by Alina Adams
Zoe tried to fill in the gaps of her New York City cultural education. She’s been to the Met, MoMA, the Whitney. But the Guggenheim never appealed to her. Maybe because it looks like an upside-down planter. Maybe because there’s usually a line to get in. As Balissa says about any line, “That’s not what we came to America for.”
Or maybe it’s because, as Zoe promptly learns, the place is petrifying. Not the art. That’s just confusing. The layout. The interior is a huge spiral, a giant’s DNA strand. The barriers come up only as far as her elbow. She gets vertigo whenever she looks down. She tries to fight it by looking straight ahead, but then she sees taller people, and on them the barrier comes up only to their hips. She imagines them tumbling over, which prompts her stomach to roil like a plummeting elevator. She clutches Alex’s arm even tighter until they’re back on solid land.
Alex pats Zoe’s hand reassuringly, if distractedly, looks around, and spots one of the 30 Under 30 honorees, a man who, according to the program Zoe skimmed, runs a nonprofit that opposes child labor, or one that creates jobs for at-risk youth.
“Harris!” Alex greets him as if they were friends. By the man’s confusion, it would appear they are not. Nonetheless, when Alex proffers his name along with an outstretched hand, it’s in the form of a subtle memory jog. “Alex Zagarodny. Good to see you again!”
“You, too,” Harris says politely, then smiles at Zoe, wondering if she’s also about to claim familiarity.
“This is Zoe Venakovsky.”
“Nice to meet you,” Zoe says, and Harris relaxes at not having to pretend to know her, too. He shakes Alex’s hand, then crosses his arms and eyes them warily. When you have a last name for a first name, you’re used to being accosted by strangers.
Alex asks Harris, “You’re an Old Boy, aren’t you? Zoe works for Derek Webber. His sons go to St. Bernard’s, too.”
School of tiny blue blazers? Zoe remains confused, until she realizes that mentioning it has spurred Harris into believing he and Alex are friends, after all. He uncrosses his arms and sticks his hands casually in his pockets. He and Alex commence chattering away about people they know; who is summering where; and, yes, it is a travesty the Community Board keeps refusing permission to build a helicopter landing pad on the Upper East Side. It would make the Hamptons commute so much more convenient. If only Amazon hadn’t given up on Long Island City . . .
Zoe gazes at Alex in awe. Here he is, a curly-haired, big-nosed, skinny guy who comes up to this titan’s waist, a Brooklyn kid who most certainly did not wear a blue blazer to school or take a helicopter to get there, and he’s talking to Upper East Side money (in the form of a person; like how a corporation is legally a person) as if they’re equals. Zoe wonders what the WASP word is for chutzpah.
As the conversation goes on, Zoe hears Alex’s speech begin to mimic Harris’s cadence and vocabulary. She watches him mirror the taller man’s body language, hands also in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, head cocked to his side. It’s mesmerizing and inspirational.
It’s also, after ten indistinguishable minutes, rather boring. Zoe never knew the three sensations could occupy the same space at the same time, but physics be damned!
A quarter of an hour in, Gideon shows up. Zoe hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for him. How could she? She didn’t know he was coming. And yet, the moment she saw him, Zoe realized she’d been waiting for him. To rescue her from all this. It’s the way she feels when Baba and Mama argue with each other and take a break from criticizing Zoe. It’s the way she hopes to feel when she triumphantly presents them with Alex. Like a problem has been permanently fixed.
Gideon crosses the room and exchanges words with the bartender in the corner, who laughs and hands him a drink.
“Excuse me, please,” Zoe says to Alex and Harris, both of whom bob their heads like the gentlemen they are and/or are pretending to be, before resuming talking business.
Zoe walks over to Gideon. “Hey.”
“Yo” is his response. He takes a sip of his drink, compliments the bartender, then indicates Zoe’s date. “Alex being Alex?”
“To the Alexest degree.”
Gideon marvels, “Like watching an artist at work.”
“This is the place for it.” Ha. Museum humor.
“I’m supposed to be networking,” Gideon says, making no move to do any such thing.
