Strong Enough

“That’s the goal,” Maxim said, “but I need to do some studying first.” I’d seated him at the far end of the table because it was the farthest chair away from me, but of course that put us directly opposite each other, and all I’d done was stare at him all night. Even dimming the lights hadn’t helped, because that asshole looked even better by candlelight.

“Oooh, you could write Russian spy movies.” Ellen poured more wine in her glass and giggled. “Whenever I think of Russia, I think of spies. Is that terrible of me? Wait, you’re not a spy, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” He flashed her a mischievous grin I wish he’d given to me. “Not that I would tell you if I was.”

Ellen gasped playfully, then she snapped her fingers. “Damn. I thought maybe I could brag about sitting next to the KGB at dinner.”

“Does the KGB still exist?” asked Gage. He’d been my best friend since seventh grade, and I’d been the best man at his wedding to Lanie eight years ago. Now they had three kids under age six and rarely got out much socially, but he and I tried to have a beer a few times a month to keep up. “I’m kind of embarrassed I don’t know.”

“It’s sort of sad that all we know about Russians, or all they know about us, are stereotypes from movies,” said Lanie. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s fucking far?” said Gage, reaching for his drink.

“It is far,” said Maxim with a smile, “but I think our cultural differences can make it hard to understand e

ach other, even when people are in the same place. I was telling Derek earlier that Russians have a reputation for being cold, but we’re not. Not really. We just express ourselves in a more modest way. And even when we’re curious about someone or something, we don’t ask personal questions because we don’t want to be rude.”

“And in America, that would seem like indifference,” said Ellen. “Maybe even rudeness, like you didn’t care enough to ask or smile at someone.”

“Yes.” Maxim nodded. “I think it’s just a part of an eastern culture where people are more submerged in their own world than tuned in to what happens around them. If you take a subway somewhere in Moscow, for example, you won’t see too many smiling people. Everybody is thinking their own thoughts, and their faces don’t react to you. But if you get to meet them, you’ll find they’re actually very nice. In fact, if you go to a Russian house for dinner or something, you’d be surprised to find how welcoming and generous the hosts are.”

“I have to admit, I always picture Russia as being cold but exotic. Women in fur coats, dripping with diamonds and eating caviar.” Carolyn giggled. “But that’s probably from the movies too.”

“There are wealthy people in Russia, but it’s also very common for those who had a poor childhood to really like nice things, luxury things.” Maxim shrugged. “Lots of people never had new clothes or toys. Sometimes food was scarce. When you grow up this way, you don’t want to feel like that again. It’s my story, too.”

“I get that,” Lanie said.

He had a poor childhood, I thought, hungry for any personal details about him. I wondered how poor. Did he grow up impoverished? Hungry? Lacking for anything?

“We also like to impress,” he went on, a glint in his eye. “This is why some Russians drive luxurious cars while living in a tiny apartment, or wear designer brands or go to expensive restaurants—because they didn’t have a taste of it before and they want to show it’s different now.”

“Speaking of taste, my old roommate dated a Russian girl,” said Gage. “She used to bring us all these amazing leftovers from her family functions. And she’d come over and make these potato pancakes…” He closed his eyes and moaned. “So good.”

“They are good.” Maxim nodded. “I make those sometimes.”

“You can cook?” Ellen asked.

“A little. My mom worked a lot, so I had to help out with meals growing up. She taught me to make some things.” He caught my eye and grinned. “But nothing like Derek. I told him he must have been a chef in a past life.”

“Yes!” Ellen exclaimed. “He definitely got all the cooking skills in the family. I can barely boil water.”

“Dinner is excellent, Derek.” Carolyn touched my arm. “Thank you for inviting me.”

I put my hand over hers. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re here.” For all the wrong reasons, of course, but I was still glad.

“Maxim, your English is so good,” Lanie praised. “I teach high school, and I’ve got students who’ve lived here their entire lives and don’t speak it as well as you.”

“Thank you.” Maxim lowered his chin as if he were embarrassed by the compliment, and even from all the way across the table I could see how long his eyelashes were.

What the fuck? His eyelashes?

Get a grip on yourself.

But I couldn’t, so instead, I gripped Carolyn’s hand and held it in my lap. She sent me a surprised smile, and I returned it, but my pulse didn’t quicken the way it should have with her hand so close to my crotch.

“I still can’t believe your bag was stolen at my bar,” said Ellen. She’d told the story of Maxim’s first night in America with great dramatic flair during drinks on the patio, including plenty of nonsensical rhapsodizing about fate, as if it hadn’t been a random cab driver’s suggestion that had brought him into the bar. “I feel so bad about it.”

“Don’t,” Maxim said. “Everything turned out fine. Better than fine. I made new friends.”