Murder a la Russe

By Esta Fischer

Meet Russian immigrant Natalya Denisove: belly dancer, computer software engineer, and would-be murder mystery writer. Her precocious young son Leo is appalled when he sneaks a look at her first work-in-progress. He secretly corrects her grammar and improves her plot. But when real people who resemble the murdered characters in her books either die or suffer serious mishaps, the Russian community begins to suspect she has another, more sinister talent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781624887581

Book preview

9781624887581

CHAPTER ONE

On the Saturday morning of my mother Natalya Denisova’s first and last public belly dance performance, my father made blueberry pancakes for brunch. Before I went downstairs, I knocked loudly on my parents’ bedroom door to alert her.

Chert poberi! my mother shouted. I cannot have food sloshing in my stomach! I have my orange juice. Anyway, I must do my make-up. You eat my pancakes.

I reported my mother’s instructions to my father and we sat down at the dining table, I with a double stack. By the time we finished, my mother appeared with her small tote bag that she always carried to belly dance class. She did not look like my mother: her eyes were rimmed in black and had thick dark lashes. Her cheeks were flushed. But my father and I said nothing. We all got in our car and headed for The Studio. My father did not approve of my mother’s belly dancing in theory, he explained, as it was too provocative for a married woman. However, it was also one of her characteristics that attracted him.

Our basement had been turned into a dance studio, with mirrors on the walls and an expensive stereo system on which to play the belly dance music. There was a large closet which contained my mother’s belly dance costumes, many of which looked like fancy pajamas. Some of the costumes had gold coins sewn onto them, and they made a tinkling sound when she danced. They may or may not have been real. I read in a book that the way to tell if a coin was real gold was to bite into it. So one day I sneaked into the costume closet. When my mother caught me biting her gold coins she screamed. I was banished from the dance studio and the door was kept locked. I never had a chance to explain.

The Studio is an art venue, not a bar, my mother told my father when he objected to her dancing in skimpy clothes in front of other people.

That it was not a bar was mixed news. Because no alcohol would be served, I was allowed to attend. Because no alcohol would be served, my father would not be able to have the customary drink he needed to see him through all social occasions.

We arrived at the Studio at the designated hour. A poster announced the performance but my mother’s name was not on it. Instead there was a list of the dancers: Yelena, Saskia, Casablanca, Nicosia, Sultana.

Those are the dancers’ stage names, my father explained.

Which one is Mom’s? I asked.

I’m not sure, my father said, but I would put my money on Sultana. That’s the word for the Sultan’s mother, he added and he rolled his eyes. Natalya sounds just as exotic. When I met her I thought she might Americanize it to Natalie. He shrugged.

Does that mean I’m a Sultan? I asked.

No, my father sighed, you are just a prince.

We found our seats and soon the performance began.

The dancers appeared with a flurry of filmy scarves and much shaking of their anatomies. The other women were all much larger than Natalya Denisova, with rotund bellies like Santa Claus. Their breasts jiggled like Jello. My mother seemed like a midget among elephants. She was the only dancer with long wavy blond hair.

After the group performance the solos began. Each dancer’s name was announced followed by the name of the dance. My mother was the last to perform a solo. She had changed into her costume with the gold coins. I hoped nobody would notice the bite marks. But soon I realized no one would be paying attention to the bite marks. Natalya Denisova was shimmying to the music, coins tinkling and glittering. Soon the audience was clapping and stamping. A man in the front row jumped up and stuffed dollar bills into the top of my mother’s costume. She pretended not to notice. Everyone was in a trance with the dance. Except my father, who was biting his lower lip.

This has to stop, I heard him mutter.

When my mother’s dance was finished there was loud applause, whistles, and shouts of brava. Then all the dancers came out and took the applause.

We waited for my mother in the lobby. Finally she emerged from the elevator, eyes glazed with joy, a smile spread across her face. She was wearing her favorite color lipstick, called Siren.

I’ll get the car, my father said.

