The Imperial Wife by Irina Reyn Page A

opened. His smell so clean, it engages with the spice of each dish, morphing from lamb ragù to the lemony spice of green beans. Then there’s the symmetrical perfection of his features, his Ralph Lauren handsomeness enhanced by a cable-knit sweater straight out of a preppy catalogue, the delicate slenderness of those fingers as he expertly maneuvers wine into glass. He’s a man thoroughly at home in his skin, slowly working on his pasta, pleased with anything I share about myself. And then, of course, there’s the Vandermotter name that hovers over us, sprinkling pixie dust of fascination.
    It’s over the final glass, the glass that was two glasses too many, when I lean over and say, “Tell me more about your work at the foster care agency. I think that’s so incredible that you do that.”
    â€œI love it. I’m not a trained social worker or anything. I just help my mother with administration. She’s on the board.” A pair of dessert menus are placed before us, the printing problem resolved. Carl helps the waitress clear the last of the cutlery, wiping the table for crumbs. When she’s gone, he leans closer. “Actually, I’ve started a novel.”
    â€œThat’s great.”
    â€œI didn’t want to say anything, but you’re Russian, so…” He speaks quickly, that vivacity exploding in his eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice that the restaurant has become bottlenecked with people waiting for our table. “So get this. No one’s written the book focusing on Catherine the Great, before she was Catherine the Great.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œNot a good one anyway. So this young Prussian girl comes to the Russian court, marries this buffoon who can’t even get it up for her. And she winds up with the crown. The queen of the entire Russian kingdom with no dynastic right to the throne! Not as regent, not as consort, but as empress and, to top it all off, one of the greatest monarchs in history. A foreigner.”
    â€œAnd?”
    He’s taken aback. “Doesn’t that seem incredible to you?”
    â€œSure.” Except it doesn’t, not even remotely. Of course she would wind up with the crown if her husband was a useless razmaznya, I think. An immigrant like her with all those ambitions? But my instincts tell me not to say any of that out loud.
    The door blows open with a fresh gust of wind and a large group files in. I’m aware of women blowing on their hands, coned in birthday hats, the hostess gesticulating in our direction. The servers are hovering around us, waiting for a decision on dessert so the table can be released.
    The last thing I want to explain to Carl is the inner life of the immigrant. By now, I’m sick of mining my tale for narrative curiosity. I’m tired of my “exotic” story. Yes, it was very hard to not speak the language. Yes, for a long time, I had no friends and American kids tormented me for my accent and granny clothing. Yes, I cried myself to sleep most nights, afraid I would never belong here. Yes, my parents cried too because they were afraid they had made a terrible mistake. That a language was already dissolving on their tongues, that they would never lay eyes on their home again. I knew enough to make it easy on them and stuck to zoned schools, close and cheap schools. That I wish I were a Vandermotter instead, a path of privilege spread wide open for me. But what is the point of going into all this in an insanely busy, sexy restaurant on a Friday night, when the main choice is tiramisu or pot-de-crème ? Our table, the server reminds us, has been promised.
    Carl’s face is still steaming from the heat off his plate, a perfect Nordic face crafted by angels. “Anyway I’ve been working on this thing forever. If something comes of it, they might hire me full-time at Ditmas College.”
    â€œI’ll help with the Russian parts, if you