Still no luck.
I try three more bedroom doors, plus Nikolai’s office, with the same lack of results. The only room that’s left is Slava’s, and since all is quiet there, he must already be asleep.
Suppressing my frustration, I go downstairs. I’m pretty sure Lyudmila and Pavel’s room is near the laundry; I heard their voices coming from there when I was taking my clothes out of the dryer yesterday. Hopefully, Lyudmila hasn’t gone to bed yet, and can either provide the password or locate Alina for me.
Nobody answers that knock either—nor is Lyudmila in the kitchen or any of the other common areas downstairs. I’m about to give up and go back to my room when a distant peal of laughter reaches my ears.
It’s coming from outside.
Finally.
Leaving the laptop on a coffee table in the living room, I hurry to the front door and step out into the cool, misty darkness. It’s no longer raining, but the air still holds a damp chill, with thick clouds blocking all hint of moonlight. If not for the light spilling from the windows and the solar path lights lining each side of the driveway, it would be too dark to see. As is, it’s still more than a little creepy, and I wrap my arms around myself to stop from shivering as I walk toward the back of the house, following the sound of voices.
I find Alina and Lyudmila sitting on a pair of boulders near the edge of the cliff, a small fire crackling merrily in front of them. They’re laughing and talking in Russian—and, I realize as I get closer, sharing a joint.
The grassy smell of pot is unmistakable.
At my approach, they fall silent, Lyudmila regarding me with open dismay and Alina wearing her usual enigmatic expression. Taking a deep drag, Nikolai’s sister slowly blows out the smoke and holds out the joint to me. “Want some?”
I hesitate before gingerly taking it from her. “Sure, thanks.” I’m no stranger to pot, having smoked more than my fair share my freshman year of college, but it’s been a while since I’ve had any.
It used to help me relax, though, and I could use that tonight.
I sit on a boulder next to Alina and inhale a lungful of smoke, enjoying the acrid, grassy taste, then pass the joint to wary-looking Lyudmila. Alina murmurs something to her in Russian, and the other woman visibly relaxes. Taking a drag, she passes the joint to Alina, who takes a drag and passes it to me, and we go like that in a circle, smoking in companionable silence until only a small, useless stub remains.
“I told her you won’t rat us out to my brother.” Alina drops the stub into the fire and watches the resulting explosion of sparks. “Or her husband.”
“They don’t like pot?” My voice is raspy and mellow, my mind pleasantly fuzzy. Even the prospect of upsetting my employer doesn’t faze me right now, though I know it should. Besides, Alina is technically my employer too, and she offered me the joint, so I’m not at fault. Or am I? Maybe only Nikolai is my employer, after all?
It’s hard to think straight.
“Nikolai can be… uptight about certain things. And Pavel doesn’t keep secrets from him.” Alina nudges a glowing ember with the tip of her shoe, and I hazily register the fact that she’s wearing stilettos and a blue cocktail dress that would be perfect for an art gallery opening. Her only concession to the wilderness surrounding us is a white faux fur draped around her slender shoulders—presumably to keep out the chill. She’s also wearing her usual lipstick and eyeliner.
“Lyudmila said you had a headache,” I say before I can think better of it. “Do you dress up and put on makeup even when you’re sick?”
Alina laughs softly and lights another joint. Taking a drag, she offers it to Lyudmila, who does the same and offers it to me. I start reaching for it but change my mind. I know from experience that I’m about as mellow as I’m going to get; anything more will just make me slow-witted. Not that I’m not already—that first joint was potent stuff, as strong as anything I’ve tried. Besides, there was a reason I came out here, and it wasn’t to get stoned.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, pulling my hand back, and with a shrug, Lyudmila returns the joint to Alina.
I watch the flames crackle and dance while the two of them smoke and converse in Russian. I wish I spoke the language so I could understand them, but I don’t and the smooth rhythm of their speech reminds me of a burbling mountain stream, the words flowing into one another, defying comprehension.
Is that what it’s like for Slava when I speak? Or for Lyudmila?
Is that what it was like for my mom when she was first brought to America from Cambodia?