69 Keeney Avenue

CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, Harriet drove me to the West Hartford Town Hall, where the baking contest was to take place. I needed to be there early; we were to be given instructions pertaining to the various rules and procedures of the morning’s event. When Harriet had knocked on Alexander’s door to see if he was coming to support me, she received only a loud grunt. Shaking her head in frustration, we made our way to the Town Hall alone. Nicholas had made a vague promise to try and get away from the University and come to cheer me on; however, he hadn’t seemed willing to make a commitment. I felt a little disappointed with the Pavlovich men, but was certainly grateful for the support and help of Harriet.

  When we arrived at the hall, it was utter chaos. People were yelling at one another, arguing over the placement of their cakes, debating over what constituted a cake and what didn’t, who was eligible and who wasn’t, and other countless tiffs. The majority of contestants appeared to be women, yet there were also a few male cooks participating. And these men were as passionate and as combative as the women, particularly one man with a black mustache. He was busy claiming his territory on the judging table with a large, glass bowl. This gentleman’s creation was a combination of golden-yellow and brown swirls, with a fine brown powder sprinkled on its surface. If I wasn’t mistaken, he had made the famous Italian dish called Tiramisu.

  As I placed my cake down next to his, the man with the black mustache gave me an unfriendly look. He was short and pudgy, with a balding head of oily-black hair that matched the color of his mustache. The look he gave me was appraising; it was not unlike the look you might get from a gunfighter in the old West who is sizing you up as a rival. I tried to ignore this man as I straightened out the tablecloth and attempted to sign my name on the provided card. The man gave us an icy glare; Harriet returned this with one of her own. To our chagrin, the unpleasant man approached us as we attempted to get ready for the judging.

  “Are you two broads gonna’ take up all the table space or what?” he asked us with an ugly smirk.

  “We are not broads---we are ladies,” Harriet testily replied to the rude man. “A gentleman would not try and take up all space for himself,” she said as she regarded the man’s entry with contempt. “Is your mother baking this monstrosity, or are you buying this from supermarket?” she asked of the man.

  The man had an unfriendly smile upon his features as he slowly rubbed his mustache. “You got some kinda’ smart mouth, lady,” he remarked. He regarded my entry for the contest. “I hope that cake ain’t as bitter as your tongue,” he addressed Harriet. He looked in my direction. “You kinda’ young to be here, ain’t you?” he asked of me. “You grandma’s assistant here?” he indicated Harriet with his thumb.

  I shook my head. “I am entering cake myself, and you are…?”

  “Dante is the name,” he informed me. “But you broads…” a look from Harriet stopped him in his tracks. “I mean, you ladies can call me Paulie. And this monstrosity, as you call it, is my Ma’s Tiramisu,” he stated with pride as he pointed to his cake.

  I smiled in an attempt to make peace. “I am being Sonia Godunov,” I introduced myself. “Please to call me Sonia. And this is being Harriet Blom,” I introduced Harriet.

  “Please to call me Mrs. Blom,” Harriet declared, arching her eyebrows and sniffing her nose at the man.

  “Pleased to meet ya both,” he said cheerfully with a short wave of his hand. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta’ get my stuff ready, I’m a stickler for the details,” he told us. He then ignored us, focusing all his attention upon the display of his Italian cake.

  Before we could do much more, we were interrupted by the voice of an elderly lady with falsely-colored dark hair and a garishly-bright yellow dress. She introduced herself with the aid of a microphone as the event coordinator. She informed us of the rules, procedures and the schedule of the morning’s events to be certain of no misunderstandings. We contestants were to place our entries on the long table with the red tablecloth, ensuring that we had properly filled out our display cards. Then, we were to stand in a special section of the hall reserved for us, and to await the results of the judging. Only one person per entry was allowed here; relatives and friends were relegated to sitting in the seats provided for the audience. Harriet wished me good luck; she then went to sit down on one of these metal fold-out chairs.

  I had a nervous twitch in my stomach as I stood there awaiting the decision. Without being actively conscious of it, I began to pull on my earlobe. But then, I suddenly felt someone giving my hand a friendly, supportive squeeze. For a moment, I wondered if it was Paulie Dante.

