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****Talia Carner’s Hotel Moscow is the eighteenth in a never-ending
series called INSIDE THE
EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris
Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction
genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION
links
are at the end of this piece.
However, when
polling my Facebook friends and followers, those under the age of 55 were
mostly unfamiliar with the name Sputnik (the first satellite launched into
outer space by the Soviet Union.) “Moscow” seemed more appropriate, as it told
more about the book.
Mainstream fiction
suspense, historical-psychological suspense. 400 pages plus 30 more interviews,
photographs, reader’s guide and other background material.
Published June 2015 by HarperCollins.
What is the date you began writing this piece of
fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I started writing it on November 3rd, 1993 at 2:48 PM, soon
after my return from Russia and being chased by the militia. That maiden effort
was never published, so 20 years later I used the rich research material to
send the protagonist I was developing to Russia as I wanted to see how she
would react to the events.
Where did you
do most of your writing for this fiction work?
And please describe in detail.
And can you please include a photo? I have an
office in each of my two homes, both with water view, which I find soothing.
In those late hours I may
pour myself a glass of wine, but no more than one. It is important to mention that most “writing” is
actually editing and revising. I literally go over each manuscript between 40
and 80 times. To that end, I have an editing chair, where I read the printed
manuscript and make corrections and notations by hand. 
Can you give the reader just enough information for
them to understand what is going on in the excerpt? The protagonist arrives in Moscow, and barely leaves the airplane when she
encounters Soviet mentality, corruption and brutality that puts her in danger.
Please include excerpt and include page
numbers as reference. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
DAY 1: Thursday, September 30, 1993
The plane had emptied by
the time Brooke Fielding strode down the ramp tube of the Moscow airport, her
burgundy-colored raincoat and overnight case strapped with an elastic cord to a
wheeled carrier. In the narrow, windowless Jetway, the two last passengers
followed right behind her, men lugging clear plastic bags that sported a Duty
Free Shop logo and were stuffed with cigarettes, whiskey, perfumes, and a
variety of cheeses and sausages.
The significance of the
moment billowed in Brooke’s chest: She, an American, was arriving in Russia a
mere twenty-one months after the collapse of communism. Like a pioneer, she’d
get a taste of the sights, sounds, and flavors of a country few Americans had
visited since the days of the czars. Even though she’d had a sense of “there”
through her parents’ Eastern European upbringing, she expected the experience
awaiting her in Moscow would be unlike anything she’d ever had before. On
Monday, when her company’s new management had ordered her to take her unused
vacation days, she’d called her friend Amanda Cheng to let her know that she
had become available to join Amanda’s women’s mission. She would use her
business skills to help Russian women vault over decades of stagnation.
At the sound of swooshing behind her, Brooke
glanced back to see that the far end of the Jetway had detached from the
airplane and was closing with a soft whine. Brooke hurried along, pushed to a
faster pace by the two men at her heels, when a small, triumphant voice inside
her burst out. Russia, I’m
returning on behalf of all my millions of nameless fellow Jews lost on your
soil. You didn’t destroy us, after all. She
lifted her head. I’m here.
This was a new Russia,
Brooke reminded herself, different from the Russia that had experimented with
its people’s lives and minds. This new Russia was fighting for liberty, placing
the individual’s right for happiness over the collective’s good, and as it
struggled to free itself from bigotry, so should she. The negative, judgmental
attitudes merely reflected her mother’s prejudices.
Brooke was nearing the
door separating the Jetway from the main terminal when a guard approached it
from inside. His eyes hooded with boredom, a machine gun dangling from the
strap across his chest, he unfastened a door stopper and swung the door shut,
locking it, then turned to leave.
“Hey!” Brooke waved,
rushing forward. “Wait!”
But the guard just
tossed her a blank look through the glass, and walked away.
“I’m still here!” she
called to his retreating back. She banged on the door.
“They have orders.” The
younger of the two men behind her spoke in heavily accented English. He wore a
rumpled blue suit with a wrinkled open-collar shirt. The older man shook his
head of dandelion-fuzz hair and rested his shopping bags on the floor.
