“Gospodi pomilui,” she shouts back at me. It means “God have mercy.” Irina taught me this Russian saying when I was yelling “One more big push” during Pavel’s birth.

We hug each other. Nik joins us. Pavel joins us. We hug. We kiss. And of course there is an immediate offer of food. I hold Pavel.

“I’ll get us some good smoked belly salmon,” says Nik.

“No,” I say. “It’s too early for me to eat a thing. Some of that nice strong tea you used to bring in the thermos. Do you have any of that?”

“We always have that ready,” says Nik. “And I will bring some smoked salmon and black bread in case you change your mind.”

When he returns with the tea and salmon, we talk. We all agree that, one, Pavel is handsome and strong, two, Pavel looks exactly like Irina’s grandmother (whose photograph Irina wears in a locket on a chain around her neck), and, three, I must have come all the way to Brighton Beach for a specific reason.

“Yes,” I say. “There is a reason. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course, anything,” Nik says. “I will move the sun and the stars for you.”

“Well,” I say, “it won’t be quite that challenging.”

“Let her talk, Nik. Let her talk,” says Irina.

“It’s a small favor, but it’s important to me,” I say.

“Like Nik says, anything, anything,” says Irina.

I take my cell phone from my bag. I explain that they will be hearing a brief conversation on my phone. It’s spoken in Russian.

“What I need is for you to translate it for me,” I say.

“For a translation you needed to come all the way out to Brighton Beach?” Nik asks.

“As a matter of fact, I did. First, you are the only Russian speakers I know, and, second, I want it done, shall we say, discreetly.”

“We are Russians. We know how to be, like you say, discreet,” says Irina.

I’m not quite sure what she means, and for a split second I worry that she could somehow be caught in the web of Orlov and Nina and…Ridiculous! I’m here. Nik and Irina are the best people in the world.

“Ready to listen?” I ask.

When they nod yes, I press the button, and in a few moments we are all listening to the angry conversation between Nina and Orlov.

“Play it again,” says Nik. And I play it again. And again. And again.

“You know,” says Irina, “they are not speaking Russian.”

My heart drops. I never thought of that possibility.

“What is it? Polish? Hungarian?” I ask.

“No,” says Irina. “It is Ukrainian. But not to worry. They are very similar languages.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” I say. They listen to the conversation one more time.