facelifts in preparation for the upcoming celebrations. We wonder what other surprising discoveries will be made.
Liars! Trofim would not have been so stupid as to fall into the vat and let the lid close. If he was that well preserved, instead of cremation, maybe they should have put him on display at the Academy of Science next to the jar with the African Pygmy.
Olga wrote a note below the article. “Bollocks! Stalina, can you believe how they covered up this one? Poor Trofim, at least he was drunk when he went.”
At least I can look forward to the possibility of Trofim greeting me when it’s my time to go. A toast to my dear love, Trofim! My heart still aches for you, Trofim.
Mr. Suri sent me pictures of his laundromat in Tucson, Arizona. He wrote on the back, “Stalina, we have named our business ‘Liberty Laundry’ in honor of the motel, our favorite tourist site, and it also reminds me of you.”
Still I have not made it for a visit to the real Lady Liberty. She has been closed to the public for the time being. The brochures I have read say that it is a thrilling view from statue’s crown. There have been some hard times on these shores, and many restrictions have been enforced. What a shame, and it is all just after I became a citizen.
They say she is very shapely underneath all the drapery. Her measurements are thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-six—feet, of course. She’s a voluptuous, big-boned gal, very Russian. An immigrant just like myself. From France she hails, not Russia, but the French always loved the Russians and vice versa, so I can imagine that Mr. Sculptor Bartholdi had one or two Russian models to base his lady on. The officials say it was his mother he used, but I tend to think with such a figure underneath her skirts, it was one of his many lovers. Like many artists, he had a reputation for being a ladies’ man.
I raise an arm to Lady Liberty and her shapely figure. You would look wonderful, dear lady, in one of my imported Russian bras. I’m sure I would have had one to fit your shapely size had they not all been stolen from me.
I heard from Amalia. That thief! It’s sad we are no longer friends; there’s so much between us—good and bad—that can never go away. Her mother passed away. I knew how difficult it would be, so I did what I could to help her understand what was coming. She thanked me for the push to go home so she could say a proper good- bye. The Magik Cleaning Agency has folded without her special business sense, and she has become very successful in Petersburg. She was one of the first to start a business to introduce American men to Russian women. Now the classifieds in the
Amalia calls her business Veeshni Kazenoor, or Cherries Casino. The office is upstairs on Nevsky near the Kazan Cathedral. It’s just her and a computer and a waiting room with red satin walls. Olga sent me this entry from the computer log written by one of her “lonely” women.
Something is missing in my life, and I know if I could only meet the right man I would be fulfilled, complete. I am divorced and have a young son. I am a doctor and know that I could be caring and healing to you as well. Please choose me as I know I will satisfy your needs and be a proper and faithful wife. My English is close to perfect. I would like to learn more from you. Choose me please. I wait holding my breath to hear from you.
“Yes?”
“Stalina, it’s Carmela. Shosta and Kovich want to come in and sit by your bath.”
The bubbles fascinate those two. I am no longer angry with them for the death of the crow—they are cats, after all—but Svetlana is still the better mouse killer.
“Let them in, Carmela.”
I hear two cars leaving the driveway as the door opens, and the cats race in to be the first at tub side.
“Carmela, are things busy tonight?”
The top of Carmela’s head and her shiny black hair glisten from the outside light. Her eyes are cast down, even though she knows the tub filled with bubbles conceals all. She has beautiful long eyelashes.
“Yes, three rooms are filled, and two people just finished. You relax. Have you got everything you need?”
“Thank you, I have what I need. The door sticks a bit at the top left corner. I must trim the edges before too long.”
“I’ll help you with that tomorrow.”
“Come sit, Comrade Carmela. Have a bit of vodka with me. I am celebrating.”
“Since you are now a U.S. citizen, must I call you Citizen, or do you still prefer Comrade, Stalina?”
“Why not Citizen Comrade? I am celebrating my ten years here at the Liberty Motel!”
“A quick toast, then. I have to go clean the rooms and mind the desk. Remember, we have a business to run.”
“You are a feisty one, Carmela. Come sit for a moment; we’ll hear when someone comes up the drive. Take another cup from the bathroom. Close the door.”
Shosta and Kovich are circling the tub, sniffing the lavender bubbles that have escaped over the sides.
“
The bubbles scooped in my hands are soft as silk. They tickle my palm the way Trofim used to when we would sit at our favorite tea shop near the Moika Bridge. He’d make a circle with his finger in my hand and then move it up to my lips to test which was softer, the lips or the palm. When my lips were dry, he would kiss them. When my palm was dry, he would massage my hand until it sweated just a bit. The lavender bubbles do just the same. Shosta and Kovich know the game; they wait for me to blow the bubbles in their direction.
“Here’s some bubbles…
“Stalina, how many toasts have you made tonight?”
“Bubbles floating on the air like my head from the vodka.”
“I’ll join you.”
“To each of these rogues in my gallery of photographs, and now to you, the best partner a bubble-soaked Russian could ever have!
“Shosta and Kovich don’t care which country you call your own, as long as they have their bubbles,” Carmela said.
“To Shosta and Kovich, the expatriated cats, and their undying devotion to eating, sleeping, and bubble play. If only they would speak, so we could truly converse. It’s the same problem Alice had,” I responded expansively.
“I am sorry, Stalina, I don’t know any Alice.”
“Yes you do, from the book.”
“The one about the mirror?”