From outside rose the
hum of a forklift and the thuds of luggage falling onto a conveyor belt.
“Welcome to Russia,” Brooke muttered. She adjusted her watch for the time zone.
Seven o’clock in the morning was midnight yesterday in New York. She banged
again on the glass door, but could see the empty corridor beyond. Amanda and
the other ten women executives recruited for this Citizen Diplomats mission
must have reached passport control. They would be worried.
The hair falling on
Brooke’s cheeks smelled of microwaved airplane food and recirculated air. She
tucked a strand behind her ear and took a deep breath. Eventually, someone
would let her out; no one got stuck at an airport terminal forever. She glanced
at her companions. The two Russian men stood motionless, as if forbidden to
even lean against the wall for support.
Brooke hated losing
control, which had been happening all week. Last Friday afternoon she was
called to an unscheduled staff meeting at which her investment firm’s CEO
cheerfully reported that they had been taken over. His faux optimism only made
Brooke wonder how big a golden parachute the new owners must have opened for
him. He was no doubt making a soft landing into a pile of several million
dollars. She left the meeting in a daze and ran off to the synagogue for the
start of Yom Kippur. In observance of the day her parents had never honored,
she absented herself from her colleagues’ frantic phone calls until Sunday.
The uncertainties she
and her colleagues pondered on Sunday were sealed Monday when the Wall Street Journal speculated that the takeover would
probably result in a bloodbath for the current employees. That afternoon,
Brooke and other executives were told to take off two full weeks, a gambit to flush
out fraud by keeping the staff away from their accounts so they could be
examined unhampered.
Not even allowed to
visit the office, Brooke would be absent when she most needed to impress the
new management, when her clients would be introduced to new teams she had never
met, leaving her out of the loop. Never before had she experienced the
insecurity of a job suddenly in jeopardy. Her CEO, her mentor, had betrayed
her.
But adding expertise on
Russia’s new economy would help her keep her hard-won executive position. Not
only did Brooke have the opportunity to help Russian women on this trip but she
could poke her nose into business ventures of this nation untangling itself
from a seventy-year time warp. She would return to New York brimming with new
ideas and investment opportunities. She might even refresh the Russian language
that must be lying dormant in her grey cells; she had heard it often enough in
her childhood when her mother and her mother’s friends still spoke it among
themselves.
This trip would be a
win-win situation, Brooke had decided that Monday night.
On Tuesday, the
mission’s Russian host had arranged for Brooke’s visa while she splurged for
gifts the group could provide the women they would be counseling. On Wednesday
she had boarded the flight, and now, Thursday morning, here she was, stuck in
Moscow airport.
She faced the two
Russian men and smiled. “Do you live in New York, or were you visiting?”
The older man’s gaze
fixed on her throat, then turned away.
Brooke touched the spot he’d looked at and felt
her Star of David hanging on a chain. “What exactly are we waiting for?” she
asked.
No response.
On the tarmac outside,
the conveyor beeped the mutiny of a thousand crickets. Her suitcase was
probably circling the carousel, all alone, the name tag flapping. She hoped it
wouldn’t be stolen while she was imprisoned here.
Brooke banged on the
door again. “Hello? Anybody?”
When no one answered, she sat down on the floor
and crossed her legs, glad that she’d worn her comfortable gabardine pants. So
much for discovering Russia. As a little girl, she loved exploring new places.
Her mother became anxious whenever young Bertha Feldman—as Brooke was called
until she unshackled herself from both her Diaspora name and her parents’
tragic pasts—had ventured beyond their home. “The anti-Semites might get you,”
her mother would whisper, the limp from Nazi beatings preventing her from
keeping up with her child’s energy. “You never know where they are.”
Well, now she had been
caught off-guard by some Soviet-era treatment. Brooke regretted taking a row of
three open seats at the back of the plane to try to sleep. In doing so, she’d
been separated from the group and upon landing had to wait for the rush of
passengers to subside.
A truck passed below the
enclosed tube. The linoleum beneath Brooke got colder, and perspiration broke
on her brow. From her overnight bag she retrieved the folder with the articles
her assistant had copied at the public library and had messengered to Brooke’s
building concierge since Brooke was banned from entering the office. At
Brooke’s request, the articles weren’t about the standoff between President
Yeltsin and his parliament heating up but about the new economy.
