Zoya

“No, Mama, of course not,” Simon answered for her, he was obviously anxious to leave, and Zoya suddenly thought it all very funny. Their two lives, from such different beginnings had met in the middle somewhere, and after years of touting her title to some, she was now having to assure this woman that her father hadn't been a Cossack. And suddenly, she saw from the corner of her eye that Simon thought it was funny too. It was as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. And he decided to tease his mother a little. He knew she would be impressed, even though she might pretend to be horrified. He already sensed that his father approved, and even if his mother did, she wouldn't admit it. “Zoya is a countess, Mama. She's just too humble to use her title.”

“A countess of what?” his mother asked, and Zoya laughed openly this time.

“Of absolutely nothing anymore. You're quite right. All of that is finished.” The revolution had been nineteen years before, and although not forgotten, it seemed like part of another lifetime.

There was a long silence then, as Simon was thinking of how to make a graceful exit with Zoya, when his mother spoke in mournful tones, as though to whatever gods might be listening. “It's a shame she's not Jewish.” Simon smiled. It was as close as Sofia would come to saying that she liked her. “Would she convert?” She asked Simon pointedly as though Zoya were not in the room, and as Zoya sat looking startled, Simon answered for her.

“Of course not, Mama. Why should she?”

His father offered her another glass of wine, as Simon patted her hand, and his mother looked at Zoya with continuing interest.

“Simon says you have children.” It was more of an accusation than a question, but Zoya smiled, always proud of them.

“Yes, I have two.”

“You're divorced.”

Simon groaned inwardly as Zoya smiled at Sofia. “No, I'm a widow. My husband died seven years ago, of a heart attack.” She decided to tell her just so she didn't think she had killed him.

“That's too bad. How old are they?”

“My son, Nicholas, is almost fifteen, and Alexandra is eleven.” Sofia nodded, seemingly satisfied for once, and Simon took the opportunity to stand up, and say they had to go, as Zoya rose and thanked her for dinner.

“It was nice to meet you,” Sofia said grudgingly, as her husband smiled. He had barely spoken all evening, except occasionally, in a low voice to Simon. He was a shy man, who had spent half a century in the shadow of the far more talkative Sofia. “Come again sometime,” she said politely as Zoya shook her hand, and thanked her again in her aristocratic Russian. And Simon knew that the next day, she would call him and he would get an earful.

He escorted Zoya to the waiting Cadillac parked downstairs and heaved a sigh of relief as he slid behind the wheel, and looked agonizingly at the woman he loved.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here.”

Zoya laughed at the look on his face. “Don't be silly.” She leaned over and kissed him. “My mother would have been much worse. Just be grateful you don't have to face her.”

“I can't believe the questions she asks, and she wonders why I never bring anyone home. I would have to be crazy! Meshugge! “ he added in Yiddish, tapping his head to explain it to Zoya as she laughed and he drove her slowly home.

“Listen, just wait till Sasha starts giving you a hard time. So far, she's been an angel.”

“Then we're even. I swear, I'll never do that to you again.”

“Yes, you will, and I don't mind. I was just terrified she'd ask me something about the Tsar. I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't dying to tell her the truth,” she smiled. “I'm just glad we're not Romanovs. She would have collapsed over the dinner.” He laughed at the thought, and took her to the Copacabana for a while, to relax and drink champagne. As far as Simon was concerned, it had been a very rough evening. But Zoya was surprised at how smoothly it had gone. She had actually expected it to be worse, which horrified Simon.

“How could it have been worse?”

“She could have asked me to leave. At one point, I thought she would.”

“She wouldn't dare. She's not as mean as she looks.” He smiled sheepishly, “And she makes great chicken soup.”

“I'll ask her to teach me,” and then Zoya suddenly remembered something she had wondered. “Do we have to do kosher food?” But he couldn't stop laughing when she asked him. “Well, do we?”

“My mother would be thrilled if we did, but let me tell you, my love, I would refuse to eat at home. Just don't worry about that stuff. All right? Promise?” He leaned over and kissed her as the band started playing his favorite song, it was “I've Got You Under My Skin,” by Cole Porter. “Would you like to dance, Mrs. Andrews, or should I call you Countess Ossupov?”

“How about just Zoya?” She laughed as she followed him onto the floor.

“How about Zoya Hirsch? How does that sound?”

She smiled up at him as they danced, and they both laughed, thinking the same thing again. It was certainly an odd name for the Tsar's cousin.