(Do you speak German?)
“Ein bisschen.” (A little.) “Anyway, I came back to the states and became a cop. I was with the Sacramento Police Department for seven years. I spent the last four years on the SWAT team. Two years ago, an explosion took my right ear drum and I was medically retired.”
Rolf seemed surprised. “But, you look like you are in such excellent physical condition.”
“I am. I still do martial arts. In fact, I’m a fanatic about it. I box at a gym downtown every week, teach martial arts in the afternoon, spar every Saturday morning, and take private lessons once a week. I also give self-defense seminars and teach classes at our main dojo, or school.”
“My goodness,” said Ludmilla. “It sounds like you are very busy.”
“I have to keep busy. Since my family died, it’s been real tough.”
Ludmilla reached over and put her hand on her husbands. “If you want to, we would like to hear how they died.”
“It was eighteen months ago. My wife, Maria, was taking our daughter to a doctor’s appointment. There was a man driving a tanker truck. He’d been drinking and ran a red light and hit Maria’s car. I was told Amy was killed instantly but it took Maria twelve hours to die.” He looked up. Rolf and Ludmilla were looking intently at him. There were tears in Ludmilla’s eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it. I guess I’m telling you because I feel comfortable here. Now, I just train. I got a large settlement from my family’s death and I don’t need money. But I just can’t sit around. I would go insane.”
“What was your wife like?” It was Greta who asked the question.
“Greta,” said her father. “Maybe Mike doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“It’s OK.” He turned to Greta. “Her family was from Mexico. She was a beautiful woman with jet-black hair and huge, beautiful dark eyes. She had clear, dark skin and a beautiful smile. When she smiled, she took my breath away. She was gentle and sweet. She loved to laugh and I loved…” Mike had to stop. He was embarrassing himself.
Ludmilla reached over and patted Mike’s hand. “You know, maybe you will let me help you decorate your house.”
“Yes,” said Rolf. “What an excellent idea. Ludmilla would love to do that.”
Mike wiped away the tears and smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s still tough to talk about.”
“We understand,” said Ludmilla. “Now, you must let me help you decorate your house.”
“I’d love that. But only if you let me pay you for your time.”
“Nonsense. If we must talk about that, we will talk about it later.”
Mike nodded. “Where do you come from, Ludmilla?”
“I am from Siberia, from a city called Yakutsk. It is a port on the Lena River and one of the main cities in Siberia. I am half Yakut, which is like a Russian Eskimo.”
“Wow,” said Mike. “Is it as cold there as they say?”
“Colder. But people there are accustomed to it. We Siberians are a very hardy people. Many of the Yakuts are still nomads and herd horses, cattle, and reindeer. They also hunt, fish, and gather whatever is edible. We have a very rich culture. My mother is Yakut and still lives in Yakutsk.”
“Do you still have a lot of family there?”
“Oh, yes. I have three brothers. They all have families of their own. And, of course, there is Natalya, my last unmarried cousin. She lives with our babushka, our grandmother.”
Chapter 3
Natalya Bombla left her classroom after a day of teaching English and art. Perhaps one or two men and some women would not call her beautiful, but those with eyes enough to see past their own jealousies thought her magnificent.
She was twenty-nine and still single. Many marriage offers had been made but she refused all of them. She had long, incredibly thick black hair which, when she let it, hung down to her waist. Her breasts were of medium size and her legs and buttocks were very shapely and tapered into a small waist and flat stomach. She had high cheekbones and heart shaped lips which easily slid into smiles. Her eyes were clear and large and an even shade of light brown. She looked very Yakut from her mother’s side and little of her Russian father showed in her, but the mix tempered her Yakut features and made her exotically beautiful.
She had had one lover in her life, a young Russian mining engineer who was deeply in love with her. He was a good man with a good heart and a responsible attitude toward everything. She was with him two years: not exactly living together but not exactly not living together. She was very fond of him and in many ways loved him but never gave her heart totally to him. It drove him crazy. Her lover knew about the drawing she kept hidden away, the drawing she did when she was twelve. He hated the ridiculous dream she had and often scolded her, telling her she was wasting her life.
She always answered saying that her babushka had shown her the man she was to marry and she had drawn him. She never showed the drawing to him - she never showed it to anyone. She only told him he was not the man in the picture.
It drove him wild with jealousy to see her waiting for this mysterious stranger, this dream of a drugged child, this ghost of a rival suitor. He pleaded with her to forget that nonsense and marry him. He told her he loved her like no other man could. He had a fine career and would take good care of her and their children. Why was she being a stupid woman? He got down on his knees and begged and cried like a baby. But she would not give in.
The final showdown came when he received word that he was being transferred to Irkutsk, a large Siberian city to the south. He walked into the apartment, put his briefcase down, and poured himself a large glass of vodka. He took a long drink and sat down beside her. She was embroidering a heavy wool shirt for one of her cousins.
”Natalya, my love, I am being transferred. I want you to come with me as my wife.”
“No,” she said, quickly enough to truly wound him.
He leveled his eyes at her. “Natalya, I love you more than any man will ever love you. I am asking you to be my wife. Why do you refuse me?”
She continued to work. Without looking at him, she said, “You know why I refuse you.”
He stood up and flailed his arms. “Why do you persist in this ridiculous dream? Those were the ravings of a crazy old woman! She gave drugs to a twelve-year-old girl and now you’re waiting to see a face you saw in a dream. But let me tell you, that was not the face of a real man! That was a face a young girl wanted to see!” He put both hands on her face and jerked her eyes level with his. Then he yelled at her even though he was only inches away. “That man is not real! Do you hear me? What you saw was the fantasy of a girl – nothing more!”
Natalya threw down her work and pushed his hands away. She was livid. “Do not tell me what is real and what is not real!” she yelled back. “You know nothing. Nothing! What I saw is real! He is my husband. Not you.”
He threw up his hands and turned his back on her. “You crazy Yakut bitch! What is wrong with you? I love you! Do you hear me? I love you!”
“And who are you to tell me anything?” she shot back. “You are just another drunk Russian bastard - just like my father. He left me alone when I was born and I have never even heard from him. For all I know, I will give you a child and you will leave me, just like my father.”
He looked at her, sorry he showed his anger. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “I am sorry, Natalya. I know you have been hurt. But I am not your father. Not all Russians leave. I will never leave you. Never, never, never. I will die first. I love you.”
She searched his eyes. She was sure he loved her, but she would not marry him. She looked at her babushka sitting in the corner. The old woman’s eyes were dark and piercing and