  “Good morning, child. Fancy meeting you here,” a warm, familiar voice greeted me. It belonged to Father Nicolai! I happily shook his hand. “Father Nicolai,” I almost shouted with joy, “What are you being here for?”

  “Why, the same as you child,” he responded with twinkling eyes. “I have prepared a Kulich Paskha cake, one typical of Easter in Russia as you must know. It’s over there,” he indicated the table with the red tablecloth.

  I recognized it at once. It was tall and cylindrical; it was covered in white icing and adorned with raisins and nuts. It rested upon a large, silver platter, one that was quite elegant and tasteful. But that wasn’t all. Forming a colorful circle around the tall cake were brightly-painted Ukrainian eggs. If presentation and style counted for anything, Father Nicolai would surely take first place.

  I nodded my head, squeezing the priest’s arm gently. “That is amazing cake,” I declared, overwhelmed and perhaps a little jealous. “You are winning blue ribbon for sure,” I informed him. He beamed with pride. “I don’t know, Sonia,” he said hesitantly. He looked at my entry and smiled. “I like the look of your creation. Is that a traditional Russian Bird’s Milk Cake?” he asked kindly.

  I scrutinized the floor in embarrassment. “Da,” I responded. “But, there is being no comparison,” I said quietly with self-deprecation. Father Nicolai placed a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Don’t lack confidence, Sonia,” he told me. “We will let the judges make comparisons. In the meantime, let’s relax and observe some of the colorful characters in this audience,” he said with a laugh.

  It seemed like a strange thing for a priest to say. But then, Father Nicolai was no ordinary priest. He was very down-to-earth; I had really come to think of him as someone whom I could trust. Taking his lead, I inspected the large group of people which had come to watch this provincial baking contest. It was a varied mix of folks; some old, some young, some female, some male. I supposed that they were similar in their love of the culinary arts. I continued to view the crowd. Suddenly, I noticed a familiar figure sitting next to Harriet. For a moment, my heart stirred; I thought it might be Alexander. However, with a closer look I soon realized that the familiar figure was another Pavlovich. It was Alexander’s older brother, Nicholas.

  He waved at me from his seat. I guessed that he was there to offer support. But even from where I was standing, I could see the cold, dead look in his eyes. Nicholas didn’t appear as much bored as disengaged from reality. As I beheld him, I wondered why he had even bothered to come to the event. Father Nicolai, following my gaze and recognizing my employer, shook his head with disapproval.

  “So,” he said darkly. “The leopard has emerged from his lair in order to hunt his prey,” Father Nicolai commented as he caught the eye of Nicholas Pavlovich. The two men stared hard at each other for what seemed like forever. The noisy room suddenly became deathly quiet; there was something in their mutual glare that seemed to consume both light and sound. It filled me with terror; I tried to look away, but was quickly distracted by the honey-toned voice of the event coordinator.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this important community event,” she began. “We thank you for both your past and present support of our local culinary artists,” she gushed. “We are happy this morning to present to you some of the finest future chefs of West Hartford, as well as their remar
kable creations,” she remarked.

  She then proceeded to introduce the contestants, the panel of judges, and various other town officials who were present. The judging panel consisted of two women and one man. The gentleman was a plump, middle-aged fellow with rosy cheeks and a neatly trimmed mustache. There was something oddly familiar about him…then it hit me! He was the short man that I had observed on the bus that first time I had gone to the Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford. I expected him to recognize me; however, he just contemplated the entries, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

  The first lady judge was blonde, with a too-sharp nose and thin, red lips. Her eyes were colossal, like two ostrich eggs with dilated pupils. Her posture was awful; she hunched over like Quasimodo, and kept sniffing the air like some bloodhound. The second lady judge looked like an Indian from Bombay. She had jet-black hair, liberally sprinkled with streaks of gray. She was fairly short and heavy-set, with a limping walk that suggested lameness. She had thick, bushy eyebrows; their ebony color seemed to contrast sharply with the rich, light-brown tone of her complexion. She wore a traditional Indian dress which contained various shades of orange and brown. A bright red dot was displayed prominently on her forehead, between her eyebrows. When she smiled, her demeanor made me think that she was in physical pain.

