Made in Russia

by

Ben Gilbert

Just resting in an old rattan lounger staring out across the pool at probably nothing. It's always nothing. Still slim, how does she do that, and still in that favourite faded red bikini of hers she's had forever. Wide brimmed floppy straw hat and huge shades give that timeless look. Never really wanted all the adoration that came her way, mind you she never seemed to turn away. I dare say she always wanted nothing. Refusing medication they told me at reception. So why's she now so sedate? On admission, she had been a basket case, couldn't get enough of whatever pills came her way. She'd told me once that being pretty was a curse, and after being told that every single day of her god-damned life, she became a commodity. A commodity, that's what she said, something to use, maybe even something for someone else to sell. Roll up Roll up: yes, nothing seems the perfect fit, how could it be any different for Leena stretched out on her recumbent chair. No wonder she lost control. But that's surely no excuse for what some say she must have done. There just weren't any witnesses, not that anyone's lamenting the demise of Larry G.

Leena's lucky some might say. A rich ex-husband working hard to avoid any scandal that might tarnish his perfections, got her sectioned, committed, time to rest and recuperate in this luxurious off-the-radar nut-house. A deal was done. There's no prison for Leena. Others would have suffered the ills of violent unhinged inmates, sadistic guards: she might have even put on weight. Influence bought a view across a pool to sublime green hills that always sit in fine soft haze, pleasant weather and the sounds of early morning chirping birds; to most, this would be an expensive well-earned break but to Leena it's probably all just nothing. She could run away, security is scant, most guests are so medicated that they can't even make it to the pool. Every time I come, Leena's sitting there alone, just a few orderlies enjoying the balmy day and splendid view. But why would she run away from a place that allows her everything, allows her nothing.

"I don't want to talk to you, go away."

"Please Leena."

"No Helena, can't you see I'm busy?"

At least she spoke. Still hasn't met my eye. Maybe next time.

***

I know she's looking at me, just can't see her eyes through those heavy dark shades. Why doesn't she ever take them off? And why is everything so faded: baggy jeans, sun-bleached hair, sandals that have lost their sheen. Even in this bright sunlight lounging in your rattan chair, soft sparkles bouncing off the pool's wet edge, you look faded. What happened to you, Leena, and what happened in that hotel room? Only you know what went on between you and Larry G; everyone else just thinks they know, only they can't prove a thing, that's why you're here and not out there on Devil's Island or wherever it is people like you end up these days.

"Leena, God's sake talk to me, what happened?"

"I hit him with a full magnum..."

At last. Shades lift, piercing blue eyes meeting mine, those eyes that launched a thousand pushy come-ons, eyes that never seemed to say no, did you ever say no Leena?

"...do they want me to pay for it?"

"Not one but three! They found three smashed bottles, that's no crime of passion, no act of self defence, madness, he was unrecognisable."

"Three bottles, how decadent of me."

"Why, Leena?"

"You saw the police report, I had bruising. They found my blood."

"You always had bruising."

"I'm tired, it's been a lot today"

The shades drop back and the familiar hush around the pool returns. I'll try again, maybe in a week or two.

***

Christ, why did I ever marry him. It must have been more than just the money, at least I hope it was.

"Did she confess?"

"Of course she didn't."

I wouldn't tell you if she had.

"Get her to, that deranged pill-popping murderer deserves to suffer, banged up twenty years or more, not pampered in some comfy psyche resort. A measly year, what kind of doom is that, well?"

"Larry G wasn't family, friend, just a crooked lawyer to criminals or whoever paid enough. You'll just have to find another lawyer to do your dirty work."

"What are you saying Helena? Did you ever have a problem asking me for money, that dirty money?"

He wears menace with ease, pure fury: smug bastard, knows I'm frightened. What was I thinking, blind in love or just putting all my insecurity into one big vulgar basket. It's not only Leena who suffered bruising on her face, except hers were part of some mind-boggling twisted play. The Never Say No play. I'm just not able to say no. What happened to me Leena, to us?

"Didn't think so, now see to Ivan, he's driving me crazy."

"Christ, what was that for…"

Quick, tissues, the drops will stain my pale dress red, can't let Ivan see all this.

***

Both the therapist and doctor seem happy today: easy money, little work. Still refusing medication but quickly getting better; she'll soon be out they say. Clever Leena. Don't do something stupid. Can you hang on for just a little longer?

