The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 14

The restaurant at the hotel was called 5&33 Flavors and it drew inspiration from a traditional Italian tasting plate. Simmy brought his fresh attitude, the mysterious box, and infinite possibilities to the table. I offered gamesmanship, wit, and a challenge for the man who had everything.

But that wasn’t enough. No man had ever approached me to make amends over behavior he regretted. No co-workers or bosses, not my brother, deceased father or husband. No, I thought. I would do more than be my finest self. I would try something novel this evening. I would try to channel grace and forgiveness, if he really meant what he said.

My assessment of the prospects for the evening prompted me to make the obvious observation after we sat down at our table and received our menus from our waiter.

“Where are your bodyguards?” I said.

“Where they’re supposed to be,” Simmy said, without taking his eyes off the menu. “Where they can see you but you cannot see them.”

I scanned the dining room. Twenty tables filled a narrow rectangular space. Solitary men occupied three of the tables. Waitresses with golden hair and tossed-back shoulders chatted up two of them. Various couples occupied six of the other tables. None of them resembled Simmy’s protectors. A rectangular fire pit provided a barrier between the dining room and a separate lounge area. I spied the bodyguards’ reflection in the stainless steel structure that housed the fire and savored the moment.

Perhaps Simmy was right. Maybe I was in possession of some kind of investigative arsenal.

“You’re right,” I said. “I can’t see them.”

“Of course you can’t. That’s why they’re my bodyguards.”

I knew he liked to study the menu and then ask me to order for him. But he also liked to peruse the wine list with an expert’s eye, and that selection he would make himself after I chose his entree. He liked to do this in silence, I knew, because the wine was the most important part of dinner for him, providing him far more pleasure than the food. I never intruded on his study of the wine list with small talk. I sensed that he appreciated my comfort with silence, and that it had been a key element of our instant chemistry.

As soon as I knew what I was going to order for both of us, I set the menu aside to signal I was done. Simmy caught the waiter’s attention and motioned for him to come over. We’d followed this routine during our prior dinners, but it wasn’t until this evening that I realized how much I enjoyed this private dance. We are often unaware of our most sublime pleasures until faced with the prospect of their extinction.

“The gentleman will start with the goat cheese ravioli with aubergine, pinenuts and basil,” I said to the waiter. “I’ll have the endive and beetroot salad—no parmesan, please. And we’ll have the grilled sea bass for entrees, the one that’s for two to share.”

Simmy ordered a fabulous-sounding French Chablis and the waiter left.

“Frankly,” Simmy said, “I’m disappointed.”

I shook my head slowly in an exaggerated fashion. “I don’t think so.”

He chuckled. “I love it. There is only one Nadia, isn’t there? I think I’m disappointed, but you know better.”

“Of course I know better. That’s why you have me order in the first place.”

“Please explain.”

“You think you’re disappointed because I picked a fish that goes best with a light white wine. By selecting sea bass, I ruled out the chewy reds you love, and the juicy whites you crave, the Montrachets and Meursaults. Am I right?”

He lifted his hand from his chin and twisted it open, palm-up. Obviously, he was saying.

“But by foregoing the nectar of the gods, you’re practicing delayed gratification. Like me—I wanted the tagliolini with truffles but I won’t splurge until I solve this murder—you get to enjoy a nice meal but look forward to something even more special some day soon.”

“Something even more special. That’s interesting.” Simmy lifted his eyebrows. “And we are both practicing this… what was it you called it?”

“Delayed gratification.”

“That’s a new concept to me. Russians are avid practitioners of instant gratification. In fact, it’s a national obsession. And since we’re both practicing this delayed gratification, we would enjoy this… this grand feast together, am I right?”

“Theoretically,” I said. “I suppose it depends on what happens between now and then.”

Simmy cleared his throat, placed his hands on the table and sat up straight. I reached for my water to hydrate and appear nonchalant. Simmy typically carried himself in a relaxed manner that was carefully cultivated to belie his true intensity. Now he looked stiff, formal and awkward, as though he had something serious to say.

Even the water couldn’t wash away the bitter-sweet anticipation on the tip of my tongue.

“Then in the spirit of turning the theoretically into the actual,” he said, “let me get down to the business at hand.”

As I wondered what he was talking about, the extravagantly wrapped box of knowledge caught my eye on the ledge behind him.

“What exactly is the business at hand?” I said.

