Stalina (5 page)

“Prrr…prognosis!” came out loud and clear. His breath smelled of sour milk. He startled himself awake, sat up, and stared directly at me.

“You were having a dream?” I said.

“I said something?” he asked.

“You said ‘prognosis,’” I replied.

“Strange—sorry to disturb you.”

“Not a problem.”

“I can’t remember what I was dreaming.”

The wisps of brown hair on his head were going every which way. He held his glasses in his hand and had to squint to see me.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

He put his glasses on. The lenses were thick and tinted blue. He was round in his belly and had a young cherub face. He looked much friendlier now that his mouth was closed.

“No. Why? Oh, I said ‘prognosis.’ I remember now—it was a dream about having a terrible illness.”

“I hope that is not the case,” I added.

“No, I’m fine. I watch too many of those hospital shows on television. I like your accent.”

“I’m Russian.”

The bus started moving again. We passed more signs.

Pete’s-A-Place: Hartford’s First Sicilian Pizza

“Pete’s-A-Place, Pete’s-A, piz-za—that’s funny,” I said to my neighbor.

“You have pizza in Russia?” he asked.

“Yes, we enjoy it very much.”

Freddy’s Glass Eye Emporium—Buy and Sell Connecticut

I hope never to need one of those.

Berlin Sneaker Circus

The bus turned onto Windsor Avenue. We passed motel after motel.

Route Five Pay and Stay

Amalia had written me about these places.

Windsor Castle Motel

She was a dispatcher for the Majik Cleaning Agency of Hartford. She mentioned that they often hired maids to clean the rooms, and she would try to get me a job at one of them. At first I thought I would easily get a job in my field of science, but I quickly learned that was not going to happen. I needed to work. I went to several testing labs for hospitals. Amalia suggested they would need someone with my training. But in order to work for these places, I would need certification from a school in America. They are very particular about how samples taken for testing are handled and disposed. All new employees are required to work with the most contagious materials. I was not impressed with the conditions, nor did I have time or money to go to school. And on top of that, the idea of working with dangerous waste was not what I wanted for my life here. I know it is important work, but it felt good to leave at least some of my past behind me. Amalia understood, and soon after my arrival she told me of a cleaning position available at the final motel the bus had passed. Plain, honest work. The Liberty Motel. I liked the name. It was the reason I was here. The bus was just minutes from the Hartford depot. My neighbor had fallen back to sleep and was snoring loudly.

The last lab where I worked in Russia kept me on because of the hazardous materials they were storing. Anthrax and smallpox were their specialty. It was dangerous to work around these things, but as a Jew I was very dependent on the ebb and flow of who was in charge, so in order to keep my job I was willing to work under conditions that many others would refuse. “Your sickle must rest silently,” the head of the lab would say. That was no issue for me.

But in Connecticut, just before the Christmas holiday in 1991, I was very pleased when Amalia organized a job for this Jew at the Liberty Motel a few weeks after I arrived in Hartford, USA. At first, Mr. Suri, the manager and owner, resisted hiring me because he wanted someone younger.

“It’s not because you’re Jewish, he just prefers younger employees,” Amalia assured me.

She told me how the last maid he hired, a woman my age, was caught giving favors to a customer in the laundry room.

“I’m trying to run a legitimate business here. Don’t send me any more of your hard cases,” he told Amalia.

“I have someone perfect, Mr. Suri. She has dignity. We were childhood friends. Her English is excellent. Stalina will be a great asset to your establishment,” she told him. “Trust me.”

One of the first things I noticed about the motel was that Mr. Suri hung postcards of the Statue of Liberty, his favorite tourist site, over the front desk. There was one picture of Miss Liberty in profile that reminded me of my mother. A strong jaw, full lips, and a nose that came straight down from her forehead. On the back of the postcard it explained that the spikes of her crown represent the seven seas and seven continents. I would like to visit her one day. It looks like a lovely spot, and you can walk all the way up inside her. She has a crown like a queen, even though there is no royalty here.

