Tatiana and the Russian Wolves. Stephen Evans JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.
to that.”
“And so am I, Alexander.”
CHAPTER 3
JUNE 1986
SAN FRANCISCO
A year later, we were going to the opera on a Friday evening, and Fiona picked me up in her Mercedes. I didn’t care for opera, but escorting Fiona was a small repayment for all that she had done for my mother and me.
On the way, I was telling Fiona, “Universal has decided to send me to their Moscow representative office on an interim assignment. I don’t think I’ll be in Moscow too long.”
“When did you find out?”
“Oh, it’s been off and on for a month or so. The bank thought they’d found a replacement, but that fell through. Now I’m going for sure.”
“Your first trip was hardly auspicious, was it?”
“Unnerving, that’s for sure.”
“Could your grandfather still be a problem?” Fiona asked.
“I attached a letter to my visa application explaining my grandfather. The visa came back with a short letter thanking me for my candor and assuring me that my grandfather was no longer an issue for the Soviet government.”
“Shouldn’t you have explained that Tatiana’s brother returned with the Germans too?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t know he existed.”
Fiona gripped the wheel to navigate a busy intersection and started up Pacific Heights on her shortcut to the Opera House. “Why are they sending you?”
“The bank’s office was opened only six months ago. The representative was fired for black-market dealing. Everyone uses the black market for one thing or another, but an internal audit found that he was using bank funds to speculate.”
“When are you leaving?” She had stopped at a red light.
“Next Saturday, I’ll fly to New York and Sunday to Moscow.”
“I wish you’d have told me sooner.” Fiona’s formidable temper seemed about to detonate. “Perhaps your candor could have applied to me as well as the Russians?”
“Fiona, the light turned green.” We crossed the intersection. “I didn’t want to upset you, like I just have. You’re angry or worried?”
“Of course, I’m worried. Oh, there’s something else too. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Come on, don’t do that.”
At the next light, she said, “Fred Imhoff, you know, Drew’s…ah, consort. No, that’s not the word. Well, you know, Drew’s companion has full-blown AIDS.”
“And Drew?”
“I don’t know. But one has to assume,” Fiona said. “Fred and Drew have been, as you know, together for some time.”
Andrew Faircloth (Drew) was Fiona’s son from her brief and only marriage. I thought that Fiona was avoiding the word lovers since I had fallen in love with Drew when my mother became ill that summer. I felt myself blush as we turned into the parking garage. Squealing tires on the concrete brought me back. “What are you going to do?”
Fiona parked and sat back. “Don’t know. For years, I’ve told myself that while I’ve always loved Drew, I don’t like him. But how can you love someone you don’t like? I suspect it’s the same for Drew.”
“Let’s skip tonight’s Wagner and go back to my place. I’ll fix something for supper, or we can go out.”
“I’m hosting a supper afterwards, remember?” Fiona looked out the window and said, “Funny, isn’t it? My family forced Drew and me into a de facto alliance of sorts. If Drew does have AIDS, how will my family take that? Sorry, rhetorical question. That pack of jackals will bay at the moon.”
“Mother said that you have the heart of a saint and the family of a true martyr. Given the circumstances, might reconciliation with Drew be in order?”
“I wish my maternal instincts, such as they are, would surface. Anyway, Drew and I have business to sort out; maybe I could begin there.” She started to get out.
“When did you learn about Fred?”
“About a week ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Fiona slid across the seat. “I have to be careful with you.” She put her hands to my face. “You’re like Tatiana: so delicate, so fragile.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“In front of whom?” Fiona’s smile was forlorn.
That evening’s performance, Parsifal, was Wagner’s most tedious opera. The knight Parsifal dealing with a witch in a magical garden was as far as I got before my thoughts turned to Drew.
After having walked out on Drew years ago with no real explanation, it was remarkable that we got along as well as we did. We had become cordial over the past several years, and I wanted to see him before I left for Moscow.
By the intermission, I had no idea what Parsifal was up to. In the large hall, Fiona and her friends dissected the evening’s performance; most were unhappy with the lead, who seemed distracted or bored—I couldn’t blame him. Once we were in our seats, the music came up, and I tried thinking about Moscow. It almost worked.
Fiona shook my arm as the seats were emptying. “Overwhelmed by the Wagner?”
“Caught me daydreaming.”
“About Russia?”
“And Mother too.”
“Guests are coming; we must hurry.”
That Saturday morning, I left a message on Drew’s answering machine, telling him about my assignment, and promised to write from Moscow. I tried his office and was told that he was in Dallas, tending to clients. Thinking about it, my message on the answering machine was perfunctory. Drew and Fred lived eight blocks from me, and I walked over.
Their Tuscan-inspired home on Marina Drive overlooked the Marina Green and the San Francisco Bay. From Drew’s front window, Alcatraz was to the east, the Golden Gate due west, and Marin County’s flaxen hills north across the Bay.
Fred had always been distant and was more so that afternoon. We talked at the front door until he invited me in for a drink. Fred opened the refrigerator and asked me to help myself. I found a bottle of beer and poured him a glass of orange juice. I continued with small talk while we stood in the kitchen. Fred wasn’t unpleasant; his expression was neutral, but he wasn’t making it easy. I rambled on about Russia. Looking out a window at one of San Francisco’s infrequent warm summer days, I suggested the patio behind the house. Fred agreed.
Fred was a blue-eyed blond, and about my height, just over six feet. The skin around Fred’s neck and jaw was sagging. He had weary eyes and pallid coloring.
During an uncomfortable lull, I asked about Drew’s gallery. Drew was an art dealer, and Fred managed the business. Fred perked up and told me about a recent showing. Fred turned glum, leaned back in the chair facing the sun, and closed his eyes. I got up to leave.
“Not a very good host these days, I’m afraid,” he said. “As you suspect, I’m preoccupied.”
“I’m sorry. I learned yesterday. And I barged in on you. Sorry about that too.”
Fred opened his eyes. “I know you’re concerned about Drew, but you’ll have to ask him.”
“I will.”
Fred nodded. “May I tell you something? Drew mustn’t know.”
Seeing the anger in Fred’s eyes,