Everything we eat is absolutely beautiful in its presentation and even more so in its flavor. I find myself utterly blown away by every bite I lift to my mouth, and warmed by Ivan’s enthusiasm for it. Every different item that I try is met with an excited question from Ivan, wanting to know if I like it and what I think about it. And watching him eat is almost wonderful enough just on its own. I can tell that this food is more than just a meal to him — it’s a taste of home, of a life he can never truly have again. He is transported back to his childhood for the duration of the meal, and it’s a lovely thing to watch. I am seeing a different side of him, full of wonder and lightness. It’s a sharp comparison to the usual cold, no-nonsense hit man the rest of the world sees in him.
I feel honored. It feels truly special to witness such a tender aspect of his character.
For dessert, Ivan tells the waiter to bring us cheese-and-berry blintzes, as well as a bottle of muscat wine from Napa Valley. By this point I am already so full that the idea of trying to ingest anything else is a little intimidating, but the pure joy with which Ivan greets the arrival of our blintzes renders me unable to say no.
“These were my favorite as a boy,” Ivan says. “My father, he worked long hours, so when I was young he often had me stay with an old woman in our building. Her name was Galina, but I called her babushka. Grandmother.”
“She was your babysitter?” I prod, hoping for more. It doesn’t happen often, but I adore hearing stories from his past.
Ivan gives me a noncommittal head-shake. “More or less. But she was not paid by the hour like most nannies are here in America. Instead, my father paid her rent and many of her other expenses. She was, you see, closer to my father and I than a mere babysitter. She was the closest to a mother I can clearly recall. She was a very old woman, quiet and reclusive, and fragile. My father knew she was struggling to get by, and she had always been fond of me anyway, so it was an arrangement which benefited us all.”
“That’s so sweet.”
Ivan smiles faintly. “I suppose so. And babushka made the best blintzes. I used to beg her for them. So when I made good marks in school, when I behaved myself, she rewarded me with them.”
“What a good woman,” I say. Ivan takes my hand and kisses it.
“One of the best I have ever known. She is the one who taught me to respect and protect women. You see, my father taught me to be a hard man, but Galina showed me how to be soft.”
“Then I have a lot to thank her for,” I reply. Ivan nods.
“She died when I was twelve. But she lived a very long, interesting life. She was ninety-one when she passed, you know,” he adds proudly.
We spend the next hour or so talking and cuddling, slowly draining a bottle of wine between the two of us. By the time the bottle is empty, we are both heavy-eyed and happy. The sharp, intimidating hit man is still present in his rigid, upright posture, and in his occasional dodging glance. He is authoritative when he speaks to the restaurant staff, and his firm hand on my thigh under the table is a reminder of his strength and control over me.
But I see now, more than ever, the genuine human being beneath it all. And I adore it.
After Ivan pays the bill with a thick wad of cash that makes me a little dizzy to look at, he leads me out of the restaurant and down onto the street. He hails a cab and drives me home, stroking my hair and holding me close the whole way back to Brighton Beach. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, and when we arrive at my apartment building he lifts me out and brings me upstairs to bed. I try to wake myself up, certain that he will want to fuck me. After all, it’s his prerogative to use my body however he wants.
But to my surprise, he merely kisses my forehead and tucks me into bed, leaving silently. For a few hours I sleep heavily and contentedly. Then there’s a knock at my door around midnight, so I blearily drag my ass out of bed and trudge out to answer it.
When I open the door, I see a rough-looking guy holding out a single rose with a sheet of paper wrapped around it. In my sleepy mind I can’t figure out why a flower delivery guy would be dressed like a homeless man, nor why he would make a delivery in the middle of the night. But nonetheless, I take his delivery and go back inside to examine my flower on my bed.
Sitting cross-legged in the blankets, I set the rose on my pillow and unfurl the letter, a smile on my face. I’m certain it has to be from Ivan.
But as I begin to read the words on the page, I can feel the blood drain from my cheeks and the smile quickly turns to gape-mouthed horror. I throw down the letter and rush to my bathroom to vomit.
15
Katy