Soon the green Outback pulled up and we drove to our house. When we arrived my Russian grandmother, whom I called Babushka, was already there. The dining table was set with cups and saucers. We all sat down to drink Turkish coffee. My grandmother passed around a box of doughnuts, and I hoped to get the chocolate-covered one, but she had already snatched it.

So how was the dance? Babushka asked between slurps of coffee.

At the same time my mother said fantastic and my father said terrible.

What? my grandmother asked.

Terrible! my father shouted.

Then my mother spewed out several sentences in Russian, which roughly translated as you are a horse’s ass and don’t know anything about it. My father, although unable to understand one word, stood up and stalked out of the room.

Look what you’ve done! Babushka admonished my mother in Russian.

He’ll get over it. Natalya Denisova shrugged. He likes me to be sexy. But then when I’m sexy, he doesn’t like it. Go figure.

It’s those Italians, my grandmother said knowingly. So moody. They don’t know their own minds.

Babushka had not approved of my mother’s marriage to Arthur Di Martini, a wine merchant. She frequently made disparaging remarks about those Italians with their noses always in a wine bottle, though my mother reminded her that Russians always had their noses in a bottle of vodka, and referred to her first husband, a Russian, as the idiot. I did not see anything wrong with being married to a wine merchant. My only objection to my father was his last name, which caused me to be known as The Martini at school amid derisive snickers.

It’s all men, Natalya Denisova declared. She took a large slurp of her coffee, eyed the contents of the doughnut box and chose a French cruller.

You’re not supposed to be hearing this, my mother said to me in Russian.

My mother was Russian by birth. She frequently spoke Russian to me, which was like a secret language between us because my father was Italian-American and he was not good at languages. When I was a child she told me stories about her own childhood in Russia.

We lived in a wood frame house, and in winter we filled the cracks in the windows with newspaper. My brother and I had to take a small wagon to the village to fetch coal for the stove. We took turns pulling the wagon because it was so heavy.

I pictured my tiny mother, barely five feet tall, pulling a wagon filled with coal, and I felt very sad. It did not seem a pleasant way to spend her childhood. I thought of my own comfortable life: we lived in a three story attached house on a quiet tree-lined street. We did not use coal. When the house was too warm or too cold, we turned a switch on the wall. When we needed food my father would take our green Outback to the store. I felt fortunate to be born in the United States.

My grandmother was a wonderful baker. She made apple Charlotte and cheese-filled pirogies. And cream cakes. All in the oven in the coal stove, Natalya Denisova assured me. She milked the cow we kept in a shed in the back yard and churned the cream herself.

And then I would feel sad that I did not grow up in Russia, because my own Russian grandmother did not bake anything. She sometimes brought doughnuts in a box, and ate the chocolate-covered ones herself.

You should be proud that you are Russian, my mother added.

I am, I always assured her, and I was.

By the time of my own birth, my mother had already spent half her lifetime in the United States, and was half assimilated. She did not look Russian to me. She had blond hair which I later learned came from a bottle. Perhaps this was the American influence. She wore mini-skirts made of leather, and fishnet stockings, and shoes with dangerously high heels that she immediately kicked off when she came into the house. She wore low-cut blouses from which her breasts seemed to be falling out. When I was eight years old I thought she looked like the star Madonna, which was definitely the American influence.

But despite her racy appearance, my mother was a great reader of Russian literature. She had read all the classics: Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Gogol. In fact, I was named Leo after Leo Tolstoy, which my father had not been keen on, as he had his heart set on the name Anthony.

My mother worked as a computer software engineer, a job she claimed to hate, but going to the office gave her the opportunity to wear the short leather skirts and the dangerously high heel shoes. She also wore earrings that resembled chandeliers like the one in my Italian grandparents’ dining room, tiers of sparkling crystals or colored stones that glittered in the light when she turned her head.

She had taken up the hobby of belly dancing because she needed an outlet to vent her frustrations at the office.

They don’t care about my brain, she declared. I have to dye my hair blond to get anyone to notice me.