Zoe isn’t sure what she’s supposed to be doing. Which makes it as good of a time as any to ask Gideon, “Do you ever get the feeling that, when Alex looks at you, he’s seeing the person he wants you to be, not the person you actually are?”
“Twenty-four seven,” Gideon confirms.
That’s good. At least she’s not going crazy. But it’s also not good. “So would you say Alex is dating me, or dating the Zoe he’s conjured up in his head?”
“Which one do you want it to be?”
“Oh, definitely the one in his head. She’s a much better model.”
Gideon grins. “I know the feeling.”
He does? Based on what Zoe saw at the comic-book store, Gideon is as comfortable in his skin as Alex is in his. It never crossed her mind that he might be feigning it the same way she is. Or, in Zoe’s case, trying to. She’d have expected the realization to disappoint her. Instead, it makes her respect Gideon more. It’s one thing to be born confident. It’s another to fake it so convincingly. If Gideon can do it, there’s hope for Zoe the Impostor yet!
“You’re not afraid of not living up to Alex’s expectations of you?” she double-checks.
“What goes on in Alex’s head is Alex’s business,” Gideon says. “I don’t worry about things I can’t control.”
“You’re not even a little bit Jewish, are you?”
Gideon laughs. “I grew up in New York and I’m an engineer. Does it get any more Jewish than that?”
There’s a circumcision joke in there somewhere, but that would be classless. Thinking it, though, makes Zoe blush.
Gideon picks up on her discomfort and gallantly moves to defuse the situation.
“Come on.” He downs his drink, returns the glass to the bar alongside a generous tip, then gestures with his head toward the canvases and sculptures on the horizon. “Alex is doing his thing. Let’s go look at art.”
Looking at art requires getting back on the spiral walkway. Gideon positions his body so Zoe is on the inside, making it easier for her not to peer down and freak out. He runs commentary on the pieces they pass, like what happened during the movie, forcing Zoe to look up, rather than down. That one, he says, looks like a broken kaleidoscope; this one is the napkin Jackson Pollock used to wipe up his breakfast. In the Impressionist room, they muse that since a musical based on Seurat’s painting was called Sunday in the Park with George, they should expect Picasso’s Lobster and Cat as a children’s show, and Manet’s Before the Mirror as a reality beauty pageant.
They stop in front of Maurizio Cattelan’s eighteen-karat-gold toilet, installed in a public bathroom and open for visitor use. A docent lurking at the door explains that it requires steam cleaning and special wipes to keep it pristine, and that it was created in order to give patrons a unique, personal, and up-close experience with a work of art. It symbolizes equal opportunity and the American dream.
Zoe thinks of Baba using a community toilet in her courtyard and washing once a week at a public bathhouse. She thinks of Balissa shivering in a cattle car with no bathroom facilities beyond a hole in the floor. And Balissa’s mother squatting over a fetid chamber pot in the same room where they cooked and ate, cleaning it out by hand every morning and every evening.
All previous wisecracks suddenly feel woefully inadequate.
“God bless America,” Zoe says at long last.
“There you guys are!” Alex catches up with Zoe and Gideon on the ground floor, when the other guests are on their way out. “I was looking all over for you.” He slips one arm around Zoe’s waist in a move that might be romantic, possessive, or merely pract
ical, Alex’s way of not losing track of her again. To nudge it toward the former, Zoe leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t need to worry about losing track of her. She’s right here. He’s got her. She’s not going anywhere with anyone else.
Alex startles, but goes with the flow. “What’ve you two been up to?”
“We saw a golden toilet,” Zoe says, because she still can’t get over it.
“Great. Perfect place to scope out prospects. Everyone’s got to go eventually. Why I always ask for a seat at the back of the plane, where the bathrooms are. Gives me access to everybody by the time the flight is over.”
There’s something you don’t learn in an MBA program. Alex could teach a course in doing your business while . . . doing your business.
“Listen, Alex, speaking of something everyone’s got to do”—Zoe leaps on the closest thing to a smooth transition she can think of on the fly, straightening up to face him—“I’ve got to go see my family this weekend. They’ve invited you, too.”
