The Red Daughter Read online

  Do you need money? he would demand when I saw him then, once or twice a year. How much? There was nothing tender in the way he asked the question, nor did he wait for an answer. He would press into my palm, in a gruff handshake, two or three thousand rubles that he’d tugged from his pockets and send me on my way, somehow convincing himself that he’d just made me a millionaire.

  * * *

  —

  Sid takes me next to his favorite jewelry shop. I tell him I would like to buy a ring or bracelet as a token of my visit to Arizona, and he says he will pick out for me something made by the local Indians filled with the spirit and beauty of this place.

  The shop is small and narrow, owned by a husband and wife in early later age, quite a sweet pair, who after just a minute or two of talk volunteer the biographical detail that they fled to Scottsdale a decade ago from Chicago and its traumatic winters. I point out that Moscow has known some traumatic winters of its own, to say nothing of the Gulag, a remark that is met with either excessive gravity or none at all, they are such placid, sunny creatures in their permanent southwestern retirement mood that I cannot be certain.

  Like Mr. Carter from the clothing store, the Kogans appear on warmly familiar terms with Sid and refer to him as their best customer. He has, I am to understand, a house account.

  MR. KOGAN: Sidney here has a magnificent eye for quality stones.

  MRS. KOGAN: He certainly gives an awful lot of gifts.

  Sid remains humble in the face of such gushing, eyes downcast and already beginning to peruse the trays of turquoise and coral rings under the glass countertop. What he does not see, or does not care to see, is the pointed sideways eye look that Mrs. Kogan gives to her husband following her remark, as if she feels it prudent to remind him to be a firm businessman and hold his ground.

  MR. KOGAN (CLEARING HIS SMOKER’S THROAT): Sure does. And he’s collected some nice pieces for himself too. Helluva shopper, actually.

  This is not going to be a gift, I tell them, just to be clear. This ring is something for myself. A memento.

  Ah…Mrs. Kogan says and beams. Well, then.

  How about this one? Sid lifts a ring from the felt-covered tray that Mrs. Kogan has placed on the counter before us. The stone is turquoise, small, ovoid, polished, the silver band less bulky than some of the others, with tiny, delicate indentations that catch the light.

  MR. KOGAN: Go ahead, dear. Try it on.

  MRS. KOGAN: That’s the only way you can really tell.

  I hold up my left hand. This is not something I plan on doing, it merely happens. I am wearing a Timex watch but no other jewelry and hovering there now the hand looks plain and barren, crudely fashioned, something you might consider using in the kitchen but never in the dining room with important company. It is the hand too, I recognize, of another climate and culture, a winter hand of shameful pallor, with the odd little red blotch and a faint coarseness no cream can cure. I am about to change my mind and lower the offending object out of sight when Sid gently takes it, tilts it level, and, with no warning or ceremony, slips the ring on my middle finger.

  MR. KOGAN: You can’t go wrong with that piece. Am I right? Pure Native Indian artistry.

  MRS. KOGAN: Give the woman a moment, Larry. Let her think for herself. She knows what she wants.

  MR. KOGAN: I’m just saying.

  MRS. KOGAN: Exactly what always gets you into trouble.

  What do you think? Sid speaks to me softly and personally, as if the chattering sales couple were on a screen and not real.

  I stare at my hand. It is no longer pale or blotchy or coarse. The blue of the turquoise is contradictory like myself, at once flat and deep. The silver band too, warm against the skin and not like metal. And all at once I am struck by the thought that I will marry him. Because he needs me.

  MR. KOGAN: What? What did she say?

  MRS. KOGAN: She hasn’t said anything yet, Larry. She’s thinking, an activity I recommend. For God’s sake, did you forget your hearing aids again?

  Only buy it if you really love it, Sid murmurs to me. You’re the one who’s going to wear it.