She wished she had chatted with her
Frankfurt-based colleague Karl Hoffenbach about more than their corporate
takeover and the minutia of traveling to Moscow. She’d already heard in the
United States plenty of news about Russia’s present political strife: Nine days
earlier, in his frustration at the opposition to new reforms he introduced,
President Boris Yeltsin had dismissed the Communist-ridden parliament, even
though it had been democratically elected. The representatives had barricaded
themselves inside the building. Yeltsin responded by installing his army
outside but hadn’t yet given the final order to remove the parliamentarians by
force. The notion that a president believed he could fire the people’s
representatives was so Soviet styled that it became the butt of late-night TV
comedy shows in the United States. The State Department was less blasé about
it—the danger of the return of a totalitarian regime was real—but hadn’t issued
a travel alert. Amanda had assured the group that visiting Americans weren’t in
any direct physical danger.
But what was the country’s economic picture?
Leafing through the stack of photocopied papers, Brooke stopped at a sealed
brown envelope her concierge must have included in her mail. She turned it over
and stared at the red “Personal and Confidential” stamp. The left-hand corner
posted a Seattle return address, one Brooke didn’t recognize.
The breakfast she had
eaten on the plane lurched in Brooke’s stomach like a rubber bullet. She
dropped the envelope onto her knees and felt a cardboard inside, the kind used
to protect a photograph.
No. Don’t think about it. Not now, if ever. She tucked the envelope
in a side pocket of her case, zipped it, and placed the folder of articles in
the main compartment. She glanced at her two companions, who continued to stand
quietly, heads bowed, unmoving, as though they had been taxidermied. No one was
going to help her out of this pickle. With a creeping headache, Brooke rose and
walked back forty feet to the gaping side service door.
Looking down, she
registered the absence of a staircase to bridge the fifteen feet to the ground.
The raised luggage conveyor belt was gone.
Over
the racket of an airplane revving up, Brooke heard
mechanics hammering in the yawning belly of the
nearest plane. “Hey, there! Can you hear me? I’m stuck!” Only when she braced
her arms, leaned far out and pretended to prepare to jump did one of them yell
and gesture for her to step back, then put down his tools and walk into the
terminal building below her.
A few minutes later, another armed guard
appeared at the locked door, the lit tip of his cigarette cupped backward in
the palm of his hand. Relieved, Brooke scrambled over. He examined her through
the glass with piercing, coal-dark eyes, and then sucked, exhaled and sucked
again on his cigarette. He studied her a minute longer from top to bottom, then
lazily unlocked the door.
“Come.” His
pronunciation rhymed with poem.
The two Russian men
rushed past Brooke, heading in the direction marked with a suitcase. Brooke
made to follow, but the guard stopped her.
“I’m going to the
luggage area.” She pointed at the sign.
The guard waved toward the opposite direction.
“What now?” she asked.
He jerked his head to
the left and began to march.
This was all wrong.
Should she follow or defy him? Either option was equally alarming. She turned
her gold chain backward so its Star of David rested above her shoulder blades.
But this wasn’t her mother’s life.
Representatives from the women’s cooperatives she was to counsel were to meet
her group. They’d come looking for her and would straighten out any misunderstanding.
Reluctantly, Brooke followed the guard.
He led her into a windowless room where two
uniformed men perched on desks were chatting, their heads shrouded in swirls of
cigarette smoke. The guard uttered a quick sentence in Russian.
“This is. A huge.
Miss-take. I must. Join. My. Group.” Brooke enunciated each word. “Where. Is.
The. Luggage. Area? Valise?”
One of the men puffed up
his chest. The front of his jacket sported two rows of ribbons, and green
insignias with gold lettering shone on his epaulettes. Slowly, deliberately, he
stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
He raised his head. He
was handsome in a fierce, dark macho way, the kind of man some women found
attractive and therefore made him believe he was irresistible. “You make trouble
in airport.” His thick, walrus-like mustache reminded Brooke of villains in
Cold War spy movies.
