Chocolate Cafe
More fiction
Chocolate Cafe on Arbat Street had prices that could make a young man like Misha cry. He knew this before he walked in, but Fedya, who confusingly liked the place, had already grabbed a corner table.
“Just coffee,” Misha told the waitress when she came by. Fedya ordered the same.
“How’s life?” Fedya asked, lighting a cigarette.
“My parents made me break it off with Anya.”
“The blonde from the conservatory?”
“That’s the one. They said since I’d never marry her it was cruel to waste her time.”
Fedya blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Why not see her anyway? Keep it quiet?”
“Where? I still live with them. The housing committee hasn’t given me anything yet.”
“I manage fine.”
“You have your own place?”
“No, but I have an arrangement.” Fedya leaned in. “You know Oleg Petrov? Got married last year. They gave him and his wife a little apartment near Gorky Park. But they don’t live there. They stay with her mother. Oleg rents out the place by the night to guys like us.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Sure, but who cares? I get Tuesday nights. Every week, Tuesday afternoon to Wednesday morning. That’s when I see Masha.”
“What about the other nights?”
“Her mother doesn’t mind me coming over. She’s more modern about things.”
Misha stirred his coffee, thinking. A scheme like that took nerve. “This Oleg—what’s he like?”
“Sharp. Always working on some scheme. Why?”
“I’d like to meet him.”
The next day, Misha returned to Chocolate Cafe. This time he ordered pancakes, not wanting to look cheap in front of the stranger. Oleg turned out to be a lean man with quick eyes and hands that never stopped moving. He was drumming on the table, adjusting his watch, smoothing his hair.
“Fedya told me about your apartment situation,” Misha said.
“Thursday nights just opened up. Previous client got married.”
“I’m not looking to rent. But I’m interested in other opportunities… if you know what I mean.”
Oleg’s fingers went still. “That’s not something we discuss here. Come by my place tonight. We’ll talk.”
Misha entered a gray apartment block indistinguishable from a thousand others. Oleg answered the door and led Misha into a small living room where an old woman dozed in an armchair.
“My mother-in-law,” Oleg said. “Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t follow much anymore.”
Then she walked in.
Red hair that glistened like gold in the lamplight. Huge green eyes. A figure that made Misha forget why he’d come. Oleg introduced his wife, Hanna, and Misha found himself studying the curve of her neck as she poured tea.
“Hanna’s Jewish,” Oleg mentioned casually. “But her mother was too far gone to object when we got married.”
Misha barely heard Oleg explaining something about counterfeit Adidas sneakers, a factory connection, profit margins. His attention kept drifting to Hanna—the way she moved through the room, how she tucked her hair behind her ear.
“So you’d put up half the capital,” Oleg was saying. “We split the profits.”
“I don’t have any money to invest.”
Oleg’s face darkened. “Then why waste my time?”
The phone rang in the hallway. Oleg left to answer it, closing the door behind him.
Hanna sat across from Misha. “If you’re not already involved in his business, don’t start.”
“Why?”
“It’s very dangerous. The KGB raided us once, took a bunch of papers without saying a word. Another time he came home covered in blood, wouldn’t say why. He won’t go out without a knife.” She leaned forward. “I’m telling you this so you won’t make his mistakes.”
“I won’t get involved,” Misha promised. He left before Oleg returned from his call.
For days after, Misha couldn’t stop thinking about her. He told himself she needed saving from that criminal. He started hanging around their building, hoping to catch her alone.
Finally, he saw her leaving with a shopping bag. He rushed over.
“Misha? What are you doing here?”
“What a coincidence,” he said. “I was just visiting a friend in the next building. Happened to notice you on my way.”
She didn’t believe him, he could tell. But she didn’t walk away either.
They walked together for a few blocks, making small talk about the empty shelves in the stores.
“I worry about you,” he said, pulling out a scrap of paper. “My number. If you’re ever in trouble.”
A week later, his phone rang at three in the morning.
“It’s Hanna. Oleg’s badly hurt. I think he’s been stabbed. He keeps saying ‘they found me’ and won’t let me call an ambulance. There’s blood everywhere…”
Misha dressed and ran through empty streets. When he arrived, Oleg lay on the living room floor in a pool of blood, eyes staring at nothing.
Hanna knelt beside him, crying. Misha felt strangely calm. This solved everything, didn’t it? He put his arms around her.
The old woman shuffled in, looked at the scene without expression, and shuffled out again.
Then the door burst open. Police. The neighbors had called about the noise.
“Who are you?” The sergeant pointed at Misha.
“A friend. I just got here!”
“He killed my son-in-law!” The old woman had reappeared, more lucid than anyone had seen her in months. She was pointing a shaking finger at Misha. “He’s in love with Hanna. I saw him do it!”
“Mama, no!” Hanna cried. “She’s confused. She has dementia. Misha just arrived, I was the one who called him!”
The sergeant studied them both. “Convenient story. You two planned this together, didn’t you? Arrest them both.”
In the police car, Hanna turned to him. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you have something to do with this? You could have told one of those gangsters where to find him. You didn’t insist I call an ambulance. You didn’t seem surprised or upset when you saw him dead.”
“You think I’m capable of that?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I rushed over to help you!”
“Or maybe to see your handiwork?”
The policemen in front exchanged glances. At the station, they released Hanna but kept Misha.
The trial was swift. Hanna testified she wasn’t sure of his innocence. The mother-in-law insisted she’d seen him do it. It was life in prison.
In his cell, Misha stared at the ceiling. Of course he hadn’t arranged Oleg’s death. He hadn't known it was coming. But if someone had asked him for Oleg's location, if someone had offered him a chance to remove that obstacle between him and Hanna—what would he have done? He knew the answer. He would have given them everything they needed and felt joy doing it. He’d have done anything to clear the path to Hanna.
He belonged here. Not for what he'd done, but for what he'd wanted to do. For what he would have done, given the chance.
As an ex Muscovite you had me at Arbat street.