Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
AUGUST 2
9:34 p.m.
Small town in middle of Russia, hotel room, lying exhaustedly on bed, waiting for Dixon to return with food
We had a lovely night in Yekaterinburg, even though Dixon didn’t want to do anything but stay in the hotel room and do naked-bunny-sex things to each other.
“This is a very historic city,” I pointed out to him from the comfort of a small bed-and-breakfast on the fringe of the city. The place came with a small barn in the back, which we used to lock away the Thomas Flyer, allowing us to spend the night with each other rather than watching the car, figuring the likelihood of the Essex team finding us at a B&B would be much smaller than had we stayed at one of the mainstream hotels. “Czar Nicholas and his family were killed here. You can go look at the spot where their bodies were found. That sounds like . . . well, not fun, exactly. But interesting.”
“Interesting to someone fascinated with government assassinations, perhaps,” Dixon said, frowning at his phone. “Roger says they should be in Yekaterina shortly. They were delayed because the Essex car had a breakdown. A radiator hose, evidently.”
“Rats. I would have liked for them to be held up as long as they held us up.”
“I suppose we shouldn’t be grateful that they had any sort of a breakdown, but I admit I’m petty enough to consider it an act of karma.” He looked up. “You weren’t serious about seeing the place the czar was killed, were you?”
“Actually, I was, kind of. Remember, I’m half Russian, and Dad always said we have Romanov blood.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s rather late.”
“Not even nine. Come on. We’ve gone halfway around the world and we haven’t even had any time for touristy things. Let’s stretch our legs and look at the site.”
“I hate to take the Flyer out in case the Essex team are around and see it—”
“We’ll take a taxi. Come on!” I danced out of the room, dragging a somewhat reluctant Dixon with me. I would let him rest, but he’d had a nap in the car while I drove, so I took no pity on his plaintive remarks about being no good to anyone in his current state.
“According to the notes I took before we left,” I said, consulting my phone once we were in the taxi and on our way, “we are on the route that the original race took in 1908. Just think of it—more than a hundred years ago, another Thomas Flyer drove down these streets. Kind of gives you shivers, huh?”
“I’d be able to enjoy those shivers if I knew exactly where the Essex car was.” Dixon brooded. “Perhaps we should have a quick nap and then drive through the rest of the night. We lost so much time at the border . . .”
“We promised Roger we wouldn’t drive stupid like that. And besides, what would Tabby and Sam say? Tabby’s text said they are down for the night because both of them are exhausted and they just want to sleep.”
Dixon frowned. “Don’t you care that the Essex team is ahead of us by hours?”
“Not really, no. You know why? Because we still have several days left in this race, and I know for a fact that shit happens. They’ll blow a tire or crack another radiator hose, and we’ll catch up, and then we’ll be ahead for a while. That’s the way it’s been the whole race.”
“Yes, but that was before they so obviously cheated by having us detained.”
“What did Roger say when you told him about that?” I asked, not having been privy to that conversation.
Dixon looked disgusted. “He told me it must have been a mistake or a joke or something. The man is delusional if he thinks that team isn’t behind all of the problems of the show.”
“You’ve done a one-eighty about that,” I commented.
“Being detained and searched will do that to you,” he said grimly, and I let the subject drop, feeling it was better to keep Dixon in a happy mood.
A half hour later, we arrived at the site where the Russian Orthodox Church ran a memorial to Czar Nicholas and his family. There were rows of tour buses, and although it was late in the day, streams of tourists poured through the wooden gates that were bordered on either side by kiosks loaded with souvenirs.
“OK, this is kind of . . .”
“Tacky?” Dixon suggested.
“I was going to say materialistic, considering the church treats the Romanovs as saints, but decided I wouldn’t dis a religion as a whole. Although I have to say, I wouldn’t mind a couple of postcards. Oooh. Is that a Czar Nicholas book bag?”
Dixon took my arm and steered me away from the kiosk. “We only have half an hour before they close, so if you want to see the sight, we’d better get moving.”
“All right, but if you don’t get an authentic Czar Nicholas icon for your birthday, don’t blame me.” We passed a large bust of the czar and headed out into the birch and pine forest on a dirt path, swatting away moths and mosquitoes and stumbling over bits of roots. Once we’d seen the mine where the Bolsheviks had dumped the bodies, we had time to move on to view a simple cross embedded into the ground.
