The boy jams his quivering chin against the back of his forearm, but he holds out his hand to take the money anyway. “Yes, Mama,” he says obediently.
Yikes.
We smile uncomfortably at each other for a couple of minutes until Sasha comes back with Styrofoam plates piled with food. He sets them on the grimy wooden table top with a handful of napkins and a couple of plastic forks.
“Xorocho,” Olga says fondly and tugs him by his shirtsleeves until he relents and lets her plaster a smeary red kiss mark across his forehead.
After he scampers away, Olga hands me a fork. “You like Russian food?” she asks, and it is almost like a dare. Actually, I'm sure it's a dare. Part of me is certain that this is actually meerkat or elk or bear, or whatever the hell it is that Russian people eat. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna show any kind of picky habits at this moment.
Besides, it really does smell amazing. There's these little things that look like Asian potstickers and these other things that look like cabbage. Oh yeah, cabbage for sure. I use the side of my fork to get a healthy wedge of one piece and just dump it on my tongue so she knows I'm no wimp.
She narrows her eyes at me to make sure I'm really eating it but I have to tell you, it's amazing. Salty, a little bit sour. Sort of tastes like a meatball wrapped in cabbage with a watery tomato sauce. More tart than I would've thought, but good. Really good, actually.
“This is great…” I mumble around a mouthful of meat and grain. Damn. I should have tried this sort of thing a long time ago.
She shrugs modestly. “Not as good as homemade, but pretty good.”
That's cute. That the same kind of thing my grandma would say if you complimented restaurant lasagna. Not as good as homemade. It never is, is it?
“You drink vodka?”
Maybe I judged this lady too fast, after all.
“Sasha!” she hollers, snapping her fingers in the air. I'm mystified that she doesn't just pop a nail right off, but I guess this is probably something she does all the time.
When the little boy runs up, she points meaningfully at a blue cooler under an umbrella by some folding chairs. Sasha follows her gesture and then nods, returning in moments with the cooler. I can hear ice splashing around in there and suddenly realize I'm very thirsty.
Olga pulls a couple of cups out of the cooler and sets them on the table, then uncorks a bottle of clear vodka and pours it into the cups. Way too much. Way, way too much. It's only three in the afternoon, and I'm pretty sure Roman does not want me getting drunk.
Oh well, then I guess he should really have kept a better eye on me.
“Za vas!” she toasts, holding her plastic cup in the air and winking. I imitate her and bring it to my lips, but I don't even know what to do. Do you just drink vodka like wine? Or is it like doing shots or something? I watch what she does and take just a little bit, less than she took. It burns in my mouth.
But I seem to have passed her test. She nods, smiling to herself and puts a dainty bite of dumpling on her tongue, smacking her lips together happily.
“Actually, I lied before. I know who you are, I just couldn't make it to your wedding. So you are the one who's going to make an honest man out of Roman, huh?”
I shrug. I have no idea what anybody here knows about Roman or doesn't know about Roman, but I know for certain he wouldn't want me gossiping about him.
She takes a deep breath and looks me up and down again critically. “Well, that's good. He needs a girl like you. Strong, I can tell. Strong, right?”
I shrug again. Strong compared to her? I don't know, but I don't plan on arm wrestling her to find out.
“Yeah… He was always such a sweetheart. Such a teddy bear, you know what I mean? Well of course you know what I mean…”
Excuse me?
“Such a joker… You know, I don’t mind telling you, there are a lot of girls who probably would like to see your head on a platter right now…”
I blink twice.
“Oh I’m just kidding! Not like literally… Oh, ha ha. Not literally, Marie. Just like, Roman has a lot of potential. He’ll probably be Pakhan one day, you know? The boss?”
No, I definitely didn't know that. Roman? Are we sure we got the same guy?
Olga takes another healthy swig of the vodka, sighing loudly with pleasure. I take a tiny burning bit on my tongue and try not to throw it back up immediately.
“The boss, you say?” I mumble carefully. I want to hear more, but I don't want to arouse her suspicion or anything.
“Well, sure… Roman or Alek, either one. Or both, I guess that could happen too. It's in their blood, you know.”
I glance back over to where Roman and Alek are talking to the old men. Everybody's got their arms crossed but their postures seem more easy, less tense. Whatever it was that they were trying to figure out at the beginning, it looks to have been resolved. Now they're just talking, eyebrows knit together, with lots of nodding and thoughtful frowns.