Martynova did come back with a hammer. I couldn’t go through with it. Maybe it was because of the hammer. Brought back bad memories. Maybe if she had come back with a screwdriver I would have tortured a man. I don’t like to think about that.
After I declined her off she sat on the porch smoking and watching me while I paced in the yard. In theory I was thinking about what to do but really my mind was going in circles uselessly. Martynova told me that when she was a girl she wanted to be a ballerina. In Russian they don’t fuck around with telling kids “you can do anything”. They told her after a couple years that she sucked and should quit.
Ballerina dreams dashed said that she wanted to be a chef next but she wasn’t any good at that either and they let her know. What she was good at was judo.
“I go to Brazil, win medal, father very proud. Now what? No ballet, no culinary school, mother says go to America, lots of money in America.”
I asked her why she was telling me all this. She said that she was just making conversation while I decided if I had the balls to fuck this guy up. She asked me if he was a bad man. I said yes. She said that it was be fine to hurt him. The government does it don’t they? That must make it alright.
I asked her if she knew anyone who might be able to . . . help. She dropped her cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with her bare foot.
“Oh, because I am Russian you think I must know mafiya? I am Russian so I sit around all day drinking vodkya with my mafiya comrades?”
I stammered half an apology before she smiled and cut me off.
“I joke with you Grace. Let me make call.”