“Aw, Zoe, no. I haven’t got time to schlep out to my own parents’, much less get interrogated by someone else’s.”
“You don’t have time not to go,” Gideon corrects before Zoe can concede Alex’s point, a touch relieved by the opportunity to put off the judgment from her family’s first contact with Alex. Even if, as far as Zoe can tell, he’s everything they’ve ever dreamed of, Baba will find something to nitpick.
“If you don’t let Zoe’s family give you the third degree, they’ll keep calling her, texting her, distracting her. We’re ironing out long-term funding. You want nonsense getting in the way of a check getting cut?”
“That won’t happen,” Alex says, but he doesn’t sound quite as self-assured now. He knows the power of Repeated Calls from Brooklyn. And Gideon is one of the few people he listens to.
“Not if you break bread with these people and satisfy their curiosity. Give ’em the Awesome Alex Premier Condensed Package, and they’ll get off Zoe’s back.”
“I don’t have time to go to Brooklyn,” Alex repeats.
Zoe shoots Gideon a grateful look for trying, especially since this isn’t his fight.
“But if your family wants to come to Manhattan . . .” Wait, what’s this? “I don’t have time for dinner, either,” Alex rushes to clarify before Zoe gets too excited. “I know how important this is to them, and how they can get if we don’t give them something to talk about, let them get their shots in.” Alex says the words, but he sounds confident he can deflect anything they throw his way. “Your family can come by the office. How’s that?”
Zoe exhales in disbelief—and relief of a different kind. She won’t be compelled to keep having this conversation with Mama and Baba. She can rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with. Zoe shudders at the thought of what’s to come, yet pastes on a smile. “Thank you.”
She’s speaking to Gideon. Alex assumes she’s speaking to him.
He’s so busy accepting accolades for his massive sacrifice that he doesn’t even notice Zoe is looking at Gideon.
Or that his friend is mouthing, “You’re welcome.”
With a wink.
That manages to both reassure Zoe . . . and throw her off balance.
Chapter 40
Zoe invites her family to stop by Alex’s office at lunchtime. Dinnertime by Russian standards, though Mama assures it’s no trouble, she’ll adjust their schedule—they’ll eat first, they don’t expect to be fed. They opt not to take the subway, and a cab is too expensive. Baba knows a guy who drives for a limo service who’s happy to pick up money on the side, charging less as long as you pay in cash.
They arrive, as Zoe predicted, twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Deda’s phobia of being late, triggered by the scramble to catch their trains while emigrating, prompts him to factor in way too much buffer for any journey. Zoe watches them through the security camera as they enter the lobby and head for the elevator—Mama and Baba propping Balissa up by the elbows, Deda bringing up the rear with his cane. Balissa is in her eighties but walks so regally that, despite needing help getting around and barely being able to see beyond her arm, it still appears as if she’s leading the pack. Balissa’s mother taught her that. Always stand tall. Always look everyone in the eye.
There’s not much of a dress code at Alex’s. He’s wearing jeans and a red T-shirt with a blazer thrown over it. Gideon’s in khakis and a black tee that reads world’s #0 programmer. Mama, on the other hand, is wearing a navy dress Zoe knows is new—she can see the creases on the sleeves and skirt. Baba is in a teal jacket with 1980s shoulder pads. She says it gives her the illusion of a waist. Why should she forgo such a figure-flattering style merely because a faceless authority deemed it over? Deda has on a white dress shirt buttoned up to his chin. Balissa is in a flower-print dress cut surprisingly low in the cleavage, with a gold brooch pinned to the lapel.
Zoe presumed she’d need to drag Alex to greet them at the elevator, but he beats her to it. When the doors open, there he suddenly is. Zoe’s family startles. As does Zoe.
“Welcome!” Alex effuses. In Russian. Zoe has never heard him speak Russian before. He’s got a bit of an accent. As he shakes everybody’s hand and leads them toward the office, Zoe realizes that his vocabulary is limited, like that of a child. But his charm isn’t.
Alex directs the bulk of his tour at Balissa; he understands that being gracious to her will trickle down. He shows Balissa the break room, with its abundance of free food and drinks for the staff. He offers her a cup of tea, which she politely declines. He asks again. She declines again. He makes her one anyway. “Just in case, for later.” Everybody beams.
