22.

“GODDAM, I WISH I had a cigarette.”

They stood panting on the sidewalk outside of Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe. Teddy’s dark skin had a grayish hue in the pale light. Beads of sweat covered his upper lip and forehead in spite of the extreme cold.

“Please, Teddy—” He was taking great strides and dragging her along with him. It had all happened so fast Wetzon had not had time to be afraid. And she wasn’t now. She was curious. Why such a violent reaction? Tsminsky could just have said, no, go away, and left it at that. She remembered what Eddie O’Melvany had said about built-in paranoia.

The Atlantic wind blew needle breaths on her cheeks, numbing them. The drops of sweat on Teddy’s face turned to ice. Teddy came to a stop in front of the Cafe Baltic. Almost reluctantly, he released her, first reassuring himself by looking up and down the street that they were safe from attack, that the madman Tsminsky had not followed them out into the street with his knife.

“What did we say that upset him so?” Wetzon was dancing from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.

“Upset! That’s some understatement, Wetzi. He might have killed us.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He turned suddenly belligerent. “You yuppies are so into yourselves, you have no sense of danger. You don’t know these people. It’s a good thing I’m here with you.”

Wetzon gave him a cold hard look. “I do not consider myself a yuppie, you shithead. Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.”

She walked away from him, down the street. Winter twilight was rapidly turning to evening. People were not hanging out on the street tonight. And of the few that passed them, undoubtedly heading home, no one seemed to have noticed the incident at Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe.

“Hey, wait a minute, Wetzi.” Teddy came after her and took her arm. “Come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I know you’re not a yuppie.” He gave her his big, charming grin and hugged her, but Wetzon was stiff in his embrace, still angry. “Come on, say you forgive me.”

“Okay,” she said with great misgiving. Funny how you think you know someone well and then you see maybe you don’t know him at all. She didn’t remember Teddy being so abrasive, but they had been friends a long time ago, and people change. She was certainly not the same person she had been then. “Don’t you think it’s strange that no one even noticed when we rushed out of the store?”

“Around here,” Teddy said, “people make a point of not noticing.”

One entered the Cafe Baltic through a revolving door, like a department store. They came into a cold, dimly lit lobby, with a coat check on the right and a lectern decorated in varied-colored strips of Christmas lights on the left. Neither spot was occupied.

The tiny slivers of ice on Teddy’s hairline and upper lip melted. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face without unfolding it. “I don’t know, Wetzi,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve stepped into deep shit here.”

“I’m still trying to figure out what happened. One minute we were asking nicely and the next minute he went at us with a knife. You really moved, Teddy. You don’t really think he would have hurt us?”

“Would you have wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt?” He unzipped his coat. “Did you get a look at that guy in the window? Do you think that’s what upset him?”

“Don’t know. Could have been just some passerby.” She stuffed her gloves, beret, and scarf into the backpack. “But it was just before he went crazy on us—”

“Tuvya!” A tiny man, his gaunt face full of seams and gnarls, came out of a dark passageway beyond the gaudy lectern. He was dark-skinned, like a gypsy, with large moist black eyes, and was wearing a black velvet jacket, black tuxedo pants, a frilly white shirt, and a red silk ascot fastened in place by a large glittery tiepin that looked suspiciously like a real diamond. “Long time no see,” the little man said in a thick Russian accent, and his laugh thundered. “And who, I may ask, is pretty lady?”

“This is Wetzi. Wetzi, say hello to my friend, Misha Rosenglub.”

Wetzon held out her hand and Misha Rosenglub bowed deeply and kissed her hand, barely brushing it with his breath. It was an incredibly delicate movement. Wetzon was charmed.

“Vetski? You are Russian?” Delight spread over Misha’s face. A gold tooth glinted in his red mouth. Was he wearing lipstick? He was still holding her hand.

“No.” Wetzon smiled at him.