Christ, I'm jealous. How did you have the nerve to live so wayward, walk the blurry edge between gutter and the glitz and still end up looking like nothing ever happened, lounging in your favourite red bikini around a tranquil pool. How's this possible, what happened to you, Leena, how did you get away? Even the dark of your underarms seem unassailable.

"He hit you, why else would you wear shades that large."

"Don't, Leena, I'm not like you, wearing scars like antique art."

"Has he used you up, squeezed out every drop. What's left of you, Helena?"

"Don't!"

"I chose it, you gave someone else that responsibility. Is it him you're crying for?"

"Not him, us. Can't we just go back?"

"Back, there?"

Now she's looking, wants to know: is it possible after all these years? I'm a mess with a child and a monster, can't do it on my own. With your help, maybe we could both get back.

"Remember the school bus driver?"

She's showing interest, I can see it those faded eyes, just a glimmer but it's there all right. Yes, the daily journey on our little bus, rattling up and down pot-holed hills, around those scary mountain bends, crunching gears and belching smoke. That stone-faced, die-hard Soviet, mute behind the wheel. What did we call her, Leena? You must remember that. Are you smiling now somewhere deep inside.

"Old Potato, that was your idea, Helena."

"So brown and pock-marked, greasy hair tied in a bun, should have been a Fried Potato."

"You were so mean back then. I liked her."

"Probably still driving the same twisted lonely road past our farm to school. Couldn't have been much older than we are now, maybe twenty five or so, an old witch back then to us."

"Is Mama still there?"

Oh, hold on Leena, don't let it all spill out, doctor says you're doing fine. Don't blow it now, keep your nothingness. That's it, keep holding back.

"You know she is."

***

"I'll get a confession, I promise..."

Anything to stop this predictable abuse.

"...she's beginning to talk."

I hope that buys me time. He says Leena's husband called today, thick as the thieves those two, except Leena's doesn't lay the blows: far too smart for that.

"If you don't, she'll be out, back with her daughter. Told him to go for full custody, won't stand a chance against all his money and her own insanity, then she'll suffer, shouldn't be a mother that one…"

Stop, don't listen to him. Oh, Leena.

***

You've changed, no longer lounging on your rattan: upright, uptight, preoccupied and sitting on the edge. I know you are, must be, I'm your twin sister after all. Come on, out with it, whatever's on your mind.

"She put snow chains on the wheels, fearless that one."

"Who did?"

"Old Potato, we were terrified on those snowy icy roads, nothing fazed her, she even held our hands in bad weather, leading us down the frozen track back to Mama waiting by the door..."

You remember that, let me think, yes, Mama's outline just visible in the twilight and, as we got close, The Potato letting go our hands, her and Mama sharing glances and a smile. We would run as fast as we could to get inside. All those spooky stories of the mountains and the forest we endlessly heard from grandma sending us towards the stove, the warmth, to wait for Papa who was still somewhere on the farm or maybe out on business he never spoke about. Is that where you are, Leena, back there, where it all began.

"...in summer the bus windows would be down, cool breeze blowing through the stuffy heat and letting in swarms of buzzing flies. How we wriggled as we swatted them, keeping our mouths shut tight in case we swallowed one, no one spoke on those hot afternoons back home."

And then we screamed and giggled with relief as we left the bus and ran around the edges of the barn, across the fields avoiding cows and then we'd stop and stare into the shadows of the great forest, recalling grandma's stories, far too scared to step inside. Until one day we did. That day, are you thinking of that day too, Leena.

***

"God damn it, she'll be out next week! You said you were close."

"No, please, don't."

***

"Why aren't you wearing shades and make up, did you go to the police?"

"Of course I didn't, there's Ivan, and…"

"His money, you need his money."

"Don't, Leena."

"It's Papa's fault"

"What? He's been dead for years."

"That we ended up like this."