After working there for a few months, I learned the Liberty Motel is also something of an attraction. Known in the business as a “short-stay” establishment, it’s a place for lovers in need of privacy. Prostitutes and politicians, traveling salespeople, truckers, and teenagers living at home all frequent the hotel. Money flows easily through such hands. Sometimes it’s all in single-dollar bills. Sixteen dollars and fifty cents per hour paid up front. I treat everyone the same, underworld and
overworld.
But it’s not always easy to do. Once a prostitute was so badly beaten that I wanted to call an ambulance, but she refused to go to the hospital. I took care of her, and when I removed the ice pack from her swollen eyes and cleaned her makeup, it was only then I realized she was just a girl, sixteen, seventeen. Times like that bring sorrow to my day. But it’s not always like that, not even often.

Stained carpet, broken side tables, and stale smells from cigarettes and alcohol were the basic decor of the rooms when I first started working here. One day I asked Mr. Suri if he would let me redecorate the rooms. “What’s wrong with them?” he protested. “There is a heart-shaped Jacuzzi in one room that cost me five hundred dollars.”

“Yes, and when people leave that room, they tell me how much they like it,” I patiently explained.

“Stalina, let’s leave it at that.”

“I can make beautiful rooms.”

“No.”

“Sixty dollars per room.”

“No.”

“Think of the motel sign.” I’d thought about the name before presenting the idea. “Liberty Motel, Rooms for the Imaginative.”

“What do you mean, imaginative?” he asked.

“I will make a different fantasy setting for each room for only three hundred and sixty total dollars. Sixty dollars per room.”

“Three hundred and sixty dollars. That’s only twenty-two short-stay hours, less than one day,” he said and smoothed the corners of his mustache.

Mr. Suri was smart and good at math, and I’d noticed that he played with his mustache when he was about to agree to something. About forty years of age or so, he had the long, graceful hands of a pianist, and in profile he reminded me of that handsome actor Omar Sharif. He came here eight years ago from India with his wife, their young son, Chander, who was now ten, and his brother Garson. An uncle died and left them the motel. Mr. Suri’s wife left him for another man about a year after they moved here. I had never seen her. She moved to New Mexico with the child. Amalia told me this much. Mr. Suri had pictures of his son dressed as a cowboy in the office, but none of the boy’s mother. I think he was depressed because sometimes he sat alone under the pine trees in front of the motel drawing with a stick in the dirt. He was quiet and did not laugh very often. Garson I hardly ever saw. Whenever they talked on the phone, I heard much stress in Mr. Suri’s voice. Garson was younger than Mr. Suri and had a daughter who worked here at the motel. Mara was the niece; she was seventeen and very lazy when it came to her job of cleaning the rooms. Mr. Suri thought she was saving money to go to college, but I knew she planned to run off with her boyfriend. I’d heard conversations they had over the intercom in the linen room.

Mr. Suri finally agreed to my idea.

“I’ll let you do two rooms, and then we’ll see. Don’t touch my heart-shaped tub.”

He was very fond of this red tub.

“My first room will be called ‘Gazebo in a Rainstorm,’” I announced.

“I like gazebos,” he replied.

I had seen a gazebo in a magazine called
House and Garden
. I get much of my inspiration for my room designs from the pictures in American magazines.
Good Housekeeping
,
Travel and Leisure
,
Women’s Day
.

Then he surprised me by saying, “Since Mara has been helping with the cleaning, I want you to take a shift at the front desk.”

Usually Mr. Suri or his brother managed that part of the business because of the money. The motel operates twenty-four hours a day. The customers’ visits must be timed correctly, and everyone gets a fifteen-minute warning from the front desk phone. I felt moved by Mr. Suri’s trust and confidence. In addition to my respect for Mr. Suri—you could say my affection—I was glad to be a part of making his business successful. The business of business interests me very much. I might be older than Mr. Suri by a number of years, but I could still swing my hips and offer compliments to his nature when it helped to make our business run smoothly. Russian women know how to get what they want: no distractions, no destruction.

“I’d like you to do the morning shift. Garson has agreed.”

“Eight a.m. to…?”

“Just till four p.m. My brother and I will split the evening and overnight shifts.”

“I can work on my room designs while I’m at the front desk.”

“As long as you keep everything straight.”

“Yes sir. At your service, Mr. Suri.”