  The three judges circled around the table, examining each entry carefully and nibbling on a sample from each one. It was difficult to determine what they were thinking; however, the blonde bloodhound seemed to sniff even more when she regarded my cake, and the short, chubby fellow took a second sample, nodding his head at me as he did. The Indian lady didn’t waste more than a moment on my entry. However, I did notice her looking closely at my name card, hesitating for just a second. With a quick look at the audience, she then hurried on to the next entry, inspecting it with diligence, and taking a slice to taste.

  I was very nervous. When the judges came to Father Nicolai’s cake, they appeared to be most impressed. They whispered to one another; the bloodhound took time off from her sniffing to write a note in her little book. It was clear to me that Father Nicolai’s entry had definitely met with the approval of the judging panel. The short, chubby man himself ate three slices. I was happy for Father Nicolai’s sake, but was a little disappointed for my own. However, I only had myself to blame. I should have spent more time in the planning and preparation of my cake.

  Suddenly, the event coordinator raised her shrill voice: “Ladies and gentlemen! The judges have made their decision,” she said, taking a handful of ribbons from her pocket. She went over to Paulie Dante’s entry and paused for a moment. Then she spoke:

  “In third place, I’m happy to award our prize to Paulie Dante’s delicious Tiramisu! It simply arrested our taste buds,” she smiled at him as she said this, as if laughing at some private joke.

  Paulie Dante did not return her smile. “Get outta here! You freakin’ kidding me?” he said as he shook his head with disappointment. I smiled at him with sympathy, but he just shrugged his shoulders angrily in response. “Third prize for my Ma’s recipe” he said bitterly, almost to himself. “I’ll use this ribbon to wipe my ass,” he remarked.

  Apparently embarrassed by Dante’s bad sportsmanship, the event coordinator quickly moved down the table. She stopped at Father Nicolai’s Kulich Paskha cake, pausing again for a dramatic moment. She then held up a red ribbon to show the audience. “And in second place we have Father Nicolai Andropov, whose Russian Easter cake is a masterful blend of taste and elegance,” she said, then paused a moment, a sly grin upon her features. “And as a Russian,” she continued. “I’m certain that he will be happy with the color red,” she joked.

  There were a few chuckles in the audience, mixed with groans of annoyance. I searched for Father Nicolai, to witness his reaction to the judging. To my surprise, his face displayed no hint of disappointment. On the contrary, he was smiling broadly and raising his fists in triumph. A feeling of rejoice came over me; I overcame my hesitancy and went over to share in the celebration of my friend.

  “Isn’t this great, child?” he said happily. “I didn’t expect to win any ribbons. This is the first time that I have placed in the top three,” he told me, beaming with pride.

  “But, you are having best cake,” I informed him. “Why you not mad?” I asked.

  Father Nicolai patted my shoulder warmly. “There is no shame in second place,” he told me. “Seeing all these people display their love of cooking, that is the important part of the event. Encouraging people to be creative and supporting their dreams---that is what this contest is really about. Unfortunately, some people just don’t get that,” he said, sighing with disapproval as he watched Paulie Dante storm off from the table. The third-place contestant tossed his ribbon in a garbage can, and with the slam of a door, exited the building. I ignored this display and instead, gave Father Nicolai a hug.

  “Congratulations,” I told him. “You are being real winner today,” I informed him with a smile.

  We were interrupted by the unfailingly cheerful voice of the event coordinator. “And now,” she said dramatically. “The award that you have been anticipating.This year’s blue ribbon for first place in the West Hartford baking contest goes to…Sonia Godunov, for her Russian Bird’s Milk Cake!” she yelled, pointing in my direction with a look of glee. “Come here, Sonia! Let everyone see you,” she commanded.

  I was deeply shocked. I kept blinking my eyes, not certain that I was not in some kind of a dream. All of a sudden, several people were patting me on the back, shaking my hand with congratulations. I turned to Father Nicolai in confusion. He was very quiet as the loud noise of the crowd waved around us. I thought that perhaps he was angry at me for beating him. I looked at him with tears in my eyes and shook my head.

  “I am being sorry, Father Nicolai,” I apologized lamely. “My simple cake being no match for yours…”

  He stopped me in mid-sentence. “No, child, remember what I said? Don’t lack confidence; this is the first step toward achieving your dreams,” he said, his voice full of emotion. He was smiling warmly, though there were tears in his eyes. “I am very proud of you, Sonia,” he informed me.

