Michal

 

I'm sitting in my corner office; I'm already bored. I cast an eye at the gold hands of the analog clock that hangs on the cream-colored walls of my office and see that it's only ten. My feet are propped up the top of my glossy, mahogany desk, my black double-monk dress shoes clean and polished. A Debussy piano piece is wafting through my office from the stereo, and turning in my seat, I look out over the downtown Philadelphia skyline from my position dozens of stories up. The sky is clear, a single wisp of a cloud floating among the chill blue.

 

A buzz sounds from my desk.

 

"Mr. Nowak, the girls are here for your father."

 

"Thank you, Annie," I say to my secretary. "I'll be out to speak with them in a moment.

 

Speak with them, I think to myself. More like look them over.

 

My father's in the office down the hallway—the biggest office on the floor, of course. It's time for this week's group of girls to speak with him, for him to select the ones he likes, and for him to bring them on board to our little operation to do some good for us during the few short years, if not months, that now lay ahead of them.

 

Standing up from my chair, I stretch my limbs and head for the door to my office. I take one last look in the gold-bordered mirror on the wall, making sure my hair is in the usual tight part that I keep it in, that my collar is straight, and that I look otherwise sharp and professional. I can't look into a mirror in this way without thinking of my father's inspections when I was in my teens and of how he refused to let me leave our home until he had looked me over to ensure that my outfit was the precise reflection he wanted of our family.

 

"Your clothes are who you are," I remember him saying, intoning in his basso voice.

 

And here I am, at the age of twenty-nine, the habits instilled to the point where I don't even think about them.

 

Content with my appearance, I open the office door and step into the hallway, the scent of lilacs reaching my nose from Annie's desk. I soon reach the reception area, and spot today's interviews. There're seven girls, all slim, all blonde, and all busying themselves with the fashion magazines placed in the lobby. The girls look up at me when I arrive, a few of their faces snapping immediately into the narrow-eyed, sensual-smirk expressions of women who've spotted a man with wealth and power. It doesn’t faze me; when girls look like these ones do, they tend to learn at a fairly young age that their beauty is their best asset.

 

"Morning, Annie," I say to our receptionist, a young redhead with a face and body that were made to be put front and center at a company like ours.

 

"Good morning, Mr. Nowak," says Annie, flashing me that seductive smile that's gotten me to "stay late" at the office more than once.

 

I scan the group, looking for who'd be the best candidate to start off the round of interviews. A smile crosses my lips as I look over the seven girls. All are petite, blonde, and waifish, with blue-gray eyes and killer bodies.

 

Dad's got his specific tastes, I'll give him that.

 

I approach the girl closest to me, a young woman who I think might not even be out of her teens. Her eyes narrow even further as I loom over her; she seems ready right then and there to do whatever it might take to ensure her position in the program.

 

"Hello," I say, my voice flat.

 

"Hello," she says back in a thick, Ukrainian accent, that sly smile still on her face. "I am Nalia; I am from Ukraine."

 

Broken English, I think to myself. Always annoying.

 

"Are you ready for the interview?" I asked, my right hand slipping into the pocket of my gray slacks.

 

"I …am Nalia," she says, a brief look of confusion flashing across her stunning features. "It nice to meet you."

 

I scoff a bit and continue on, figuring that I won't start my father’s day with a girl who probably knows no more than fifty words in English in total. I take my chances with the girl to her left, a bottle-blonde with breasts hanging out of her dark blue top that are so big and fake that I wonder if there's a barcode on them somewhere.

 

"Good morning," I say. "Have you gotten a chance to look over this morning's paper? There was an article on the diplomatic tension between Turkey and Hungary that I've been looking forward to reading."

 

The bottle-blonde looks at me with a blank expression that answers the question I was really asking. Now I'm wondering if the blue eyes aren't contacts.

 

I saunter past the girls and my eyes latch onto a petite girl with actual blonde hair. She's still looking over her fashion magazine, paying special attention to a picture of Michelle Williams in a sparkling, blue evening gown.

