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“Without question. Now,breathe. You won’t be able to answer any questions if you’re passed out on the floor.”
I suck in a slow, deep breath, exhaling only once my lungs begin to burn. It helps, but only a little.
My eyes scan the waiting room. The immigration office downtown is kind of plain. Grey walls, ugly brown carpet, panel lighting above our heads that sort of makes my head hurt. The plants are all made of fake plastic. There’s a water cooler in one corner, but the blue water jug is pretty much empty. I don’t think any of the staff feel particularly inclined to change it.
There’s a whole wall full of informational pamphlets featuring smiling faces and a series of happy couples and families. Most of them have faded from extended exposure to sunlight. Something tells me they don’t make for very popular reads.
Outside, the sounds of New York filter in through the small gap in the window. I’ve grown used to the constant symphony of traffic and the distant rumble of the subway system a few yards below our feet. It’s a sunny day, which I’ll admit is the only thing keeping my mood from dipping into the realm of sullen. It’ll be a nice reward to go for a walk around Central Park after this interview is over.
Provided we pass, of course.
“Mr. and Mrs. Antonov?” calls one of the office assistants.
“That’s us,” I say, rising to my feet. Pyotr joins me, his hand falling to the small of my back.
We make our way down the hall toward the immigration officer’s office. His name is Archie Jenkins, and he looks kind of like a squirrel with glasses. His cheeks are chubby, and his eyes are big and cute. He doesn’t seemtooterrifying, but his chipper appearance does little to settle my nerves.
“Ah, please take a seat,” he says, shaking our hands. “I’m sure you’re excited to get this interview underway.”
I gulp. “Y-yes, we are.”
Mr. Jenkins pauses when he looks at Pyotr. “Oh, my! I know you. Weren’t you on the cover ofForbeslast month?”
Pyotr grins, which I’ve come to learn is his version of blushing. “Yes, that was me.”
“I use CyberFort antivirus software on all of my home computers,” Archie says proudly. “I’ve never had a virus in all the years I’ve been using it.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Pyotr says easily, confidently.
We take our seats. I’m even more nervous now than when I was in the waiting room. My heart skips a beat and my stomach flutters when Archie pulls out a file full of documents. He’s already received my green card application form and is dutifully scanning over the details.
“This is how this is going to work,” he says kindly. “I’m going to ask you both a couple of routine questions. It looks like all your forms have been filled out thoroughly, so I don’t suspect we’ll run into any trouble.”
I smile and nod, waiting on bated breath.
“So, tell me, Alina… Where were you born?”
I clear my throat. “In Moscow.”
“And where was your husband born?” he asks me.
“Pyotr was actually born in a city called Kazan, but his family moved to Moscow shortly after. That’s where he lived until he moved to America when he was a boy.”
“Ah, very interesting. Does your husband have any siblings?”
“Yes. Three brothers. Mikhail’s the oldest, Dimitri is Pyotr’s fraternal twin, and then there’s Luka, the youngest. He actually lives with us.”
Pyotr chuckles. “Rent in New York, am I right?”
Archie laughs. “Tell me about it.” He shifts through a couple of his papers, taking notes with a ballpoint pen. “So, tell me, how did the two of you meet?”
“Through a family friend,” I answer. “My mother set us up, actually. She thought we might make a good match. Turns out, she was right. I think it surprised her, how well we got along.”
“And is your mother still in Russia?”
I nod. “Oh, yes. She’s not much of an international traveler.”
“And how does she feel about you moving away?”