It made him uncomfortable when I called him sir, but he smiled and offered me the seat at the front desk in the office. It felt as if I were receiving an important award.

“I have to go to Hartford to get a permit for the septic system,” he informed me.

He winked at me as he turned to go outside.

“Room five has twenty minutes left. They’ll need a warning soon,” he added.

The March wind blew across the driveway and into the pine trees as he drove away in his large, gold Delta ’88. I tidied up the front desk and then made my call to room number five. The phone rang four times.

“Hmm, huh?” a female voice responded.

“Fifteen minutes,” I answered.

There was no further discussion. We hung up simultaneously. I embraced my new assignment with the fervor of a flag bearer at a May Day parade in Moscow.

Two weeks later, I unveiled room number one, “Gazebo in a Rainstorm,” to Mr. Suri. He was very impressed. Room number two had become the “Roller Coaster Fun Park.” There had been much activity at the motel and much gossip up and down Windsor Avenue about these rooms. The other motels were feeling the competition and had started to add their own attractions. The Flamingo’s sign read “Sun Lamps in Every Room,” the Windsor Castle added “Feel Like Royalty in Our Rooms,” and the Route Five Pay and Stay advertised “Lunch Hour Specials.”

Capitalism was exciting, even with its flaws. To be positioned on top was a complicated goal for a Russian soul. I understood better now my childhood friend, Nadia, who was singular in her desire to compete and succeed above all her peers. She had a passion to possess and control in the face of any obstacle. When we were children she was always judging, comparing, and pushing us out of the way. She always wanted to seem superior and boasted about everything. I would always try to counter her attempts to make us feel inferior. Whether we were ten, twelve, or twenty, it was always pretty much the same. Here is a typical conversation, word for word.

“My father makes more money than your father.”

“Yes, Nadia, he does,” I said. Her father was a baker and a well-paid informant for the NKVD.

“My house has more windows than yours.”

“Big deal. More cleaning for your mother.”

“My hair is straighter and shinier than yours,” she would say, flipping her long, straight, blond hair behind her shoulders.

“I like the wave in my hair,” I replied.

“I have a sister.”

“I have pity for her.”

“My dog is more obedient than yours.”

Making a judgment about my dog made me angry. Her miniature poodle, Trala, with the matted white hair and leaky pink eyes, may have been more cooperative than my strong-willed terrier, Pepe, but her dog was showy and obnoxious, just like her. My parents made me put up with Nadia and her dog.

“She lives right next door, she is smart, has good manners, and her family is well connected,” my mother would say.

She was well mannered in front of the adults, but she treated her friends like servants. No wonder my dog Pepe bit her. Soon after that incident, when Nadia and I were seventeen, both Pepe and my father were gone.

*  *  *

Pepe had been gone for a month the day my father disappeared.

My mother lied. “They needed soldiers to fight the fascists. Your father agreed to go.”

“When will he return?”

I asked the same question about Pepe. My mother’s answer about dog and father was to light a cigarette.

Amalia later told me the truth.

“Your mother has no idea what he was arrested for, so she made up the fighting fascists story. There are no fascists to fight—we beat them all in the war,” she said while we played cards.

“It’s not a story. My father is a soldier,” I responded.

“Your father is a writer.”

“So?”

“Writers are the worst, and on top of that your father wears that ridiculous hat,” she said, making a face and pulling her hands down over her ears.

My father wore a tight-fitting blue beret. He used to say it kept out the lies of his neighbors.

Amalia added, “And besides that silly hat, your dog bit Nadia.”

“My father punished Pepe,” I said, holding four aces, a jack, and a queen and king of hearts in my hand. “Amalia, I don’t think you shuffled these cards very well.”

“When was the last time your father published anything?”

“When he returns, he will write about the fighting,” I said, holding the photograph of my father in my hand along with my playing cards.

“You’re a duckling head,” Amalia said and sneered from behind her cards.

“Don’t call me names. Gin!” I said and put my cards down.

“Did you hear Nadia’s dog Trala disappeared?” she said, turning the photograph of my father around to face her and tapping it with her finger.

“Who cares?” I said. “She and her dog can go to hell.”

“Nice shovel he has there,” she said, holding the photograph close to her face. “I did not know your father was a gardener. Your deal.”