 

"Good morning," I say to her.

 

She folds the magazine closed on her lap and looks up at me.

 

I almost gasp looking at this girl. She's stunning. Her blue-gray eyes are large and almond-shaped, her nose is small and pert, and her lips are a perfect Cupid's bow. Tresses of golden-blonde hair rest on her slim shoulders, and though her body is petite, she's still got curves in all the right places that I can make out even through her modest outfit of a white blouse and black dress pants. I look at gorgeous girls for a living, and this girl's still enough to make my stomach do a little flip.

 

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp, professional, and with only a trace of a Polish accent.

 

"You're here for the interview?" I ask.

 

"Yes," she continues. "I'm here to meet with Mr. Nowak."

 

"Well," I say. "I'm Mr. Nowak, but not the one you're meeting with."

 

"Oh?" she asks. "I'm a little confused."

 

"We're a family-run business. You'll be speaking with my father."

 

"Oh, I see," she says.

 

I'm watching the way her lips form her words and I can't take my eyes off of her. She's a knockout.

 

"I believe you'll be our first interview for the day. Come with me, please."

 

She smiles politely and rises, the rest of the girls looking disappointed when they see they'll have to wait.

 

"Just down the hallway," I say, taking the lead.

 

She follows close behind, and I have to put no small effort into keeping my eyes forward on the pair of ornate, dark-brown, double doors of my father's office. Casting a quick glance back at the girl, I’m halfway tempted to keep this one for myself.

 

"Your name?" I ask as we walk.

 

"Alina Jurek," she responds.

 

"Michal Nowak."

 

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she says in that same crisp, professional voice.

 

"From Krakow, I take it?"

 

"Yes," she says. "Warsaw?"

 

"That's right," I say, noticing that she's placed my accent as well. "How're you enjoying your time in the states?"

 

"A little overwhelming."

 

"You'll get used to it. Things just move a little faster here."

 

"So I hear."

 

We reach my father's office, and I give the doors a quick rap, the sound resonating through the thick wood.

 

"Yes?" calls my father, his basso voice taking its default tone of annoyed impatience.

 

"I have your first interview for today."

 

A moment passes.

 

"Come in."

 

I place my hand on the ornate, gold handle of the door and push it open.

 

A small gasp slips into Alina's mouth as she lays eyes on my father's office. I don't blame her; it's a space meant to impress, not to mention intimidate. It's a tall-ceilinged room, vaulted at the top, with ornate molding on the dark brown walls. Dark, rich wood dominates the space, in fact. The leather chairs are dark brown, the tall bookshelves lined with colorful hardbacks are dark brown, and the massive desk where my father sits is dark brown. Only the occasional gold accents offset the color. It's old-fashioned, imposing, and stern, just like the man who works in it.

 

And there he is, standing at his desk, his back towards us.

 

"Welcome," he says in his deep, low voice. "Have a seat."

 

I lead Alina to my father's desk, where a pair of dark brown leather chairs is arranged. From the way her calm, professional expression has given way to quick scans of the room, as if in an effort to determine the exact dollar amount of the place, I can tell the space is having the desired effect. Alina sits down, and I lean against the wall to her right. My eyes drift over to the globe bar and I consider a drink, but decide against it.

 

"My first interview of the day," my father says, turning to look at us. "I hope you're worth my time."

 

My father is a stern man, to put it lightly. He's tall, with a stocky frame under a pinstripe suit with wide lapels and a waist coat; the gold chain of a pocket watch droops along the fabric. His face is like mine: green eyes, full lips, slim cheeks, and a strong jaw, though his has about three-and-a-half decade’s more worth of wrinkles on it. His hair is pure silver, slicked back, with not a strand out of place. His eyes have a way of looking at you like he knows your darkest secrets. And something about the way he stares at you, his eyes like searchlights, makes you want to confess them just to stay on his good side.

 

"I believe I am," says Alina.

