At The Sputnik Hotel

Published in The Truth About the Fact: International Journal of Literary Nonfiction 5.1 (Spring 2010)

My parents separated when I was two. My mother had gathered her most valuable possessions—a down pillow and me—and took off on a plane, from Erevan to Moscow. In 1976, after four years of desperate battle and several piles of tedious paperwork, my parents were officially divorced.

All I knew about my father was what little my family had told me. Nobody was angry, and they blamed it all on the differences in cultures. At first, my Armenian grandparents used to send some money and sun-dried fruit from their garden—golden raisins, purplish dates, and flattened, chewy figs. But a few years later, soon after my father had remarried, their good-will packages ceased. My mother didn’t save any wedding pictures, and his thirty rubles, the alimony that my mother had to claw out of his salary, was the only memento I had of my father until the age of fifteen. That and a faded scrap of newspaper my mother had kept since their dating days.

It was an old article about the first movie theater without a ticket collector. A metal box with a hole for money had been placed on one side of the entrance door, and the roll of tickets hung on the other. My father was the head of the community building, a small civic center, and the first to suggest such a theater. It rocked Armenia and the town my father worked in, since the amount of money exhumed from the metal box always fully coincided with the amount of tickets torn from the roll. The article promoted such a theater, praised the people’s honesty, and honored my father.

I often peered at the yellowed page, trying to make the connection. His face was cut in half by the crease where the newspaper had originally been folded, light shooting through the many tiny holes it now had. He appeared young and sophisticated, his coal-black curls pushed back. In the background, grape vines plaited their many spindly fingers, and farther away Mount Ararat rose in the fog. I didn’t know if my mother would get upset with me for dragging her life back out of the old drawer, so I never looked at the paper when she was home.

In the winter of 1985, my aunt worked as a receptionist at the Sputnik Hotel. Late one afternoon, she spotted a tall, weary man sauntering through the front doors toward the elevator. He looked familiar but changed.

“It’s him,” she yelled in my mother’s ear ten minutes later while I ate my dinner. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. As blind as I am. I was filling out papers and just happened to turn my head. I don’t think he saw me. Anyway, I double-checked the name. It’s him. No doubt. Staying until Thursday. You ought to send Tina here. It’ll be a hell of a surprise.”

My mother put the phone down and raised her formidable brow at me.

“Do you want to meet your father tomorrow?” she asked, primping my hair. “You’ll have to miss school.”

That evening, three of my mom’s best friends flocked to our one-bedroom apartment on Proletarskaya. Two came with their teenage daughters, my childhood cronies, Lena and Katya. One brought a new pair of jeans for me to wear tomorrow. I had a pretty mohair sweater to match it. A lady across the hall offered her new rabbit hat with earflaps. My granddad had bought me a winter coat two years ago, and all the women agreed it still looked decent. A bright scarf and my brown curls should be able to hide its weathered collar.

In the kitchen, the women savored their black tea and my mother’s just-baked cookies in painful anticipation of the next day while Katya, Lena, and I played cards on the bed and argued as always.

We crammed into my place most of the time—I was the only one with a room of my own. My mother had sacrificed her bedroom and moved into the living room, where she slept on a sofa, trapped between an old piano and tall, heavy bookshelves. Reading was my mother’s passion, the only luxury she could afford. Books were cheap but priceless, she often preached to me. Besides, they were supposed to stay fashion-proof in all the years to come.

“I wish I could see my father, too,” Lena said and took a warm cookie from a plate, sinking her teeth into the doughy flesh.

“Maybe you will. You never know. Maybe your aunt will spot him too, somewhere in the lobby of a big hotel. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” I tickled her foot, smothered in a big warm sock.

“I don’t think so.” Lena gazed into the blackness of the bedroom window. The wind wailed outside. “I remember those fights when he accused mama of messing around. Like she wanted to tie him up with his own children. He needed the proof that we were his. Mom said that if she caught any of us talking to him, we’d be damned forever.” She fetched a smile and reached for another cookie.