“No, she’s not Russian, Misha, and that’s quite enough of your Continental charm. She’s my girl and we’re hungry.”

Damn, Teddy was getting on her nerves. First she was a yuppie, now my girl.

“Oh, of course, of course, forgive foolishness. Come in, come in. I take coats.”

The revolving door deposited three ladies in moth-eaten fur coats and sequinned and tulle evening gowns and a bearded man in a fur hat and a bulky raincoat, who carried a folded newspaper under his arm. The little lobby had suddenly become crowded.

Misha was energized. “Follow, please, mesdames et messieurs.” He winked at Teddy and Wetzon and did a little bob and dance before moving forward. “Coat check, coat check!” he boomed. “Come, come, everyvon.”

The poignant strains of an accordion drifted out at them. Wetzon, looking down at her ski pants, bulky turtleneck sweater, and boots, felt conspicuously underdressed. They followed the new arrivals down the short passageway which opened into a large room jammed with white linen-covered tables, round and rectangular, of which a surprising number were occupied and glutted with food. There was a modest dance floor and a raised platform at the far end of the center of the room for a bandstand. A few empty metal music stands were scattered about and a huge silver grand piano took up half the platform. A lone accordionist in a shabby black tuxedo, a red silk scarf around his neck and over one shoulder, sat on a chair playing a mournful melody. Several women’s voices full of sorrow and somewhat off-key accompanied him from the tables out front.

Around the outer edge of the room were semiprivate banquettes covered with red velvet. Very few of these were occupied.

A tall, thin waiter in a black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie took charge of the man and the three women who had come in behind Teddy and Wetzon.

They were in a tacky 1940s-style nightclub. The ceiling held three concentric circles of theatrical lights which danced in opposing directions. A hallucinogenic haze hung like a smoky saucer over the room. Everyone seemed to be smoking except Wetzon and Teddy. Large brass coatracks loaded down with coats stood in various spots around the perimeter of the room, sharing space with a dozen palm trees, real or artificial.

The Baltic was a curious mixture of tacky and old-world Continental. Silverware clattered on heavy white commercial china, tables were candlelit. A grandly proportioned woman, wearing a long black skirt, a glittery sweater, and high-heeled silver sandals, was dancing stiffly to the accordion music with a small bald man, who bulged in a tight brown suit with wide lapels. Every once in a while he would spin his immense partner around into a graceful whirl.

Wetzon closed her eyes and smiled, picturing herself and Carlos when they had done the revival of She Loves Me!, dancing in just such a cafe set. She looked around to see what Teddy was thinking. He was gone. She was standing quite alone. Misha had also disappeared.

She felt invisible, discombobulated, as if she were in the midst of one of her dreams. The room was sweltering ... Where was Teddy? Tuxedoed waiters rushed by, precariously balancing huge platters of food for the horde of diners in gaudy finery who crowded the room.

“Come, Vetski,” Misha said, reappearing at her side. He touched her elbow lightly, trying to steer her to a banquette. She resisted politely but firmly. “Teddy is coming right back. I think I’ll wait for him.”

“I take coat, then. So varm, here, no?” His dark eyes watched her. She couldn’t read them.

“No, thank you.” She was sweltering, but what if they had to make a fast getaway? Where the hell was Teddy?

“You are okay, Vetski?” Misha brought his face close to hers. He smelled of cigarettes. Everyone did. “Ah, here is Tuvya now.”

About fucking time, Wetzon thought. Teddy, carrying his coat over one shoulder, came out of swinging doors to their left, followed by a tiny, plump woman, her hair in a heavy braid like a tiara on her head. She was swathed in burgundy satin, just short enough to show well-shaped calves and tiny feet in spiky high heels that matched her dress. Large diamonds glittered in her ears and on her surprisingly delicate wrists and fingers.

