Chapter 1

Papa

“Rodion! Time to wake up. Our flight to America is today. Papa is waiting for us there.” I rubbed my eyes and saw Mama hovering over me. She had large purplish bags under her eyes, while the rest of her face looked pale. I jumped straight out of bed, immediately stumbling on the suitcase splayed open right by my bed.

“Good morning, Mama,” I looked up at her and stretched, a happy smile on my face, despite the dull ache in my foot that hit the suitcase.

I’d been waiting for this day all my life. All five years of it.

“Go have something to eat, Rodion, Auntie Lena is here. She’ll make you a sandwich.” Mama waved toward the kitchen, where I heard the clanking of cutlery. I walked in and saw our tiny kitchen table completely covered in dirty dishes. It reeked of alcohol. Several empty bottles of vodka stood by the wall.

“Rodion, here is a cheese sandwich. You gotta hurry and eat. The taxi will be here in twenty minutes.” Auntie Lena handed me a plate and disappeared. Auntie Lena was Mama’s best friend, and pretty much like family.

“Hey, dork.” I heard Sergei’s voice. My older brother walked into the kitchen, ruffled up my hair, and gave me a rueful smile. “Ready for the big day?” He winked at me, and, without waiting for an answer, left. I sat down at the kitchen table, pushing the dirty dishes to the side, and chewed on my sandwich.

America! I thought dreamily. From the corridor, I heard the sound that had become familiar in the last few days. A suitcase being opened and closed, followed by Mama’s sigh. Mama had been trying to pack our most important possessions into the six suitcases we would take with us to America. Two for each one of us. Mama, Sergei and me.

My whole life, it was always the three of us. Mama, Sergei and me. And I liked it that way.

Papa was a fairy tale character. Mama told me stories about him right before I went to sleep, shortly after reading me a story. So it was the three little pigs, and then Papa. Or Cinderella, and then Papa.

“One day, Papa will bring us to America. And then, we’ll live in a big house, on a pretty street, in a town called Pittsburgh.” This was the story I heard right before falling asleep, night after night. “Papa works very hard, and soon we’ll all move there. Very soon, Rodion.” The fairy tale had lots of details, like how big and strong Papa was, how handsome, how hard he worked and how much he loved me, and how badly he wanted to see me. “Papa can’t wait to meet you, Rodion. He loves you very much.”

I remember being happy in Moscow. Life made sense, and Mama was happy. She always smiled. And Sergei always played his guitar. I know he must have done other things, like went to school, or hung out with friends, but in my memories of our life in Moscow, Sergei always sat in our living room, playing songs from the band Kino, while watching its lead singer, Viktor Tsoi, sing on the screen. Tsoi looked intense. He wore black and looked cool. Sergei wanted to be like Viktor Tsoi when he grew up. So when the song was done, Sergei rewound the tape and the process all over. Watching Tsoi and signing along.

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It was always the same song. “The Star Called Sun.” I stood watching, right next to my older brother, singing along, because by then I knew the words by heart and I could carry a tune, probably even better than Sergei. I knew that one day my brother would ask me to make it official, so we could perform together.

And Sergei finally said it:

“When you’re older, little bro, you can join my band.” I’d been waiting for years for this very phrase, and I jumped up in excitement and sang even louder.

“Alright, alright, Rodion, don’t get too excited.” Sergei shook his head in mock contempt, but I knew he loved me, and then he rewound the tape and started from the top.

Sometimes, when Mama wasn’t too tired, she told me the story of how she and Papa met at the Lab. The Lab was where she worked as a technician. The Lab was part of some Research Institute. The story of how they met was part of family lore, just as much as the fairy tale of how Papa waited for us in America.

“Sergei had just started second grade, and I was late for work one day. I had to drop your brother off, you see. So I was rushing, not paying attention to where I was going, and a handsome guy bumped into me in the corridor.”

“And that was Papa?” I’d ask, eyes wide, staring at Mama in excitement. The story never got old.

“Yes! That was Papa! He was just like a prince. He came to the Lab and swept me off my feet!” Mama would stare at a distance, and the look on her face dreamy.

“And then what happened?”

“And then Papa and I went to see a movie. And then he got me flowers. And a few months later, I learned that I’d have a little boy.”

“Me?” I’d ask. Fortunately for Mama, back then, I wasn’t very concerned with the exact mechanics of how watching a movie or getting flowers led to a baby.

“Yes, sweetheart. That was you. And then you were born. And I named you after your grandfather. Rodion.”

“Your Papa?”

“Yes, sweetheart. My own Papa. It’s a very special name. It means heroic and brave. And you’re my little hero.”

Then Mama would usually get very quiet. All I knew about my grandfather was that he died when Mama was young and that she barely knew him. The only thing remaining from my grandfather was a two-tome edition of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ published in 1946, and a hunting knife engraved with my grandfather’s name.

Rodion Likharev.

And that was my name, too. Mama, Sergei and I all had her maiden name, and it was to honor her Papa, grandpa Rodion.

“One day, sweetheart, when you’re older, you’ll inherit your grandfather’s knife. It’s already got your name written right here.”

Mama would take out the hunting knife and show me, allowing me to feel the steel, its cool blade, and run my finger on it. Then, she’d put it away and open up ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’

I don’t remember the first time Mama read it to me, but by the time I was five, I knew the story of the Count and his miraculous escape from Chateau d’If by heart. Mercedes was the prettiest name any woman could have, and Edmond Dantes was a courageous and just man.

And now, the knife, the two-volume edition of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ were safely packed in our suitcases and coming with us to America.

To Papa.