Whirlwind

16

Moscow, Russia

The Blue River Restaurant was on a narrow side street two blocks from the Arbat pedestrian district. With its few feet of frontage and small shaded windows, it was almost hidden from view.

One could walk by without knowing of its existence.

Its low ceilings and dark paneled walls created a mood of calm privacy for Pavel Gromov, who waited alone for his guest in a far corner in a high-backed booth. After Aleksey Linevich had first told him about the girl that morning, it had taken two hours to provide Gromov details on the young woman and quickly arrange a meeting this afternoon.

A favor for a friend, Aleksey said.

Her name was Yanna Petrova, a twenty-seven-year-old junior editor at Six Mountains Press, a small publisher in Kitai-Gorod. She had the well-scrubbed face of a country girl from the Urals, where she was born. She was attractive with an air of intelligent defiance, Gromov thought, looking into his phone at the image of her driver’s license, a copy of which Aleksey had obtained for him.

When needed, men like Gromov and Aleksey would skillfully play the advantages they’d accrued over the years. Using bribes, fear and grisly acts, they’d purchased favor in every level of the bureaucracy, with police, security and politicians. There was little they couldn’t obtain in the way of goods, documents or information on anyone at any time.

Once Yanna was contacted she was quickly convinced of the wisdom in agreeing to Gromov’s request to meet immediately with him.

A car was sent for her.

While waiting, Gromov considered the idea that he’d been wrong about his son’s sexual leanings. Then he speculated on how far along this Yanna Petrova should be with his grandchild-a child that was his only hope.

Now, as one of his men escorted her through the near-empty restaurant to his booth, Gromov was deflated.

She wore a nicely cut navy blazer, matching pants and a white top.

No signs of pregnancy. Perhaps she’d already had the child?

Gromov stood, they greeted each other formally then he gestured for her to sit in his booth and order something. She requested a glass of orange juice then began twisting the rings on her fingers.

Her face was taut.

“You’re nervous?” he said.

Yanna studied Gromov’s face, only for a moment and said nothing.

“You knew my son, Fyodor.”

“Yes.”

“He kept secrets from me. You’re one of them, so it does not surprise me that we do not know each other.”

“I know who you are and what you are.”

Gromov detected tiny points of disdain prickling at the edges of her eyes. He regarded her for several seconds, deciding if he would tolerate her boldness.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

“I want the truth.”

“About what? I’m not part of your world-neither was Fyodor.”

“I understand that you are, or were, pregnant with his child, my grandchild. I would like to help raise this child.”

Yanna’s face began to crumple with anguish, but she held on, turned away, biting back her tears.

“There is no child. I was never pregnant.”

Disappointment rolled through Gromov, his thoughts taking him away from the restaurant to someplace as cold and dark as a tomb. Several beats of silence passed before he realized that Yanna had started telling him things he did not know about his son.

“I loved Fyodor. I miss him terribly,” she said. “We’d met in a bookstore. We liked each other very much. He was so kind and altruistic. He had a gentle strength about him. He loved hearing about my university years in America. We became good friends and started seeing each other.”

Yanna could clearly read on Gromov’s face that he was misinterpreting things.

“No,” she said. “It was not like you think.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Your son was goluboi. He was gay.”

Gromov closed his eyes.

Before she died in the cancer ward all those years ago, his wife had tried to tell him about Fyodor, but he’d refused to listen. Now he found himself nodding at this young woman’s confirmation of what he had long felt to be true. But it had never changed his love for Fyodor, and he was condemned to live with the regret of never having told him that.

“Yes.” Gromov cleared his throat. “I know.”

“You should also know that I am rozovaya, a lesbian.”

Gromov lifted his hand slightly from the table, in a gesture of acceptance, inviting her to continue.

“I wanted a child,” Yanna said.

She then told Gromov how months before Fyodor was killed, she’d asked him to be the donor father of her baby.

“In my eyes, he was the best human being in the world,” she said. “I was over the moon with joy when he agreed.”

Yanna and Fyodor kept the matter secret and went to a clinic in Moscow.

“The procedure failed. I never became pregnant.” She paused. “Then he was killed.”

A long sorrowful moment passed as Gromov sat there absorbing the revelation. With each passing second he grieved what he’d lost, refusing to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. Again and again Gromov told himself that it was impossible to go back in time and erase his sins. He could not undo the past.

No, he thought, but it was still within his power to shape the future.

“Tell me, Yanna, what is the name of this clinic?”

She hesitated, but not for long.

“The Rainbow Clinic, off Leninsky Avenue.”

Gromov reached for his phone and began making a series of calls.

Soon, he would know all he needed to know about the clinic to ensure they would not refuse his request to cooperate.