Oh yes, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Yevgeny Rivilis, if my name means anything to you. I’ve lived in New York for eight years, since August 1996, and I’ve been in this apartment for almost three years, since October 2000. And I had never gone through an inconvenience like this one.
Today is July 24, 2003. Two weeks ago, someone I don't know yet began following me in a strange manner. But before starting the investigation, a little background. I don’t know if it’s pertinent to what’s going on, but I must be completely honest. Only by emptying out my memory can I hope to find a key to the truth.
A VISIT TO THE PAST
I landed in New York in August 1996. The customs officer carefully studied my passport, which had been issued in the name of Leonid Nevelev, compared the photo with the original, and waved me through. Starts like a mystery novel, doesn’t it? But I’m not going to hold back any secrets. As I mentioned, my real name is Yevgeny Rivilis. The alias is something I was forced to do, a ruse that enabled me to cross the border without any problem. You’re probably baffled and have a bunch of questions. Well, I have nothing to hide. Just don’t rush-the story of how I left isn’t worth a hill of beans.
At that time (I’m talking about the early 1990s) newspaper ads such as «Seeking commercial marriage to a woman moving permanently to the U.S.» were not a rarity in the Ukraine. A lot of my ex-countrymen were trying to move to America by making use of the female factor. I wasn’t any different. A marriage, even a fictitious one, would enable me to cut the knot called Sophia. When that name is uttered, please remove your hat, because my wife is onstage. Just for a short time, I hope, because it’s really because of her that I decided to emigrate. Our marriage had run out of steam, and it seemed to me that the best way out was to secretly move (you can call it «flee»-that’s probably what it looked like) overseas.
First Sophia vanished with some Chechen, and for a few weeks I was beside myself, searching for her among friends and acquaintances. Then she came back, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. She announced that she had been on a peacemaking mission to the Caucasus, and had even met with General Dudayev, the president of Chechnya at the time. She couldn’t come up with a better alibi! I hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when, without even catching her breath, she touched off a flirtation with Doroshenko, who was staying with me. Then the Chechen suitor resurfaced. What normal man would endure that kind of abuse! Cling to a nonexistent marriage? It’s stupid. Everything comes to an end. If Sophia had decided to test my patience, she got the result she was looking for: it had limits.
I put an ad in the newspaper under the rubric, «I’D LIKE TO MEET A WOMAN.» The text was straightforward: «Seeking a woman…,» followed by the usual list of attributes, including the main one-a ticket to the U.S.
A man responded, somebody named Leonid Nevelev. The routine questions of a phone interview, «Are you still interested in a commercial marriage?» and «How old are you?», didn’t put me on my guard. What I was secretly thinking was, some discreet young woman had decided to use a middleman.
«I’ve hit forty.» I wanted to ask, «How old is the bride?», but I held back.
The man happily replied, «That’s terrific! You and I are the same age!»
I ignored his remark-the law doesn’t recognize marriages between men, even if you have an American visa-and I continued mentally to «digest» the portrait of the bride.
As the Russian saying goes, the wood grouse in the mating ground hears nothing but himself. I had gotten stuck on the image of a discreet young woman, and when Leonid suggested, «Would you like to meet?», I immediately bit, honestly assuming that Leonid was the «bride’s» commercial agent who was supposed to negotiate the terms of the contract. Deep down in my soul I heard a cherished hope sing out in a tiny voice: «A discreet, intellectual woman, a shy and devilishly sexy cutie.» If the image I had conjured up matched reality, then goodbye Sophia. I would get married without a second thought. Really.
The Pushkin statue is a perfect meeting place. It’s hard to get lost. After we exchanged greetings and sized each other up, the surprises began. Leonid said he had won a green card and was to go to the American Embassy for an interview in two months. If I had $5,000, he was prepared to sell me his prize. He would also take care of obtaining a domestic and international passport from the police in his name, but with my photograph.
I refused on the spot. The prospect of being Leonid Nevelev for the rest of my life didn’t please me. «What if I’m caught? Then what?»
«Who? Where? When?» Leonid was sincerely surprised. «Your documents will be authentic. Both the passport and the birth certificate. And when the time comes in five years to become an American citizen, go change your name to anything else if you want. Even George Washington. Or remain Nevelev-what do you care? You’ll have achieved your objective. Or do you have other options available?» he said tartly. «Are brides just besieging you, one prettier than another, and you don’t know which one to marry?»
I didn’t answer-I was wavering-and Leonid continued to goad me. «Do you have a long waiting list? Maybe you’ll share it?»
The outlandishness of the proposition made me wary. Thinking about it was agonizing. Leonid sensed a change-the customer was coming around-and modified his tactics.
«Don’t worry, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. This arrangement has been well tested. And you must agree, it’s a lot cheaper than a commercial marriage. But most important, it’s easier. Get involved with a woman?» He curled his lips with contempt. «They’re unpredictable creatures. Change their minds a hundred times a day. How can you trust them?» And without waiting for a reply, he summed up: «A woman says one thing one day, another thing the next.»
I had no comeback. There was nobody to choose from, because all of the desirable «brides» had been snatched up long before the summons to the American Embassy. Leonid hinted that he was prepared to lower his figure (within reason, of course), and after a prolonged discussion we shook on it: we agreed on $4,500. I don’t know how it is now, but at that time in the Ukraine everything for which there was the slightest demand was for sale. And if you had connections, getting new documents done by the police was no problem. But we digress.
Knowing Sophia, or to be more precise, since I didn’t know her completely, I executed Operation Green Card in secret. This was not a major offense, considering that Sophia had had her eye on Doroshenko. For a while now the word «family» for her existed only on paper. Security is first and foremost, and the only way to protect yourself from needless blowups is to keep your mouth shut. This rule applies to anything you do.
As a result of the successful transaction, I found myself in New York, where the Russian-speaking area of Brooklyn had been selected for a start. But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief than I received a jolt: Sophia appeared at my door. Since she and I were not officially divorced, I don’t know what to call her. It’s still a mystery to me how she tracked me down, but there she was, with two steamer trunks and a bag flung over her shoulder, at the door of the house on West 12th Street. She had a grin from ear to ear, as though clothespins were holding it up, and fire in her eyes-a portrait of Napoleon after his victory at Austerlitz.
My delight and amazement vanished in a split-second. Hovering quietly behind Sophia was her aide-de-camp, Grishenka Doroshenko.
«We’ve come on student visas!» she burbled as she threw herself around my neck and, despite my timid protests, gave me a couple of pecks on the lips. Having made sure that she was in control of the situation, Sophia glared at Grisha and with a tone that brooked no argument ordered him, «What are you doing standing there like a statue? Pick up the suitcases and bring them into the house!»
I won’t lie: I once made a blunder, believing Grisha’s rubbish about a hoard of gold buried on the banks of the Missouri River, put my trust in him, let him into my house for a short time-and I don’t