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Alexei shakes his head. “True political success comes from people being able to feel your authenticity.”
“Says the spectacularly beautiful orator who speaks six languages and was raised with statecraft from the bassinet,” Mirdza says.
I had no idea my sister was this feisty. Grigoriy’s good for her.
Two hours later, Igor Baranov’s people are dusting crap on my face that makes me sneeze, and I’ve been squeezed into a stupid, itchy suit with the most irritating tiny buttons I’ve ever seen. I’ve been practicing my smile for twenty minutes, but it only seems to be getting worse.
“Maybe don’t smile,” the woman Igor sent to prepare me says. “You seem serious and distinguished when you don’t smile.”
Oh, geez. Even she’s lying to me now.
Ten minutes later, I’m tripping over my own feet—these heels are ridiculous—and they’re showing me a stack of enormous cards that the person near the camera will be holding up. They’re basically the written responses that Igor prepared frantically. They make me sound like that horrible American woman—Monica something or other.
Shoot me now.
Sixty seconds after that, the man by the camera is using his fingers to count down: three, two, and one. A big red light blinks and words on the top corner of the screen in front of me now say On Air in English. I wonder why they don’t have it in Russian. Maybe the equipment’s made in America.
I have the same commentator Alexei had, the friendly, chuckle guy who made him look so easygoing and approachable. Maybe that’ll help.
“Today we have the woman who took our entire country by surprise, the Latvian criminal herself, Miss Adriana Strekkova.”
At least he left off the whore part. “It’s actually Strelkova.”
“Excuse me?” The commentator looks down at his papers. He squints. “Ah, yes. Sure.”
“Anyway, it’s nice to be here.” Only, it doesn’t sound like I think it’s nice. My voice came out squeaky at first, and then flat. It sounds like I’m mocking him.
The commentator’s scowling at me, possibly for correcting him on my name. Or it could have been my sarcastic-sounding tone. Either way, we’re not off to a great start.
I decide to try smiling. How bad can it really be?
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
My smile falters a bit. “What?”
“You look as if you may be in pain. Are you feeling alright?”
I laugh. “Of course, Pavel,” I say. “How about you? Are you alright?”
“Actually, I was diagnosed last week with prostate cancer.”
“Oh no,” I say. “That’s terrible.”
“Well, hopefully not,” he says. “I have a procedure set up next week.”
This entire interview is a trainwreck. I seriously consider standing up and walking off the tracks. “Well, if I was the kind of person who prayed, I’d be sure to pray for you.”
“You don’t believe in God?” Pavel asks.
I shrug. “Honestly? I don’t know. I was in a bit of a bind last month—your usual criminal stuff—and I prayed when I was really scared. I wound up being fine, so maybe God saved me.”
Pavel stares at me blankly.
Maybe I shouldn’t be mocking God on television.
“Look, I know that no one here likes me,” I say. “And I know that it’s very bad for Alexei that he does.” I shrug. “I’m not sure what else to say right now. The women watching will hate me for dating the most handsome, the most intelligent, the most respectful and eligible man in Russia. The men watching will hate me because, no matter what I say, they’ve already decided what kind of person they think I am. I’m not sure why I agreed to come talk to you, to be honest. My Russian isn’t very good. My Latvian isn’t welcomed. I knew that coming here would be miserable and that it would go badly, and hey. What do you know? It is.”
I stand up and start to walk away, but then I remember Mirdza. She said I always run away. Am I doing it again right now? Did I really even try?
