vague motions with her hands and finally clasping them together. Her husband watched respectfully as she removed from her bloody apron an envelope and placed it and a ring of keys under the mat. She lifted the cleaver off the ground and joined her husband, who placed his arm around her shoulders. They stared at the shop, rubbed their eyes as if they had just awoken from a dream. After a few moments, they got in the truck, took one final look around the wharf and drove away—bronze smoke billowing from the tailpipe.
Frankmann called out to his assistant, a young woman from town who had been working by his side for three years. Kira was her name, and she was such a consummate professional that, despite her youth and beauty, she seemed to be wrapped in a protective, asexualizing veneer that demanded respect and eliminated any absurd desire on Frankmann’s part. “Kira,” he said, “I think the butchers have abandoned us. How much do they owe?”
Kira opened the rent ledger and ran her finger down the page. “Five hundred rubles.”
Frankmann stepped out from behind the drapes. “And the deposit we have?”
Kira flipped to another page. “Fifty.”
“So we’re out four-fifty?”
“That’s right, sir. Do you want me to try to collect? I can file the papers.”
Frankmann turned his attention to the sea. In the distance, his tuna boat—listing slightly to the starboard side—puttered in from the south. He exhaled in relief. “No, Kira, they’re poor and in trouble. There’s no sense.”
Kira nodded. With a marker, she drew a thick line through the butcher’s account. “I will try to find someone else,” she said.
“Good, but this time, we need a bigger deposit. And no more butchers.”
Kira returned to the ledger, calculating the day’s receipts from all of Frankmann’s enterprises: the liquor, the tuna boat, the mechanic shop, the wharf rentals, the pelt trade, the boardinghouse. She then subtracted the day’s disbursements: the wages, the fuel, the wood and, of course, the massive bribes to numerous Communist Party bureaucrats—bribes that allowed Frankmann to operate a capitalist enterprise so conspicuously, so profitably. At the end of every day, Kira would hand Frankmann a slip of paper on which was written the net amount: usually a profit, but on rare occasion a loss. On this day, Kira’s calculations revealed a net profit of two thousand rubles, more than some people in town made in an entire year.
Frankmann eyed the metal box overflowing with cash, then turned his gaze to the butcher’s shop. “Do you know where the butcher lives?”
“Just up the road from the old tractor plant,” Kira replied.
“In a house?”
“Yes, he and his wife live in a house.”
“Any kids?”
Kira grabbed a handful of bills from the box and began to arrange them in order of denomination, placing them in neat stacks. “They’re older, moved out years ago, I think.”
“Do they live nearby? The kids?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “One’s in the army, the other off to Moscow.”
“How do you know all of this, Kira?”
Kira wrapped a rubber band around a stack of hundred-ruble notes. “From church,” she said. “I know them from church.”
“Do they still make tractors?”
“Excuse me?”
“The factory. Do they still make tractors?”
“Oh, no,” Kira replied, confused that the businessman who knew everything that happened in the area did not know about the factory’s demise. “It’s been a good twenty years since it closed. And now it’s all broken windows, rust, drug addicts.”
Frankmann shook his head, his anger apparent. “They should have let me run things around here. I offered, you know.”
“I know,” Kira replied, placing several stacks of rubles back in the box and securing the lid.
“Things would have been different. For everyone.”
Having been both witness to and beneficiary of Frankmann’s commercial genius, Kira nodded in agreement. The two
Frankmann called out to his assistant, a young woman from town who had been working by his side for three years. Kira was her name, and she was such a consummate professional that, despite her youth and beauty, she seemed to be wrapped in a protective, asexualizing veneer that demanded respect and eliminated any absurd desire on Frankmann’s part. “Kira,” he said, “I think the butchers have abandoned us. How much do they owe?”
Kira opened the rent ledger and ran her finger down the page. “Five hundred rubles.”
Frankmann stepped out from behind the drapes. “And the deposit we have?”
Kira flipped to another page. “Fifty.”
“So we’re out four-fifty?”
“That’s right, sir. Do you want me to try to collect? I can file the papers.”
Frankmann turned his attention to the sea. In the distance, his tuna boat—listing slightly to the starboard side—puttered in from the south. He exhaled in relief. “No, Kira, they’re poor and in trouble. There’s no sense.”
Kira nodded. With a marker, she drew a thick line through the butcher’s account. “I will try to find someone else,” she said.
“Good, but this time, we need a bigger deposit. And no more butchers.”
Kira returned to the ledger, calculating the day’s receipts from all of Frankmann’s enterprises: the liquor, the tuna boat, the mechanic shop, the wharf rentals, the pelt trade, the boardinghouse. She then subtracted the day’s disbursements: the wages, the fuel, the wood and, of course, the massive bribes to numerous Communist Party bureaucrats—bribes that allowed Frankmann to operate a capitalist enterprise so conspicuously, so profitably. At the end of every day, Kira would hand Frankmann a slip of paper on which was written the net amount: usually a profit, but on rare occasion a loss. On this day, Kira’s calculations revealed a net profit of two thousand rubles, more than some people in town made in an entire year.
Frankmann eyed the metal box overflowing with cash, then turned his gaze to the butcher’s shop. “Do you know where the butcher lives?”
“Just up the road from the old tractor plant,” Kira replied.
“In a house?”
“Yes, he and his wife live in a house.”
“Any kids?”
Kira grabbed a handful of bills from the box and began to arrange them in order of denomination, placing them in neat stacks. “They’re older, moved out years ago, I think.”
“Do they live nearby? The kids?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “One’s in the army, the other off to Moscow.”
“How do you know all of this, Kira?”
Kira wrapped a rubber band around a stack of hundred-ruble notes. “From church,” she said. “I know them from church.”
“Do they still make tractors?”
“Excuse me?”
“The factory. Do they still make tractors?”
“Oh, no,” Kira replied, confused that the businessman who knew everything that happened in the area did not know about the factory’s demise. “It’s been a good twenty years since it closed. And now it’s all broken windows, rust, drug addicts.”
Frankmann shook his head, his anger apparent. “They should have let me run things around here. I offered, you know.”
“I know,” Kira replied, placing several stacks of rubles back in the box and securing the lid.
“Things would have been different. For everyone.”
Having been both witness to and beneficiary of Frankmann’s commercial genius, Kira nodded in agreement. The two
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