“He was mad. Why would you want his brain?”
“The university thinks I’m doing research on his brain cells. Slicing them and shining a light through the sections to better understand his gifts.”
Lysenko’s theories served Stalin’s desire for the human race to have limitless power over nature. He became the Soviet’s ultimate man of science. To disagree meant certain arrest. Trofim played along, and a few years before we met he became part of a team of scientists sent to Siberia to create a race of giant rabbits. The “Rabbit King of Siberia,” as his team leader was known, employed Lysenko’s fictitious concepts, which claimed an organism could be altered genetically from one generation to the next. The largest rabbits were gathered from all over the Soviet Union to breed. The people were told they would never starve with farms filled with giant bunnies. Trofim’s job was to collect the semen from the most oversized specimens. Between this hoax and the wheat Lysenko claimed would grow in the Arctic, millions of our people starved.
“Trofim, don’t think me a fool, but that’s not his brain,” I said.
“Of course it’s not, sweet Stalina. I use it to keep my students disciplined. They think I’m crazy because I worship Lysenko, and they never fail to do their work.”
He put the flask and beaker down and put his arms on my shoulders. I could see the flickering reflections of the Neva on the yellow ceiling of the lab and in his half glasses. I was fascinated by what filled his fanatical brain. He looked like a sun-lined cloud as he moved over me; his blue eyes were the sky peeking through. His shadow made me shudder with a chill of delight. His lips touched mine, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the fake Lysenko brain warming up in its viscous suspension. If it wasn’t Lysenko’s, then whose was it? The strong smell of formaldehyde filled the lab. I let my lips go soft, but not too soft, and thought about Amalia’s kissing lessons with the plums.
Coming up for air, he said, “I love the smell of formaldehyde.”
That was a line from one of my father’s more famous poems. On the radio in the lab they were playing Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony.
“You know my father’s poem?”
The music reached a thundering kettledrum sequence. Trofim smiled and hummed along with the music.
“My father would play the third movement while he wrote,” I added.
Trofim spoke the next line of the poem.
“It preserves the unborn calf with two heads. Will it do the same for my misshapen poem?”
I looked deep into his eyes and could feel the heat on my back as we leaned closer to the lit gas burner.
Then Trofim said, “When we aren’t together, it’s your lips I think of.”
“That’s not a line in the poem,” I said, amused.
“No, it’s not.”
His lips had a slight red hue from my lipstick. I loved how his lips were full in the middle and went a bit crooked when he smiled, almost a secret smile just for me.
“Trofim,” I said as I took a deep breath, “I think I need a drink.”
“Yes, let’s make a toast.”
Through the test tube, I saw his face, stretched and twisted like in a fun house mirror. He looked beautiful to me.
Chapter Thirteen: Manicured
I retrieved the plastic cellophane-wrapped cups from the bathroom. The photograph of the roller coaster hung over the toilet, I had to say, was a nice touch. I peeked into the shower to check on Mara’s cleaning job. Her work was just short of a proper sparkle. You had to get rid of all the residue in order for the chrome to glisten. I had to control myself from pulling out a cleaning rag and finishing the job.
“Stalina, will you answer that?” Joanie said as she sat on the bed combing Harry’s thin pate of hair. I picked up the phone.
“Stalina?”
“Yes, Mr. Suri.”
“How long do you think they are going to be? I have two couples waiting.”
“I’m not sure; we’re doing what we can. Business has been good lately.”
“He wanted to know how long we would be,” I said to Joanie.
“Harry’s sleeping like a baby. Maybe he just had to catch up on some sleep. How about that vodka?”
The “roller-bed-coaster” was designed for physical antics and not necessarily for comfortable sleeping, but Harry seemed very peaceful with his feet raised and slung over the hump. I poured the thickened, cold vodka into the plastic cups. The vapor from the alcohol felt peppery in my throat.
“I hope Harry doesn’t wake up; he would have a fit if he saw us drinking out of plastic cups. He says it’s disrespectful to the drink,” Joanie said as I handed her a cup of vodka.
“
“Here’s to Harry, my best friend.”
We gulped the vodka down together.
“Harry would like you, Stalina. He likes women who can drink.”
“Thank you. There is a Russian saying, ‘A drink in time saves nine.’”
Harry made a gurgling sound.
“A drink in time.” Joanie laughed. “You Russians.”
“Why, is that not the saying?”
“We Americans are just so prissy. We say, ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ I love your accent.”
“Thank you. I am very proud of my English.”
Harry gurgled again and lifted his right arm in the air.
“Maybe he’s waking up. Quick, let’s have another shot,” Joanie suggested.
I went over to get a closer look at Harry. His arm came down with a flop, but it was not only his arm that had risen.
“Look, Joanie, your man is thinking about you.”
We both laughed and stared as if watching a newborn’s latest discovery.
“That’s my boy; he’s been having trouble with that lately.”
“That trouble seems to be gone,” I said as I picked up the phone.
“Stalina, what’s going on in there?” Mr. Suri said.
“Mr. Suri, you called only fifteen minutes ago. I think we are making progress.”
“I have people waiting. Can we carry him out to his car?”
“Give us a half hour. The hen only eats a grain at a time, but eventually she gets full,” I said.
“What’s that?” asked Joanie.
“He’s anxious because there are customers waiting for rooms; the motel has become quite popular.”
“I like that saying, ‘The hen only eats a grain at a time.’ I never heard that before.”
“Mr. Suri is not a very patient man,” I added.
She went over to Harry’s blue serge suit and pulled out a large roll of bills from the pocket.
“How much do we owe you for the extra time?”
“Two more hours. That’s another thirty-three dollars.”
“Here, take a General Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Fifty? Ulysses S. Grant was the eighteenth president of the United States.”
