Olga Dies Dreaming(90)
Besides, no one in her family knew that her business had dissolved; her role was to be there for solutions, not to show up with problems. With the exception of her Tío Richie—who felt that she, and the rest of the Libs, needed to be more respectful of the president—her family thought that her outburst, and its virality, had been by turns “dope,” “fierce,” and, as her brother said, “absolutely necessary to cut through the noise of disaster platitudes.” Her cousins, aunts, and uncles saw the clip appear on The Shade Room, tweeted by Don Lemon, discussed on The Breakfast Club, and replayed with subtitles on ?Despierta América! and couldn’t see a downside. They didn’t see that there was a separate, shadow media universe where she’d been positioned as a villain, a traitor, a radical. She knew, with the exception of her brother, that none of them could ever conceive that truth telling could have negative consequences. They also didn’t understand how precarious her financial ecosystem was, how her personality and personal views only had room to exist so long as they were in service of her clients’ ideas and ideals.
The only one who did seem to understand the fiscal implications of the incident, despite being mildly amused as it played out in real time, was Matteo, whose occupation also involved the whims and desires of others.
“You’re the main story on Fox News!” he said that night at Olga’s place.
“Get out of here!” she said, walking to get closer to the TV.
And there it was: the host of one of the opinion shows playing her clip. Talking about how unhinged she was. How irresponsible it was of Good Morning, Later to air her crazy conspiracy theories. How, upon basic research, they discovered she’d made her living working with exactly the kinds of families she was now implicating in some kind of “plot” to destroy an island of people who had driven up their own debt, had proven unable to govern themselves, and were fully at the mercy of our American benevolence to rebuild their island. Then, he said that if Olga didn’t like the way they did things in America she should go back to Puerto Rico.
“Puerto Rico is America, you fucking dummies! And I’m from fucking Brooklyn! Jesus!” she screamed at the TV.
Matteo shut it off and turned towards her.
“Well, no looking back now. You’re officially a part of the radical left!” He laughed. “In seriousness, though, Olga, you good with money?”
“Why moneybags,” she joked, “you gonna float me?”
“I mean, I would if you need it. Even if it’s just some breathing room.”
Olga was unsure why Matteo felt so confident about either his own finances or her ability to regroup. She had a bit of cash she could live off. For a bit of time. She’d gone her entire adult life without relying on anyone for fiscal help, let alone a man, and this was one of the few things she was personally proud of. She would land on her feet.
“You don’t even know how much I appreciate you,” she said, crawling next to him on the sofa, “but, no thank you. I’m gonna be good.”
* * *
TWO WEEKS LATER she found herself in a small restaurant in Brighton Beach underneath the elevated B train having borscht with Igor.
“It’s better with the cream,” Igor said, gesturing towards a small bowl of sour cream that had been laid out on the plastic tablecloth. Above his head a small television screen played RU. The restaurant was completely tiled, with silver-backed chairs. A casual, family-style establishment.
Olga complied and put a dollop into her bright red soup.
“So, what do they need exactly?” Olga asked. They had been making chitchat for the past fifteen minutes and while she liked Igor, she wanted to get the show on the road. Recognizing herself unsuited for a nine-to-five job, she weighed her options and, with much trepidation, picked up the phone to let Igor know that she’d finally “come around.” She’d love to help their friends with their problems.
“They need you to make them a little party, for the daughter’s first birthday. Somewhere nice, like the Plaza or something. You know, Eloise.”
“Okay, and?”
“You make it look like it cost, let’s say, half a million.”
Olga laughed. “For a kid’s party?”
Igor rolled his eyes at her.
“Make it look that way on paper,” he said flatly. “And nice enough that if someone saw the pictures, they might believe it.”
Olga nodded. “And how much am I really supposed to be spending?”
“Let’s say our friends would like to get about four hundred thousand back.”
“And if they don’t? What happens to me?”
Igor laughed. “Olga? Are we not friends? Why do you worry so much? We’ve never had problems with you delivering your end of the bargain before.”
“We,” Olga said, “meaning, you and I, are friends. But I don’t know who these other people are, and they don’t know me—”
Igor interrupted her. “Of course, you would get your normal fee for this kind of thing, in cash. Plus, you know, a bonus.”
He pulled a gym bag from the empty seat next to his and handed it to her. She pulled it up on her lap and unzipped it just enough to peek inside. There was cash and a velvet box.
“It’s fifteen thousand and a nice necklace that I figured you could keep … or sell. Your choice, but the boss thought it would look nice on you.” He smiled. “You know, if you go back on TV.”