The UnAmericans: Stories Read Online Free

tired, and didn’t want to bother her. So I opened my guidebook and leaned toward the driver. “Vy hovoryte—”
    “Yes,” he sighed, “I speak English.”
    “Maybe you can show us some sights? Some old KGB stuff?”
    Sveta’s face cleared and she cringed. Through the rearview, she muttered something to the driver, and though I didn’t speak a word of Ukrainian, I recognized her expression—the international look of I’m sorry.
    As we made our way down a thin, cobbled street, she said something else to the driver and we stopped. Outside the window was a department store, glass-walled and wide, with mannequins in dresses and heels.
    “This used to be the shop where my grandmother work as stockwoman,” Sveta said, more to her lap than to me. “Now looks like Bloomingdale.”
    “That’s a good thing, no?” I said.
    The taxi started up again.
    “Maybe,” she said, but she stiffened. Then she sat upright, silently watching her city blur past, and all I could concentrate on was the way her nostrils widened and closed as she breathed.

    O UR HOTEL room in Kiev was just a sunken bed, a mini fridge and a green floral armchair pushed against a window. This was what the travel agent had called four-star? I opened my mouth to complain, but stopped. With Gail I would have said something, but maybe that had been part of the problem. On the second go-around I knew to keep things breezy.
    “Smile,” I said, pulling the camera from my fanny pack and aiming it at Sveta.
    “Stop with photos,” Sveta said, flopping on the bed. “How are you not feeling jet lag? My ears haven’t even popping.”
    I knelt beside her. The carpet was pale brown, the kind we had in my living room growing up. I kissed her. She let me. I read this as a go. I tucked my hand under her sweater.
    “Howard, I’m smelling like airport.”
    “So?”
    “What I’m needing is rest,” she said, blinking into sleep.
    I looked around the room, at our unpacked suitcases and the old floral chair and the brown carpet, and told myself not to overanalyze—there was nothing wrong with Sveta wanting a nap. I lay down and wrapped my arms around her, and then the exhaustion hit me, too.
    I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep when I felt her slip out of bed. She tiptoed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The clock on the nightstand read 12:18, but with the heavy drapes, was it A.M. or P.M. ? I yanked open the curtains, cracked the window and the cold air jolted me awake. Afternoon; we still had most of the day.
    When I turned the knob, Sveta stood at the sink, wiping her eye makeup off with a tissue. In the mirror her face looked weathered and puffy, older somehow—as if the flight had aged her. She stepped out of her sweater and jeans; I stared at a body still so amazingly new to me: her full white hips, the swelled curve of her upper arms. Her back was like some secret object being unveiled.
    She began to take off her bra when she saw me in the mirror. Then she hooked it back on. “You’re needing the toilet?”
    “I wanted to see if you’re okay.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as pleading to her as it did to me.
    “I’m fine, thanks.” She turned to face me and I was stunned by her expression: she seemed genuinely startled to see me standing there. “But you’re let all the cold come in.”
    “I’ll go check out the shops downstairs,” I said, walking out, not knowing what else to do. Just before the room door slammed shut, I saw Sveta step out of the bathroom and pick up the phone.
    “Galina,” she said after a moment.
    I waited. I pressed my ear to the closed door, but all I heard were hiccups. Then the hiccups broke into sobs.

    D OWNSTAIRS LOOKED like an American hotel lobby: potted ferns, gloomy nautical art, a pretty concierge tapping away with long pink nails on a computer. Men in glossy black loafers and dark mustaches—I had never seen so many mustaches—whispered into cell phones, conducting business I sensed