The only way to beat his
power game was not to seem intimidated. Brooke’s height allowed her to meet his
gaze, yet her voice quivered as she asked, “Why am I here?”
“What there?” His chin
cocked toward her purse.
She squared her
shoulders. “That’s my handbag.”
He reached for it. She
recoiled. “Who are you? What’s your title?”
“Customs. Open.”
She smelled the cheap
cologne of his assistant, who sported only a half-circle insignia with a single
word in Cyrillic on his upper sleeve. He hitched up his pants toward his huge
belly. The rolls of chin dangling over his starched collar trembled as he
grabbed Brooke’s baggage carrier, unleashed the bungee cord, slammed her case
on his desk, and began to rummage through it. Her vitamin box, Swiss knife by
Tiffany, sleeping mask, packet of Wet-Naps, and the flash cards Amanda had
given her tumbled down to the floor. The first officer turned over her purse
and emptied it on his desk.
The men’s thick fingers
searched the seams of her bags, tapped and squeezed their sides and unzipped
each pocket. Body odor hung in the room like a cloud. Brooke breathed through
her mouth. What if these men went so far as to demand a body search? The fat
assistant clicked open her camera chamber and yanked at the film, exposing it.
Luckily, she hadn’t taken any photos yet. Her pulse drummed. Trying to sound
cooperative, she asked, “What are you looking for?”
Holding her passport,
the officer checked her date of birth, counted on his fingers, then raked her
body with his eyes. “Thirty-eight?” He went on flipping through page after page
of green, blue, and red stamps, viewing entry and exit marks. He inspected the
two extra photos she had clipped to the back page on Hoffenbach’s advice. She
might need a visa from another country, he had said, if she needed to flee.
Right now, she wished she had taken his first advice: to stay in New York.
“You travel much,” the
customs officer said.
“Business.”
The officer chuckled,
and his eyes again roamed the length of Brooke’s body, this time more slowly.
Heat rose up her neck.
“You haven’t told me why I’m here.” She should offer a bribe, she thought while
he returned to reading each page in her passport. She was familiar with the
voracious appetite for American dollars in countries under a totalitarian
regime.
At last, the customs
officer looked up. “Joor-nal? ”
“No. Nyet, journalist,” Brooke said. “Business.”
The corpulent assistant
handed the officer her Sharp Wizard electronic organizer. The man put down the
passport and examined the gadget. He jabbed at the switch with a finger
sprouting dark hairs. The day’s New York Stock Exchange quotes flashed on the
screen along with a rotating world globe.
He gazed at it. “Spy?”
Brooke’s mouth went dry.
“Oh, no. Not spy. Not media, not politics.” She forced herself to smile as she
reached out and tapped some keys without dislodging the Wizard from the
officer’s grip. Pac-Man came charging across the screen.
“Look!”
The officer burst out laughing. His front teeth
were little blackened pins, like a charred picket fence. Pac-Man began
swallowing his enemies. The officer slapped his knees and guffawed. “Rossiya.”
He pointed at a little fish.
“America. Rossiya eat America.”
Anger rose in Brooke.
They had nothing on her. She hadn’t come to this country to be hassled. “No
more. Now I go.” She grabbed the organizer from his hand, punched the escape
key, and Pac-Man disappeared. Without waiting for permission, she made a move toward
her strewn belongings.
“No.” The officer’s
attention was arrested by a folded packet of paper she was about to shove back
into her purse. He put out his hand. “What this?”
“My itinerary.” She
tried to stabilize her breathing. “I’m here to teach business to Russian
women—”
“Teach Rossiya women?” He smirked and said something
in Russian. His colleague laughed. The guard by the door snickered.
Perspiration trickled
down Brooke’s spine. Just let
me go. “I’m a guest of the
Economic Authority—” She stopped. The name of the local powerful man Amanda had
asked to arrange Brooke’s visa on the shortest notice suddenly evaporated from
her mind.
“And this?” To her
horror, the customs officer held out the envelope from Seattle.
Don’t open the letter, Brooke silently begged
the officer, or God. It would be like introducing a deadly virus back into her
life.
