the dining room. He was dressed even more slovenly than the previous day. This morning he was wearing wrinkled cotton pajamas, white socks upon his feet, and a maroon sweat shirt. His graying brown hair was greasy and uncombed, his eyeglasses badly in need of a cleaning. The negative impression of him that I had from the previous day was reinforced by his current appearance. He was not the sophisticated, successful American that I had expected. Harriet addressed him first, her head motioning toward me. “Sonia has surprised us with delicious breakfast. If breakfast is delicious, I will be surprised,” she added sarcastically.
Nicholas smiled at me with a look of amazement. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said, winking at me as if we shared some secret. He sat down at the head of the table. “Well, what are we waiting for? My mouth is watering for this delightful Russian cuisine,” he said, as he slowly and carefully tied a handkerchief around his neck.
Harriet quickly pulled Nicholas’s plate away from him, before he could begin eating. “You are being rude, nephew,” she admonished him. “Little brother Alexander is still to join us,” she reminded him gruffly.
Nicholas sighed. “You are quite right, Aunt Harriet. I have the manners of Ivan,” he declared with a slight smile upon his lips. “I mean Ivan the Terrible, of course. Not my dear brother Ivan.”
Nicholas ambled leisurely into the kitchen. From the other room I could hear the sound of him dialing a phone. “Alexander?” Yes…this is your big brother Nicholas. Sorry to interrupt your scheduled dreaming, but I wondered if you could honor us with your presence at the breakfast table. What was that?” Nicholas asked. “Oh, no, Aunt Harriet didn’t cook this morning. No worries,” he said. “It was our new little friend, Sonia. I think that you should come down now, so as not to insult her,” he said, the sound of the phone hanging up echoing throughout the house. Nicholas walked back into the dining room, and resumed his seat at the table.
“I hope Mr. Alexander not having to drive far to come here,” I said gingerly.
Nicholas laughed. “Oh, I called him on his cell phone. Mr. Alexander can drive himself downstairs and have breakfast with his family like a civilized person,” he declared.
Embarrassed, I turned my face away and started to examine the wall. I suddenly noticed the picture with the Indian and the buffaloes. Except…there were no buffaloes now. The Indian was standing next to his horse, looking straight into my eyes.
And there was blood on his spear.
I blinked. Could I have imagined that there were buffaloes before? I pointed a finger at the picture on the wall.
“The buffaloes…they are gone,” I stammered.
Nicholas gazed lazily at the picture. “Yes, they are extinct now,” he said quietly. He then looked back at his food. “This looks exquisite, Sonia. What do you call it?” he inquired with a friendly smile.
Distracted, I replied, “It is called…Russian Peasant omelet
,” I said, still mystified by the picture of the Indian.
“Russian Peasant, huh?” a familiar voice greeted us from the entrance of the dining room. It was Alexander Pavlovich. In contrast to Nicholas, his raven hair was combed neatly. He was fashionably dressed in a silk shirt, beige cotton trousers and brown leather shoes. The large cross from the previous evening still hung prominently around his neck. His gloomy eyes seemed even more unfriendly in the light of day.
“Good morning, Mr. Alexander,” I greeted him cheerfully. “I am hoping you are enjoying breakfast I make,” I said gingerly.
Alexander smirked. “What’s with that accent?” he asked antagonistically. “You sound like Boris from ‘Bullwinkle’ the cartoon,” he informed me.
Tears of embarrassment came to my eyes. I was very sensitive about my broken English. Finally, I was able to respond to his rudeness. “I am being sorry if accent is not acceptable. Hopefully English is improving with practice,” I said.
Harriet glared at Alexander. “So, Mr. Bigot. Perhaps you are not liking Aunt Harriet’s accent. Perhaps you are hating all foreigners,” she accused her nephew.
Alexander looked red in the face with shame. “I didn’t mean anything by it. My mother was a foreigner,” he said, looking directly at me.
