Vassili
Christmas Atlanta, Georgia
“If you step past this imaginary line, I will take you out,” Zariah emphasizes each word, while pointing to the floor where the tile meets plush carpet in her brother’s home. There's mistletoe hanging before us, but her gorgeous eyes rival mine when I'm in the cage.
“Why, I can’t cook?” I raise my hands, my eyes all smiles, though staying just where she’d like. “Martin is making his famous peach cobbler. Everyone in your family is cooking. We’re supposed to be a team, Zariah.”
“Unh-uhn, you and I are a team when it involves this,” she points to her still flat abdomen. “The kitchen is your haven for juicing. Not cooking.”
“Okay, okay,” I turn away. Martin is seated on his couch watching the basketball game. He chuckles. “I heard you yesterday morning working out at the crack of dawn, you should’ve cooked with me. My dish is already complete. It’s safe to steer clear from these Washington-Haskins women. They’re known to throw down in the kitchen and throw out anybody they don’t deem worthy.”
“She likes my breakfast, not the smoothies, but my syrniki’s she can’t get enough of them.” I shrug.
“That pancake thing? I think she mentioned it. She actually bragged about your uncle’s cooking. I’d take one of your pancakes, but…” He gestures toward the women, “Every Christmas morning, I go hungry waiting for the kids to wake up or because of them hogging the kitchen.”
I shake my head.
He nods. “The baby and my nephews will be up soon. The women won’t bully us while opening gifts.”
I rub my hands together in anticipation of watching Zariah’s face as she opens the gift I bought her for Christmas.
A while later, a stampede comes down the stairs. Martin’s wife’s family bull-rush into their lavish living room, down the hall.
“Damn, if they break something, you have my permission to break a few necks,” Martin tells me, while getting up from his La-Z-Boy.
We all head into the room. As an Orthodox Christian, I normally celebrate Christmas on January 7th, so today is all for my woman. We stand toward the edge of the all-white living room watching children snatch from each other. Zariah subtly presses her ass against my groin, I plant my chin to the top of her head, wrapping my arms around her.
“Vassili, don’t get too comfortable, I’m almost as spoiled as these children,” she murmurs.
“Aw, but I didn’t have time between Vadim’s and packing to purchase you any cute matryoshka dolls.”
“Humph, dolls are for babies, I prefer gifts that sparkle in the sunlight. Besides you opened your gift, and the better I’m treated now, the more you’ll love Mrs. Claus again later.” She winks.
I slap her ass, “Okay. Let me see if there’s anything left under the tree.”
“Girl,” I gesture to one of the kids, seated on the floor closes to the tree, “Hand me the silver box.”
“The tiny one?” the little girl sneers.
“Yeah, sweetheart, the tiny one with the bow on it.” When she hands it over, I glower at her enough to send her shoulders jerking.
“Vassili,” Zariah reprimands.
“Don’t hate, sis. That's what she gets for having that mouth,” Martin and the girl’s parents laugh as she settles down with another big box.
I step back over to Zariah.
“You aren't a nice person,” she murmurs, lips spread in a smile.
“I am to you.”
“Vassili will be broken soon,” Martin pats his own daughter’s shoulder, “Lord knows, my daughter tied me around her tiny finger, when she came out crying at the top of her lungs. Boy you're in for some real trouble. Sons remind you to live. Daughters humble you.”
“Yup,” Zariah pats her slightly curved belly. “This is my gift to Vassili this year. A sweet slice of humble pie.”
As they laugh at her joke, she settles down with the box. Her mom bragging about it being the best size for jewelry, while winking at me.
“Solitaire diamond earrings would be nice,” Zariah pulls off the bow.
It's been years since I gave a fuck what someone else got for a holiday, let alone offer a gift. I can recall Sasha and how coy she was opening a present I bought her one New Year’s. Her big, gray eyes kept glancing at me.
“Bol'shoy Brat, chto ty sdelal, chto sdelal--Big Brother, what did you do, what did you do?” Rings in my ears. She was too afraid to open the gift for fear that I’d joined the family business. Adamant that she’d rather have nothing at all, than a gift bought in blood.
“Keys!” Zariah murmurs in curiosity. Shit, I missed her initial reaction when she opened the lid.
“Yeah, we bought a house.”
“What? We have a new house! When? How? Where—”
“Child, your husband is a wise one,” her mother says.
“Remember a month back when Taryn and Yuri dragged you around to those new homes.”
Her hand airs at tears. “Oh my God, oh my God…”
By now, the entire living room is silenced. Even the children have stopped terrorizing wrapping paper to watch us. My thumb strokes along a tear, gliding down her soft mahogany skin to catch it from falling. “Don't hyperventilate, Zariah.”
“But Taryn … Taryn was bragging about her dad upgrading her! Taryn’s ass is always bragging. She kept asking me which room I would make a nursery. Damn it, that girl elbowed Yuri something fierce when he mentioned a man cave that you'd like. Vassili, all the houses we saw were huge. Did you pick the one with the man cave?” Her head tilts, with a sly smirk.
“Was that your favorite one?”
“Boy!” Her hands tug at my bicep. “Tell me, please!”
“All right, all right. Taryn had it down to two homes.”
“The one on Rivera Avenue and the one on Cherry Blossom Drive?” She crosses her fingers.
“Yes!” Her mom grins. “And I chose between the two.”
“Which,” Zariah clutches her chest. When I tell her, her hips sway, lips in a sexy pout while dancing.
“Stop with all that twerking,” Martin gags.
Zariah is in my arms in seconds. Planting kisses all over my face and declaring how much she loves me. In this instant, my world is consumed with her goodness, again, and Sasha can fade to the back of my mind…
###
We flew into Helsinki, Finland three days prior to the New Year. Since my father’s hand is in the government, I chose not to get Zariah a visa to Russia. Man, I love my country, but I also don't need to be on his radar when we visit.