“It’s better that way,” Katya said, studying her cards. “At least he didn’t drink. Look at us, always on our way to or from rehab clinics. Mom keeps telling us he’ll get better. But come on. Who is she kidding? Seventeen years, and only three days sober. It could be worse, though. At least he’s too drunk to hit us or anything. Did you hear about Nina’s dad? Drunk and naked all the time. I guess we’re lucky, huh? Does anybody want it?” She grabbed the last cookie and stretched on the bed.

“Ready to go?” Katya’s mom peeped in the door. “We have to pick up the dry cleaning. They close at eight.”

Ten minutes later I could see them out the kitchen window as they shuffled through the snow, their furry mittens pressed against their faces.

My mother and I were putting the last dishes away.

“You know, Tina, your dad will probably offer to buy you things tomorrow. He used to be very generous.” She wiped the plastic kitchen table clean.

“I’ve noticed. I’m sick of his endless gifts.”

“Don’t get smart with me. I was the one to leave, remember?”

“But why? Why did you leave him? And, please, spare me that differences-in-culture bullshit.”

“Hey, hey. Watch your mouth. I hope you won’t talk like this tomorrow. Don’t embarrass me and the rest of the family.” She paused for a while and then said, “Your father had an affair. The woman got pregnant and—”

“I have a brother?” I asked, twisting the towel in my hands.

“A sister, half-sister. Her name is Salbina. They live in Erevan.” Dropping the dishrag in the sink, my mother wiped her hands on her frayed apron and leaned against the wall. “I still remember him picking grapes from the garden and bringing them to me every morning in my last month of pregnancy. They were so taut and so sweet.” She grew silent, staring at her hands, turning them palms up then down, as though confused by their shape or color.

I didn’t know what to say, so I reached forward and touched her shoulder, then her short, gold-streaked hair coiling above her earlobe. She trembled and picked up the dishrag and began to squeeze out the excess water.

The next morning, we kissed each other good-bye in a crowded subway station. She left for work, and the hustling passengers carried me outside. I watched my bus pull off and decided to walk, painting the upcoming meeting in my mind. What to say first? Hug or no hug? Should I call him Papa? What if he didn’t recognize me? Not a chance—my grandmother always said I looked like he’d birthed me.

An early morning frost bit my cheeks. I pulled the earflaps down and sank into my scarf, peeping from under my rimmed bangs. Maybe he’d take me shopping. A pair of jeans would be nice. Katya could borrow them sometime. Or maybe a new hat or a coat. I tallied all the missed holiday gifts, hoping Mom wouldn’t get mad. But if she didn’t have to spend all her money on me, she could afford to buy herself a new pair of boots or a sweater. She was long overdue for something. It was spitting snow, and I watched the snowflakes dance in the air. I took my woolly glove off and tried to catch one, but its delicate white lace melted on my hand.

My aunt was pacing the lobby as I walked through the heavy glass doors of the Sputnik Hotel. The floors glistened clean, and tall marble columns propped the ceiling, with crystal chandeliers swinging low on golden chains.

“He is on the 10th floor, suite 1012,” my aunt said. “I haven’t seen him out yet. Do you want me to take you?”

“No. And you don’t have to wait on me either. I may be long. Don’t worry, I won’t let anybody down.” I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button.

1012.

Lingering, I crammed my gloves in the coat pockets and gave the door a weak knock.

“Just a minute,” a voice muttered.

I winced and plucked my hat off, trying to rearrange my wet bangs. Defrosted, they dripped on my cheeks. A lock turned, and a tall man dressed in a double-breasted suit and black shiny shoes appeared in front of me. His gray curly hair was pushed back, his high forehead furrowed with wrinkles.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m—”

“Tina?”

I nodded.

There was a long pause before I stepped into the room. His dark eyes avoided mine. He folded my coat carefully on the back of a chair. I rushed to spread my scarf on top of it, hoping to masque the weathered collar. Still clutching the wet fur of my hat, I waited. The phone rang, cutting through the awkwardness. My father didn’t answer it but, pointing to a blue velour chair, invited me to sit down.

“I saw your aunt yesterday, down at the lobby,” he said. “I didn’t know if she recognized me. I guess she did. Tea?”