I nodded my head with approval. I went back into the kitchen and soon returned with the rest of the breakfast food. Everyone had seated themselves, and I served the Bliny pancakes last.
“These are the famous Bliny pancakes, huh?” Nicholas asked with a twinkle in his eye. He took a bite of one. “Well, very delicious. Most authentic, I’m sure,” he remarked.
“Here, try them with sour cream,” I said. I plopped a dollop of the thick white cream onto his pancake. Nicholas took another bite, closing his eyes and smiling. “Yummy,” he said emphatically. “Sonia, you are a great find. And I didn’t even have to search for you on the precious Internet,” he added with a sly grin at Alexander.
Alexander grunted; a bemused look appeared on his features. “Huh, like you could actually do a Google search,” he challenged his older brother.
Nicholas benevolently chided his younger brother. “Now, Alexander. Show some respect. I’ve successfully searched the Web in the past. “In fact,” he said as he looked straight at me with interest. “I discovered some rather interesting things as I was browsing on the Internet. Some truly fascinating information concerning Russian history,” he declared.
Harriet interrupted him. “I’m sure Sonia is not being interested in your hobbies, Nicholas. Is not young people kind of stuff,” she said with authority.
I shook my head. “Oh, I would be very interested in any stuff concerns my Mother Russia. We are having rich culture and history,” I stated proudly.
Nicholas smiled at his aunt with a look of triumph. “You see, Harriet? The girl has a natural interest. And it is interesting, Sonia,” he said with special emphasis.
Nicholas cleared his throat, rubbing his hand through the thin, graying hair on his strangely-shaped head. He looked at me, his dead eyes coming to life. “You see, Sonia, I have always had a curious obsession with the Russian healer, Rasputin. Oh, I am certain that you have heard something of him in your village. How he was a tall, mystical holy man who became a faith healer and sometimes doctor to the Romanov family of Czarist Russia. How he saved the life of the son of Czar Nicholas II. How a jealous Russian aristocracy, led by Prince Yusupov , murdered him in 1917,” he related.
“I have heard something of this story in school, da,” I affirmed.
Nicholas’ eyes, so dead the night before, were positively sparkling with life. “Da, yes, undoubtedly you have heard of that,” he said. “But perhaps you didn’t know what I have discovered in my research. How Rasputin walked among the Startsi, the Makari; wandering holy men and ascetic hermits. How he traveled to the monastery of Verkhotouri, and learned that only those who understand suffering can know the nature of God. How he performed the Radenie Ceremony, dancing and chanting hymns in ecstasy around a ring of fire. How he used carnal knowledge to get closer to God while in the Khlysty Cult. Rasputin came to understand that Jesus lives in various men throughout the ages. We are all Christ,” he added.
I was shocked by his blasphemy. I nearly dropped the tray of Bliny pancakes that I was holding. Harriet shook her head disapprovingly, but smiled indulgently at her nephew. Only Alexander seemed to find his voice.
“I thought we were supposed to be Jews,” he said, a smirk of irony upon his lips. “You seem to have mistaken us for goys, bro. And, I wouldn’t believe everything you find on the Web. Particularly if you find it on Wikipedia. Any jackass can write what he wants to on that,” he informed us.
Nicholas shook his head. “I grant you your techno-nerd instincts are correct in some cases. However, I’ve found corresponding information from periodicals and archives at the University where I teach. And…I’ve discovered much more. Far more than I could have dreamed,” he added with special meaning.
Alexander’s interest appeared to be tweaked. “What did you discover?” he inquired of his older brother.
Nicholas paused for a moment. He gazed at the other people around the table, as if he were reading our thoughts and storing them for future use. Then he spoke, in a soft, monotone voice: “Early in his travels, Rasputin wandered to Mount Athos in Greece. He received special instructions there. Concerning what? That remains unknown. However, he then wandered all the way down to Jerusalem, in what was then Palestine. What he discovered there we do not know. But, when he returned, Rasputin met with certain Jews who were knowledgeable concerning Kabbalah. And they didn’t meet just anywhere, but outside the Monastery of the Caves, in Kiev. What did ancient Jewish numerology have to do with Christian Russian Orthodoxy? What secrets did they unlock? This I would give my arm to learn,” he declared.
