I have never tasted it before, and I am excited to try it. Before I have a chance, I hear sounds of pleasure as my brothers take their first bite.
I decide to taste a spoonful on its own first, wanting to fully appreciate its unique flavor. The large eggs break on my tongue, melting like butter, as I savor the multiple notes of the sea. It is truly a decadent dish and I am grateful for the opportunity to indulge in it.
The first dish is served—a soup called Botvinya. The bowl is filled with broth and accompanied by two side dishes, one of poached salmon and the other ice. It is a labor-intensive dish and a rare treat.
My mother enjoys the challenge of the dish and, if I’m honest, hers tastes far better. Still, it is a fine soup and all of us boys eat it with gusto.
Once our plates have been cleared, the second course is served. Instead of one dish, however, they bring out several. An army of servants fills the table with a variety of impressive dishes—large Kamchatka crab, an artfully molded kholodets, an oven-cooked suckling pig, and a magnificent centerpiece of sturgeon cooked whole and beautifully decorated with vegetables and sauces.
This is a meal fit for a tsar!
My brothers talk excitedly as one of the servants serves up the first plate and takes it to my grandfather. He surprises us all when he insists that I be served first.
The entire room quiets as the servant places it in front of me.
Unused to such attention, I muttered a humble, “Thank you, Grandfather.”
I glance at my mother.
Instead of an expression of anger or shock that I see on the faces of my father and brothers, Mamulya looks at me with pride.
It fills me with confidence as I wait for the others to be served.
As we eat in silence, I can feel the simmering anger of my father, but it only serves to make my appetite greater. I am determined to enjoy every culinary masterpiece on this table.
When my grandfather turns to ask my mother a question, I hear the clank of a fork dropping onto a plate.
I look up to see my father staring hard at the ring on my finger.
“You gave it to him?” he roars, glaring at his father.
My grandfather tilts his head. “Would you prefer I give it to your sister, Vladimir?”
My father doesn’t answer, grumbling to himself as he picks up his fork and begins stabbing at his meat.
My four brothers look at me and then at each other, confused by my father’s sudden outburst.
“You are a spiteful man,” my father snarls, shoving a piece of fish into his mouth.
“And you are still an unrefined boy.”
Grandfather’s words hang in the air. None of us moves as we wait for our father to explode with rage.
His face turns bright red, and the veins pulse on his forehead and neck as his anger builds.
I notice my mother quietly put down her utensils and look at her husband in concern.
“There is no reason to pout, Vladimir. You have five healthy sons,” my grandfather states, taking an unhurried bite of his kholodets.
“And you’ve always compared me to my brother’s ghost,” my father hisses, looking down at his plate.
“Untrue. I have been fair with you, judging you solely by your actions.”
“Liar!” my father shouts, then suddenly cowers as he looks down at his plate in shame.
None of us knows what to make of my father’s strange outburst, but I slide my hand under the table and play with the ring on my finger, suspecting it has everything to do with it.
“Rather than ruin this auspicious occasion, act like the leader of your household and allow your family to enjoy this fine meal.”
My father stares at me with a hatred so deep, I am unprepared for the intensity of it.
Grandfather puts his hand on my shoulder as his gaze travels from me to my four brothers. “The future of the Durov legacy is here in this room.”
He zeros in on my father. “I expect you to guide all of your sons well, my son.” He picks up a goblet and takes a sip before adding, “If I learn differently, there will be consequences.”
With that unspoken threat, I feel my father’s palpable glare lifts from me. He knows that Grandfather is a powerful man and does not make idle threats—even against his own kin.
My father looks him in the eye. “My sons are in good hands, Father. Have you not heard? Anton is well known for his sadistic tendencies.” He snorts. “Many say he takes after me.”
Bile rises in my throat when I hear my father compare me to him, and then I hear snickers from my brothers.
This is my father’s futile attempt to humiliate and discredit me. He is unaware that my grandfather already knows about my kinky bent.
“They would be wrong, Vladimir,” my grandfather states quietly, taking another sip from his goblet. “He is nothing like you.”
That simple statement sends chills down my spine. To be accepted fully for who I am, and then to be defended by a man I admire? It affects me in such a fundamental way, I am unprepared for it.
It’s surreal to sit here and feel like the chosen one when all I have ever known is humiliation and pain.
I bend a huge leg off the Kamchatka crab and appreciate the loud sound as it breaks. Pulling out the meat, I use the hand with the ring to dip it in the butter and look at my father as I eat it.
As I enjoy the rest of the extravagant meal, I feel an untapped power surging inside me. I am no longer my father’s whipping boy.
I am a man of intelligence, strength, and passion.
Watch out, world. Anton Durov is coming for you…
The next day, I went to a popular tattoo shop to get a large tattoo of the family crest’s dragon on my left shoulder. I wanted its fierce mouth to face toward my heart so it could continually breathe its truth into me.
However, I made a slight but significant change.
I insisted the artist ink the dragon a dark red. Remembering what my grandfather said about the meaning of the color, I wanted my dragon to represent strength, not sacrifice.
A true artist, he tattooed freehand, perfectly capturing the fierceness of the dragon while maintaining the feel of its majestic power. Hours later, after he finished, I stood up and looked in the mirror. Staring at my reflection, I understood my life was starting down a radically different path, and I couldn’t wait to begin the journey.
My tattoo has been a blessing and a curse since.
In the beginning, I relied on the fierce passion of the Durov lineage and was proud that I share the same blood as my ancestors. The dragon made me courageous and strong.
However, embracing my family heritage came at a high cost—higher than I was willing to pay.
Now, whenever I look at the tattoo, I see blood. What a fool I was to think that by changing the color of the dragon, I could escape my fate.
True leadership requires great sacrifice.
Russian Roulette
I stare at the mirror, finding peace in Tatianna’s blue eyes. She remains my anchor even though she is gone from me.
“I’m going to visit my mother’s parents today,” I inform her as I shave. “I need to be with people who knew and loved her as much as I did.”
I see her look of concern and smile at her.
“I know, I know…they disowned our entire family, but they must be suffering, Tatianna. Not only from her loss, but from the guilt of their actions. I hope to bring them some peace and share our grief together.”