I’m showing off craft photos when Nan’s voice floats up the stairs.
Girls, I could use some help with dinner.
My mother peers into the cloudy mirror and tissues off the traces of her tears.I love that I’m still a girl when I come back here.
Dinner is delicious, of course.Buttermilk fried chicken, fluffy mashed potatoes, and a green bean salad.Nan and my mother do most of the talking, which is fine with my father.
The next day, Dad and I go to downtown Stillwater, purportedly to help him finish his Christmas shopping.But in reality, it’s a chance for us to chat privately.We head to a quiet coffee shop.
Ahhh.He savours his cup of dark roast.Your nan makes the worst coffee.
Well, she’s a great cook, so I guess you can’t have everything.I peel the paper off my apple cinnamon muffin.So, how is Mom these days?
She’s a lot better.She’s gotten involved with this refugee organization, and the work is both satisfying and important.Thank you for calling more often.
I wanted to.She was the one who said that I needed to become more independent.
He doesn’t reply, which is so like him.It means he disagrees, but he can’t be bothered to argue.
Evelyn, did your mother tell you about our plans?he asks.
I shake my head.
I’ve decided to take early retirement.Next year, when I turn fifty-five.We’re going to move back to Paris.
That’s where they lived when they were first married, and it’s my mother’s favourite city as well as mine.Oh, wonderful.I’ll get to visit you guys there.What will you do?
Well, I have a job lined up at the publishing house where I worked when we first lived there.Amazingly, it’s still run by the same gentleman, but he’s in his eighties now.
My father had been a translator.He’s a polyglot whose fluency in East Slavic languages and Finnish got him recruited by the CIA to work as an analyst.He’s not the James Bond spy that Viktor imagined, but rather someone who synthesizes information to prepare briefings and recommend actions.Of course, getting the information can be a risky operation.But he’s always shielded me from the dangers of his job.
It’s only a part-time contract, but enough to get through the French government bureaucracy so we can live there.Thought I might take the John le Carré route and try my hand at writing some spy fiction.
Dad!That’s amazing.But are you allowed to do that?
I wouldn’t give away any real intelligence.But by combining my general knowledge with my imagination, I think I could come up with a good yarn.
My father has never been someone I associate with imagination, but who knows?Maybe this is his dream.
I bet Mom is excited to live in Paris again.
Yes.I believe she has a millinery class in mind.
I sigh happily.I have a vision of the two of them in a sunlit apartment, my mother hand sewing as my father taps away on a typewriter (no modern laptops for him) while jazz plays in the background.It’s so wonderful to imagine them living an artistic life where they can wander around farmers markets, drink coffee in sidewalk cafés, and make new friends.And it’s a freer life for me as well, since I’ll no longer have to hide my father’s profession or Moscow address.
I go up to the counter and order a chocolate chip cookie.I need fortification for the next part of our chat.
Look, Dad, there’s something I want to tell you.But you can’t get mad or do anything about it,I say.
I refuse your terms,he states, like we’re in some diplomatic negotiation.
Fine.Then I’m going to ask you to do something, and all I’m telling you is that it’s very important to me.
He sits back and crosses his arms.
I have a, uh, friend.I stumble over the word because Viktor is no longer my boyfriend or even a friend.But otherwise, this plea makes zero sense.Viktor Zelenko.
Dad frowns.Is he Russian?