 

"Confident," says my father, his voice its usual low rumble laced with the same Polish accent as mine, though slightly thicker. "I like that."

 

His eyes shoot to me, and I know this is my cue to fill him in. I tell my father what was in the report that Ray gave me regarding her family situation, her previous work experience, and her lack of connections in the States.

 

"Her English is also quite good," I say.

 

"If her English is good, I'll find that out by talking to her," says my father, impatience rising in his voice.

 

I form my lips into a tight line, knowing that this meant he didn't want another word out of me. Looking over at Alina, I see that she's sitting with professional poise; my father will like that.

 

"First of all," says my father, taking on the more melodic, gentle tone that he reserves for women. "Welcome to America. I hope your journey here was pleasant and uneventful."

 

"It was, thank you," replies Alina.

 

He places his large hand on his chest, touching himself lightly with his fingertips.

 

"My name is Iwan Nowak. A pleasure to meet you."

 

He walks with slow steps over to Alina and takes her hand, placing a small kiss on the top of it.

 

"I'm Alina Jurek; I am happy to meet you."

 

The side of his mouth curls up into a wry gri, and he takes a seat on the edge of his desk near Alina. I've watched this process enough times to know exactly what's going through his head.

 

"I trust that my little whelp of a son extended you the courteousness that a stunning young woman like you deserves?"

 

"Yes," said Alina. "He has."

 

I see her cast a glance at me over her shoulder.

 

"Wonderful," says my father. "I see that your English is strong. Would you consider yourself fluent?"

 

"Yes," says Alina. "My father was an English literature professor. He taught me at a young age and made sure that I was fluent by the time I was an adult."

 

"Very smart man," says my father. "You'll find that being fluent in the global lingua franca will pay off dividends now that you're in the States."

 

My father unbuttons his suit jacket and slides into his office chair with smooth grace.

 

"And your parents are no longer with us, I see," he says.

 

"Correct," says Alina. "They …passed fairly recently."

 

"I'm sorry to hear that, my child," says my father, turning on the sympathy. "And they left you with nothing?"

 

"My father was a smart man, but not smart in the …practical sense. He left me with nothing more than a few belongings and what little savings he had."

 

"Too bad," says my father.

 

A warm smile crosses his lips.

 

"But, fortunately for you, that is why we're here—to help young ones like yourself find your way in this strange, new country."

 

"I take it that you're not with the government?" says Alina, looking around at the expensive appointments of my father's office.

 

Smart, I think. Most of these girls are so impressed and intimidated by the money on display that they don't even think to wonder why it looks so different from the immigration office.

 

I can tell by the look on my father's face that he's noticed this too.

 

"You're right, you're right," says my father. "Think of us as a …government contractor. Working through official government departments involves far too much red tape; wait for immigration to help get you settled and maybe they'll get to you by the time you turn thirty. We, on the other hand, can work faster. Much faster."

 

"Oh?" asks Alina, clearly interested. "How much faster?"

 

"An apartment tonight, for example. And with English skills like yours, a good job. How does that sound?"

 

"Wonderful," says Alina, her tone sounding as though she isn’t sure if she's dreaming or not.

 

"Excellent," says my father, sitting back in his chair. "I think I've learned all I need for now."

 

His gaze snaps to me and his expression hardens in a split second.

 

"Michal," he says. "Get this young woman one of our spare apartments. I want her sleeping in her own bed tonight."

 

"Of course, Father," I say.

 

"It was a pleasure meeting you," my father tells Alina. "I'm sure we'll be seeing much more of one another in the future."

 

I stay composed, knowing precisely what my father means by this. Gesturing to Alina, I lead her from the room. Her eyes are wide and I can tell her smile would be beaming if she wasn't keeping it in check. As we walk down the hallway, she has the same face that all of these girls have after meeting with my father—like they've won the lottery and are having a hard time accepting their good fortune.

 

If only she knew, I think. But she'll learn. They all do.