“Well?” Dixon asked a short while later, when we were headed back to our B&B. “Was that worth the time we could have been having a bath together?”
“I think so,” I said, my mood somber after the experience. “For one, the tub isn’t big enough for both of us. I know, because I checked. And for another, these were my people, or at least my father’s people. My mom is Irish. And the whole revolution thing had an impact on my dad’s family. One side left Russia right after the uprising and came to America. The other side—the one my dad belongs to—stayed put, until there was no one but my dad left alive. He emigrated as soon as he could leave the country and came to America so he could stay with his cousins. Wow, I really got into a lot more family history than you wanted to know, huh?”
“On the contrary,” he said with a smile. “I like to know things about you.”
I looked at him, aware of an emotion that seemed to run high between us, but just then I caught a flash of white in the darkness. Along the side of the road, a man in a Stormtrooper costume pushed a big baby carriage, from which a dog’s head poked out.
“You don’t see that every day,” I commented.
“See what?”
“A Stormtrooper pushing a dog in a stroller.”
He blinked. “Where was that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I trailed my fingers across his thigh. “So, about this bath that we won’t both fit into. Perhaps there’s a way it can work. Say, if I sit on you . . .”
August 2
From: Julia
You haven’t texted me in forever. How’s lover boy? How’s the race? Where are you? What time is it? I hope I’m not waking you.
August 2
To: Julia
He’s in the bathtub with the B&B owner. Race is hairy. Yekaterinburg, Russia. It’s almost midnight, but am awake.
August 2
From: Julia
He’s what? Oh no, did he turn out to be a rat bastard? Don’t worry. I’ll find you another man, and we can leave nasty online comments for this guy. What’s it called? Trolling? Yeah, we’ll troll him. Will find out how to troll in the morning.
August 2
From: Julia
Also . . . with the B&B owner? Really? Dude!
August 2
To: Julia
Owner is man. They aren’t bathing together. Tub isn’t big enough. Dixon has toe caught in faucet and can’t get it out. Owner is trying to pull it out. I was banished from room for laughing so hard I had an asthma attack.
August 2
From: Julia
You’re kidding.
August 2
From: Julia
Isn’t that an I Love Lucy episode?
August 2
To: Julia
Don’t know. Laughing so hard I’m crying and can’t see straight to Google it.
August 2
From: Julia
Do I want to know how he got his toe in there?
August 2
To: Julia
We were having bath together and I was on Dixon and he was adding water with his toes. Got cold water instead of hot. Made me shriek. Dix tried to stuff toe up faucet to stop cold water. I tried to turn it off. Foot twisted. Toe got stuck. All sorts of swearing.
August 2
From: Julia
Man. That sounds funny and horrible at the same time. Is toe OK or broken or something?
August 2
To: Julia
Not hurt. Just bruised. Oh, there is owner with faucet in hand, minus toe. Must go see how Dixon is. Smoochies.
August 2
From: Julia
And to you. Best regards to toe-boy.
August 2
To: Julia
Stop it! Trying to not laugh anymore! The look of outrage on his face . . .
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
3 August
2:14 p.m.
Outside of Perm, en route to Izhevsk, Russia
Writing this in the car. Not the best of writing situations, not just because the Thomas Flyer’s shocks are almost nonexistent, but because the blasted pram keeps hitting me on the back of my head.
What pram? The pram that accompanied our passenger, one Monsieur Vitale Barionette, Frenchman, Stormtrooper, and world wanderer. We saw him on the side of the road early this morning as soon as we left Yekaterinburg.
“Look,” Paulie said, pointing at the figure ahead of us. She was driving, since I was recovering from the trauma of the night before concerning my toe and an extremely poorly made faucet. I will say no more about the subject other than the fact that Russian faucet manufacturers have a good way to go before they reach the standard of faucets in other countries.
“It’s the Stormtrooper guy we saw last night. I wonder if he needs a ride?”
I looked up from the guidebook I was perusing. “Why do you wonder that?”
“Well, if you were pushing a dog in a baby carriage, wouldn’t you appreciate a lift?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s his method of getting exercise.”
She shot me a chastising look. “I’m going to ask.”
“Paulie,” I said in a warning tone of voice when she pulled to a stop on the shoulder in front of the man. “You don’t speak the language, and besides, you know the rules as well as I do—we’re not supposed to have unauthorized individuals in the cars unless it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“This could be life or death. He’s got a dog with him, Dixon,” she said, getting out of the car. “The dog may be sick or something.”
