“You must be Jordan,” growled the Creature, who then looked at Chandler and said, “Oh, cute-cute, very cute.”
I felt Chandler shudder in my arms, as the Creature grabbed her hand and muttered, “Hi, munchkin!I am Inna, and thishere is Yulia.” With that she nearly swung Yulia into the forefront, as if she were a blond peace offering.
It seemed clear the two came as a package.
Yulia smiled, and her teeth were as white as porcelain. Her features were fine and even and chiseled to near perfection. She had pale blue eyes shaped like a cat's, which revealed something that the rest of Yulia's appearance otherwise camouflaged: that somewhere along the way, perhaps five hundred years ago, an invading Tartar had raped one of her ancestors.
Daintily, Yulia reached forward to shake Chandler's hand. “ Alloa,”she said with a surprisingly thick accent. “I am Yulia. What is your name, beautiful?”
“Chandler,” my daughter said in a shy voice, and then I waited for her to attack—to say something like, “Oh, another stupid blonde, eh?” or, more likely, “My daddy already has a girlfriend and he cheats on her all the time!” But, instead, all she said was, “You have very nice hair, Yulia,” to which we all started laughing.
Yulia said, “Well, you are very sweet, Chandler,” and then she turned to Inna and started saying something in rapid-fire Russian. Her voice was soft and sweet, almost melodic, in fact, but the only word I could recognize was krasavitza,which meant beautiful.
We spent another minute or so making small talk, but Chandler was growing restless. In fact, just what little gem of poison she might choose to sputter in Yulia's direction was anyone's guess, so I excused myself with a wink and a smile.
As I was leaving, I said to them, “Make yourself at home. My house is your house,” to which Yulia smiled warmly and said thank you. Inna, however, didn't smile at all and didn't say a word. She simply nodded her head once, as if to say, “Of course I will!” After all, in her ownmind, she had done her job well. She had come to Meadow Lane bearing gifts, so she was entitled now to devour anything and everything in sight.
While there was no denying that Inna was a world-class eyesore, I would have never guessed how adept she was at earning her keep. Later that evening, after the Duchess had picked up the kids and the party was winding down, Inna suggested that the few remaining Romans, eight of us in all, take a ride to East Hampton to catch a movie. It struck me as a reasonable idea at first, which quickly became a fabulous idea before we even made it out of the driveway.
“Come on,” Inna growled to Yulia. “Let's drive with Jordan. We'll pick up the car later.”
“That's a great idea!” I agreed quickly, and indeed it was.
Amid all the madness, Yulia and I had hardly had a chance to speak. Complicating matters, her English was borderline horrific, so any meaningful conversation would have to take place in silence, without distractions. The only problem was that Inna would now be sitting in my rear passenger seat with us.
But, once again, she was one step ahead.
The moment Yulia had climbed into the front passenger seat of my Mercedes the Creature growled, “I gotta go pischka.You two go on ahead; I'll catch up with you at the theater.” And, just like that, Inna turned on her thick, calloused heel and waddled back up the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, Yulia and I were alone in my Mercedes, driving down a wide country road on our way to East Hampton. At eight p.m. on a Sunday night, the traffic was going the other way, so we were moving along at a pretty good clip. We had the windows open, and the sweet scent of Yulia's perfume was mixing with the earthy scents of hay and pine in a most delicious way.
Keeping one eye on the road, I was sneaking peeks at her out of the corner of my other eye, searching for even a hint of a bad angle. There was none. She was absolutely perfect looking, especially those long, bare legs of hers, which she had crossed at the thighs. She was doing something very sexy with her foot—letting her right sandal dangle from the tips of her toes and slowly swinging her foot up and down. I tried my best to keep my eyes on the road.
Through the sound of rushing air, I raised my voice and said, “So what was it like winning that contest? Did it change your life forever?”
“Yes,” replied Yulia, “it is beautiful outside.”
Whuh?I had been referring to the rather astonishing fact that Yulia Sukhanova was the first, last, and certain to be the only Miss Soviet Union. After all, the Evil Empire was now residing in the failed-nation-state crapper—next to Rome, the Third Reich, the Ottoman Empire, and King Tut's Egypt—so there would only be Miss Russias going forward.
Still, Miss USSR or not, Miss Yulia was even weaker in the English department than I had originally expected. I needed to cut her some slack and keep things simple. “Yeah,” I said, “it's a beautiful night for a drive.”
“Yes,” she replied, “it will start at nine o'clock this night.”
What the…?“You mean the movie?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, I like to go to movies.”
Themovies, I thought. How come these female Russkies couldn't say the word the?What was so fucking difficult about it? Well, whatever. The beauty queen was gorgeous, so her deficiency could easily be overlooked. Changing the subject, I asked, “So do you think Inna will show up tonight?”
Thatone she caught. “No ways,” she said. “This is Inna for you. Always playing… uh… how do you say this in English, uh… svacha.”
“Matchmaker?” I offered.
“Da, da!”exclaimed the linguistically challenged beauty queen.
I smiled and nodded, feeling like I'd just reached the pinnacle of Mount Everest. So emboldened, I reached across the center console and grabbed Miss Soviet Union's hand. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?” I asked bashfully.
Just as bashfully, she replied, “Three months now.”
I stared at her for a moment. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “This is last time hand held.”
“Really? That long?”
She nodded. “Da;this is when I break up with boyfriend.”
“Ohhhh,”I said, smiling. “You mean Cyrus, right?”
Her blue eyes popped open. “You know Cyrus?”
I smiled and winked. “I have my sources,” I said slyly.
The “Cyrus” I had referred to was none other than Cyrus Pahlavi, the shah of Iran's grandson. I had done quite a bit of checking on Yulia that afternoon. I had found out that she'd just ended a three-year relationship with Cyrus, who, two years prior, had replaced the prince of Italy as her main squeeze. A royalty-monger, I'd thought.
In essence, Yulia had come to America as an ambassador of goodwill, arriving in 1990 under the watchful eyes of Mikhail Gorbachev, Boris Yeltsin, and Mikhail Khodorkovsky, the then-head of the Komsomol, the Young Communist League, and now the richest man in Russia. More than anything, Yulia was a propaganda tool: bright, educated, cultured, classy, graceful, charming, and, above all else, drop-dead beautiful. She was meant to represent the very best of what the Soviet Union had to offer and, for that matter, Communism as a whole.
It was a wildtale—one of political intrigue and financial skullduggery—but everything was starting to make sense to me. There was a reason why Yulia stood out so regally among the Romans: She was supposed to. A hundred million women had vied for the job of “first Miss Soviet Union,” and Yulia Sukhanova had won. She had been groomed and trained to carry a single message: that the Soviet Union was best.
Upon her arrival in America, Yulia met with Nancy Reagan, George Bush, Miss USA, newscasters, socialites, rock stars, dignitaries, and diplomats. Ultimately, she traveled around the country, doing ribbon-cuttings and hosting game shows, while she served as a proud representative of the Motherland.