I must have looked unsure about the prospect of moving to his country without knowing how to speak the language. I spent the last four months watching silly French films and practicing to become fluent in French. Had I known this was coming, I would have spent that time learning Russian.
I knew very little about life in Russia, except for what I read by Tolstoy. Of course, that was super outdated. I learned about Catherine the Great, how Napoleon’s army was defeated when winter came early, and the Romanov family’s demise during the Revolution. I knew the Soviet Union was devastated by the Nazis in World War II but was pivotal in ending the war. Then there was Communism, the Cold War, and the threat of nuclear annihilation with the United States. The Soviet Union broke up a few years ago. Russia was known for its space program, and Yuri Gagarin was the first man in space. They have world-class chess players and scientists. Russia invests heavily in education, which I admire. Oh, and I knew Russian bad guys in movies say “do svidaniya” before they kill someone. That’s about it. I was embarrassed by my ignorance, but I wasn’t a history buff. In my defense or complete lack of it, I didn’t know that much about American history either.
My impression was that chaos reigned in Russia today as the country struggled to move from government-run everything to a market economy. The administrative and economic shift was a considerable change. Surely it would take time to work things out.
Sergei seemed to sense my uncertainty and said,
“I will teach you Russian myself. We will give it one year. If you don’t want to stay, we will move anywhere in the world you want. I only have one requirement – to be near an international airport.”
Sometimes, I swear the man could read my mind. Russia couldn’t be that bad if he lived there and wanted me to join him. He had horses. I love horses! What was a year anyway? Nothing.
It was a deal.

St. Petersburg, Russia, June 1997
The sun was still up at 11:00 pm as we approached St. Petersburg. I recognized the Neva River snaking through the city, just as I had seen on the map in my atlas.
The passenger cabin erupted into applause as the plane landed safely on the ground. I was stunned by this unexpected burst of enthusiasm and turned to see my husband chuckling.
“It’s what we do,” he explained with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
The airport was disorienting, with signs spelled out in indecipherable Cyrillic letters. I could read none of it. Fortunately, Sergei was there to guide me, and we moved through customs quickly with minimal questioning.
Sergei’s bodyguards met us at the airport. I recognized Uvar from his trips to New York City. The burly man had light blue eyes, blond hair and seemed to be in his late 40s. His thick build reminded me of a retired football player – long legs, barrel chest, and muscular arms. He smiled warmly, showing off a complete set of crooked, discolored teeth.
“Welcome to Russia, Cassandra Davidovna Karpova,” he spoke in English.
I knew he didn’t speak English well and probably practiced that statement just to make me feel at home. I appreciated the gesture and said,
“Thank you.”
I looked to Sergei, who said, “Spasibo.”
“Spasibo,” I repeated to Uvar.
I was totally unprepared for this!

People did not always have the surnames we use today. In Russia, they used patronymics – your father’s first name, with ‘-ovna’ generally added to the end for a female and ‘-ovich’ for a male. The name is similar to English names like ‘Johnson’ that started as ‘John’s son.’ The patronymic moved to the middle position in Russia. Addressing someone with all three names together, as Uvar just did with me, is a sign of respect. Using the patronymic without the surname maintains confidentiality in case anyone is listening to a private conversation. Privacy is more of a concern than in the States, where people tend to be more open about everything. Sergei explained this tradition to me in an earlier conversation.
I remembered a sign on one of my psychology professor’s doors that said, “Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” I took it to mean there is a grain of truth in everything.
Karpov is a male surname in Russia. Karpova is the female version. The language is simply more gendered than English.
My new name meant Cassandra, daughter of David, a female of the Carp people. I laughed to myself. The original Cassandra was a Trojan princess with a gift of prophecy. The Greek name means ‘She who shines over men.’ Put that all together, and it sounds like the name of a fantasy role-playing character.