Yes it is. Left Mama on the farm, said we needed education, took us to his sister's place, that huge apartment overlooking the Seine, all those vile men she would entertain, shooing us away to play in corridors or later on, when we were old enough, the park, the streets, anywhere but be near her. Remember when the police picked us up one dark wet night, concerned they drove us home, our aunt feigning ignorance before she shut the front door and, without a word or reassuring look, went straight back to her sordid room. What little inconveniences we were to her, not even speaking French. We were kissing boys long before we could ask their names. What kind of education was that. Is that what happened, Leena: abandoned, ripped away from Mama and the farm, our country, because Papa said it wasn't safe. It was Papa who wasn't safe, living with some mistress across the river in a place we never saw. Who was she, Leena, keeping our Papa out of reach. We only met him once a month: distracted and constantly on edge, looking everywhere but at us, as he blanked our constant questions of Mama and our little farm back home. Then one day he never showed, his heartless sister telling us that they'd found him in the river, face down she said. Matter of fact and cruel that one. Refused to tell us more. We howled for days until our wicked aunt couldn't bear the noise, called for Mama who flew to Paris full of her own sorrow, tears and grief. Remember, Leena, them arguing in the big apartment, had never heard Mama scream like that, and then she marched us out the door to live in a horribly damp hotel, before she packed us off to another unknown aunt on Papa's side who sweetly smiled, picked us up from school each day and took us weekend swimming at the lake; seemed so nice before Papa's money ran out. Then she put us on the street, were of legal age she said. Mama told us we'd be safe with you, we cried and begged, but America's only safe if you're wrapped around a silver dollar she viciously declared, shutting the door permanently in our face. Mama promised she'd join us in the States, never did, later writing that Papa had no sister in America, just a disant cousin who badly needed work. As Paris was no longer safe, what choice was there but to send us here. I'm still confused about what went on, aren't you, haven't we been searching for him, for her, ever since.

I don't like this silence, Leena, it can't hide my pain, are you still blank in your hard found nothingness. Talk to me, please. Make this go away.

***

As the crow flies, it's quite a drive to Leena's Psyche Centre, but I'll take the scenic route today, make it longer, time to think, hatch a plan. If not, I'll be battered senseless, no doubt ending up in casualty, another helpless housewife needing happy-ever-after pills that you, Leena, used to love to take. God my arm hurts every time I shift a gear, he near yanked it out my shoulder blade. A confession, his senseless obsession, if only I could drive around, never stop nor be slapped and slammed against the kitchen wall again, is that why people like to drive, neither here nor there, the comfort of the nowhere zone.

Waiting, she's sitting near the pool, not the rattan but a sidewall, staring right at me. Let's take a moment, close this dreadful space that's come between us. Yes, that's it, think we're ready now. It's your big day tomorrow.

"Will you miss the view?"

"I only miss my little Nikita, sometimes Mama."

***

"What are you doing here?"

Don't look so surprised, you knew this day would come.

"Hello, Scott, just collecting some of Leena's things, We'll be staying at the beach house for a week or so."

My last chance to get a confession or pay the price he said.

"Your husband told me, can't believe he agreed to that. Did he tell you I'm going for custody, a court order for her to stay away, she's unhinged, isn't safe, Nikita deserves better after what she did...what happened to your face…."

You damn well know what happened to my face. That's right, look out the window, pretend you never saw. I'll make this easy for you.

"I'll go upstairs."

He won't follow me there, not now.

That's the clothes and bathroom done, but where does she keep the other things. Here they are, tucked away in her treasure chest.

"Bye, Scott, I'll pick Nikita up at 10 tomorrow, I'll have Ivan in the car."

***

They won't let her leave until I sign the papers and collect the medication that everyone knows she'll never take. And yes, I'll make sure she keeps all appointments: doctors, therapists, social services, probation and all the other boxes Leena needs to tick; if she doesn't, it will be me who takes the rap, think I just vouched my life away. Plans only ever work if you do them fast: are you ready, Leena, I know I am.

She's seen Nikita getting out the car. Run to mummy, let her hold you in her arms. Perfect, Leena, this plan just might work.

"The beach house is no different from the psyche ward, except there's more people here and that chatter coming from the beach hurts my head, can't think straight."

"Let's go inside, can watch the kids from there."

"Are they speaking Russian?"

"Of course they are." Thank God. "Tell me why you did it."

"No, Helena, not that again."

Why do I need to know what happened between you and Larry G.? I married an abuser, you just sought them out.

"Sorry."

But I do need something.

"Remember the tractor in the forest."

You look shocked, are you there, back to where it started. Yes, no need to ask about Larry G again. Check the kids, take a moment, let it all come back.

"For God's sake stop!. We can't go back, not there."

"Calm down."