“In which case, he would have seen a vet back in Yekaterinburg,” I pointed out.
“Meh. I’m going to find out who he is and if he needs help. Or if his dog is OK. It’s hot out today, and he may not have any water.”
She gathered up her long skirts and marched back toward the man. I sighed and made a gesture, then said, “I have no idea why we are stopped other than Paulie is off on one of her Nellie Bly things,” when Sam and Tabby’s car pulled alongside and Tabby stuck an inquiring face out the window at me.
“Something wrong?” Tabby asked.
I stood up in the car and looked back. Paulie was talking to the man in the Stormtrooper outfit, absently petting the dog in the pram with one hand while gesturing with the other. “I don’t know. I had better go see.”
Sam said something, and they pulled ahead off the road. By the time I got back to Paulie, they were loading their equipment up and coming after us to film.
“—you can put the baby machine in the seat with you and Chou-Chou. It’s very big,” Paulie said in French. “The seat, not Chou-Chou.”
“What’s going on?” I asked in English.
Paulie turned to me with eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Dixon, it’s just like I thought! Vitale here is desperate to get home to Paris.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
She blinked at me in surprise. “No what?”
“No, we are not giving him a ride to Paris.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that, silly.” She smiled at Vitale reassuringly and said in French, “Dixon is English.”
“Yes, so I see,” Vitale said, giving me the eye. The dog, a mix of something very hairy and something piebald, gave me a similar once-over before emitting an obnoxious odor. “The English, they are very proper.”
“Very, but in this case Dixon will totally agree with me that you should let us drive you to Izhevsk, since we’re headed that way anyway.” She switched back to English and appealed to me. “Dixon, Vitale is a world traveler. He’s walking around the globe, kind of how we’re driving part of the way. Isn’t that cool? The things he must have seen! I can’t wait to interview him. But in the meantime, Chou-Chou, his dog, isn’t doing too hot, and Vitale has a contact in Moscow who said he’d help him. I thought if we drove him to Izhevsk, he could rest up and his friend could take the train out to see him.”
“That would defeat the goal of walking around the world, wouldn’t it?” I asked.
The tears dried in Paulie’s eyes and the look she gave me was anything but affectionate. “That is beside the point. His dog is sick, and Vitale is having an attack of the sciatica, and we’re going to drive him to Izhevsk. You can help him get the baby carriage into the backseat.” She switched to French. “Here, let me take Chou-Chou while you and Dixon get the baby machine into the car.”
“Erm . . .” Tabby cleared her throat and lowered the microphone boom. “I should mention that taking on passengers is against the rules.”
“Unless it’s an emergency, and this is one,” Paulie said, lifting the dog out of the pram and marching to the car with it.
I looked directly at the camera, sighed, and proceeded to help stuff the blasted pram into the backseat of the Thomas Flyer.
“Why are you in Stormtrooper clothes?” Paulie asked in French.
“It is because I stand out this way, yes?” Vitale answered. His dog was snuggled up against him on the red leather seat, the incongruity of the pair doing much to make my mind boggle. “People give me money for my journey and give Chou food. It works well, except in Russia people do not much like the Stormtrooper.”
“Well, we’ll get you to town and then you can get Chou to the vet.” She said in a lower tone than the yell she’d used to converse with Vitale, “He’s out of money. That’s why he didn’t get to a vet in Yekaterinburg. I’ve got some dollars I’m going to give him.”
“You are aware that this could be a scam of some sort?” I asked, casting a look at the backseat. Vitale was leaning back, eyes closed, a blissful look on his face that was exactly matched by the dog. “He may prey on people’s sense of guilt over the dog.”
“Bah. Even if he is lying about Chou-Chou, it’ll be worth a few bucks to get the story of his life for my journal. It’s exciting, don’t you think?”
“It’s something,” I muttered, and pulled out my journal to make some notes. “I just hope you won’t be sorry you gave in to your generous impulse.”
“You’re cynical because your toe is purple,” she said, and blew me a kiss. “Just you wait and see—we’ll help Vitale, get a good story for our journals, and rack up some good karma all in one fell swoop. It’s a win-win situation all around.”
I had a feeling she was being naive, but forwent saying anything more.