  True. But he is the one who put it on my finger. I look up into his face to see if he understands this. He is staring at the ring, however, the piece of turquoise on my finger. It is beautiful to him. Some Indian dug it out of the ground, polished it, set it, and hammered the silver band with a native tool. All this Sid is perhaps seeing as he stares at the ring on my finger, believing in its beauty above all, unable to help himself. I would like to take my other hand now and place it around his big western jaw and force his eyes to look into mine.

  I was dug out of the ground too, didn’t you know? Oh yes: polished, set, hammered. Semiprecious. Half-loved. When I was still a girl, they named a perfume after me. Yes, it was called Svetlana. Derived from the Slavic svet, meaning light or world. It had record sales that first year at the GUM in Kitai-gorod in Moscow. Lyusia hated the smell. He found it disgusting, an insult. He said they’d got me all wrong from the start and he was the only one who understood. He was right. After that, I never wore Svetlana again. The perfume, I believe, is no longer in production. Now will you look at me, Mr. Evans?

  I will take the ring, I say in Scottsdale, Arizona, to Mr. and Mrs. Kogan, formerly of Chicago.

  MR. KOGAN: Great choice. You won’t be sorry.

  MRS. KOGAN: Listen to King Tut over here. Why should she be sorry?

  The ring is an object of beauty, Sid says, looking relieved. I’m so glad you’re going to wear it.

  It is a gift to myself.

  MRS. KOGAN: What could be better? I admire an independent woman. Now, will that be cash or check?

  * * *

  —

  On our way out of town, Sid pulls the Cadillac over to the side of the road.

  Early evening now, or rather long southwestern dusk: sky somewhere between flame and rust, tall cacti standing like burning totems as far out into the desert landscape as one can see. While closer, on the shoulder of the churning highway, gathered around a hand-built food stall as around a campfire in the wilderness, intimate groups of Mexicans and Native Indians sit on benches, drinking bottles of beer and eating filled tortillas from their laps.

  You like tacos, Svetlana?

  Sid’s smile with its strong white teeth is slow to light but quick to generate heat, I am finding, an electric switch that warms me from the inside out.

  Before I can answer, he gets out on his side of the car and walks around the long hood to open my door for me, then leads me by the hand to an empty spot on a bench and sits me down beside a Mexican man whose joy in the dripping, overstuffed taco he is eating is childlike and contagious. Instantly, I am ravenous.

  Don’t go anywhere. Sid smiles at me. I’ll be right back with dinner.

  * * *

  —

  I hope you had a good time today. I know I did.

  His voice is quiet and deep. It is hours later, and only a little while ago now. My new ring on my finger; I bought it just for him. We are standing together inside my guest quarters, after delicious tacos and coldest beer and the open-air ride in his car back through darkening desert.

  I tell him the truth: I have had such a good time this whole day, I am not ready for it to end.

  In that case, he says, taking my face in both his hands and kissing me, I’d like to see you in that dress you bought. Would that be all right?

  Yes.

  And then, if you wouldn’t mind, he murmurs, leaning in and kissing me again, I’d like to take that dress right off you.

  22 March

  Sid.

  25 March

  The sun is breaking over desert hills. Here in the luxuriously appointed guest quarters the lights are dim and soon will be useless. In the main house the elaborate Saturday night r
evelry has ended, I presume. People are sleeping things off. Men with women, men with men. According to Vanna (who speaks of this with proud knowledge), her mother takes a proprietary interest in the sexual lives of her charges, even going so far as to run impromptu seminars on the spiritual and physical benefits of healthy sexual practice when needed. She is a great admirer of the Greeks in these matters.

  I try to imagine my father overseeing such a thing, but somehow, as they say here, I cannot get the math to work.

  As for myself, I sit alone, writing in my underwear with a soft cotton blanket around my shoulders. The temperature in the guesthouse cool but not unpleasant. My toes reacquaint themselves with freedom after long imprisonment in Vanna’s heels. Vanna’s blue chiffon dress that she insisted I wear (despite my recent fashion purchases)—cut like a tunic and held together by a pin at the shoulder—now sleeps like a seraglio cat on the back of one of the Architect’s famous chairs.

