Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

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 even want to think about what followed. I had personally let the fox into the chicken coop.

Now, it would have been better to kick them out. There were plenty of vacant apartments in Brooklyn. But once again I weakened, and opened the door. Sophia had arrived acting like a queen. Plus she had with her $60,000 that she had received from Chechen friends, maybe to work as their representative, maybe to set up a Chechen information center in New York-I couldn’t figure out from her explanation what the money was for. But as soon as Sophia saw my tiny room, she snorted. «You couldn’t find a better shack to live in? It’s impossible to live here!» And three days later she rented a spacious one-bedroom on Emmons Avenue. With a view of the canal.

The truth is a lie that has been repeated over and over. Sophia swore that Grisha was a traveling companion, and exclaimed with feeling: «How could a defenseless woman like me cross the ocean by herself?»

Then came the rebuke. Since I had left her (I wonder who left whom first!), Grisha would live with us for a while, until he got a job. And finally, a new vow (thank God, she had no need to sin or to take the vow with her hand on a Bible): she loved me and so forth. The Song of Songs. Again I swallowed the bait-for the last time, I told myself-and resigned myself to the idea of Grisha’s staying temporarily.

They both enrolled at Kingsborough Community College and began to conscientiously attend English classes. The idyll didn’t last long. Within a short time Sophia disappeared, without even leaving a note. I decided not to notify the police, because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. Besides, where was she going to go? New York City has a bewitching effect on newly arrived young women, and maybe she found herself a wealthy sponsor, an American, and packed her bags. Hello to you, husbands and traveling companions!

Like me, Grisha was completely in the dark about where she had moved. He was still preoccupied with the crazy notion of a buried treasure. So he moped around for a while-a broken heart, after all, does deserve to be nursed with Stolichnaya-he abandoned his studies and took off for Kansas City to be close to the Missouri River. I breathed a sigh of relief. Good riddance!

Sophia suddenly turned up, by phone from Maryland. She reported that she was working as a nanny for an American family. The reason she went into hiding was about as unoriginal as you can imagine: money. A representative of Chechen leader Aslan Maskhadov had found her at Kingsborough Community College and demanded that she return the money immediately. She had spent it all, and in order to avert any trouble, which could have also been in store for me, she made the only correct decision-and she disappeared. And that’s that. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.

Our relationship hit the skids; I don’t feel like getting into it. There’s no point in dredging up the past and going through dirty family laundry. To this day, thinking about her escapades makes me ill.

To be candid, I loved her, and I forgave a lot, even though I could see that she had no equals when it came to scheming. Consider, for example, the business with the old lady for whom Sophia later worked as a companion.

First of all, you have to be lucky enough to find a rich grandmother who doesn’t have a dozen heirs hovering over her, and second, you have to distinguish yourself in a such a way that the millionairess doesn’t forget you in her will. Sophia succeeded in both aspects of the program. When the grandmother died, it turned out that the companion had been left a five-room condominium on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan worth $10 million.

I thought that once she received this money that tumbled from heaven she would ease up. For a time, that’s just what happened. Once again she came back to me. She bought an apartment and registered it in my name. Her student visa had expired, but she didn’t want to change her immigration status. She would have been required to remarry me and become Mrs. Nevelev.

We lived under the same roof for slightly more than six months, after which Sophia vanished again. Frankly, I was fed up with her erratic behavior and sudden comings and goings. I didn’t give a damn whether she was sleeping with Grisha or, as she did with me, was taking him for a ride. I came unglued. Just like before, Sophia was in no hurry to give notice of her whereabouts after she disappeared. So in order to forget her as soon as possible, I got involved with a woman. Then with another one…

In August 2001, I marked five years since my arrival in the States. At the time I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in Lower Manhattan. Life was like the exuberant song of my childhood: «Orange sky, orange sea, orange greenery, orange camel…»

On September 11, the world became different: New York City saw Pearl Harbor. I was late to work, and I arrived when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Amid the throng of gawkers I watched a slow-motion rehearsal of the end of the world. In the finale, I thankfully survived. I saw tiny figures on the upper floors of the skyscrapers waving their handkerchiefs, then jumping out of the windows. May God spare me from ever seeing anything like it again. America was at war.

I didn’t work for a week after the attack on the World Trade Center, because the company had suspended operations. Overnight I had lost everything: my job, confidence in the future. Lower Manhattan, the pride of New York City, was shut down up to 14th Street. I took advantage of the hiatus and in an hour prepared the required package of documents in Brighton Beach to apply for citizenship. Until Sunday I was completely in the dark. There was the milky haze-the ashen sky, the ashen sea, the ashen greenery and the ashen camel-and the phrase, like a slap in the face, that came by e-mail on the evening of September 11: «Wait until things clear up, then we will let you know…» Wait how long? A day? Two days? A month? On Sunday a ray of hope peeked through as I was summoned to work. The company had found space at the Brooklyn Business Center and… lasted a month. The market collapsed, re-enacting what had happened to the twin towers. Millions of Americans lost their jobs. I was one of them, as the wave of layoffs killed the Internet company and smashed a prosperous business to bits.