“If you insist.”
“You sound reluctant. Is something wrong with the kitchen?”
Everything is wrong with the damn kitchen. “You’ll see.”
We’re right in front of the open kitchen doors when something big and metallic falls to the floor with a crash. There is a split second of utter silence followed by throaty yelling so loud I flinch. When we get inside, I look around and feel like I just walked into a madhouse.
A huge bearded man in his sixties, wearing a white chef’s apron and a bandana over his head, is standing with his hands on his hips and shouting what I can assume are Russian obscenities. He’s not very tall, but he’s as wide as a truck. A big overturned pot of what looks like soup lays on the floor near his feet. Valentina and two other women, who I presume are Olga and Galina, run around the kitchen, getting rags and then kneeling to wipe the floor. Meanwhile, the cook stands still in the middle of a big puddle of soup. Varya is on the other end, near the big fridge, pointing at the cook and also shouting in Russian.
On the far right, there is a small dining table where Kostya and Dimitri are sitting, drinking coffee, and discussing something. They don’t look even slightly perturbed by the yelling match happening behind them.
Nobody even notices us.
“Is it always like this in here?” I mumble.
“Most of the time.”
The two women wiping the floor start arguing. One of them throws the rag to the other and heads toward the sink.
“They are just under your suite. How come I’ve never heard them before,” I ask in awe.
“I got the kitchen soundproofed.”
“Good call.” I nod, still staring at the chaos with amazement. “Should we leave them to it?”
Roman looks around himself, reaches for a thick cutting board, and smashes it down onto the metal counter beside him. The sound reverberates across the room, making me jump. Everyone shuts up.
“This is Nina,” Roman says. “My wife.”
I smile widely and wave in their general direction.
“Nina Petrova,” they all shout and nod at the same time.
“Oh, you can just call me Nina.”
“No, they can’t,” Roman barks.
“Honey!”
“End of discussion.”
“You are so stern, Roman.” I pout just a little, then turn toward the kitchen staff. “He is, isn’t he?”
They all watch me like I’m a simpleton. Perfect. I turn to Roman. “Can I stay here?”
“You sure about that?”
“Yup.”
“All right. I’ll be in my office.”
“I’ll drop by later.” I place a quick kiss on his cheek.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the table in the corner, trying to discuss the breakfast with Igor, the cook. He only speaks Russian, so Varya is acting as my translator. It’s not coming along well.
“Igor thinks you didn’t like hispiroshkithis morning,” Varya says. “He is afraid that thePakhanwill fire him or worse, if he hears you don’t like his food.”