‘Is Vadim the pimp?’
‘No. Trafficker. He just gets the girls to where they have to be.’
‘There is a man with a blond mohawk. Who is he?’
‘His name is Zviman. He owns the brothel, he inherited them from his father. He owns a whole bunch of them, around Africa, the Middle East, in Russia. You don’t want to mess with him, he’s a cold bastard. He’ll kill Nelly and not blink.’
‘Thank you, Natalia. You are keeping the baby?’
The shift in tone rocks Natalia and she blinks. ‘Yes.’
‘They didn’t make you get rid of it?’
‘They let me come home.’ Now she glances at the floor.
‘Oh, how generous of them.’
Natalia tries to nod but even that simple motion seems beyond her.
‘How many girls did it cost to bring you home?’
She reacts as though I’ve slapped her. I wait. Finally she says: ‘Five.’
‘Including Nelly.’
Natalia can’t look at me; I look at the broken beer bottles on the pavement. ‘My mother got the replacements. She did it for me.’ Now Natalia raises her face.
Replacements. The word twists like a knife in my gut. I realize I have bitten the inside of my cheek and I can taste the copper tinge of my blood.
‘You’re just a schoolteacher. You can’t fight Vadim, he’s greased every palm he needs between here and Istanbul. And if you cross him Nelly is dead. Get girls to replace her and forget about them.’
‘I know your mother,’ I say. ‘I know where she lives, where she shops, where she likes to drink her wine.’
Natalia blinks, her vapid little mouth works in fright. ‘Leave mama alone, please. Please.’
‘You keep your mouth shut about our little talk. Or when I see Vadim next, I’ll tell him you told me everything. He will regret his kindness to you then.’
She starts to pull away and I can tell it’s not enough. She will warn Vadim. I grab her arm. ‘And. If you talk to Vadim? I will kill your mother. I will walk up to her on the street and I will shoot her in the head. It’s more of a kindness than what you and she did to my sister.’
Can you believe I said that, Sam? I said it. Me, the schoolteacher. And you know I meant it.
My voice convinces. Natalia is pale with terror. I let her go and she stumbles away from the alley. I check my watch. Today Ivan is going to practice using the knife with me. We work in an abandoned winery a few kilometers from the ragged edge of town. No one is around to hear the ping of the bullets I put into the targets.
65
Harp , Moldova
I find three photos of American girls on the web that look like ID or passport shots. It is at a website for people arrested for stupid crimes and the girls look attractive but rough, a bit down on luck. I assign three false names to them and email them to Vadim so he can craft fake passports.
I wait. I go out to the abandoned winery – there are too many of them in Moldova now – and Ivan and I practice what I am going to do.
‘I wish you would let me help you,’ he says. He is an old gentleman. He lost his leg in Afghanistan during the war, back when Moldova was Soviet. In recent years, when crime kept skyrocketing in Moldova, he taught me and Nelly both how to defend ourselves: how to kick, to punch with a fist, to gouge the most vulnerable areas: groin, throat, eye. Now I am taking everything he taught me before, everything I knew as an athlete, and I am trying to become a soldier in a matter of weeks. He corrects me gently when I aim the gun, when I draw the knife. This is a crash course and he says, more than once: ‘Girl, I’m only preparing you to get killed. Please don’t do this. You fail, tu mori.’ It means you die.
‘What should I do instead?’ I say. ‘Slave up some nice girls?’
‘Go to the police,’ Ivan says, but without much fervor.
I have already been on the computers, searching on the web for options. The United Nations has named Moldova as a critical point in human trade, with officials in the army, the police, and the government suspected of profiting from the slavery. Who am I supposed to turn to?
There is no one, I tell Ivan. Just me. And I have thought out my plan.
I was always good at lesson plans, and now I have a lesson for Vadim and the blond mohawk.
Ivan nods and then he tells me again: ‘This is how you strike with the knife, forward, lunge, no, not down like that, stay steady… ’
Every time I begin to feel afraid I push the fear down. Nelly and I used to wrestle on the bed, and Nelly was all wriggling knees and elbows, easy to get giggling, and I would have to wrap my arms around Nelly until Nelly stopped laughing and squirming. So I hold my fear the same way, in a calm, sure grip until the fear is silent.
I hang the sacks two meters high in the dim glow of the abandoned winery. The rough figure of a man lies in black paint on the rough burlap. Light shines in bars through the worn slats. Ivan watches me work. Light begins to shine in the bullet holes I put through the painted men.
‘Group of three,’ he says, ‘that’s good. A triangle in the chest. That will put him down.’
I don’t tell him I dream about shooting now, I dream about bullseyes, neatly patterned. He gets the ammo from a friend on the black market. I am eating up my savings; I don’t want to waste expensive bullets. I still have to pay for my travel. I think Ivan is paying extra for me to have weapons and I will somehow pay him back. If I live.
When we finish, we catch the bus back into town. Weapons and targets in knapsacks. We look so harmless. But our time has come to an end.
‘So you will see Vadim tomorrow?’ Ivan asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Will I see you again?’ His voice wavers. ‘What will I tell your aunt and uncle?’
‘You tell them I will be back. With Nelly.’
‘I don’t mean once you’ve… left. I mean if he kills you.’
‘Tell them you weren’t such a good teacher, then.’
I buy Ivan ice cream because he doesn’t drink any more. We stand in the sunlight, him on his crutch, licking at the chocolate in a wafer cone.
Ready, I think. Ready.
66
Harp , Moldova
‘Where are the girls?’ Vadim asks.
No hello. Vadim is a businessman. He has product to move. He is a busy professional with a jam-packed schedule.
Vadim and I stand in the quiet of a small cafe down from the train station. Natalia told me normally Vadim would meet the girls somewhere near the station, buy them a tea or coffee and a roll, be charming, show them their passports, offer an advance on two weeks’ pay, say idle things about the fake hotel in sunny, delightful Greece where their non-existent jobs awaited. The coffee shop is warm but empty of customers, except for us. Rain hammers down, the sky looks chopped from lead.
‘Olia and Lizaveta are in the ladies’ room. Katerina is not here yet but she will be. She wanted to say goodbye to her grandmother,’ I say. The lie is so easy. But I worry that my voice shakes. I cannot betray