  Sid left an hour ago to return to his own rooms.

  If at times since my arrival I have perhaps felt myself to be in a play not of my own making, then last night must truly be considered a carnival. There were guests from Scottsdale and beyond. This the Widow explained to me: collectors, patrons, aficionados, conscientious objectors (I must remember to ask Sid about this), artists, and the like. Apparently, they embark on this festive madness once every week. Roasted game meats and six kinds of pie. Music recitals and modern dance. Whole gardens’ worth of picked flowers in Asiatic vases as tall as one’s head. Women dressed to outdo those flowers, in gowns like wild orchids. Tuxedoed men posing as actors from old Hollywood movies or players at a royal croquet party held for no reason in the high desert. It was grand, thrilling, preposterous. A kind of drug for a while, until the drug wore off.

  This Fellowship is the sort of place where you cannot start questioning why you are here because to be here is to have already absolved yourself of the question. Maybe it depresses me this morning to think that the Soviet Union is not the only nationalist entity that produces cul-de-sacs of moral inertia, where even those things that are good are routinely done for the wrong reasons.

  After dinner, I stood watching Sid in his element. I had believed him rather shy among people generally, but here in the center of his home crowd, shaking hands, touching women’s arms, laughing often, joining the Widow in praising with ringing sincerity the rich of Scottsdale (for none but the rich, I take it, are routinely welcomed through these doors for celebratory activities), occasionally twisting the immense gold ring he wears on the fourth finger of his right hand, he appeared eager, or at least determined, to sell his shyness to the highest bidder. By the evidence, the Widow was the platform from which he would launch himself into the social stratosphere. And he perhaps hers. How many times did I hear her pronounce to some socialite holding a champagne glass, As Sid will tell you…My husband trusted Sid to see the world through his eyes…You must ask Sid, he knows everything about this place…

  Yes, I would have liked to ask Sid. To be alone with him. Or even simply to sit down, my feet were killing me in Vanna’s shoes. But all the chairs and built-in sofas in the great room were occupied by rich guests, each piece so stridently and uniquely designed, so decisive in motive and taste, so exclusionary in its perfection as object, that anyone not already sitting on it was by definition an interloper. There was nothing to do about this, and eventually I wandered off.

  One end of the living room gave onto a dimly lighted low-ceilinged hallway, small rooms branching off it in motel-like fashion. This was where the architects lived during the few hours when they were not performing indentured labor or participating in organized revelry at the Widow’s behest. A couple of the doors stood open—a lapse of protocol, I imagined—and I could not resist poking my head into the empty rooms while I had the chance. In each case, the immediate impression was monastic. These were sacrificial people who prayed to a higher calling. For what else would it have been possible to do under such ceilings and in such oppressive light? Had I heard the scratching of scribes’ quills and smelled melted sealing wax I would not have been terribly surprised.

  Turning to go, I almost ran into the Widow, her dark/light eyes fixed on mine.

  Enjoying yourself? she demanded.

  I had not heard her come up behind me, and found being so close to her all at once disorienting.

  I saw you wander off from the party and it worried me.

  I am fine, thank you. I was just walking past these rooms…This is where the architects live when they are not working?

  As you can see.

  They do not find the spaces too cramped?

  Cramped? The Widow’s face was quite still; only her lips moved. Why do you ask? Are your guesthouse accommodations uncomfortable?

  Oh no. I am very comfortable. Lavish, even.

  I see. You are lavish. But these rooms here you find cramped.

  Maybe cramped is not the right word. It is my first time seeing them.

  Has Sid showed you his studio apartment?

  Yes.

  And what did you think?

  He has a lovely terrace.

  The terrace was my gift to him.

