Matteo shut it off and turned towards her.
“Well, no looking back now. You’re officially a part of the radical left!” He laughed. “In seriousness, though, Olga, you good with money?”
“Why moneybags,” she joked, “you gonna float me?”
“I mean, I would if you need it. Even if it’s just some breathing room.”
Olga was unsure why Matteo felt so confident about either his own finances or her ability to regroup. She had a bit of cash she could live off. For a bit of time. She’d gone her entire adult life without relying on anyone for fiscal help, let alone a man, and this was one of the few things she was personally proud of. She would land on her feet.
“You don’t even know how much I appreciate you,” she said, crawling next to him on the sofa, “but, no thank you. I’m gonna be good.”
* * *
TWO WEEKS LATER she found herself in a small restaurant in Brighton Beach underneath the elevated B train having borscht with Igor.
“It’s better with the cream,” Igor said, gesturing towards a small bowl of sour cream that had been laid out on the plastic tablecloth. Above his head a small television screen played RU. The restaurant was completely tiled, with silver-backed chairs. A casual, family-style establishment.
Olga complied and put a dollop into her bright red soup.
“So, what do they need exactly?” Olga asked. They had been making chitchat for the past fifteen minutes and while she liked Igor, she wanted to get the show on the road. Recognizing herself unsuited for a nine-to-five job, she weighed her options and, with much trepidation, picked up the phone to let Igor know that she’d finally “come around.” She’d love to help their friends with their problems.
“They need you to make them a little party, for the daughter’s first birthday. Somewhere nice, like the Plaza or something. You know, Eloise.”
“Okay, and?”
“You make it look like it cost, let’s say, half a million.”
Olga laughed. “For a kid’s party?”
Igor rolled his eyes at her.
“Make it look that way on paper,” he said flatly. “And nice enough that if someone saw the pictures, they might believe it.”
Olga nodded. “And how much am I really supposed to be spending?”
“Let’s say our friends would like to get about four hundred thousand back.”
“And if they don’t? What happens to me?”
Igor laughed. “Olga? Are we not friends? Why do you worry so much? We’ve never had problems with you delivering your end of the bargain before.”
“We,” Olga said, “meaning, you and I, are friends. But I don’t know who these other people are, and they don’t know me—”
Igor interrupted her. “Of course, you would get your normal fee for this kind of thing, in cash. Plus, you know, a bonus.”
He pulled a gym bag from the empty seat next to his and handed it to her. She pulled it up on her lap and unzipped it just enough to peek inside. There was cash and a velvet box.
“It’s fifteen thousand and a nice necklace that I figured you could keep … or sell. Your choice, but the boss thought it would look nice on you.” He smiled. “You know, if you go back on TV.”
Olga eyed him cautiously. “You saw that, too?”
Igor laughed. “But of course! I have the Twitter!”
Olga giggled slightly.
“You know, Olga, my people really like your president. He is, what we call, a useful idiot. So, on that, we’ll agree to disagree.”
MAY 2016
May 20, 2016
Prieto,
Borikén, the original name of the island from which you and I descend, means Land of the Noble Lord. This name was given by the Taíno, the native people. For centuries, the Taíno lived in small, organized communities, until 1508, when a man named Ponce de León arrived. In short order, he robbed and cheated the Taíno of their soil and freedom, leaving them subjects and slaves to the Spanish. After the Spanish pillaged the island of its metals and ores, they claimed land that previously belonged to no one and stole African bodies to work it. In time, these acts of horror led to the birth of the Puerto Rican people as we know them today—a mix of Taíno, Spanish, and African blood. Our nation born, some might say, from the pain of colonialism. I, however, choose to see our people as birthed from the Land of the Noble Lord.
I believe this because for nearly as long as Puerto Rico has existed as a place oppressed, we have fought to break free. The year 1527 saw our first slave rebellion. In 1848, our first outright revolt. And of course, in 1868, el Grito de Lares. Each rebellion undermined the same way. Puerto Rican traitors. Weak-minded individuals, full of self-loathing. Who didn’t believe in the power of their Taíno blood, the strength of their African ancestors. Individuals who could only hear the voice of the colonizer, whispering to them that without a white master nation, we, Borikén, would fail.