  I was being pushed to the main judging table. There were various shouts of encouragement and applause as I approached the event coordinator. She handed me the blue ribbon, then shook my hand energetically, until I felt like it would fall off. Then, she turned to the audience, placing her arm around my waist and facing me in the direction of the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “There were so many exquisite dishes presented today that choosing one over the others was a difficult task for our panel of judges,” she informed the audience. She paused, giving me a smile. “However, there was one entry that captivated us with its unique combination of simplicity and ethnic charm. It was the creation of this young lady, a cake that is sinfully delicious. It has a blend of flavors and textures that enchanted both our imaginations and our taste buds,” she declared.

  I was red in the face from both the heat of the crowd and the embarrassment of the woman’s words. I gazed out into the sea of unfamiliar faces that made up this audience. I fervently wished to recognize Alexander’s dark features, but I could see no hint of him among the spectators. However, I did spot Harriet; she was standing in front and watching me with that red face and those square eyeglasses of hers. She was smiling broadly, and when she caught my eye she showed her approval by putting her thumbs up in the air. I noticed that Nicholas was also watching; he regarded me with a hypnotic stare that made me feel uneasy. His eyes no longer appeared cold and lifeless; they seemed to glow red, like those of a dragon. He nodded his head in my direction, as if we had entered into some unholy covenant. I averted my eyes from his as quickly as possible.

  The event director began to speak. My face flushed red, and I tried to regain my composure and smile. I pulled on my earlobe so hard that it began to throb with pain.

  “Sonia Godunov is new
to our community,” the director said loudly. “She has come all the way from Russia to join us here in West Hartford. I understand that she is residing with the Pavlovich family, who are well-known and respected here in town. We are proud to present to her the award for first place, and look forward to her returning next year to delight us with new delicacies,” she said gushingly. She turned to me. “Would you like to share your thoughts with us, young Sonia?” she asked with a ridiculous grin as she suddenly handed me the microphone.

  I was speechless. What was I to say? I stood there with a blank look; a few people in the audience began to titter at my discomfort. Finally, I managed to find my voice. “Being grateful, thank you kind people,” I said weakly. “I am being very happy, thanks to good people of West Hartford. Also, I want give special thanks to Harriet Blom. She is being special friend,” I said, with tears of appreciation in my eyes.

  The audience clapped at this for quite some time. And then, the contest was over, as quickly as it had begun. I took a moment to examine my blue ribbon. I had to admit that it was beautiful. I had never won anything back home, and here I was in America, winning my first baking contest. I turned sideways to search for Father Nicolai. But to my disappointment, he seemed to have mysteriously vanished from the hall. I turned it over in my mind---perhaps he truly had been upset at not winning a blue ribbon. But this was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  I ran over to where Harriet was standing. She held her arms out, and we embraced. She held my hand as I looked at her moon face. I noticed that she had tears in her eyes; she wiped these away with a large hand, stepping away from me so that she could behold her good work. “You are doing well, Sonia,” she said with a voice husky with emotion. “Pavlovich family is being very proud,” she declared. Harriet then resumed something of her former manner, tilting her head at me and putting her hands on her hips. “I am needing face cream now, no?” she said with mischief. “Are you still insinuating I’m having wrinkles?” she said, laughing.

  I laughed too. But then, her face grew dark. She turned from me and began to search the room with her gaze. I was confused. I would never understand why I seemed to offend people when I didn’t mean to. However, I was saved from this negative feeling by the appearance of Nicholas Pavlovich. He had apparently hung back, too shy to approach me before. Now, he put out a hand to congratulate me.

  “Harriet is correct, Sonia,” he offered. “We are absolutely proud of you,” he informed me. To my surprise, he reached out his hand and squeezed my own. His touch was cold; I had never felt such a chill in my life. I reflexively pulled back my hand, smiling with embarrassment.

  “Please to thank you, Mr. Pavlovich,” I said quickly. “I am being very grateful you come,” I told him.

