“Katya doesn’t answer her phone,” she said right away.
“She is always running out of Bee-Line cards. Go to the store and email her. You know she is at the hotel ten times a day using their internet.”
“Yes. I will.”
“You are crazy today. She is fine. Please.” He laughed, subduing his own fear. “My American is back. Bye.”
Dima drove them to Soba by way of his daughter’s kiosk. She wasn’t there. Probably on break and at the hotel to check her email. When they parked, the man gave him American dollars.
He hesitated before taking it, knowing this would mean something.
“I need you to watch from across the street. Maybe twenty minutes. I will come out to smoke. I’ll give you an envelope to take back to the courthouse. Understand?”
Dima nodded, already reaching for the large tip.
Arriving at the courthouse with the envelope, Dima took in the details of the building. An odd faded green with ornate white trim. The front façade was 1950s, Stalin-Georgian, and the real building behind pre-Bolshevik. Leaning against his taxi, he took a final drag on his cigarette. He trudged up the gray stone steps and through the chipped-paint goliath wooden doors. As he entered the great hall, his gaze was drawn to the double staircase pressed against the far back wall, the black iron handrails leading to the visible second floor hall from both sides. The ceilings were much higher than he was used to seeing in government buildings. The open space was a shrine to the former days, the Soviet years. The tall, draped, deep-red window curtains and blood-red display table-cloths set against the dark browns of the wide-board flooring and custom hand-carved paneled walls. Those walls were a museum of military history. Soviet heroes with uniforms hidden somewhere under the medals. Dima had thirty years to reflect on his war and wondered who they thought was still in the market for this fantasy. He guessed that he once must have been.
Looking to the packet in his hand for the first time, he read, Ministry of Records. He found directions on the wall and climbed the stairs to the upper hallway. Down the hallway, the office entry was more modern, bringing him into the early 1970s through the overwhelming presence of plywood wall paneling. The woman behind the pressed board counter took his packet without looking up from her ancient computer monitor. She opened the paperwork and for a lack of anything to consume his mind, he read some of the paper in her hands. Suddenly, he was interested. The first name of a woman was much repeated. Katya.
He leaned forward, fishing for a last name, but his movement caught the eye of the seasoned bureaucrat.
She quickly shuffled the papers into an official manila folder.
All worries about his Katya came rushing in on him, “Excuse me, what was the last name for Katya on that form?”
“It is not for you. I know, because I issued the form to the petitioner this morning.”
“Right. But I work for him,” He said with pleading eyes. “Please, what was the last name?”
“What is the petitioners’ name?”
Dima hated himself. Why didn’t I know a passenger’s name? I should have demanded to know his name. I always know names!
“The marriage certificate is filed. We are closed now.”
“Yes, but…”
“You are very sweaty. We are closed.” She stood and walked deliberately to a back room.
Marriage? Dima fought to keep his thoughts straight as he jogged out of the building. He searched, groped for the next steps. The train in an hour. Dubai? Wait…why a hotel room when the train leaves today, leaves now?
There was traffic as Dima sped through the asphalt maze of potholes. He needed help. Sasha! He’s in deep with the union now. He’ll know. He snatched the Nokia from inside his jacket pocket and dialed, misdialed, swore, then dialed again.
“Sasha. Quick, what is the Union doing at the Hotel Berdyansk!”
“Dima?”
“Da!”
“You know what they do there. It’s about seventy bedrooms.” Sasha laughed.
“No. Look, an American was there this morning. He didn’t get a room. Why the hell was he there?”
“Oh. Okay, they work the Internet Café there. They have girls who do internet dating online with Westerners. Easy money.”
“He filed a marriage license today. But he just got to town!” Dima honked his horn at anything in front of him now.
“Dima, sometimes that is the transaction. You don’t want any part of that. You need money? I can get you scheduled on some drops, no problem.”
“That’s not it. No. Okay. Too much to tell.”
“Dima?”
He hung up and suddenly got a flash of hope, but no one answered at home. He gave up trying five minutes from the train station and placed the cell phone in his front pocket. He had to commit to the worst possible outcome. Be ready and committed.
The task was clear to him now, and simple. Katya would come home with him or he would go to prison. This is life. He parked and reached under his seat.
As Dima walked, the station interior released greater light and sound through the windows. Each concrete step to the entrance was important. He was aware of the feel and weight of each step he took. Each movement and sound inside was vivid: the woman arguing with the teller over her compartment assignment, the Polish chatter from the line at the currency exchange, a babushka snapping at an overactive child, the flick of a lighter and associated smells of smoke in the air. Dima pushed through all the pews and people.
Once on the platform, he slowed his pace to match the calm that now filled him, checking each car for the number he had read on the man’s ticket. By the time he reached the train car, all his acute senses had melted away. He was no longer in the present. His mind was fully fixed on the impending confrontation and in believing, with all faith, he was in complete control. Get the girl. Go home.
Once inside, Dima walked, floated, through the aisle. He found the man making up his bunk.
The man’s confused expression pleased him and further fuelled his confidence.
“What the… what do you want? Was there a problem with the papers?”
Dima didn’t see a point in answering questions.
“What?” The man said, spreading his arms.
“Where is Katya?” Dima asked. Get the girl.
“None of your—”
Dima pulled the knife from his inside jacket pocket.
“The bathroom. She’s in the bathroom.” The man backed away, raising his hands outward.
The news forced Dima from his singular, emotional path, to one that demanded some level of thinking. He pointed for the man to sit as he sifted through the problem. Each Ukrainian rail car had two bathrooms, one on each end. He could ask, but the man could lie. He could walk the man out, but anything could happen with less control. He would wait.
The man’s lips moved but Dima didn’t hear him speak. Scared and agitated, the man’s movements were more like an abstraction to Dima.
Dima placed a finger to his lips and the man stilled. “I may kill you,” Dima said. “It will be quick.”
Footsteps