His pinky nail, grown to
an inch long curve, snaked under the Scotch tape that double-secured the sealed
edge.
Brooke couldn’t bear to
watch. She looked away and caught sight of his assistant thumbing through the
money in her wallet. There were ten fifty-dollar bills there, she knew.
“Give that me!” Reaching
over, she grabbed the wallet out of his hand. “This is my money.” Her panic
switched to indignation. And then she knew what to do.
With clenched teeth, she
pulled out three bills and handed one to each man.
Tossing the envelope
back onto his desk, the officer snatched the bill from his assistant’s hand.
“One hundred,” he said to her.
Her elbow pressed
against her money belt under her blouse. She had followed Hoffenbach’s third
piece of advice and brought an additional two thousand dollars in small
denominations; travelers’ checks couldn’t be cashed in Russia.
“You
keep the hundred. Fifty each for the others.”
“Nyet.” He
waved the money. “You make trouble in airport.”
The bastard. She handed
him two more bills and fastened her wallet, aware that he could confiscate all
of it. With shaking hands she gathered up her things into her handbag on the
desk. This time rather than stopping her, the assistant helped as he stuffed
her black cashmere shawl back into her overnight case. He stopped to squeeze
the roll of toilet paper in there, and she was surprised by the reverence with
which he tucked in the loose edge.
Too near, she felt the
heat of the first officer. She turned to find him gawking at her neck. His
mustache quivered.
“Beautiful
America.” A lascivious grin twisted his mouth. “Good woman, like Rossiya, but no meat.” He pointed to
an open door in the back. Through the doorway,
Brooke could see a small windowless room.
“Wait there,” he said.
The blood pumped in her
temples. If she entered that jail cell, she might never get out to tell what
happened. She visualized the headline: Female
American Investment Adviser Disappears in Moscow Airport.
The man put his hand on
her shoulder, and his finger curled around a highlighted strand of hair. Brooke
gasped and stepped back, but found herself trapped between him and the desk.
“Take your hand off me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
His finger traced a line
on the bare skin of her neck, from her earlobe down to the thin gold chain.
Adrenaline buzzed in her veins, and the points of the Star of David jabbed her
shoulder blade.
The guard at the door,
who’d been studying his dollar bills, tucked them into his breast pocket. With
new eagerness, the assistant resumed stuffing her belongings into the travel
case. As he did so, Brooke caught a glimpse of the green orientation folder Amanda
had distributed.
“One moment.” There was
hysteria in her voice. She snatched the folder and pulled out the Economic
Authority invitation, its letterhead written in embellished Cyrillic. “Look.”
The officer did a double take. He said something
to the other man and pointed at the bold and flowery signature. Typed below it
was the name Nikolai Sidorov.
The two men craned their
necks and peered at the document in awed silence.
The pounding in Brooke’s
ears crescendoed. “Give me my money back,” she commanded, “Or I’ll tell Nikolai
Sidorov.”
To her surprise, they
reached into their pockets and pulled out the money. “Everything okay?” The
officer’s mouth twisted in embarrassment. “Okay?”
“Nyet. Not okay.” She checked that her case
was fully zipped and her passport tucked in her purse. She fastened the bungee
cord. “I am leaving.”
“Want toilet?” The
officer asked. “Good toilet,” he added, sounding conciliatory.
She glowered at him. Her
bladder was pressing, but did he think she’d lock herself in one of his little
rooms? She headed to the door. “I’m going now.”
The guard accompanied
her as they followed the signs to the passport control area. With hand
gestures, he kept offering to roll her carrier, but Brooke held on to it. Still
distrustful of the sudden turn of events, she marched on. She couldn’t believe
what had just happened, what could have happened. She felt the officer’s finger
tracing a line on her neck as if a jellyfish had stung her skin.
Who was her host, this
Nikolai Sidorov? She caught the name again as the guard said it to the passport
control officer, who stamped her visa with no further question.
