Hell One, Heaven Zip
When we arrived at the house, Boris ushered me to the kitchen and motioned for me to sit at the bar. He placed a teakettle over a gas flame.
“So, what’s my first assignment? I can compose letters, do research, bookkeeping, slide presentations, spreadsheets—”
“You will use vegetarian skills and make dinner for boss tonight.” He handed me a pad of paper and a pen. “Make list.”
Mentally, I prayed for guidance. “What happened to the chef?”
“He left us unexpectedly.”
There was no way I could pull it off. My idea of a weekday dinner was a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. What the heck did Boris expect me to do?
For our first course, Mr. Ivanov, I have opened a can of condensed tomato soup, added some water from the faucet, dumped it all into a microwave-safe bowl, and nuked it on high for a minute and a half. For crunch I have crumbled a handful of Goldfish crackers—
“Davai.” Boris tapped his finger on the counter next to the pad of paper. “Write down what you need. I will send runner to pick up groceries.”
I cocked my eye. “Can you give me a hint?”
He clicked his tongue like I was a moron. He held his hands out in front of the pad of paper. “Carrots, potatoes, beets, legumes, you know?”
I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth, chewed, and blinked at him like a dim-witted cow. He chuckled. Not like it was funny, more like he was stupefied by my ignorance. From behind the counter he pulled out a stack of cookbooks. He set them down in front of me and motioned for me to get to work.
In the spirit of going along with it, I opened one up. “What’s this, Russian?”
“Da, Russkiy.” He poured two cups of tea.
I could translate the Russian words into English on my phone—but still.
“What kind of vegetarian is Mr. Ivanov?” After a blank stare from Boris I elaborated. “For example, I don’t eat meat, fish, or eggs, but I do eat dairy. I’m a lacto-vegetarian.”
“He’s same vegetarian as you.”
“Why doesn’t he eat meat?”
“Why don’t you eat meat?” He slid a teacup on a saucer over to me.
“Thank you.” I spit my gum out into the trashcan. “I find dead things unappetizing.”
Boris sipped his tea and completely ignored my question. I gave up, rifled through the pages, and found a picture of a seemingly doable recipe for a vegetarian stew. As I scribbled down a list of ingredients, a guy pushed open the kitchen door and handed Boris a gym bag. With his slicked-back black hair and obnoxious swagger, the dude looked like a total player.
He conversed with Boris in their native tongue and pointed outside. I followed his gesture and snuck a peek out the window. There were two other shady looking guys in tracksuits smoking and shooting hoops down at the end of the driveway next to the guesthouse.
The whole time he was talking, the guy stared at my body, salivating, like I was some tasty morsel wrapped in bacon. He made a smooching sound and motioned for me to come to him. I sucked in my lips and looked to the big guy for guidance.
Boris reprimanded him and snapped his fingers at the dude—who smelled like he had been swimming in a vat of Abercrombie cologne and cigarette butts. The playboy held up his hands in surrender and backed out of the room with a grin on his face.
“How do you say ‘asshole’ in Russian?” I asked Boris.
His red face softened, but I could tell he was still irate. “Lapsha.”
“Lapsha means asshole? I’ll remember that.” The devil on my shoulder poked me in the neck: Get over yourself. It’s a cultural thing. Sophia said, Get the hell out of there!
If I had a car I would’ve listened to Sophia—damn the consequences. I shouldn’t have been in a house full of men who looked like they wanted to eat me alive. From outside, I heard the peacock alarm going off, and the orgasmic hum of the Ferrari engine. As I waited for the door to open, I wrestled with my conflicting emotions—excitement and fear.
The devil jumped over to the right side of my shoulder, grabbed Sophia by her wings, and shook her violently. She tried to fight back, but the devil overpowered her. Out of strength and resolve, Sophia flew away into the sky leaving a stream of silvery white feathers in her wake. The devil kicked back and leaned against the crook of my neck—hell one, heaven zip.
“Boss likes a drink after work.” Boris motioned for me to follow him to the bar. He lifted a bottle of vodka out of the fridge and turned over three shot glasses.
I heard the car door shut in the garage. The poodles cried, Papa’s home! from the other side of the kitchen door. When Vladimir came in, I expected him to flash me a crooked smile, have a drink, relax—no such luck. He burst through the door raging into his cell in Russian. He stormed through the kitchen and trailed off to his office on the other side of the house.
Boris listened and then excused himself to handle damage control. Toenails danced on the hardwood and then one of the poodles yelped. When Boris came back to the kitchen, he didn’t specifically say what had lit Vladimir up, just that there was a minor issue back home in Russia he needed to handle. Apparently he needed to handle it without me in the house. Boris took me home before I had a chance to screw up dinner.