The woman’s high-cheekboned face was flushed crimson from the heat in the kitchen, and she was a little short of breath, but her dramatically black-rimmed eyes were bright and perceptive. Her hair was a dye job somewhere between brown and red, having settled at a pale rust. There was something about the way she held her head and neck that made Wetzon think she might have been a dancer a long time ago.

“Ilena, my dollink, this is Tuvya’s friend, Vetski—”

“You are Russian?”

“Give up your coat, my little Russian princess,” Teddy said, grinning at her. “Vetski.” He looked completely recovered from their flight. “Let’s sit down. I could eat a horse.” He took her coat and gave both to Misha. “Maybe you can help my friend Vetski here. She has a problem with one of your ... comrades ...” He laughed. Misha and Ilena joined in, but to Wetzon’s eyes it was wary laughter and their faces showed no emotion. Why was Teddy being such a klutz? She made a small pass with her boot at his foot, which he ignored.

“Come, vee sit down, vee eat, vee talk,” Ilena said. She raised her long hand with its narrow wristbone and long elegant fingers high in a sort of flourish, and two waiters shot into the kitchen and came back with trays of food, preceding them to one of the rectangular tables in front of the banquettes. The table was already set with china, silver, and glassware. When they finished laying out the spread of derma, stuffed cabbage, baked fish, caviar, and slabs of roasted meat from the giant trays, it was almost impossible to see the tablecloth. Two fifths of Absolut vodka and an enormous bottle of seltzer stood among the platters. As Wetzon watched, another waiter, dwarfed by an oversized tray laden with food, set a bottle of Hennessy cognac on the table.

“So vhat is problem then?” Ilena said as soon as they were seated, Ilena and Misha on the outside, Teddy and Wetzon on the banquette. “Wodka for everybody,” she shouted to the hovering waiter, who came over and filled the large shot glasses. “Come, vee drink, dollinks, and vee vish ourselfs good health, long life, and God bless America.”

Wetzon laughed. The vodka in her glass had tiny dark specks floating in it. She dipped the tip of her finger in and tasted it. Pepper.

“L’chaim.” Teddy tipped his head back and downed the entire shot glass.

“L’chaim.” Misha and Ilena did the same.

“Come on, Vetski,” Teddy said, teasing her, knowing she never drank anything but beer.

She made a face at him and took a cautious sip. A cold pool of heat warmed her mouth and burned her tongue. She held the cold-hot liquid, savoring the flavors, then let it run down her throat, where it exploded. “Help, fire,” she gasped, taking the glass of seltzer Teddy had ready for her.

“Eat, eat,” Ilena urged, pushing a plate of pelmeni at her and dousing them with vinegar and sour cream. “Must eat with wodka. Is essential.”

“So, Vetski, tell us—” Misha gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s a long story—” Wetzon skewered a pelmeni and placed it in her mouth. The taste was exotic, tart, oddly soothing.

“Ida Tormenkov.” Teddy interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand.

Misha’s face turned pale. “Ida—”

Ilena’s silent gesture with her head was so small anyone could miss it. Wetzon, however, did not. Darn. Why had Teddy done that? It was not her style to plunge right in and it was her story. She had caught that quick exchange between Misha and Ilena and nudged Teddy’s knee under the table with less force than she wanted to.

A violinist joined the accordionist and the two began to wander among the crowded tables, playing a spirited melody that everyone seemed to know. Patrons were clapping in time to the music.

“Misha, Ilena, you know everyone here.” Teddy just blasted forward like a bull in a china shop. There was a long pause. Wetzon’s fingers played with the fog that had formed on her cold glass.

“Is for us strange name,” Misha said finally, with a studied blankness.

Ilena rose, unfolding herself like a dancer, and shouted in Russian to a waiter, who came scurrying over with a platter of pumpernickel. When she tilted her head, Wetzon noticed Ilena had a large raised red mole near the corner of her mouth. There was something about her—”Wait, you are Ilena Milanova, aren’t you?” Wetzon remembered the dancer with the Kirov—she had actually seen her dance once when the Kirov had toured the United States years and years ago. That Ilena, a sylph of a creature, had been their star. When she had applied with her husband to emigrate because they were Jewish, her career had ended abruptly. It had taken them years to get out of Russia.