  The rest of Sid’s bachelor apartment was only one room, with not even a kitchenette. Beyond the main wall (against which his sleeper-sofa was placed) was the architectural office, so the noise of clacking typewriters and ringing telephones was ever-present. The ceiling was so low he had to duck constantly to avoid banging his head on the beams. And this for the Chief Architect of the firm! The whole living arrangement not at all un-Soviet, in fact, though when I tried to suggest as much to Sid, he showed no interest in pursuing the connection. It’s more than enough for me, he replied. Not that I couldn’t imagine improving the place a bit if I had sufficient reason.

  What kind of reason? We were out on the terrace, enjoying the Widow’s view, staring out at the desert moonscape.

  He smiled then, and kissed me.

  * * *

  —

  “La cumparsita!”

  From the direction of the party, a cry went up. A woman (it sounded like Vanna) called out again: Give us “La cumparsita”!

  Sí! “La cumparsita” or death! Laughter. Ai, ai, ai! “La cumparsita!”

  Standing close to me in the confining hallway, the Widow offered no indication that she was hearing anything unusual.

  What are they shouting for? I asked.

  A famous song. They want to dance tango.

  Tango! They know how?

  Of course. She sounded annoyed that I should doubt the house repertoire, and I realized that she herself must be the tango teacher—as well as doyenne of healthy sexual practices, spiritual leader, clairvoyant, and so forth.

  Mrs.—

  Mother, she corrected.

  I want to thank you sincerely for the visit and the kindness you have shown me here in this remarkable place. I will be sad to leave you all the day after tomorrow.

  Leave? Out of the question.

  My travel plans are to go on to Colorado and then—

  Tell me, she broke in, taking me by the shoulders and pulling me closer, her eyes boring into mine. Do you like Sid?

  Like Sid?

  Don’t just repeat my words. Do you like him? Do you enjoy his company? How does he make you feel?

  He is very nice. A true gentleman.

  He is a man, not a sheep.

  I like him very much.

  Then why the rush to leave? Stay longer.

  I am afraid to stay. I looked at her in a kind of shock, as if she had stolen this confession from me against my own intentions.

  But she merely nodded, as if she already knew. All the more reason why you must stay, she persisted. There is still too much for you to do here. And see. And feel. Doors to be opened and connections deepened. Love to be made. You have bar
ely scratched the surface of your next life.

  My next life? She had me by the shoulders and her eyes—I have said this before but must say it again—her eyes were gripping mine, plunging deeper into the private core of my self. As if taking up residence inside me. And I did not know, could not say, how she had gained such access, except by the sheer force of her will.

  26 March

  Tonight at dinner in Scottsdale, over a white tablecloth and bottle of California wine, attended intermittently by a Mexican waiter, Sid lifts the veil of his personal life. I am a little shocked, I confess, so reticent has he been about his most intimate experiences until this moment.

  I feel I owe you a story, he says.

  You cannot owe a story, I reply with a smile, hoping to lighten this grave mood that has come upon him. A story must be given freely.

  He does not seem to hear me. He empties his wineglass, and when the waiter moves to refill it, Sid waves him off and does the job himself.

  I was in the drafting room that morning, he begins. This was in Spring Green. I was chief engineer back then, in charge more of the technical aspects of building. I remember I was standing by Jack’s desk—

  Who is Jack?

  It doesn’t matter. He’s been gone a long time. I don’t know where he is anymore. The only thing that matters about Jack now is that he and I were looking at cantilever specs that morning when the phone rang. It was probably ringing quite a while before anyone picked up. That’s how it usually was. I heard my name called from the other end of the studio and I’ll admit it annoyed the hell out of me, we were right in the middle of trying to hash out a very complex engineering problem, and when I walked down the room to take the call I passed Mr. W’s drafting table. I’ll never forget this. He looked up at me, looked me right in the eye, and said, Is it going to work, Sid? And I said, Yes sir, it’s going to work. Which in that case was not exactly the truth. And then I took the call.