That day on the edge of the forest, like any other, just staring into its shaded interior. Whose idea was it to look for the old tractor rotting somewhere among the trees, the one Papa had abandoned during that terrible winter storm which ripped the roof right off the barn. How scary was it stepping from bright sunshine to the dark cool shade, how we shivered as we walked in silence, blanking out the stories we had heard. And there it was, only twenty meters from the field, huge to us, still with its red paint and massive tyres, covered in old pine needles and tangled creepers. So excited, until we caught that awful stink. Then we saw it: a body near the tractor lying on the forest floor, half eaten by the wolves or bears, its lifeless open eyes being pecked at by a solitary crow. Startled, it quickly rose, flying through the trees, its black wings making soft and eerie haunting sounds. All those stories we'd ever heard now came flooding back. Screaming blue murder, we fled to Mama, inconsolable for days.

"If Mama hadn't gone to the police that day, we'd still be there, not screwed up here."

She's right, that one short forest trip changed our lives forever. Why had we ventured into the forest, didn't we know that grandma's stories had been told to us for good reason, Papa needlessly snapped. He could manage the police but not others who might come looking any minute now. Not safe, he said, we'd have to go away and hide, except for Mama, who was needed on the farm. She protested, but he quickly cut her down. Only later did she learn the truth: it was Papa's gun that had killed that man we found lying in the woods. Forcing Mama to agree, she quickly packed our bags before he took us off to France, shouting out from the moving car that we'd be back once things had settled down. But things never settled down as something bad had been in play for centuries. His side of the family feuding with another: ancient promises and pacts, dubious marriages with land and mining in the mix. Heaven knows what else: no one could remember anymore. Papa hadn't been swimming in the Seine for fun that day, Mama told us in Paris before sending us across the world for yet another education.

We're missing many pieces of the puzzle, Leena, but let's now try and talk this through: it's been a while and cruel time has only made things worse.

"Poor Mama, lost Papa, then lost us."

"Poor Mama! What are you talking about, how about poor us, what did we lose, tell me that."

Oh, Leena, this isn't how it's meant to go.

"I wish I were still lying by the pool."

Frozen, with that empty view: is that why you demolished Larry G, to make it stop, go away? No coming back from that.

"But you're not, you're here and Nikita needs you, just like we needed Mama."

"Don't say that, please."

Well, here goes, there'll be no coming back from this for me.

"I don't want to go."

"But the kids are so excited, look at them."

"A trip to where?"

"Surprise, indulge me, Leena."

***

Nearly there, so far so good.

"The airport, what's going on?"

"Just a short trip to celebrate your freedom, you'll love it."

"I might have a panic attack."

Oh, she's looking at the ticket.

"Dubai! What the hell's there besides you're husband's crooked money?"

"Scott wants custody, you'll lose Nikita like we lost…"

"Shut up!"

Don't cry, not now, I need you.

Your hand's so wet. That's it, release your grip, we're sky high now.

"Scott, does he know?"

"Of course not, I snuck your passports out from under his nose."

***

"How much is in the bag?"

"Everything they'd let me have, we don't have much time."

"Another trip! We can't, not there."

"Mama's expecting us, I telephoned the other day."

"Telephoned? You spoke to her after all this time, since…"

Yes, since our cruel cousin aunt threw us on the street. Remember that, what terrible times we had fending for ourselves? If you hadn't married Scott and fallen off the rails and me not idiotically staying with that thug, a dreadful second-rate Papa, things may have turned out differently. And poor Mama, she didn't stand a chance, barricading herself in at night, sleeping with a loaded gun. She told me that, knew someone would come looking for revenge. And soon enough they did, one early morning about a month after we left, found her working in the woods. We have a brother now, be fifteen next week. That's why Mama never came to get us, wasn't safe at all she said.

The truth is shocking, I see it clearly in your face.

"A brother . . . what's..."

"Anton, takes the bus to school, Old Potato still behind the wheel. Mama said she has her own kids now, new potatoes."

"Papa always wanted a boy."

"I think you were that boy, Leena."

"Yes, I always wanted that."

---

Ben Gilbert is founder of TheBlueSpace Adventure Guides Co-operative and Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. He has published four books with Garuda Books and appears in numerous US literary journals. Submissions reader for The Masters Review. Living in the United Kingdom he presently runs cross country ski expeditions in the Scandinavian Arctic and writes short stories he likes to think are on the edge and a bit literary.