Page 33 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Paul walked along with Galkin. The crowd parted around them like the Red Sea. Galkin said nothing until they reached the swinging doors to an institutional-size kitchen bustling with cooks and servers. Inside the kitchen, in the damp warm air and amid the clamor, Galkin stopped and put an arm around Paul’s shoulders. “Out there is not real food,” he said.

He spoke in Russian to a short, round old lady who was stirring something in a pot on a large professional gas stove. She answered him, and then Galkin said something else, and then the old lady replied. Paul didn’t understand much of the conversation, of course, but he could tell by the woman’s tone and word choice that she wasn’t speaking respectfully. There was something a little snippy about the way she spoke to Arkady Galkin.

Galkin laughed, removed his arm from Paul’s shoulders.

The cook stopped stirring whatever she was stirring and left the stove.

“There is nothing like American hamburger,” Galkin said. “Nobody makes them as good as America. I think you grew up poor, yes?”

“I don’t know about poor,” Paul said, “but we struggled for money. My dad was constantly out of a job. How about you?”

“Six in a room in Moscow. Yes. One unreliable bathroom. If we were lucky, we got macaroni and cheese for dinner. Is different from American ‘mac and cheese.’ Not like Kraft. Macaroni with butter and green, moldy cheese. If we were very lucky, we would eat macaroni with butter and sugar for dessert. Mmm.”

Paul didn’t know how to reply. Was Galkin nostalgic for the foods of his deprived childhood? “I think you win,” Paul said.

“I am sorry we don’t have hamburger in house tonight. But I think you will like what Oksana gives us.”

The old lady had returned carrying two plates. On each was a sandwich of some kind made of dark bread. Paul and Galkin took the sandwiches, and then Galkin said something to the cook, nodding. Oksana said something snippy again and poked Galkin in the belly. Galkin roared with laughter.

Paul took a bite. The sandwich was delicious. It was pastrami, probably from one of the few remaining great delis in Manhattan.

“You like pastrami?” said Galkin.

“Very much. I’d forgotten how much I like it.”

But the bread, a sourdough black bread, was the best bread Paul had ever eaten, full stop. It was dense and moist, had the tang of vinegar, and he could taste a blend of flavors, coffee and caraway and molasses.

“And Oksana’s black bread—it is better than what you can buy in Mother Russia.”

“Fantastic,” Paul said, mouth full. “Truly excellent.”

“Yes?”

“Best I’ve ever had.”

“Now, finish your sandwich, and then we go out there and watch my poor guests eat fish eggs and soufflé.”

Paul nodded, chewing.

“You are very different from Tatyana’s usual boyfriends. Crazy artists or rich playboys. Very fancy.” Galkin flicked a forefinger against his nose. “You say ‘hoity-toity,’ yes?”

Paul smiled.

*

“Where did he take you?” Tatyana asked a little later.

“The kitchen. For a sandwich.”

She laughed. “He likes you, I think.”

“I guess. We definitely had a moment.”

She spied a woman she knew and waved, extending her arm and flapping her fingers down. “Meet Polina, my father’s wife,” she said.

Paul turned. Polina was a few inches shorter than Tatyana, had a long neck and prominent cheekbones, great arched eyebrows and large, liquid eyes. A sharp chin, full sexy lips, and a tangled mane of brown hair down to her shoulders. She was cool. She was hot. She was wearing an emerald-green mini dress with ruffles at the hem and sheer sleeves. The dress’s plunging neckline showed off her tanned breasts and a glittering emerald necklace. She wore an immense ring with a diamond the size of a jawbreaker.

“Polina, this is Paul Brightman.”

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