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touch my heart-shaped tub.”
    He was very fond of this red tub.
    “My first room will be called ‘Gazebo in a Rainstorm,’” I announced.
    “I like gazebos,” he replied.
    I had seen a gazebo in a magazine called House and Garden . I get much of my inspiration for my room designs from the pictures in American magazines. Good Housekeeping , Travel and Leisure , Women’s Day .
    Then he surprised me by saying, “Since Mara has been helping with the cleaning, I want you to take a shift at the front desk.”
    Usually Mr. Suri or his brother managed that part of the business because of the money. The motel operates twenty-four hours a day. The customers’ visits must be timed correctly, and everyone gets a fifteen-minute warning from the front desk phone. I felt moved by Mr. Suri’s trust and confidence. In addition to my respect for Mr. Suri—you could say my affection—I was glad to be a part of making his business successful. The business of business interests me very much. I might be older than Mr. Suri by a number of years, but I could still swing my hips and offer compliments to his nature when it helped to make our business run smoothly. Russian women know how to get what they want: no distractions, no destruction.
    “I’d like you to do the morning shift. Garson has agreed.”
    “Eight a.m. to…?”
    “Just till four p.m. My brother and I will split the evening and overnight shifts.”
    “I can work on my room designs while I’m at the front desk.”
    “As long as you keep everything straight.”
    “Yes sir. At your service, Mr. Suri.”
    It made him uncomfortable when I called him sir, but he smiled and offered me the seat at the front desk in the office. It felt as if I were receiving an important award.
    “I have to go to Hartford to get a permit for the septic system,” he informed me.
    He winked at me as he turned to go outside.
    “Room five has twenty minutes left. They’ll need a warning soon,” he added.
    The March wind blew across the driveway and into the pine trees as he drove away in his large, gold Delta ’88. I tidied up the front desk and then made my call to room number five. The phone rang four times.
    “Hmm, huh?” a female voice responded.
    “Fifteen minutes,” I answered.
    There was no further discussion. We hung up simultaneously. I embraced my new assignment with the fervor of a flag bearer at a May Day parade in Moscow.



Chapter Seven: My Father
     
    Two weeks later, I unveiled room number one, “Gazebo in a Rainstorm,” to Mr. Suri. He was very impressed. Room number two had become the “Roller Coaster Fun Park.” There had been much activity at the motel and much gossip up and down Windsor Avenue about these rooms. The other motels were feeling the competition and had started to add their own attractions. The Flamingo’s sign read “Sun Lamps in Every Room,” the Windsor Castle added “Feel Like Royalty in Our Rooms,” and the Route Five Pay and Stay advertised “Lunch Hour Specials.”
    Capitalism was exciting, even with its flaws. To be positioned on top was a complicated goal for a Russian soul. I understood better now my childhood friend, Nadia, who was singular in her desire to compete and succeed above all her peers. She had a passion to possess and control in the face of any obstacle. When we were children she was always judging, comparing, and pushing us out of the way. She always wanted to seem superior and boasted about everything. I would always try to counter her attempts to make us feel inferior. Whether we were ten, twelve, or twenty, it was always pretty much the same. Here is a typical conversation, word for word.
    “My father makes more money than your father.”
    “Yes, Nadia, he does,” I said. Her father was a baker and a well-paid informant for the NKVD.
    “My house has more windows than yours.”
    “Big deal. More cleaning for your mother.”
    “My hair is straighter and shinier than yours,” she would say, flipping her long,