Sergei’s other bodyguard, Ilya, was younger, in his mid-twenties. He had rich brown eyes and loose brown curly hair to match. Strong jaw muscles added a certain intensity to his lean face, giving him a determined appearance. The way he held himself felt threatening as if poised for a fight. He looked like he spent whole days in the gym with his thick arms, powerful legs, and muscular torso. Perhaps these are good traits for a bodyguard, but he made me nervous. I assumed he was single because he did not wear a wedding band. While Uvar was very friendly, Ilya avoided eye contact and did not speak to me at all. He nodded in my general direction and looked away as we were introduced.
“Ilya is a little shy,” Sergei whispered into my ear as we settled into the backseat of a black Mercedes SUV with dark tinted windows while the men loaded our luggage into the back. He told me it was an armored car with bulletproof glass. My husband was just a businessman, not a politician or a celebrity.
“What are you worried about?” I asked.
“Just a precaution,” he replied cryptically.
Against what? I wondered nervously.

Just outside of St. Petersburg, the police pulled us over. An officer shined a flashlight in each of our faces and asked to see identification. I was petrified because he looked so commanding in his military-style uniform. When you don’t understand the language, anything a policeman says sounds threatening. I had a bit of a phobia of law enforcement in my own country, but this was far more frightening. Sergei gave my hand a reassuring squeeze and told me it was not a big deal. We were pulled over for speeding. That fact seemed debatable, but Uvar paid the ‘fine’ on the spot, and we were on our way. This sort of thing happened frequently.
There was still a two-hour drive ahead of us, and it wasn’t long before Sergei fell asleep. I was much too nervous for napping, so I studied the passing landscape. The area around St. Petersburg is coastal and flat. I’d read the city was built on reclaimed marshland by Peter the Great only 300 years ago, young by European standards. The city’s name changed to Leningrad during the Soviet era, and the original name returned after the Soviet Union disbanded.
The landscape gradually began to change as we drove to higher ground. The land was still relatively flat, but there was some variation in the relief. I was surprised to see there were many rivers, streams, and wetlands. Occasionally, I glimpsed a low hill. Birch and pine forests alternated with farm fields. I smiled when I saw fields planted with potatoes, a common crop in New York State.

St. Petersburg, Russia, September 1997

St. Petersburg is a city known for a vast sea of apartment complexes. The older apartment buildings appeared utilitarian and dismal, reminding me of the housing projects for poor people back home in the States. Newer, more attractive buildings offered larger dwellings and more amenities. There were few if any, single-family homes within the city. People with money seemed to combine multiple apartments or repurpose former office spaces into larger, modern homes for themselves. There were no exclusively wealthy or crime-ridden poor neighborhoods. I found this admirable, but I also wondered how long that would last as the economic gaps continued to grow. Russia was becoming more like the United States, and with that would come some of the same problems.
Lena and Piotr lived in a secure neighborhood for the ultra-rich well outside the city. Not many people knew about this exclusive community. The enclave was hard to find and completely concealed behind a wall of trees and privacy fencing. The entrance was gated and manned by armed guards 24 hours a day. Ilya stopped the Mercedes at the guardhouse, where a man checked our IDs against the Orlov’s guestlist for the evening. Once cleared, the gate opened, and we drove in to see the elite neighborhood of mansions and meticulously kept grounds.
The Orlov house was obscenely huge and extremely gaudy, with shiny gold surfaces everywhere. Lena had to have the best of everything, even if the ‘best’ was hideous. But who was I to judge? How people spent their money was not my concern. I brought her a bouquet and told her how much I loved her home. A white lie, perhaps, but I adored her, so the feeling was authentic. Lena was proud, and she loved to entertain. I couldn’t be happier to be there!

THE STAIN Copyright © 2021 by Catherine Ivers Norton
All rights reserved

This book took me along on a wild, exotic journey. I get to go along with Cassie to foreign lands, see Russia, have amazing adventures, and experience some incredibly spicy, sexy moments. Whoo-hoo! When I say it has it all, I mean that it has intrigue, passion, love, travel, and intense moments of self-discovery. So many other books I read are either too soft ~ all romance and perfect endings with no ‘umph’, or too sexual where I don’t have a relationship with the characters. But not in this book, The Stain. In her extraordinary first novel, Catherine finds the fine balance between love and lust, light and dark, and holds me there…. and I am caught!!!! I can’t wait for her next novel.