After checking into a hotel for the night, we wake up the next morning and catch a taxi to the docks.
“Baby, you see that ferry,” I tell her as the taxi travels parallel to the port. Zariah nods, snuggled close to me. “We’ll catch that to St. Petersburg and arrive late tonight.” Though my wife is only aware that this was a last-minute trip, this is how we will get into Russia without her having a visa or my father becoming aware.
“Then it's the night train to Moscow?” She arches an eyebrow, recalling our previous conversation.
“Yup,” I hold her close, hoping this isn't too much on her at fourteen weeks pregnant. As strongly as Zariah lets on, she considers it an insult when I ask.
###
Snow is falling outside of the train window at the station in Moscow. Zariah is transfixed by the view, while holding a mug of coffee to her lips. Before taking a sip, she mumbles, “Vassili, I’m freezing and the heater is on 100. How many degrees is it out there?”
It’s negative Celsius, and I’m not dumb enough to admit that. I rub my hands along her arms, which are covered in a thick thermal. “You don’t want to see where your husband grew up?”
Her head falls back. “But I’m from LA, I was born wearing Uggs while it was a cold 75 degrees.”
I pick up the new goose puffer coat with fur-trim I bought her for this trip. “So you won’t be wearing this…”
“Yes, yes, I haven’t had anything from Saks Fifth since I left for college.” She takes it and strokes at the fur, which matches the mahogany of her eyes.
I place on my navy pea coat. Then tug at the strings of Zariah’s ear flapped beanie. My forehead kisses along hers. “Beautiful, tell me if you get too cold, we’ll race back to the train. My baby is always first.” I reach between us and caress her flat abdomen, before zipping up her coat.
###
With Zariah’s head cuddled against my shoulder, we walk along the Luzhkov Bridge, which spans the canal of the Moscow River.
“Babe, are those padlocks?” Zariah’s breath puffs out in front of her. My girl was looking miserable and cold, a minute ago. Every time I offered for us to return to the train, she’d just shake her head. I was on the verge of forcing her back. Now, her eyes brighten as we near a special section of the bridge, colorful padlocks are linked along the railing.
“Newlyweds do it.” I try to sound interested in the act while explaining, “They put their names on padlocks, secure them, and throw the keys into the water—”
“Let’s do it! We’ve only been married a little over six months, Vassili, we’re still new.”
“As I was saying, they throw the key into the water, that’s the only memory left after the city comes and cuts the padlocks off the next morning. Babe, not necessary.”
“Pah-lezzzz, Vassili!” She tugs my arm.
“Okay, okay,” I huff. At the Luzhkov Bridge, there are stalls and along the streets the city has designated steel trees for padlocking. I point to one vendor cart, and tell her, “Choose a lock, sweetheart, while I see what good vodka the man has.”
We stop at a stall filled with locks for sale, so many line the display for her to choose from. I turn to speak with the seller. He compliments my coat in Russian and won’t shut the fuck up. For a few minutes, the old man chats me up.
“Zariah, choose one already.” I turn around. My eyes search around. I rise to my toes, scanning the hordes of travelers and tourists.
“Vassili? Vassili!” My name is called by a vaguely familiar tone. I ignore it, searching toward the metal shrubbery of lock trees. Did she already scope out where she’d like to place the lock?
A hand comes down onto my arm. I grab the man's wrist, turn around, twisting his arm backward.
“Bol'shoy Brat—Big Brother?” He questions me, offering a confused smile as I frown. He’s much younger, and a lot lighter. Pale like his cunt of a mother. Probably barely twenty, fresh faced, and hardly filling out the tailored suit he’s wearing. Yeah, I recall my father training his feminine sons for higher education, to work their way into ‘good’ Russian government jobs. This is one of Anatoly’s weasels.
Where the fuck is she? Is this a setup? Did our dad send my half-brother? My heart rate slams through the roof; as a professional sportsman, that shit never rises much. And the little bitch won’t stop following me. My brother asks how I am.
Does that mudak have my wife?!
No, Anatoly is aware that I don’t value most of my younger siblings’ lives because of how he treated my mom. He wouldn’t put his son’s life in jeopardy. Yet, with each passing second, I'm paranoid that he's stalling. While moving down the next line of trees, with this motherfucker at my heels, I recall his name. “Grigor, brat, how are you?”
He grins. “Good—”
“Good? Okay, okay.” Hardly addressing him face on, then shrug him. “We get together soon, eh?”
The smile on his face fades, and he realizes I’m seconds from back handing him into the river. There’s shock and sadness in his eyes. I’m not sure why. As a child, Sasha and I were tossed around like a sack of potatoes. We lived with his bitch of a mother a few times. She could hardly wait for us to trudge along.
He’s mistaking Sasha’s good heart with my cold one. I was never nice to him. Though I wasn’t a bully, he should learn to read people.
“Vassili, Dad would like to see you,” Grigor stresses.
“The fuck should I care?”
“He’s sick.”
I shrug. Anatoly mustn’t have been bluffing when harping about his illness the morning after my wedding. He’d asked to meet my wife. I threatened to crush his throat. Come to think of it, when I choked him last year, Anatoly didn’t fight back. We always go blow for blow.
“Ukhodi—go away—Grigor.” I shout as worry consumes me about Zariah. “I don’t give a fuck about Anatoly, so what does that tell you how I feel about you?”
His pace falters. “Brother, why you acting so…”
I stop searching, giving this mudak my attention. “You stalling, Grigor? You fucking with me? Is Anatoly fucking with me?” I grip his freshly ironed collar and yank him so hard that my fists at his throat constrict his breathing. “Where is my wife—”
There's a shrill of screaming behind us.