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Authors: Catherine Cerveny
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bodyguards fell into step around us, my boots with their metal heels making the only sounds on the gray concrete. I felt overwhelmed, and the Jack Daniels I’d consumed wasn’t helping. I concentrated on my need to pee. That, at least, was real.
The Kremlin loomed ahead, a replica of the famous building that existed centuries ago in the former heart of Russia. Its colorful spires were a glorious finishing touch. The buildings around it emulated a similar style, copying its onion-shaped domes and multicolored spires. Street signs flashed in both English and Russian, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm, following some internal music only the machines could hear. I caught whiffs of delicious odors I couldn’t identify. Some made my stomach rumble, and at least one left me lightheaded. People wove along the sidewalks swathed in colorful, lightweight suits and fabrics in a curious fusion of Kenyan and Russian. Everything had an ornate, overdone feeling, like I’d stepped into a Venusian inspired opium den. Russians, if nothing else, transformed whatever they could into a reminder of former Mother Russia—with love and reverence.
While I was considering how comfortable I was with Petriv’s world, I heard a muted explosion a few blocks away, followed by shouts and alarms. One of the chain-breakers spoke a flurry of Russian and Petriv nodded. His hand went to the small of my back, sweeping me into the restaurant. I saw little more than faux redwood paneling and elaborate golden scrolled handles as the doors slid open at our approach.
“Worried it was meant for you?” I couldn’t help asking.
That earned me a grin. “It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”
Once inside, we stood in a regal antechamber. The floor was rich red marble shot through with veins of white, and the walls were covered with large portraits and mirrors framed in gold leaf. Gaudy as all hell, yet it somehow managed to look elegant. My mouth started to water. Maybe lunch wouldn’t be so bad.
A waiter approached. I was the grubbiest person in the room. He bowed, then launched into a stream of Russian. Petriv answered and the waiter bowed again.
“Ah, forgive me,” he said in English. “I didn’t realize.”
I shot a look at Petriv from the corner of my eye. He’d asked the waiter to speak English for my benefit. Part of me couldn’t help but be a little pleased. The other part wanted to berate myself for enjoying the feeling.
“Sir. Madam. The Kremlin is pleased to welcome you,” the waiter continued, a slight trace of Russian accent in his words. Then, it was all Petriv. “Sir, it’s always a pleasure to see you when you’re in Nairobi. Your usual table is waiting for you.”
“Excellent.” To me, “I always feel like I’ve had a little piece of home when I’m here.”
“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I reminded him before I could be swirled away into this ridiculous fantasy.
The young waiter smiled and nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
I cocked an eyebrow at Petriv. “You don’t think I’ll bolt?”
“I think you’ll consider it, but I’m holding cards far too interesting.”
I shook my head. Damn it. He was right. I was ushered down a hallway and to the door at the end. Once inside the bathroom, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Finally, a second to myself! I locked the door, took care of my immediate business, and proceeded to wash my hands under the gold-plated waterspout. I stopped short at seeing my reflection in the gold-leaf mirror. Saying I looked like shit would have been kind. No makeup. Matted hair no brush could save. Not even rats would feel comfortable spending a night on my head.
I scrubbed at my face, brushed my hair as best I could, and rinsed out my mouth. I had lipstick and powder in my purse so I slapped both on liberally even as I chastised myself. Once again Petriv was seeing me at a complete disadvantage. I’d always prided myself on at least being able to look like I was ready for any
The Kremlin loomed ahead, a replica of the famous building that existed centuries ago in the former heart of Russia. Its colorful spires were a glorious finishing touch. The buildings around it emulated a similar style, copying its onion-shaped domes and multicolored spires. Street signs flashed in both English and Russian, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm, following some internal music only the machines could hear. I caught whiffs of delicious odors I couldn’t identify. Some made my stomach rumble, and at least one left me lightheaded. People wove along the sidewalks swathed in colorful, lightweight suits and fabrics in a curious fusion of Kenyan and Russian. Everything had an ornate, overdone feeling, like I’d stepped into a Venusian inspired opium den. Russians, if nothing else, transformed whatever they could into a reminder of former Mother Russia—with love and reverence.
While I was considering how comfortable I was with Petriv’s world, I heard a muted explosion a few blocks away, followed by shouts and alarms. One of the chain-breakers spoke a flurry of Russian and Petriv nodded. His hand went to the small of my back, sweeping me into the restaurant. I saw little more than faux redwood paneling and elaborate golden scrolled handles as the doors slid open at our approach.
“Worried it was meant for you?” I couldn’t help asking.
That earned me a grin. “It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”
Once inside, we stood in a regal antechamber. The floor was rich red marble shot through with veins of white, and the walls were covered with large portraits and mirrors framed in gold leaf. Gaudy as all hell, yet it somehow managed to look elegant. My mouth started to water. Maybe lunch wouldn’t be so bad.
A waiter approached. I was the grubbiest person in the room. He bowed, then launched into a stream of Russian. Petriv answered and the waiter bowed again.
“Ah, forgive me,” he said in English. “I didn’t realize.”
I shot a look at Petriv from the corner of my eye. He’d asked the waiter to speak English for my benefit. Part of me couldn’t help but be a little pleased. The other part wanted to berate myself for enjoying the feeling.
“Sir. Madam. The Kremlin is pleased to welcome you,” the waiter continued, a slight trace of Russian accent in his words. Then, it was all Petriv. “Sir, it’s always a pleasure to see you when you’re in Nairobi. Your usual table is waiting for you.”
“Excellent.” To me, “I always feel like I’ve had a little piece of home when I’m here.”
“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I reminded him before I could be swirled away into this ridiculous fantasy.
The young waiter smiled and nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
I cocked an eyebrow at Petriv. “You don’t think I’ll bolt?”
“I think you’ll consider it, but I’m holding cards far too interesting.”
I shook my head. Damn it. He was right. I was ushered down a hallway and to the door at the end. Once inside the bathroom, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Finally, a second to myself! I locked the door, took care of my immediate business, and proceeded to wash my hands under the gold-plated waterspout. I stopped short at seeing my reflection in the gold-leaf mirror. Saying I looked like shit would have been kind. No makeup. Matted hair no brush could save. Not even rats would feel comfortable spending a night on my head.
I scrubbed at my face, brushed my hair as best I could, and rinsed out my mouth. I had lipstick and powder in my purse so I slapped both on liberally even as I chastised myself. Once again Petriv was seeing me at a complete disadvantage. I’d always prided myself on at least being able to look like I was ready for any
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