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Arkady Galkin was a big, bald man around seventy with a great big potbelly and large, prominent ears with floppy lobes. He appeared to be deep in conversation with a red-haired, pale-skinned, hatchet-faced man wearing an earpiece. The man had a scar under his left eye.

Tatyana went right up to her father and interrupted him. “Pápachka,” she said, “this is my friend Paul Brightman.”

Galkin’s eyebrows were like gray caterpillars and seemed to move independently of each other. They shot up when she said “friend.”

“So you’re my daughter’s latest victim,” he said. He didn’t smile.

“I’m Paul Brightman,” Paul said with a grin.

“I’m Arkady Galkin. I own the joint. I know I don’t look like it, but appearances can be deceiving.”

“It’s a beautiful home,” Paul said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“So you work in finance, Mister Paul Brightman?” He had a thick Russian accent but seemed to speak English reasonably well.

“Right,” Paul said. So that was as much as Tatyana had told her father. Just to let him know his daughter wasn’t going out with some bum. “Finance” sounded serious and could mean anything.

“So, Paul Brightman,” Galkin said, “how you like working for Bernie Kovan?”

So he’d done his research. “He’s great,” Paul said. “He’s a mensch. Bernie’s not a psychopath like some other hedge fund managers.”

Galkin laughed. “So you are born in California. How you end up in New York?”

“Did an internship at Morgan Stanley my junior year in college, and then they offered me a job. One of our clients was Aquinnah Capital.” He paused and shrugged. “Well, I guess Bernie thought I was good, because he hired me.”

“He is good man?”

“He is.”

“Aquinnah Capital is good firm?”

“I’d say so.”

“Three billion under management.”

“Thereabouts. How do you know so much about my business?”

“It’s my business, too, Mr. Brightman.”

“Hedge funds?”

“Well, I like to do a little investing from time to time.”

“Probably more than a little,” Paul said with a crooked smile, looking around at the digs.

“I noticed you don’t like caviar,” Galkin said. “What do you like?”

So Galkin had seen him getting rid of his toast point. At least he hadn’t wiped out his mouth with the napkin.

“Actually, I could go for a good burger right about now, to be honest,” Paul said.

Galkin stared at him for a long time, a stern glower, and then abruptly burst out laughing as if he couldn’t maintain a straight face. He laughed so hard his belly shook. Then he said to Tatyana, “May I borrow your boyfriend for moment?”

Tatyana shrugged as her father gripped Paul’s shoulder and said, “Come with me.”

Paul walked along with Galkin. The crowd parted around them like the Red Sea. Galkin said nothing until they reached the swinging doors to an institutional-size kitchen bustling with cooks and servers. Inside the kitchen, in the damp warm air and amid the clamor, Galkin stopped and put an arm around Paul’s shoulders. “Out there is not real food,” he said.

He spoke in Russian to a short, round old lady who was stirring something in a pot on a large professional gas stove. She answered him, and then Galkin said something else, and then the old lady replied. Paul didn’t understand much of the conversation, of course, but he could tell by the woman’s tone and word choice that she wasn’t speaking respectfully. There was something a little snippy about the way she spoke to Arkady Galkin.

Galkin laughed, removed his arm from Paul’s shoulders.

The cook stopped stirring whatever she was stirring and left the stove.

“There is nothing like American hamburger,” Galkin said. “Nobody makes them as good as America. I think you grew up poor, yes?”

“I don’t know about poor,” Paul said, “but we struggled for money. My dad was constantly out of a job. How about you?”

“Six in a room in Moscow. Yes. One unreliable bathroom. If we were lucky, we got macaroni and cheese for dinner. Is different from American ‘mac and cheese.’ Not like Kraft. Macaroni with butter and green, moldy cheese. If we were very lucky, we would eat macaroni with butter and sugar for dessert. Mmm.”

Paul didn’t know how to reply. Was Galkin nostalgic for the foods of his deprived childhood? “I think you win,” Paul said.

“I am sorry we don’t have hamburger in house tonight. But I think you will like what Oksana gives us.”