“Making amends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Me… I…” He struggled to find the right words. “I must make amends to you for my poor behavior.”

I sat there mute for longer than I should have. It was one of those moments comparable to finding a long-lost treasure in a long-forgotten hiding place based on sudden inspiration. It’s almost always a figment of one’s imagination. But this—this was really happening.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said.

“No, I most definitely was not. I shouldn’t have criticized you for pretending to be a window prostitute. I should have praised you for your ingenuity. I should have insisted you were fed that night I picked you up in jail. I should have told you from the start that my men were watching Iskra Romanova’s office and made you aware that this meant that they might end up watching you, too. Above all else, I should have put your good health and comfort above my own. I didn’t, and for that I humbly apologize.”

I started to form a witty response. That was to be expected because repartee was the magnet that drew us toward each other. But then I remembered my pledge to be graceful and forgiving. Simmy was trying like no man had tried before. He deserved some respect and compassion. He deserved the sentiments I barely knew how to express.

“You’re my client,” I said, “and you never need to apologize. But given the spirit of what you say, apology accepted.”

He took a breath, not too deep but audible enough for me to know my words meant a lot to him.

I considered changing the subject to save us both any further embarrassment. But that would have been weak, I decided. That would have been my strategy with my deceased husband, to always defer, to look for a way to appease his ego. Simmy had apologized. He had humbled himself. This was my opportunity to shine a flashlight into his eyes and see into his soul.

I spoke as gently as I could, which was to say, I chose the flashlight with the dimmest possible light, albeit one whose brightness I could crank up on demand.

“This was… this is not something I would have ever expected, Simmy. I’m just curious. If you don’t mind my asking… What brought this on?”

“Not what,” he said. “Who.”

I waited for him to answer his own question.

He did so, but only after looking around to make sure no one was listening. Still, he whispered the answer. “My therapist.”

I pulled my head back.

“Actually, my acupuncturist. A young man from China, but he’s so spiritually evolved he might as well be my therapist.” He shrugged. “A man either evolves or falls victim to his afflictions. I choose the former.”

“I couldn’t be more impressed,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. “I had a boss who once said that seventy-percent of all businessmen in New York City were taking some sort of medication. And the ones who weren’t taking it were fools.”

“It’s the same in Russia, except the medication is called vodka and its use isn’t limited to businessmen.”

“When bribery is a way of life,” I said, “any person could be driven to drink.”

I regretted the words as soon as they rolled off my lips. Not that I didn’t mean what I said—I just wished I’d managed to restrain myself and allow the feel-good to last a little longer. But that was probably unrealistic, I realized. Our moment of shared introspection was just that—a moment. A return to the verbal combat that defined us was inevitable.

“I know you think all Russian businessmen are gangsters,” Simmy said, “but that is not the case. You can thank your free press and precious Hollywood for that misconception. I am a corporate raider. I bought my companies fair and square.”

There was truth in everything he said. After serving his mandatory stint in the army, Simmy had earned his PhD in quantum physics at age twenty-five. He then traded metals on the Russian market to earn enough money to buy his first smelter. He slept near the factory furnace for the first six months to prevent thieves from ransacking his sole asset. He turned a profit, expanded into other commodities, diversified into industrials, and formed the Orel Group, his own conglomerate. At last count the Orel Group owned fifteen companies. Of those, two were Western European and eleven were American. All of them traded on public exchanges.

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” I said. “I never implied you were a gangster. I just think there’s a criminal aspect to how business is conducted in Russia because bribes are commonplace and accepted. It’s hard to get the electricity to work without them, right?”

Simmy looked away and shrugged, as though acknowledging a truth of which he wasn’t proud. “Thirty years ago we were a communist country. We’re not going to fix our thing overnight. It’s going to take time. Just like me. It’s going to take me time to change.”

Once again Simmy’s words stunned me. Change came easily for billionaires, but usually in the form of increasingly extravagant living.

“What exactly do you want to change about yourself?” I said. “Granted, I thought you may have been a bit harsh in your car when I got out of jail, but it’s not like you’re an unrepentant killer…” I laughed to try to make a joke of my words. “Are you?”

My voice trailed off as I blurted out my question. I meant it figuratively, not literally, but given I was investigating a murder it certainly didn’t sound that way when the words left my mouth.

Simmy, however, seemed to understand exactly what I meant.