“Ah yes, my dollink,” Ilena said, beaming, her face softening. Her blue eyes filled with tears. “See vat happens ven vee stop dancing.” She patted her heavy bosom, then tapped Wetzon’s hand sharply with her index finger. “Must never stop dancing.”

“Me? How—”

“Can alvays tell. Hair, head. Is like clothing vee vear. Is in blood. In soul. Mine ... yours.” Her hand fluttered on her breast.

Wetzon was overwhelmed. “I was never like you, Ilena. I danced on Broadway—in the chorus. I was just a gypsy.” She buttered a slice of pumpernickel, which was slightly stale. She took another sip of vodka and ate a big bite of pumpernickel. The last thing she wanted to become was woozy.

“Is all family,” Ilena said.

“Vetski finds jobs for stockbrokers now.” Teddy tipped his head back and drank another full shot of vodka. Wetzon glared at him. It would be terrible if Teddy got drunk.

The waiter with the small, neat beard, who had brought the pumpernickel and was now refilling their glasses with vodka, stopped and stared intently at Wetzon. Wetzon stared back, then looked away. Nervous, she took a large swallow of vodka, choked, and broke out into a sweat. “Ladies’ room,” she gasped, staggering to her feet.

Ilena smiled and pointed across the dance floor. “Is healthy sveat. Wodka sveat.”

Teddy laughed too loudly. “Can’t take you anywhere, Vetski.”

Oh shut up, Teddy, she thought.

“Is nothing.” Ilena’s eyes darted around the room.

“Is piece of work,” Wetzon said, fixing Teddy with a tough look because he was howling with laughter. She headed for the ladies’ room.

“Vat is piece of work?” she heard Ilena ask. The music had picked up and diners were jumping to their feet and dancing in circles. The extravagantly dressed women far outnumbered the men. Wetzon wove her way through and around the dancers and into a small dark corridor which ended in two doors. Mesdames on one and Messieurs on the other.

She entered Mesdames. Red-flocked wallpaper, gold moldings. A Formica counter with flecks of gold. She pushed back her sleeves and wet her wrists with cold water. Sweat was coming from every pore. Jesus. Her lips tasted salty. She used the bathroom, came out, and splashed her cheeks with cold water, patting them dry with a paper towel. She rummaged in her backpack for the small tube of Nivea she always carried and rubbed some into her hands and face.

She was furious with Teddy. He was about as subtle as a ten-ton truck. Some reporter. They’d accomplished nothing. She hadn’t found Ida. She’d terrified a poor shopkeeper and his wife who probably thought she was KGB ... but imagine meeting Ilena Milanova in a place like this. She smiled coldly at herself in the mirror and touched up her lipstick.

A pudgy middle-aged woman in a short, pale blue taffeta dress which exposed a lot of fleshy thigh in sheer hose with black floral designs came into the small room. “Excuse, please,” she said. She was wearing a light blue picture hat and looked like a hooker playing a Southern belle. Her eyes were heavily outlined, the lids blue-shadowed, and she squeezed by Wetzon, checking out Wetzon’s costume with distaste. Wetzon looked at herself in the mirror. Ah yes, she was definitely the misfit in this group.

She smiled at the woman and went back out into the dark hall, slipping the backpack strap over her shoulder. Someone came out behind her, the woman. Wetzon did not look back.

Something—thick and woolen—came across her throat, choking her. Pulling, fighting the arm, she smelled a sharp cigarette odor. She couldn’t breathe ... her throat ... Her hands tore at a face, a beard. She tried to scream. The world swirled deep, deep blue. She was blacking out. They’re killing me, she thought. She began the slide on a long sliding pond.