  He regarded me with a strange, half-smile. “Oh, I don’t pretend to know much about cooking,” he admitted, his hairy eyebrows arching as his forehead displayed his middle-aged wrinkles. “In my youth, we tended to get baked rather than baking, and our brownies were more of the hashish variety. Frankly, I tended to handle the smoking rather than the production; far too many cooks spoil the pot,” he jested, smiling at his own bad joke.

  Harriet suddenly reappeared, and gently pushed her nephew away. “We are not needing black humor now, Nicholas Pavlovich,” she declared. “This is time of triumph for Sonia,” she stated with pride in her voice. I quickly forgot her earlier change in mood and felt incredibly close to the crusty lady who had helped me so much. This was a very special moment for me; I only wished that Alexander could have come to share it with me.

  Then, through the dense crowd of people, I thought I saw the dark, penetrating Pavlovich eyes. A fluttering in my stomach made me giddy for a moment as my hopes seemed to have been suddenly realized. But as I studied them, I soon realized that they were not the eyes of Alexander Pavlovich.

  They were Ivan’s eyes.

  He was immaculately dressed, a fashionable gray suit and tie giving him the air of some country gentleman. His shining bald head never appeared so large, his red goatee never as sharply cut, his cat-like eyes never quite as cunning. He took my hand and kissed it in that old-world style of his. He seemed almost debonair as he cheerfully greeted us.

  “Well, you’ve amazed us again this day, haven’t you Sonia?” his lion’s roar echoed through the hall. I gave him a polite smile, but I couldn’t hide the mistrust in my voice.

  “Being very thankful that you come today, Mr. Ivan,” I quickly said. “Is much appreciated,” I added nervously.

  “But of course, Sonia…I wouldn’t have missed this for all the real estate in West Hartford,” he said emphatically. He then turned to Harriet. “Well, Aunt Harriet, you’ve certainly helped this little flower to blossom,” he observed. Ivan offered her a friendly smile, but she rebuffed his overture.

  “This girl is being wildflower,” she declared, shaking her head with unconcealed distaste for her nephew. “She has bloomed with no other hand than that of God,” she pointed upwards with one finger.

  “Yes, Harriet, you are right as usual,” Ivan said with deference. But his eyes shone with malice. “Sonia has had help from a higher power,” he said, waving to the judges who were in the process of leaving the hall. The Indian lady nodded her head at Ivan and then quickly fled the room. The real estate mogul then returned his attention to me.

  “A very nice lady, that Gita is,” he confided to us. “I’m helping her to purchase a house on Mountain Road. But I think you’ll discover that I am very helpful those who show their gratitude,” Ivan said with meaning. He stared hard at me; though he continued to smile, I observed that his eyes were forcing their way into my heart, attempting to frighten me into submission. Clearly, he expected a satisfactory closing today.

  Before I could reply, Nicholas Pavlovich suddenly reappeared. He intervened, placing himself between me and his brother. “Like Gogol, you’re still shopping for souls, huh Ivan?” he asked, his leopard’s purr contrasting sharply with the bombastic tone of his younger brother.

  “Don’t interfere with me, little man!” Ivan’s voice bellowed, echoing through the hall. He looked around, taking care to see that no one else was listening. He then spoke in a calmer voice. “You don’t really know who I am,” he said enigmatically.

  It was now Nicolas’ turn to smile. And the dead, cold eyes seemed to come to life once more. “But…I do know, little brother,” he said, mocking the bigger man. “I was there before the beginning. Mother gave birth to you at the beach. You came from the sea, and I observed there were ten horns on each of your fingers, though they were invisible to anyone else. And upon the heads of those horns was the name of blasphemy,” he said quietly.

  Ivan Pavlovich roared with laughter. “Well, you have to have your little jokes, don’t you St. Nick?” he responded with mirth. “However, this is Sonia’s day, not ours,” he declared. He handed me one of his business cards. “Sonia, the Pavlovich family is proud of you. I’m looking forward to great things from you. I know that you are searching for something special here in America. When you have found it, call me on my cell phone,” he directed me with paternal warmth.

  Nicholas placed his arm around me in a protective manner. “I’m her host, Ivan. Whatever Sonia needs, I’ll be the one to provide it for her,” he said, giving Ivan a challenging stare.

  Ivan gave his older brother one last look. “We will be settling today’s account soon, big brother,” he threatened in a soft voice.

