Behind the Codeine Curtain by Eli Dahle

PROLOGUE 

Paris, France, May 2011

I line them up before me on the marble counter, an orderly regiment of small brown and yellow cardboard boxes emblazoned with red Cyrillic letters that read Terpinkod.  Each box contains 10 little white pills neatly arrayed like soldiers standing to attention.  I sigh with relief as I look down at the familiar, comforting sight.  Eight packs, enough to get me through the afternoon.  With practiced fingers I quickly free the tabletky from their confinement with a satisfying pop that reminds me of the childhood sound of bubble wrap squeezed between thumb and forefinger as I helped my dad unpack wood stoves from their shipping containers at his store.  A miniature pyramid several inches tall rises quickly before me.  I fill a weighted, leaded glass cup with water and shovel the pills into my mouth in handfuls.  Shovel, drink, shovel, drink.  “You can do it,” I think to myself as I swallow, fighting the urge to gag that threatens to upend my careful efforts.  I reach out my hand to steady myself on the porcelain sink, count to ten and down the stragglers with a satisfied gulp.  I glance about the spacious bathroom, taking in the porcelain bidet, the rich red and gold wallpaper, the silver spigot, and the blue eyes underscored by dark smudges staring dimly back at me from the gilt-edged mirror. I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead with a thick cotton towel, paste a brave smile onto my face and open the door.  “Who’s ready for the Eiffel Tower?” I ask as I cross the room to hug my son and daughter. 

It is a warm, sunny spring day in April 2011.  My two children and I are enjoying a long weekend in Paris while my wife Maria sits in Moscow, recovering from the hell I had put her through over the past year.  In Paris we stay at the Plaza Athénée, a luxurious but child-friendly hotel steps from the Seine and Champs Elysees.  Sasha, my vivacious eight-year-old daughter, is most impressed by the ornate floral arrangements in the lobby; Theo, 4 and going on 15, falls in love with the viscous, European-style hot chocolate.   

We explore Paris from a kid’s perspective – not for us the Paris of Hemingway or Gertrude Stein – taking a boat cruise on the Seine and a tour of the Paris sewers, and visiting every toy store we pass.  Our only overt concession to high culture is a brief foray to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa and an obligatory trip up the Eiffel Tower which, with my fear of heights, can only be attempted under the influence.  After the long, cold Russian winter we are in heaven.  The weather is balmy, Paris is full of flowers and, despite the stereotypes to the contrary, Parisians are friendly, if only in comparison with the surly Muscovites that typically surround us.  Theo asks me why the streets are so clean; Sasha wonders where the bums are hiding. 

Aside from the idyllic nature of our little excursion, the trip is special because it is just me and my kids, exploring the city like Madeline and her orphan friends on our first ever foreign trip together without my Maria, who turns every vacation into a draining, regimented march past the sites in her guidebook.  

I turned forty-one just days before and am trying desperately to emerge from a terrible middle-age meltdown, marked not by length but by intensity.   Our trip is a symbolic end to what I call my bubble time, a joking reference to a serious matter.  A year earlier I crawled into my own drug-induced bubble to escape the stress of the world behind walls built of codeine only to discover a much darker, more nightmarish world inside.  This was a world filled with infidelities, delusion, addiction and theft that almost led to divorce, and much, much worse.  I’m trying hard to burst the bubble and emerge back into the real world.

Our time in Paris comes too quickly to an end in the way that the best vacations always seem to do as we grudgingly board a plane that Monday morning to return home to Moscow, the city I had called home for the past 11 years.  My driver meets us at the airport and Sasha, Theo and I sit together in the back seat of our BMW.  On the ride into town, my palms sweat and my stomach turns as we are confronted by the gray, soot-clogged skies, the crumbling, tumble-down apartment buildings that fill the horizon, the rude drivers and the endless traffic jamming muddy, potholed streets. 

We are no longer smiling Parisian imps but dour Muscovites, somber masks pulled over our faces. This is the city that has trapped us, like flies in a Black Widow’s net.  We had managed to escape for a weekend but it is a momentary reprieve.  We are now stuck once again. 

“Can we go back to Paris?” my son asks. 

“No,” I answer, “But soon we’ll be living in Malibu.” 

My dream of creating a new life seems to be within my grasp, so close I can already smell the eucalyptus.

As my kids and I pull into our driveway that evening, I see my wife waiting on the crumbling concrete stairs leading up to the entrance of our massive, Stalin-era apartment building.  This strikes me as odd as I had switched off my phone and she doesn’t know exactly when we are to arrive, suggesting she has been standing outside waiting for us for a long time.  She has an indescribable look on her face, a combination of anger and fear, confusion and hatred.  My heart pounds in my chest although I don’t yet know the cause of her agitation.  I resist the overpowering urge to ask my driver to turn the car around and speed away.  As we step out of the car she runs up like a dervish, screaming at me in Russian. 

“Debyl! Mudak!  What the hell did you do?  Your work has been calling me all afternoon.  They can’t reach you; they said it’s extremely urgent.”

“Hang on a sec, calm down,” I say, reaching a hand toward her that ends up dangling awkwardly in mid air between us, caught in waves of anxiety so palpable I can almost see them.  “There’s always a crisis at that dysfunctional place.  It’s like working with decapitated chickens.”

“This is different.  Their security goons are calling, threatening me, accusing me of hiding you.  I didn’t tell them where you are because I’m scared for you.  Scared for us.” 

Sasha and Theo stand open-mouthed, staring up at us. They look like two little deer caught in the headlights after a pleasant romp through the forest.  I know what they’re thinking as I’m thinking it too: what the heck is going on?  Unlike them, however, I have my suspicions.  Though I would like nothing more than to take the elevator up to our apartment and tuck them into bed, I realize that procrastination is not an option.

I lean down and kiss Sasha and Theo, burying my face in their hair and inhaling the scent of strawberry shampoo and airplane.  I hug them tight in an attempt to quell their fear, transfer my love.  “I have to go to work,” I say.  “I’ll see you later tonight.”  I dismiss my driver and climb slowly into the driver’s seat, my pulse pounding in my head and every nerve ending in my addled brain screaming at me to run away from the lion’s den.  Instead, I drive straight toward it.

My last memory of my family is of Maria and kids huddled at the top of the stairs waving to me as I back out of the lot. 

The nightmare is about to begin.