“In business I must eliminate my competition sometimes,” he said. “There is simply no other way. I mean that in a corporate sense, of course. But that doesn’t excuse my behavior in my personal life. I’ve been avoiding my ex-wife, treating her rudely. That is unacceptable because we share custody of two children. I’m not spending enough time with them, either. That’s what money does to a man.”

“What’s that?”

“It makes him want more money. Soon nothing else matters. He begins to forgive himself for his transgressions too easily.” Simmy leaned in toward me. His words sounded urgent, his voice almost pleading for me to listen carefully. “What you must understand, Nadia, is that men have no role models in Russia.”

Simmy’s assertion resonated with me. My deceased husband’s parents and my own mother and father had been World War II refugees. They’d trusted no one and seemed incapable of unconditional love. Were their children any better? One Friday morning I took the train from New York City to New Haven and surprised my husband at Yale. When I saw his petite graduate assistant exiting his apartment as I arrived, I confronted him. He backhanded me across the face, insisted he’d never touched another woman, and told me never to question his fidelity again. I took it and did nothing, that time and many times later, as my mother had done before me. I’d always held my husband and myself—not our parents—accountable for our own behavior, but there was truth in what Simmy was saying.

“Russian men don’t know how to be husbands or fathers,” Simmy said. “Who was there to teach us? The Soviet Union destroyed the Russian family. There was no freedom of speech, religion, or mobility. A man couldn’t leave town to see his relatives without permission. The KGB were everywhere. It was an empire built on fear, where men were rewarded for persecuting their neighbors. Ambition served only those connected with the central government. For all others, there was no hope for anything other than to survive. During the twentieth century, the soul of all Russian men was systematically destroyed to preserve the powers of the central government and to let the ruling elite have their way. What kind of husbands and fathers do you think this bred?”

I thought of the Western stereotype of a Russian man, lawless and drunk. “The kind who suffered and medicated his pain any way he could.”

“Why does the West think Russian men have a problem with alcoholism? Why do so many Russian marriages end in divorce? Our parents, and their parents, and their parents before them… none of them were role models, and none of them are to blame. The life expectancy of a Russian man in 2000 was fifty-eight years. When you go to Russia, you’re expected to drink in excess in all social situations. If you don’t, Russians view you as a weak person. Why is that?”

I shook my head.

“Because it means you give a shit about your future. Because it means you’re actually arrogant enough to think there’s hope for you, that you’re different than the masses, that you’re better than them, that you’ll live longer. And so the moment you refuse to drink with your host, your client, your potential business partner, he views you suspiciously. He believes you are someone he cannot trust. And he sure as hell resents you.”

I’d only seen Simmy look anxious on one other occasion, when our lives were at risk in a Siberian castle that had belonged to the FBI’s most wanted man, Russia’s most notorious organized crime leader. But here he was, flashing creases in his temple in the comfort of an Amsterdam restaurant and under the protection of his bodyguards. My observations unnerved me a bit, as to be in Simmy’s presence was to feel, above all else, temporarily invulnerable.

“Last time I saw you,” I said, “you talked about the European and American sanctions against Russia… did something else happen?”

Simmy looked around before speaking yet again, and then lowered his voice so low that I had to lean forward and strain to hear him. “Remember my friend—now my former friend—the one who complained about the President to the press? The one that said Valery was to blame for the sanctions and the miserable state of Russian society? He had his wings clipped yesterday.”

“A Russian oligarch had his wings clipped? What does that mean?”

“He was the largest printer and distributor of textbooks to primary schools in Russia. Actually, he pretty much had a monopoly. Now, as of yesterday, all schools have stopped ordering books from his company.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because his texts have been declared outdated by the central government. As of the next school year, new texts will be distributed by someone else, a company that specializes in appliance repair manuals. And my friend’s company is under investigation for illegal business practices.”

“What kind of illegal business practices?”

“Bribing government officials,” Simmy said.

“Of course. I should have guessed. Did your friend make it out of the country?”

“No. They arrested him four hours ago. The press were there when they took him away—they were stalking him since he complained about Valery so of course they were—and he did something… he said something…” Simmy shook his head gravely.

“What?” I said. “What did he say?”

“He said the country needed a change in leadership. He said it was time for a man of integrity to take over the country. A man like Simeon Simeonovich.”

I remembered what Simmy had told me about oligarchs getting involved in politics in Russia—it was suicidal.