The old lady had returned carrying two plates. On each was a sandwich of some kind made of dark bread. Paul and Galkin took the sandwiches, and then Galkin said something to the cook, nodding. Oksana said something snippy again and poked Galkin in the belly. Galkin roared with laughter.

Paul took a bite. The sandwich was delicious. It was pastrami, probably from one of the few remaining great delis in Manhattan.

“You like pastrami?” said Galkin.

“Very much. I’d forgotten how much I like it.”

But the bread, a sourdough black bread, was the best bread Paul had ever eaten, full stop. It was dense and moist, had the tang of vinegar, and he could taste a blend of flavors, coffee and caraway and molasses.

“And Oksana’s black bread—it is better than what you can buy in Mother Russia.”

“Fantastic,” Paul said, mouth full. “Truly excellent.”

“Yes?”

“Best I’ve ever had.”

“Now, finish your sandwich, and then we go out there and watch my poor guests eat fish eggs and soufflé.”

Paul nodded, chewing.

“You are very different from Tatyana’s usual boyfriends. Crazy artists or rich playboys. Very fancy.” Galkin flicked a forefinger against his nose. “You say ‘hoity-toity,’ yes?”

Paul smiled.

*

“Where did he take you?” Tatyana asked a little later.

“The kitchen. For a sandwich.”

She laughed. “He likes you, I think.”

“I guess. We definitely had a moment.”

She spied a woman she knew and waved, extending her arm and flapping her fingers down. “Meet Polina, my father’s wife,” she said.

Paul turned. Polina was a few inches shorter than Tatyana, had a long neck and prominent cheekbones, great arched eyebrows and large, liquid eyes. A sharp chin, full sexy lips, and a tangled mane of brown hair down to her shoulders. She was cool. She was hot. She was wearing an emerald-green mini dress with ruffles at the hem and sheer sleeves. The dress’s plunging neckline showed off her tanned breasts and a glittering emerald necklace. She wore an immense ring with a diamond the size of a jawbreaker.

“Polina, this is Paul Brightman.”

“ Very nice to meet you, Paul,” Polina said in a thick Russian accent, taking his hand in a two-handed clasp. “What a handsome man! How you and Tatyana meet?”

“At a gala at the Met,” Tatyana said with a smile. “He thought I was a waitress. A ‘cater waiter,’ he said.”

“Oh, yes?” Polina said, amused.

“I let him believe it.” Tatyana snaked her arm possessively around Paul’s waist.

“They must have very pretty waitresses at the Met,” Polina said.

“None as pretty as Tatyana,” said Paul. He could smell Polina’s perfume, something peppery and spicy.

“Or as smart.” Polina touched an index finger to her temple. “Or as . . . complicated.”

Tatyana took Polina’s elbow and kissed her cheek. They spoke briefly in Russian.

“She says you’re cuter than the last one,” Tatyana said to Paul, adding “which isn’t saying much.”

Polina said something else in Russian, shaking her head. Paul picked up some of the words. His Russian was starting to come back.

“She asks if you have a job, because the last one didn’t.” Tatyana said, then replied to her stepmother, saying something in Russian that sounded an awful lot like “hedge fund.” Turning back to Paul, she said, “My father doesn’t like lazy men.”

Polina kept speaking quickly in Russian.

Tatyana nodded, smiled politely. “ Nyet, nyet .”

“Now what did she say?” His college Russian didn’t get him very far, but it had sounded to him like a compliment. He got the word krasivyy , or “handsome.”

“She says, ‘Don’t trust him. He’s too good-looking.’”

Paul smiled, shook his head, couldn’t stop a blush from appearing.

Then Polina spoke in English. “Be careful, Mr. Paul. Remember what Pushkin tells us. ‘The less we love a woman, the more she likes us.’”

A waitress came and handed him a fresh flute of champagne, took away the old one.

“Okay, Polina,” Tatyana said. “That’s enough. We have to leave, sestrichka .” She kissed her stepmother on both cheeks.

As they left, Paul said, “ Spasibo .” Russian for “thank you.”

“ Pozhaluista ,” Polina said. “But why you leave before Michael Bublé sings?”