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In these times, it wasn't uncommon to see angry youth, stripped of opportunity, lashing out at those they believed had more—sometimes even smashing their fellow citizens' cars in the streets out of resentment.
While the Cold War raged between the Soviet Union and the West, especially in the Far East where American forces were heavily stationed in Japan, civilian life continued its slow, complicated march. The Japanese—known for their knack for business—had quietly embedded themselves across the USSR. In Moscow, entire offices were staffed by island nation representatives selling their goods. In Vladivostok, too, a few daring Japanese businessmen had ventured to open shops, and now, for the first time, even a Japanese restaurant.
Andre hadn't planned for this.
"I don't know where he even heard about this place," he muttered, staring at the ornate building styled like a church steeple. Inside, it looked nothing like its facade: sleek wood paneling, minimalist decor, and a quiet, Western ambiance that set it apart from the usual clamor of Soviet eateries.
As they were seated, a polite, yellow-skinned waiter with a distinctly islander face approached and bowed. "Sir, Madam—welcome. We recommend our family set meals."
Family set meal? Andre blinked. He glanced at Ekaterina and the cheerful boy bouncing next to her. Was he really being mistaken for the boy's father? It felt like a strange, awkward compliment… and also a jab.
"Mom, I want sashimi!" Ivan piped up, fully embracing the idea of being a family unit.
Ekaterina smiled patiently. "We can't eat sashimi, sweetheart. You'll get sick."
"I think teppanyaki sounds good," she said to Andre, pointing at the menu. "Grilled meat and vegetables should be safe enough."
"Alright," Andre nodded. "Let's go with the teppanyaki. But let the boy try a little sashimi, just for the experience."
The waiter bowed again and shuffled off.
"Andrei, do you drink?" Ekaterina asked, folding her hands gently.
He shook his head. "No. I have to return to base after this. But I wanted to take this moment to thank you, Doctor Ekaterina, for everything. For your care, your kindness—your cooking."
"That's part of my duty," she replied quietly, but her pale blue eyes lingered on him. "Though earlier, in the hospital… you said there was something you wanted to tell me. Something personal?"
Andre felt the heat rise in his face. At the time, he'd been braver—fueled by gratitude and a flicker of hope. But now, in this setting, with a child at the table and an unexpected weight in the air, his courage vanished like mist.
He lowered his eyes. "It wasn't much. Just... gratitude."
Before Ekaterina could press further, a loud cheer erupted from a nearby round table.
"To our professor, who led our successful geological expedition in the Far East! A toast!"
The voice was familiar. Andre turned and froze.
There she was.
Annie.
She was laughing, surrounded by classmates in jeans and casual shirts, raising her glass to a man in his forties—likely their instructor. Her blonde hair caught the light, and her figure in a sleeveless top reminded Andre exactly why Belenko had fallen for her so quickly.
Where was Belenko now?
A sudden jab at his boot broke his trance. He looked down to see Ekaterina's pointed heel gently pressing against his foot. When he glanced up, her eyes were cool and unreadable.
"You know that girl?" she asked with a calm tone that carried unmistakable sharpness.
Before Andre could answer, the waiter returned, placing the sizzling teppanyaki plate between them. Steam rose in curls, and the scent of grilled meat filled the air.
"Please be careful, sir and madam," the waiter said in halting Russian. "Watch the child. Hot plate."
Andre nodded absently, his mind still turning. Should he say he knew Annie? Pretend not to?
Too late.
"Hey—Andre?" Annie's voice rang across the restaurant.
Andre looked up in dread. She was already walking over with her wine glass, her eyes bright with recognition.
"Everyone," she called to her table, "this is the pilot I was telling you about! The one who flew over Hokkaido—the MiG-25 ace from Pravda! Comrade Andrei!"
Andre stiffened. She even remembered his name?
Cheers and applause broke out from her table. Students and their teacher all stood, smiling and clapping.
"Comrade Andrei," the older professor said, extending a hand, "you struck fear into the Americans. You're a true hero of the Soviet Union!"
Andre rose awkwardly, shaking hands. He wasn't used to praise. All he'd done was survive.
Annie approached their table and glanced at Ekaterina, then at Ivan—now happily chewing on a piece of grilled pork, oblivious to the adult tensions.
"Oh," she said, tilting her head with a knowing smile. "So this is your wife? And your little one? What a beautiful family."
Andre blinked. "No, it's not—"
Ekaterina cut in smoothly. "Yes. A beautiful family indeed."
The look she gave him could have frozen vodka.
Annie gave a small nod, lips curling upward. "I see. Well, congratulations."
She turned and walked back to her table, leaving Andre standing there, his face burning.
He sat back down slowly.
Across from him, Ekaterina poured a glass of cold tea, watching the steam rise from the grill.
"Next time," she said calmly, "maybe don't look at other girls while you're at dinner."
Ivan grinned with a mouthful of meat. "Mom, the meat is yummy!"
Andre sighed.
This was going to be a long evening.
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