He takes them to the conference room, with its whiteboards covered in equations and code, and proceeds to explain what he’s working on. Mama asks questions about the algorithms in a quiet voice, sorry to be troubling him. Alex answers, making clear it’s no trouble. Baba isn’t as sheepish. She wonders how much money this is costing, where he got it, and how he plans to make it back.
Alex explains about investors and angels, first- and second-round financing, IPOs. He doesn’t know the Russian words for those terms, so toggles back and forth while everyone nods thoughtfully.
“Zoe’s been an incredible help,” he says, “getting her company to fund our beta launch.”
For normal people, this would trigger concerns about conflicts of interest. But to the Brighton contingent, who else would one do business with, strangers?
Next up is a stroll through the cubicles. Alex takes the route with maximum Russian-speaking programmers. He introduces Zoe’s family, asks the coders to explain what they’re working on. Some are recent arrivals. Their language skills are far above Alex’s. Deda is interested in what they’re saying, but Balissa is overwhelmed by the jargon. Alex moves the tour along, for her sake. Deda looks longingly at the computer monitors, then dutifully hustles with his cane after the rest.
The final stop is Alex’s office, where he’s set up chairs for everyone. There’s one for Deda, but, when Zoe looks around, he’s hanging back, studying a snippet of code that’s hanging from a strip of paper thumbtacked to the outside of a cubicle wall. Zoe is about to go get him when she sees Gideon move in and ask her grandfather something. Deda nods, waving his arms enthusiastically. Gideon points in the direction of his own cubicle and takes Deda’s arm to help him navigate. He catches Zoe’s eye over her grandfather’s head, and mouths, “I got this.”
Deda so often gets overlooked at home. Sweet how Gideon singled him out for personalized attention. How many times is it now that Gideon’s come to Zoe’s rescue? And each time, before she figured out she needed it. Zoe isn’t certain how she feels about that. Heck, Zoe still isn’t sure how she feels about Gideon’s wink the other day. So like with all feelings she can’t understand, she chooses to ignore them.
She catches up to her family.
No one else has noticed Deda is gone.
Granted, Mama, Baba, and Balissa
are engaged in the more pressing task of cross-examining Alex. Baba is doing the majority of the talking. Mama is holding back, afraid of saying something that might ruin Zoe’s matrimonial chances. Balissa prefers to sit back and watch. She believes in letting people hang themselves. Though it’s also a turn of phrase she hates. The Russian expression In a home where someone hanged himself, don’t bring up rope isn’t a metaphor for Balissa.
Baba wants to know if Alex ever goes back to Brighton.
“Of course,” he says. “To visit my parents.”
What a nice boy.
Will he ever move back there?
“Maybe. When I have children.”
What a sensible boy!
Where did he go to university?
“Caltech.”
“In California? Why so far away from home?”
“I wanted the best opportunity to make something of myself.”
What an enterprising boy!
Where does Alex live now?
“Battery Park City.”
“Own or rent?”
“Rent. I’m more flexible that way. I can relocate wherever I need to.”
Ready to flee at a moment’s notice? That’s a feature, not a bug.
“What do your parents do?”
“They’re engineers.”
Of course they are.
“How do they like our Zoya?”
“They love everything I’ve told them about her.”
“So you’re meeting us before they’re meeting her?”
“Naturally,” Alex says.
It goes on in this vein for another twenty minutes. Alex never loses patience, even when the questions begin repeating themselves, checking for inconsistencies à la the KGB. Zoe is the one who finally can’t take it. She tells her family Alex needs to get back to work. Alex says they’re welcome to stay as long as they like. To be polite, the family then insists that no, really, they must be leaving.
They lasso Deda from Gideon’s cubicle on the way out. He is standing, delighted, in front of a screen. He pokes a finger at the monitor and claims, “This language, this C you are using, it is like the Ratfor language. I learn little in USSR, before I get married. Ratfor is like the Fortran with C syntax, yes?” He turns to Gideon for confirmation.