“That could easily be arranged,” a booming, familiar voice echoed from the entrance of the dining room. We all turned our heads at once. It was Ivan Pavlovich, an unannounced breakfast guest.
“Nice of you to come, Ivan,” Harriet said unconvincingly. “I guess we missed phone call telling us you arrive.”
Ivan didn’t take her bait. “Oh, I grew up in this house, Aunt Harriet,” he reminded her jovially, sitting down at the end of the table, opposite to Nicholas. “The door is always open to family, isn’t it Nicholas?” he said, more as a command than a question. As Ivan’s gaze met that of his own, Nicholas averted his eyes from his brother’s intimidating look.
“Of course…yes of course, Ivan,” Nicholas weakly replied. Some of the fire had gone from his voice. “Just because my name is on the deed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t just show up here any time you like,” he said with a sarcastic tone. He lifted his eyes from the floor and the two brothers glared at one another.
Then Ivan smiled. But again, there was malice in that look of his. “Yes, the deed. You’re quite right, it is your name on the deed to this house. Mother was quite kind in willing it to you alone. Still, it would be a shame if someone were to challenge the validity of that title…” Ivan’s voice trailed off as he nodded his head, then regarded the food on the table.
“But that can wait for another time,” he said, changing gears. “This food looks absolutely delicious. You didn’t waste any time, did you Sonia?” Ivan questioned me. He peered at me with large, wolf-like eyes. I tried to smile back, but quickly averted my eyes from his stare, looking down at the floor instead. There was something bold, almost threatening in his smile. It made my heart beat fast with excitement.
Ivan took a bite of the thick Russian bread. “Hmm…” he said slowly. “This is very good. It reminds me of the bread mother used to make. She found the recipe in an old book of our grandmother Elizabeth. You remember the story of her, don’t you Nicholas? As I recall, you were always playing with those Russian dolls of hers,” he related, a cruel smirk upon his lips.
Nicholas shook his head. “Yes…the Matryoshkas in Sonia’s room. They always fascinat
ed me. You open one woman, then find another one hidden inside, and then another. A mystery inside a mystery,” he declared.
Ivan nodded his head. “Women are like that…but I am being quite rude. You were discussing the mystery surrounding Rasputin,” he said.
“What does this crap have to do with anything?” Alexander interrupted. “It’s just a bunch of old fables and rumors. What does it have to do with us?” he inquired.
Ivan stood up, a cup of tea in one hand. He circled around the table, placing one hand paternally on Alexander’s shoulder. Alexander, who was seated, looked up carefully at his older brother. Ivan had a hulking presence; his mammoth body seemed to fill up the tiny dining room. He looked at the furnishings, seemingly taking stock.
“Yes…very eccentric. This room reflects Mother’s tastes,” Ivan paused. “And your own, Nicholas,” he gave his brother a hard look. “You resemble her in many ways. Alexander, on the other hand, resembles Father,” Ivan commented absently as he examined the paintings on the wall. “Yes, these will have to be removed,” he said nonchalantly. Ivan gave a brief look at his watch. “Well…I have to be going. I have a buyer waiting for me across town. She believes that I’m her agent; however, I represent the seller’s interest,” he paused. “And my own. Always my own,” he said with meaning.
Ivan placed his cup upon the table. “Thank you for the excellent breakfast, Sonia. I think you are going to prove to be very useful indeed,” he said. His eyes met those of Harriet’s for a moment and then turned back to mine. He smiled at me, though his face had an expression that put me ill at ease.
“Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich,” I said, but he didn’t respond. With a curt wave of his hand he dismissed me and quickly exited the room. In a moment the sound of the front door slamming told us of his departure. We all sat quietly for a moment. Then Harriet broke the silence:
“Well, Mr. Sunshine certainly made us merry, huh?” she asked. No one replied. She looked at me with seemingly new interest. “Sonia, are you being good with making cakes?” she inquired. I got the impression that she was trying to lighten the dark mood that Ivan’s visit had left.
“Da,yes, I am baking many cakes at home. Why you ask, Harriet?” I inquired.
Harriet smiled mysteriously. “I have recently seen article in local paper concerning baking contest. Contestants must be making special cakes. Judging is in two weeks,” she informed me. She regarded me with a serious look. Harriet took a bit of a Bliny pancake, all the time gazing into my eyes. “This is cooking I have not tasted in long time. Maybe never .Are you up to challenge?” she inquired, her hands on her hips as those large eyes intimidated me behind square, old-fashioned glasses.
I averted my eyes from her gaze, looking instead at Alexander. He didn’t smile, but he nodded with encouragement. His dark eyes seemed friendlier than before. I turned to Nicholas. He was busy examining the dining table; he certainly didn’t seem interested in the conversation. Then without warning, he pulled his head up and looked straight into my eyes.
“If they have no bread, let them eat cake,” he said enigmatically. Nicholas directed a warm look toward me. “It might be tricky, Sonia. You’ve only just arrived here; the language barrier might make this contest difficult for you,” he warned. “Still…if Harriet has no objections, I certainly don’t,” he said with a warm smile.
I placed my hand on his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich. This is being great opportunity for me. And I am working twice as hard at job here,” I promised. “Meals will not suffer.”
“Only our stomachs, huh?” Alexander said with a mischievous grin. I ignored his barbed comment and proceeded to start to pick up the dirty dishes from the table. Alexander departed from the room without warning, presumably to the privacy of his upstairs room. Harriet marched into the kitchen, a number of dirty dishes in her large hands. I guessed that she intended to wash them; she obviously didn’t intend to cede all of her former jobs to me if she could help it. Nicholas lingered at the table for a moment. He hesitated; I got the impression that he had something important to say to me, but was trying to gather the courage to tell me.
“Sonia,” he began slowly. His voice had a gentle, almost fatherly quality to it. “I know a little something of your past. Your father died in Afghanistan, I believe? And your two brothers in Chechnya?” he inquired with a sympathetic wrinkling of his brow.
I nodded my head. In Russia, we didn’t speak of such things; certainly not with people who were essentially strangers. I indicated my embarrassment at the subject matter by gazing down at the floor, pulling at my ear as I did so. But Nicholas Pavlovich continued to speak:
“I just wanted you to know, Sonia,” he said softly. “We are not just your employers. I want you to think of us as your host family here in America. If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to approach me, ok?” he said with a smile.
I took a close look at him. It was strange; despite his appearance, Nicholas Pavlovich seemed like a young boy. He had a trusting, naïve quality about him; despite his obvious intelligence, he didn’t impress me as being particularly responsible. But even so, despite the fact that he confounded me, I felt that I could trust him. Despite his eccentricity, I believed that he had a good soul.
“Thank you, Mr. Nicholas,” I said with genuine feeling. “I am being grateful for all.”
Nicholas got up from the table, and like his brothers exited without a word. I cleared the dishes off of the table and brought them to the kitchen sink. Harriet was busy drying some plates. She looked up from what she was doing; the hot steam had fogged up her glasses, and sweat was pouring off of her red face. Harriet wiped her brow, giving me a strange half-smile.
“They are strange lot, aren’t they?” she asked.
I nodded my head in assent. “Like a Russian troika,” I replied.
“Oh, I have heard of troika,” she responded. “One main horse in center leading other two, who are following every command,” Harriet arched her eyebrows, giving me a questioning look.
“Da,” I replied. “The brothers Pavlovich are like troika,” I paused, scratching my head and pulling on my earlobe in confusion. “But…who is being lead horse?”