“No. Thank you.” I diverted my eyes from the big box of chocolate cookies on a coffee table. My wet hat stained Lena’s jeans, and I threw it on the floor. “I just thought I’d come and meet you,” I finally said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. I’m glad you did. I’m really glad you did.” My father unbuttoned his Jacket and sank into the opposite chair. “Have some.” He pushed the cookie box closer to me. “They’re good. Not exactly homemade, though.” He lit a cigarette and puffed a chain of smoke rings to the ceiling.

I picked up a cookie and took a bite, catching the crumbs with my other hand. “These are good,” I said, chewing slowly. “You know, Mom makes the best cookies. She baked some yesterday.”

He smiled and pressed his cigarette into the glass bottom of an ashtray, twisting it bitterly, orange specks like fireflies jumping in the air. “Tell me about yourself. School. Hobbies. Everything. I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“School is fine,” I said. “It’s a specialized English school. I have mostly A’s, except math. I take piano lessons and play tennis. Mom drags me to every theater, museum, and exhibition imaginable and forces me to read a new book every month.” I shot the words out into my father’s face and laid the half-eaten cookie on the table.

“How is your mother? Is she still working at the Ministry?”

“Sure does. Makes good money, too.” I lied.

Mom quit that job years ago. She worked in a kindergarten until I started school. Then she was lucky to find a job as a maid in a big international hotel. Hours were good, and tips were even better. Sometimes, she brought home gifts—gum, Coke, pantyhose, even shirts and perfume some rich foreign guest from a faraway country had left for her in one of the rooms. I often invited Lena and Katya over. Together, we chewed gum and sipped pop, praising the kindness of a foreign stranger.

Silence swamped the room, our eyes drilling the opposite walls. I wanted to ask about his life and my half-sister—what grade she was in, what books she read, what instruments she played, movies she watched, clothes she wore. But my tongue swelled inside my mouth and stuck to my teeth. I continued to sit—my hands pressed against my knees—as if behind a school desk or at the principal’s office, where I had been sent a few times in the past.

“Listen, Tina. I really have to go now. I’m already late for a business meeting.” My father confirmed it with his gold watch. “But I think I have some time tomorrow morning, before the plane leaves. Maybe we can have breakfast together or go shopping. Sound good?”

I picked up my hat and stood up, pondering his words.

“I can’t. I have a very important test tomorrow at school.” I lied again. My face was on fire, betraying my heart. I felt sorry for him and for my mother, but also angry at myself—angry for thinking that some meaningless gifts can excuse his absence from my life or breach the years between us. I grabbed my coat from the chair, the scarf gliding to the floor.

My father picked it up and wrapped it slowly around my neck.

“Stay warm, girl,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning. Maybe they’ll cancel your test, and we can do something together.”

I stampeded out of his room, and the elevator rushed me downstairs, where the big glass doors of the Sputnik Hotel swung behind me.

Walking as fast as I could toward the subway station, I clutched my hat in my hands. People wondered at my hot tears. Mixed with snow, they rolled down my face as I tried to catch them with my sleeves. I wanted to see Mom, to wind my arms around her neck and tell her I didn’t care we were poor—it wasn’t her fault. I wanted to tell her I was sorry she had to wash rich men’s shirts late at night and press them early in the morning, trying to make a ruble or two, gum, Coke, pantyhose. I knew she did it for me. I remembered new crisp money tucked in my slippers once a year, on my birthday. She said it was from my father until I caught her sneaking into my bedroom the night I was about to turn ten.

A long hour later, I got back home. Kicking my wet boots off, I ran to the desk and took the old article out of the drawer and tore it into hundreds of infinitesimal pieces that fell between my fingers and snowed on the faded-blue rug. I dropped the hat and coat near my bed and climbed in, curling under a blanket head-to-toe and finally dozing off. As I slept, I dreamed of being my mother, of standing near her bedroom window and watching fog crown Mount Ararat, of plucking taut sunny-yellow grapes from a clipped vine in my hands and feeding them to my child—still growing inside my belly.

My father didn’t call me the next day.

“At The Sputnik Hotel” appeared in The Truth About the Fact: International Journal of Literary Nonfiction 5.1 (Spring 2010).