She studied for many years with a gypsy woman named Zoraya, whom I discovered was not a real gypsy when I saw her shopping in the supermarket wearing jeans, a Kurt Cobain Lives t-shirt, and pink sneakers.

Zoraya, salaam alekun, my mother greeted her in a language neither Russian nor English.

Salaam alekun, Zoraya said to my mother. Then she turned to me. And how is young Leo?

How do you know my name? I asked

Don’t be rude! my mother admonished me, and she smacked me lightly on the shoulder.

Your mother is always telling stories about you, that’s how, Zoraya the fake gypsy said.

Stories? I asked.

Yes. How you already know the Russian alphabet and can recite Pushkin from memory, said Zoraya.

Who is Pushkin? I asked.

My mother smacked me again.

Don’t be silly, she said.

But now my grandmother put her cup of Turkish coffee firmly on the table.

You will have to give up belly dance, my grandmother said. At least in public. At least for a while.

Give it up? Then what will I do? I’m a Little Orphan Annie. The world doesn’t know I exist!

Maybe you’ll meet Daddy Warbucks, I suggested, trying to be helpful.

You’re a mother and a wife. Surely that’s enough for you, my grandmother told Natalya Denisova. And a computer software engineer.

My mother scowled, and then she seemed lost in thought, staring into her coffee cup. Suddenly she looked up with a gleam in her eye.

I know what I’ll do! she exclaimed.

What? my grandmother asked warily.

I’m going to be a writer. I will write novels.

You, a writer? Ha! My grandmother nearly choked on her coffee. How can you be a writer? You are not a native speaker of English.

That’s why writers have editors, my mother retorted. She pulled herself up to her full five feet of height without dangerously high heels. I, she announced, am going to write murder mysteries!

CHAPTER TWO

On the first day of Natalya Denisova’s writing career I was awakened early in the morning by the whistle of the tea kettle. My Bugs Bunny clock showed five-thirty. The sun had not yet risen. I crept out of bed and down the stairs, from the bottom of which I could see the dining room. My mother sat at the table dressed in her chenille bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She stared at her laptop computer screen while drinking tea by sucking it through a sugar cube held between her teeth. It was the Russian style of tea drinking, which I had not yet mastered. Suddenly my mother looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline.

Where is your bathrobe? Where are your slippers? she hissed in Russian.

I looked down at my bare feet, which were freezing. Although all my parents had to do to change the temperature of the house was to move a dial on the wall and not drag coal in a wagon, they were always reluctant to do it.

I forgot, I stammered.

She pointed to the stairs.

Well, go get them. What are you waiting for? again in Russian.

I turned and raced up to my room, and put on my robe and my Mickey Mouse slippers. Disney was the theme of my room. The left Mickey Mouse slipper needed a new tail, which my Italian grandmother promised to make but always forgot.

From the hallway I could hear the sound of my father snoring. He never left for the Wine Shop until ten in the morning and always slept in. Then he stayed at the shop usually until seven or eight o’clock. I ate my supper at six, but my mother and father dined every night at nine, by which time I was supposed to be asleep but never was.

My father approved of my mother’s new hobby, and had offered to buy her a new laptop computer and a new printer.

How about just a case of Stoli? my mother suggested, referring to the vodka that flowed like water in our house.

Maybe when you write a best-seller, my father said.

Instead of the case of Stoli, my father bought her the Oxford English Dictionary. He wrapped it in fancy paper and tied it with a big bow. When my mother came home from work it was waiting on the coffee table in the living room. My father had come home early from the Wine Shop just to present it to her.

Surprise! he called out.

Natalya Denisova broke into a smile as she kicked off her dangerously high heel shoes. Then she shrugged off her leather coat and unwrapped the present. She looked at it and frowned.

It’s to help you with the complicated English words that you will need for your novel, my father explained.

Natalya Denisova gingerly opened the book and leafed through the pages.

The print is so small, she said, squinting. Then she closed it and tried to pick it up. And it weighs more than I do.

