Stalina

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Have a good day, ma’am,” he replied.

The scent of the pine trees on the sides of the driveway leading up to the motel mixed with the strong smell of bleach from the laundry room and made it feel as if I were walking through a sterilized forest. My eyes watered and the tears burned as they streamed down my face. These were chemically induced tears. They were not salty like the tears for my mother.

As I walked up the hill to the motel, there was no greeting from my boss, just like there was no accident. The light was still on outside the office. I could hear the rumble of the washing machines; Mr. Suri must have put in a load of linens. There were several black cars lined up in the parking lot. The motel was busy for such an early hour.

The next bit of my story will explain how my life in Berlin, Connecticut, and in the world, suddenly and completely changed.

Chapter Eighteen: Mr. Suri and the Mob

Apparently, Mr. Suri had a bad reputation that I was not aware of. When I walked into the office, he was not alone.

“Stalina, what are you doing here so early? This is not a very good time,” he said.

He was seated in the office chair, several men in dark suits wearing mirrored sunglasses surrounding him. The office was close and steamy from all the bodies. They were like a pod of seals jockeying for space on a sunny piece of rock. Any one of us was about to jump or get pushed off.

“I couldn’t sleep, and I had nowhere else to go,” I told Mr. Suri.

“Who is this dame?” one of the black suits asked.

“She just works here. She doesn’t know anything,” Mr. Suri explained.

“Stalina, what kind of a name is that?” the same suit asked.

“I’m Russian,” I said. “Ever heard of Joseph Stalin?”

“Stalina, don’t be rude to these gentleman,” Mr. Suri warned.

I understood the irony from his tone. These were not gentlemen, but small-time hoods acting like big-time gangsters. I cared for Mr. Suri and could tell he was in a prickly situation. It was a mystery to me that would soon be revealed. I understood this to be a delicate circumstance, and I would, as they say, play my cards right.

“Hey, the boss is Russian. Maybe you know her; Nadia Tamovsky is her name,” said the short, squat black suit with a widow’s peak and a pencil-thin mustache.

“The N is for Nadia? I thought your boss was a he. You always just called her Big N,” Mr. Suri added with surprise. “You work for a woman?”

“You better watch it, Suri. What’s the difference, anyway? She’s the boss,” another black suit added as he spit a lump of tobacco into a small cup.

Mr. Suri was silent.

“I had a childhood friend—her name was Nadia Cherkovskaya, not Tamovsky, but there are many Nadias in Russia,” I said. My stomach turned with the memory of Nadia and Pepe.

The gentleman spit into the cup again. “It’s chewing tobacco, a bad habit, but I can’t give it up,” he admitted when he noticed I was staring.

“You’re going to get cancer of the mouth,” another fellow with a high-pitched voice added.

“Hey, the boss ain’t no man, that’s for sure.” Everyone laughed as the spitter indicated with his arms the ample chest with which she was endowed.

“I believe the name would be Tamovskaya, for a lady,” I said.

I heard a car door slam. Mr. Suri went to look out the window but was restrained.

“Sit!” said the smallest of the lot, who was wearing black patent leather shoes with wedged heels.

“Her nickname is ‘Treasure Chest,’” the spitter added.

“Hey, Bacco, don’t go disrespecting Big N,” said a fellow with thick hands.

“She told me she likes that name,” he added.

“Russian women are very proud of their bodies,” I said.

The door to the office opened.

“Yes, we are proud,” said the person coming through the door.

“Welcome, boss, we were just finishing up with Mr. Suri,” the gentleman with the mustache said.

“Who is this?” she asked, looking at me.

“A fellow comrade. Stalina is her name.”

It was Nadia. My Nadia.

“I knew a Stalina when I was young,” she said as she turned to look at me.

Our eyes took focus. The age lines did not keep us from recognizing an old acquaintance. A small line of a scar at the edge of her left chin was all that remained of Pepe’s bite. Nadia carried herself with importance and elegance in a tailored black suit. Her hair was long and wavy and a couple of shades lighter than I remembered. Her lips were perfectly lined with pencil and filled in with a deep red lipstick.

“I am Stalina Folskaya,” I said in Russian.

“Stalina, I know who you are. I like your hair; the color black suits you. What are you doing here?” she added in English.

“It’s a long story,” I replied in Russian.

“She works here,” Mr. Suri piped in.

“Yes, I run the front desk and design the rooms,” I added in Russian.

“The rooms of this motel have a reputation. The other motels, my motels, are losing business because of them,” she said in Russian.

We continued in our native tongue.

“Did you get married, or is that an alias?” I asked.

“I married an American, of Russian descent, to get my papers. He is out of my life now. It did not work out.”

“Business is business,” I said.

“Yes, it is. I am buying Mr. Suri out. I need the income. I want all the motels; my parents still depend on me.”

“Maybe your motels need something besides ‘lunchtime specials.’ Where are your parents?” I asked.

The black suits were getting agitated with our conversation in Russian.

“Brighton Beach. Where they all are,” she said and then turned to the fellow with the widow’s peak. “Frank…”

“Yes, boss?”

“Give Mr. Suri the money,” she said in English.

“Mr. Suri, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Stalina, I’ll be leaving. Madame N is giving me an offer I can’t refuse. Garson and I are moving to Arizona. There are business opportunities in the desert. Chander and his mother live there. I want to be closer to him. The money will help. I’m sorry, Stalina,” he said, holding the leather satchel to his chest.

The money and valise gave off a strong swampy odor.

“Your boss had plans that would ruin my motels,” Nadia said.

My heart sank. I would miss Mr. Suri. Bacco spit again into the cup.

“This is capitalism, Mr. Suri?” I asked.

“More like extortion. Mara’s gone already. She left with that boyfriend to Florida. I found a note. She must have suspected something,” he added.

“You two finish up your business. We’ll be taking over now,” the gentleman with thick fingers said. He wore a pinky ring with a diamond that gave off a flat glint when he waved his hand at us.

“What about me?” I said. “My job? My rooms?”