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He takes out his phone and types something on the screen. My two guesses are: “watch The Silence of the Lambs” or “get a restraining order against Lemon Hyman.”
Hiding his phone, he tastes his soup and says, “Okay. How about you go first?”
At the speed of a drunk teen making a bad decision, I blurt, “Are you married?”
His relaxed posture stiffens, the muscles in his forearm going rigid. And did he just choke on his soup?
As suddenly as the weirdness started, it ends—and he even smiles, like nothing has happened. “No, I’m not married. Never have been. You?”
“Same,” I say, but my thoughts buzz wildly.
Why the reaction? I asked the question because it seemed safe. When I stalked him online, there was no mention of a wife or a girlfriend, but what if he has one back in Russia and has just lied about it?
Shit. Shit. She could be his secret wife. After all, being single might be good for his career. Or it could be like in Jane Eyre, where, spoiler alert, the wife was—
“It’s your turn to pro,” he says. “Or is it quid?”
Right. More questions, and I can’t exactly ask, “Are you sure you’re not married? Would you be willing to pinky-swear that on the Bible?”
The paper door slides over, and the waitress walks in with our food, accompanied by a cloud of perfume that makes me want to gag.
I use the reprieve she provides to think of something safe to ask Art, and as soon as she leaves, I say, “What do you like to do for fun?”
The question is unimaginative but better than the many alternatives I had in my head. Plus, I’m having trouble breathing thanks to the perfume.
Before he can answer, I reach for the bottle of soy sauce. However, he snatches it from my grasp and tsk-tsks. “You can’t pour that yourself.”
I blink. “Why not?”
“Another Russian custom. As the gentleman at the table, I have to service you.”
I nearly choke on my own tongue. Service me? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?
Taking my bug-eyed expression as consent, he fills my saucer with soy sauce. Damn it. I thought servicing me would involve filling other things with other things.
Belatedly, I realize the custom is a bit chauvinistic, but I’m not going to be able to say, “Hey, don’t service me,” with a straight face.
“Do you want me to add wasabi to that?” he asks.
“No, thanks. I’ll be dipping my sushi into the eel sauce and sweet chili sauce.”
“In other words, sugar.”
Grr. This again. “Is that what you like to do for fun—moonlight as the sugar police?”
With a chuckle, he pours himself some soy sauce, then picks up the chopsticks and adroitly snatches an ikura piece from his plate. “Banya.”
“What?” I pick up my chopsticks a lot more clumsily. “I’ve heard of banyan trees, and I think there’s a kimono-like garment by the same name, but—”
“Banya—no ‘n’ at the end. It’s a Russian-style bathhouse with steam rooms. It’s what I like to do for fun.”
“Oh?” I grab a piece of my sweet potato roll and defiantly smother it in both sweet sauces. “Sweating is fun?”
“Great fun,” he says. “Banya is an ancient custom and is extremely important in Russian culture. Latvian too. Serfs and nobles alike used these bathhouses in the past, and today, Russian businesspeople and politicians meet in them, as do ordinary citizens.”
Ah. “Banya must’ve been the place where naked Viggo Mortensen went all stabby on those Russian mobsters.”
As I speak, images of naked Art penetrate my brain. He’s glistening with beads of sweat and manages to smell delicious.