We can leave it right there on the table, my father said. That way when you need to look up a word, you can just walk over and do it here.

We can’t leave it out here, Natalya Denisova immediately said. It is an advertisement to anyone who comes to the house that my English is not adequate.

She stood up, hands on hips, and studied the dictionary.

It would make a good plant stand, she said. Then she looked at me. We can keep it in Leo’s room. He can learn lots of new words and people will think he is a genius.

I opened my mouth to protest. I much preferred playing computer games to reading a dictionary.

But I already have a dictionary, I pointed out.

Not like this, my mother said. Every day you can memorize two or three new words. Soon you will be the smartest kid in your class.

But what about you? I asked. What if you need to look up a word?

I’ll come up to your room, my mother explained.

I definitely did not want Natalya Denisova invading my room.

I can look up the words for you, I suggested. You can tell me what you need and I’ll find the right word.

That’s a great idea! My father beamed. "Leo can be your literary assistant. After all, he is named after Leo Tolstoy."

I knew this was a dig at my mother for insisting on naming me Leo instead of Anthony. Natalya Denisova narrowed her eyes. She did not like digs. But she did like Leo Tolstoy.

Good idea, she said dismissively. Then she turned to my father. So now you can lug this heavy thing up to Leo’s room.

My father frowned.

I might throw my back out, he said, and then there might not be any…for a while. He raised his eyebrows and gave my mother a look.

Might not be any what? I asked, but I did not get an answer.

Never mind, my mother said. When Alexi the gardener comes, I’ll ask him to carry it upstairs. He can’t read English so he won’t know what it is. In the meantime I will cover it with a doily and put a houseplant on top of it.

I thought about the arrival of the dictionary as I hurried downstairs again, though I could not move as quickly as before in the Mickey Mouse slippers. I could see my glass of milk set in a pot of water on the stove where my mother took the chill out of it.

Your milk is ready, she called from the dining table.

I removed the glass from the pot and wiped the bottom dry on the kitchen towel, wishing for chocolate syrup, but this was never allowed at breakfast. Then I sipped my milk slowly. My mother sat silently, staring at her computer screen. By the time I finished my milk, she had not typed even one word.

This is not as easy as I thought, Natalya Denisova finally said, frowning.

But Mom, I pointed out, you’re always telling me stories. How is writing them down any different?

My mother thought for several moments.

It’s not the same thing, she said. When I tell you stories, they come out of real life. When you write a novel, it has to be made up.

Why does it have to be made up? I asked.

My mother thought about this.

Good question, she said. Then she sat up straighter. You know, you have given me an idea. I will write a novel from real life. She turned her head to one side, possibly to shift the contents of her brain so she could think more clearly. But real life is so complicated, I will have to decide where to start.

There’s always our family, I said, thinking of all of our Russian and Italian relatives, many of whom my mother did not like. In fact, I had sometimes overheard her murmur I would like to kill them in Russian during some particularly trying occasions. There was the bar mitzvah at which her cousin Olga took my mother’s mink coat from her, screaming animal killer! and then tried to douse the coat with the contents of a bottle of vodka. Fortunately my father wrested the bottle from Olga’s hand, shouting don’t waste good liquor! And there was my father’s cousin Angela’s wedding to the Motorcycle King, at which my Russian grandmother, who insisted on attending all family occasions whether she was invited or not, tasted the caviar and loudly pronounced it putrid! I thought I might suggest these subjects, but realized Natalya Denisova would want to think of them herself.

I have an idea! she suddenly announced in Russian. I have thought of somebody to write about.

Who? I asked.

Nobody you know, she said, and smiled mysteriously.

Natalya Denisova had a dreamy look, and seemed to be staring into the air. Then, as though coming out of a trance, she popped a sugar cube between her teeth and vigorously sucked up tea. When the sugar cube had dissolved she placed her mug firmly on the table. Then she put her hands on the computer keyboard and typed what seemed to be a very few words. She frowned.

I must learn to cook, she said.

Babushka could teach you, I suggested.