“You have no interest in politics,” I said. “And your friend knew the mere suggestion that you’re interested could cast a shadow over you or worse—but he said it anyways… which is why you just referred to him as your ‘former friend.’ And his motive for doing this to you was?”

“He asked me to intercede with Valery on his behalf, to apologize and tell him his emotions got the better of him. He thinks Valery and I are such close friends, like father and son, as the press likes to say. But the truth is, we don’t have those kind of friendships in Russia. And if I had stepped up for him…”

“Putler would have become suspicious that you share your friends convictions…”

“Which he almost certainly thinks now,” Simmy said.

I wanted to do something to cheer Simmy up or at least distract him, so I segued into the case and told him about everything that had transpired since I’d last seen him. He was, after all, my client, and I needed him to arrange a meeting with Iskra’s mother. She and I had spoken only briefly when I’d first arrived in Amsterdam because she’d been out of town the night Iskra was killed. But I considered her an invaluable source of background information regarding Iskra, her friends, and her lovers.

Simmy called her from the table and arranged for us to meet at breakfast. Then we enjoyed a scrumptious dinner. We talked about his soccer team, his gigayacht, and my business. The one thing we didn’t discuss was the deliciously wrapped box. The longer the evening went, the more its contents intrigued me.

After he paid the bill, we walked to the hotel entrance. One of his bodyguards went ahead to retrieve his car, while the other one remained ten paces behind us. Simmy thanked me for my company, and I told him it had been a lovely evening. Then he handed me the box.

“This is for you,” he said, “to help you understand the mind of a Russian man.”

I took the box in my hands. It felt surprisingly light, no heavier than a roll of paper towels.

He bowed and started toward the circular door.

“This is very mischievous, Simmy. That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

He glanced back at me. “All will be clear when you open the package.”

Simmy left. I took the elevator to the second floor and walked into my room. I wanted to take a shower, and the thought of delaying the opening of Simmy’s present carried great appeal. I could lie on the bed in a crisp terry robe with the TV on and order a cup of tea from room service. Some gratification, however, simply could not be delayed.

I tore off the wrapping paper to expose a brown cardboard box. Inside the box was a wooden figurine in the shape of an enormous salt shaker. A girl’s face was painted on one side. She had a golden bun for hair, pink balloons for cheeks, triangular blue eyes with black lashes, and silly pink lips the size of a child’s kiss. Beneath the face was a colorful bouquet, an impressionist’s rendering of pink, burgundy, green and yellow flowers. The figurine’s dome was painted steel-blue, the bottom crimson.

I’d grown up with Ukrainian objects of beauty in the house. The matryoshka, the nesting doll, was a distinctly Russian creation. I’d heard of them and seen pictures, but I’d never actually held one or played with it. In this instance, I was less interested in the doll, and more curious to see if Simmy had inserted something inside.

The doll came apart in the middle. A twist of the wrist removed the top half and revealed a similar doll inside. My hands trembled as I continued to pull one doll out of another. The sixth doll was half the size of my thumb. I picked it up in my hand and shook it. Something bounced around its interior walls. I pictured Simmy substituting bauble in place of the final doll. Not that gifts or material things mattered much to me. No, they didn’t, I reminded myself. Not at all.

I held my breath, removed the cover from the sixth doll, and pulled out the contents from within.

It was a seventh doll. This one, however, was painted yellow, and its face didn’t belong to the girl depicted on the other dolls. This face belonged to a little boy.

A pang of disappointment hit me, though I never would have admitted it to anyone. I studied all the dolls again. They had no false bottoms or tops, they contained nothing else inside, and the last doll didn’t open at all. All the dolls seemed to weigh proportionately less than the one that had contained it. The smallest doll, the yellow one, didn’t unscrew. It felt as though it was made out of air.

It was certainly an object of beauty and a lovely gift. The largest doll’s bottom contained a signature and a date. No doubt it was a collectible. But that wasn’t why Simmy had given it to me. He’d told me that the doll contained knowledge that would help me understand the mind of a Russian man.

The obvious implication was that a Russian man was a complex amalgamation of multiple personas, at the core of which was a child. If I wanted to understand him, I had to understand each one of his personas. Perhaps one doll reflected how he acted in matters of business, another how he behaved with his children, a third how he made love to a woman. Such a conclusion seemed simple enough.

Simmy was obviously playing a game with me. He’d just challenged me to discover something about him by studying a doll, and that was fine with me.

I was always up for a new challenge.