Troika by Adam Pelzman Page B

exclusion of all else had, he believed, been one of the primary contributors to his success. Julian stared at the food before him and wondered what to do—start eating or wait until the adults began. Out of caution, he chose the latter.
    Frankmann continued. “I will call a couple I know in America, outside New York somewhere. I made them rich in the sixties and kept the husband out of jail in the seventies. And I always told them that one day I would collect my debt. Well, today’s their lucky day, Julian, because you’re going to be adopted by an old Petersburg couple. A husband and wife, Americans now with a fancy car and a house and cupboards stocked to the ceilings with food. They are good people, sneaky rascals of course, and they’ll protect you, educate you, feed and clothe you until you turn eighteen. How old are you now?”
    “Ten.”
    “Okay, so then you’ll have eight years with these people. And then, well, who knows . . .”
    “Okay,” Julian muttered, trying to hold back his tears, “eight years.” Despite the years spent without his parents and the resulting acceleration of his childhood, the thought of his future and permanent emancipation terrified him.
    “When will Julian be traveling?” Kira asked.
    Frankmann drove a fork into his venison and cut off a large piece. “It’s impossible to be kosher in Siberia, you know. In the big cities, it’s easier. But out here?”
    Puzzled, Julian and Kira stared at the old man, who dropped the meat into his mouth and chewed with great force.
    “Sir?” Kira asked. “The travel plans?”
    As Frankmann swallowed the chunk of meat, a rivulet of russet grease slid into his beard and mixed with the white bristles. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “You a fast learner?” he asked the boy.
    “The fastest, sir,” Julian responded, straightening his posture in the chair.
    “And competitive?”
    His confidence rising, Julian nodded and expanded his chest. “Just like my father, sir.”
    Frankmann cut another piece of meat and observed the boy. He had spent a long career sizing up people and had, through both success and occasional failure, developed a keen instinct that allowed him to quickly determine the strengths and weaknesses of a human being. He considered Julian’s parents, the boy’s ability to survive great tragedy, the knock on the office door, the assertiveness with which Julian demanded to be heard. “Two months, Kira. That’s all the time I will need with this boy.”
    “To do what?” Julian asked as he lifted his knife and fork and prepared to cut a piece of duck.
    “To teach you how to be rich.”
    Julian smiled wearily and placed his utensils back on the table. “When do we start, sir?”
    “We start now.” Frankmann took the pad and pen from Kira and handed them to Julian. With a linen napkin, Frankmann wiped the grease from his beard. “You see that waiter over there, the young man with the glasses? With the feminine features?”
    “Yes,” said Julian, unsure what it meant for a man to have feminine features.
    “Well, he came into town last week from the west, arrived by train, and he’s got a valise full of old books. Art books, history, old Russian literature, he had something by Lermontov, beautiful atlases, that sort of thing. He even had a few volumes in English, including a first edition of
Ulysses
, fourth printing. It was pretty clear from looking at the books, in perfect condition with plastic covers on them, that whoever used to own these was a serious collector. So the man pulls into town with the books and asks around, trying to find out who might be interested in buying the lot. Well, given I’m the only man in town with any real money, he ends up in my office. It turns out he’s a painter, an artist, and he came here to paint the sea and to capture the light for which we’re famous.”
    Kira and Julian look surprised. “I know,” Frankmann continued, “why
anyone
would want to live here