Are you kidding? my mother nearly shouted. Your Russian grandmother is the worst cook in the United States! And in Russia, she quickly added. She could have been sent to the Gulag for her cooking!

I could not even imagine such bad cooking and needed a basis for comparison.

Even worse than you? I asked.

I immediately realized my mistake and decided to put my empty milk glass in the dishwasher and go back to my room. I stood up.

What do you know about cooking? Natalya Denisova demanded, causing me to freeze with the empty glass in my hand. What do you know about cooking? she repeated.

I thought to point out that I was only nine years old and could not be expected to know cooking, although I had once managed to prepare a batch of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, the kind with Wagon Wheels macaroni.

Cooking, Natalya Denisova continued, is a high art form. It requires total devotion. I, she said emphatically, am a computer software engineer. My mind has not enough room to absorb the details of cooking.

There was a moment of silence while she stared at her computer screen and I remained frozen.

But I need to learn only one recipe, she said thoughtfully. Surely there is room in my mind for one recipe.

She looked at her empty tea mug, picked it up and went to the kitchen.

Well, don’t just stand there! she called to me in Russian. Put your glass in the sink and get moving!

As I rounded the end of the dining table I glanced at the two lines she had just typed onto the computer screen:

The Chicken Kiev Murder

Chapter One

CHAPTER THREE

Natalya Denisova continued to go to the dining room before five-thirty every morning to write her novel. For a while I was not awakened by the whistle of the tea kettle. My father had bought her an electric tea kettle that was silent, as he did not like to be awakened at five-thirty. But my mother complained that the tea was not quite the same from the electric kettle.

I will buy you earplugs, she told my father.

So one morning I once again was awakened by the whistle of the stove-top kettle. I put on my robe and Mickey Mouse slippers (still tail-deprived) and crept down the stairs. Silently I watched as Natalya Denisova, dressed in her robe and fuzzy slippers, typed furiously at her laptop computer. I watched for several moments until she suddenly looked up and saw me.

Leo! she said.

I left the stairs and went into the dining room.

I’ll warm your milk, she told me, and she got up from the computer and went into the kitchen.

As I rounded the end of the table I stopped in front of the computer and looked at the screen. I began to read and immediately noticed several mistakes. A woman wore high hills instead of high heels. Several verb tenses were incorrect, with the use of had, has and had been all mixed up. My mother returned from the kitchen and I scurried to my chair. She put the glass of milk down in front of me and sat at the laptop again.

Are there any words you want me to look up? I asked diplomatically. Remember, I have the big dictionary in my room.

No, thanks, Natalya Denisova replied. I have actually been able to spell all of the words I need correctly. But thanks for offering. She smiled at me.

I remembered Babushka’s remark that my mother could not be a writer because she was not a native speaker of English. Although my grandmother was pleased that my mother was no longer publicly performing the belly dance, she was not happy about my mother’s new occupation.

You will ruin your health and your eyesight, I overheard her tell my mother. You will become ill from lack of sleep, getting up so early in the morning, and you will go blind from staring at the computer screen for so many hours. Anyway, nobody wants to hear about the peasant life in Russia. It has been written about too many times and has become boring.

I’m not writing about Russian peasant life, my mother replied, looking down her nose as if she smelled the garlic and onion smell of peasants.

Then what are you writing about? Babushka demanded.

That’s not your business, my mother snapped. Anyway, peasants are not the only Russian subject. I am writing about Life.

Whose life? my grandmother persisted in her way of driving everyone crazy.

My life, Natalya Denisova replied.

At this my grandmother looked very nervous.

Don’t worry, my mother said. It’s not about belly dancing or anything like that.

But now I worried that Babushka was right to question my mother’s ability with the English language. I did not know anything about editors, but I knew my own teacher Miss Manzilli would give me an F if I dared to turn in my homework with such mistakes.

How are you doing with that dictionary, by the way? Natalya Denisova suddenly asked me in Russian.

It’s getting a bit dusty, actually, I answered.

Hmm.