  “And I will be there after the end,” Nicholas responded.

  Ivan resumed his former cheerful manner. He gave us a friendly wave, and then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Harriet then took charge of the situation, brusquely admonishing her nephew. “A shame,” she said with a chastising tone of voice. “A shame to talk so on Sonia’s special day,” she asserted. She smiled, sighing with something akin to resignation. “Let’s forget about Mr. Sunshine, and go home to celebrate. I am being happy to think of hanging the blue ribbon on refrigerator,” she happily
said.

  We drove home in an atmosphere of silence, each person reflecting on their own thoughts. As the car made its way down North Main Street, I gazed out the window and noticed how close the houses were to the road. I wondered if the people who lived in those houses ever felt connected to the fast life that was speeding past them as they inched their way through their daily struggles. I thought of all the times I had passed these same houses, and never met the folks who lived in them. And I knew I probably never would.

  As we pulled up in front of 69 Keeney Avenue, the house was deathly silent. We quietly parked the car in the stone driveway, making our way up towards the little porch. It was hotter than ever, despite the chilly Spring air. As Harriet opened the front door, an unexpected sight greeted us from the interior of the house. The usually dour living room was now brightly decorated with colorful crepe paper and balloons. Russian folk music blared from a small portable CD player on the white, wooden ledge. Alexander Pavlovich suddenly leaped out from behind the antique sofa. He was holding a banner in his hands, struggling to unfurl it. It had the words, ‘congratulations Sonia’, emblazoned on its surface.

  “You did it, Sonia!” Alexander shouted. His usually somber, unfriendly face was now animated, the dark eyebrows contrasting with the sparkling laughter in his eyes. I was flabbergasted at the change.

  “How…how you know?” I stammered. I was stunned, yet a joyful feeling began to creep upon me as I began to realize what the shy boy had done for me.

  Harriet placed her hands on her hips. She shook her head, her red face attempting not to break out in a smile. “You American trickster, you are being one step ahead of Harriet Blom,” she said with reluctant admiration. “But then, you are finding out from older brother, no?” she asked her other nephew in an accusing voice. The look of embarrassment on the visage of Nicholas Pavlovich gave him away. He pulled a small object from his pocket.

  “Even Nicholas has to come into the Twenty-first Century,” he admitted sheepishly. He held the object up so that we could examine it. “They are funny things these cell phones. I’m in the dawn of technology, in the twilight of the gods,” he said cryptically.

  There were tears of gratefulness in my eyes. I faced the unkempt man, with his crooked nose and his dirty eyeglasses staring me in the face. I felt a sudden urge to hug him. “You are being too much, Mr. Nicholas,” I told him with my hands on my hips. I must have appeared at that moment like Harriet, for he turned away and walked to another part of the living room. I turned my attention to Alexander.

  He had resumed something of his former manner, a look of arrogance replacing the friendly demeanor he had just been wearing. I reached my hand to touch his shoulder. He involuntarily flinched. He looked away in embarrassment. I had forgotten again of our cultural divide. I wondered if we would ever be able to narrow it. I spoke to him:

  “I was being angry with you not coming to contest,” I informed him. He turned back to face me once again. A smirk displayed itself on his face.

  “Perhaps I was being there, little peasant girl” he replied, that arrogant look softening for a moment. He gazed at me for a long moment. I felt his longing for me, and heard all that he was afraid to tell me in that moment.

  I was in the mood to rejoice. As the music played, I demonstrated to both Harriet and Alexander how to dance in the Russian style. We were all laughing and enjoying ourselves. Only Nicholas stood apart from our festivity. I noticed that he was staring intently at the strange painting of the bridge spanning the river. He was scrutinizing it carefully, as if he were surveying something new. His glassy dead eyes once more seemed to come to life. He removed his eyeglasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief and then resuming his inspection.

  But then I lost track of him, as I continued to have fun teaching more folk dances to Alexander. After some time, he stumbled, chortling as he fell to the wooden floor that was covered with an old-style Persian rug. As Harriet helped him to his feet, I glanced over to where Nicholas had been standing. However, he had abruptly vanished, as if into the evening mist. It was too bad, I thought to myself.

  I had wanted to thank him.