Finally, Brooke was
through into the vast luggage claim of the Moscow airport. Soldiers armed with
automatic weapons glared at travelers as if supervising prisoners plotting
escape. Brooke spotted Jenny, a walking showroom of her own fashion accessory
business. The short, plump woman wore dangling earrings in primary colors and a
matching oversize pin, waist-length necklace, and bangles. Twirling her necklace
on her index finger, she smiled at an apple-cheeked, blue-eyed boy in military
uniform.
Brooke started toward
Jenny to warn her that these men were not to be messed with, when Amanda
bounded toward her. “Brooke, are you all right? Where have you been?”
I could have been raped, Brooke wanted to scream.
She felt eyes piercing her back as if she were still being observed by the
customs officers. The curious gaze of the ten other women in the group were
upon her. Jenny let go of her soldier and sauntered over, full hips swaying.
“You look like hell.”
Amanda touched Brooke’s
cheek. Her Eurasian eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
Brooke choked the urge
to fall into her friend’s arms. There would be private time later to tell her
story.
“Just a little red
tape,” she said.
Chapter One of HOTEL
MOSCOW
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you
can share with us?
And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough
drafts of this excerpt. No such records available. The
original draft had been written on DOS program that could no longer be accessed
20 years later.
Other works you have published?
PUPPET CHILD
CHINA DOLL
JERUSALEM MAIDEN
(Coming up September 2019) THE THIRD DAUGHTER
CHINA DOLL
JERUSALEM MAIDEN
(Coming up September 2019) THE THIRD DAUGHTER
Anything you would like to add? Which of my previous four novels should you read first? They are
unrelated, each covering a different, major social issue.
I suggest that you
read the first chapter of each, and I promise you that “I must know what
happens next” will decide the answer. Coming up in Fall 2019 is my yet-another
gut-wrenching suspense novel, THE THIRD DAUGHTER, that can be
described as “Tango and sex in Buenos Aires in the late 1800,” but it is really
about sex trafficking.
Talia Carner’s
novels have been hailed for exposing society’s ills and have been the platform
for her spearheading research and ground-breaking projects centered on female
plight and human rights activism. Formerly the publisher of Savvy Woman magazine and a lecturer at
international women’s economic forums, Carner has given over 300 speeches about
the social issues behind her novels to civic, educational and religious
organizations. She lives in New York and Florida.
INSIDE THE EMOTION OF
FICTION links
001 11 15 2018 Nathaniel
Kaine’s
Thriller Novel
John
Hunter – The Veteran
002 11 18 2018 Ed
Protzzel’s
Futuristic/Mystery/Thriller
The
Antiquities Dealer
003 11 23 2018 Janice
Seagraves’s
Science
Fiction Romance
Exodus
Arcon
004 11 29 2018
Christian Fennell’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
The
Fiddler in the Night
005 12 02 2018 Jessica
Mathews’s
Adult
Paranormal Romance
Death
Adjacent
006 12 04 2018 Robin
Jansen’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
Ruby the
Indomitable
007 12 12 2018 Adair Valerez’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
Scrim
008 12 17 218
Kit Frazier’s
Mystery Novel
Dead Copy
009 12 21 2019 Robert Craven’s
Noir/Spy Novel
The Road
of a Thousand Tigers
010 01 13 2019 Kristine Goodfellow’s
Contemporary
Romantic Fiction
The Other
Twin
011 01 17 2019 Nancy J Cohen’s
Cozy Mystery
Trimmed To
Death
012 01 20 2019 Charles Salzberg’s
Crime Novel
Second
Story Man
013 01 23 2019 Alexis Fancher’s
Flash Fiction
His Full
Attention
014 01 27 2019 Brian L Tucker’s
Young Adult/Historical
POKEWEED: AN ILLUSTRATED NOVELLA
015 01 31 2019 Robin Tidwell’s
Dystopian
Reduced
016 02 07 2019 J.D. Trafford’s
Legal
Fiction/Mystery
Little Boy
Lost
017 02 08 2019 Paula Shene’s
Young Adult ScieFi/Fantasy/Romance/Adventure
My Quest
Begins
018 02 13 2019 Talia Carner’s
Mainstream
Fiction/ Suspense/ Historical
Hotel
Moscow
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/02/18-inside-emotion-of-fiction-talia.html
