2009
“I hear you have something of value,” Ivan said. “Someone is prepared to pay for it.”
My neck tensed immediately. I’d come to get him to eat, but Ivan was dawdling, arranging jars and bottles of compote in his trunk as if he was building a pyramid of crystal glasses. The open trunk lid concealed him completely, so I couldn’t see his expression. Finally, he straightened up and, putting his thumb, pointer, and middle finger together, made a kissing sound to express what good compote Boris made.
“It’s like selling freshly baked sweet rolls. They’re already lining up for this around the corner from the detox facility.”
Ivan clearly didn’t know how to present his case, and that was new. This couldn’t be about poppies then. And I didn’t have anything of value. Unless he was talking about what I had access to at the agency. Eggs, sperm, embryos, fetuses. Client lists. Our database contained everything about our clients’ health, their genes, their preferences, and their donors. Someone would be happy to shell out a pretty penny for that. There were many options: competitors in the same field, someone’s jealous lover, our clients’ enemies, or why not a state security service?
Ivan slammed the trunk lid shut with a force that made the icon taped to the dashboard fall into the footwell, so he bent into the car to search for it. I waited. Ivan wasn’t a man who minced words, and this topic was clearly difficult for him. I decided to misunderstand in order to move the conversation forward.
“I can’t give discounts for infertility treatments without getting caught. My boss is a precise woman.”
“Don’t worry, it isn’t about that. And the arrangement doesn’t actually require anything of you.”
St. Kuksha of Odesa had been found, and Ivan straightened up. The same holy father had adorned the taxi he’d driven when he was selling compote. Those times were in the past now, though, and Ivan wasn’t a small dealer. He had moved up, and he wanted to move up more. Ivan kissed St. Kuksha—whom he’d chosen because Kuksha had also suffered imprisonment, in the Ural concentration camps—and returned the icon to its place. Instead of finally getting to the point, he began to dig in the glove compartment until he found a bottle and then went to the trunk for the three-liter pickle jar my aunt had given him. The trunk lid slammed shut again with unnecessary force, and the bottle of holy oil tied to the rearview mirror swung. The vodka bottle opened with a pop. Ivan took a long swig and then offered it to me. I did not refuse.
“The deal concerns your client.”
“Which one of them?”
Ivan glanced toward the house as if wanting to make sure that no one would bother us. It was my mother’s birthday, and she would soon begin to wonder where we’d gotten to.
“You’re supposed to know. A big fish. Ukrainian, not a foreigner.”
Viktor. Whom else could this be about? Instinctively I crossed myself. I didn’t want to get any more involved in Ivan’s hustles than I had to—and not in this one at all. This conversation alone was a betrayal.
“Who sent you?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s an easy job.”
“There’s no such thing.”
Ivan munched a pickle and then wiped his fingers on his trousers before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and tapping the head of one on the box for so long that I had to interrupt him to ask him to offer me one, too. We smoked in silence for a moment. I realized that I would have to tell Viktor or my boss about this proposal immediately. Or tell you. You would know how best to act, but Ivan would be in trouble, as would I. The fact that Ivan had been sent as the errand boy wasn’t an accident, and my friendship with Viktor wasn’t a secret. Speeches, opening ceremonies, galas. Viktor had avoided photographers until his father had decided to push him into politics. There were any number of pictures of us together. I knew more about Viktor than anyone, or so I thought, and that made me interesting.
“I don’t know if we have any alternative,” Ivan said.
“We?”
“No one can ever know I got this information from you.”
“Is that the job? You want my client’s patient information?”
“All you have to do is copy it all down to the smallest detail. Totally safe and harmless.”
“I can’t. There’s no way.”
“Aren’t you even interested in what you would get in return?” Ivan asked and then paused. “You would get your father’s head.”
A second passed before I understood what Ivan had said. When I did, I had to sit down on the ground, where I felt the moisture seeping through my clothing onto my skin. I no longer wondered why Ivan was so uncomfortable. He offered me the bottle again along with the pickles. I only took the liquor. My father’s head. I hadn’t thought about it in ages. There wasn’t anything to think about. I’d always assumed that kind of score settling just happened in those circles. Desecrating an enemy’s earthly remains was a powerful warning. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to store a part of my father’s body for this many years or even remembering where it was buried. But what did I know about how these things were handled? Maybe a freezer full of hands, feet, and heads was like a bank where you could make a withdrawal if the victim’s family started talking to reporters. Or if you needed a favor. Desperate relatives are always ready to do anything to lay their loved ones to rest, whole and complete. What was important was that for some reason someone had my father’s head in their possession, and that was all I needed to know. You didn’t fool around with people like this. The offer these men had made to me was a gesture intended to make clear what would happen if I refused. These men wanted to hurt Viktor and his wife. I didn’t care about them. I cared about my own head, which I intended to keep on my shoulders.
“Think of your mother and your aunt. And Boris.”
Ivan didn’t need to say anything more.