A reunion on his turf made Misha nervous. He’d been using his letters to Pasha as opportunities to flesh out fantasies. So he forgot about Pasha’s visit until one night when he was flossing his teeth after an insipid evening organized by the elusive, mentally disturbed Plinsk and the phone rang. Of all people it was Robert Grigorievich, Pasha’s father, inquiring in a voice throaty and hoarse whether Pasha didn’t happen to be in Misha’s company at the moment.
No, said Misha tentatively.
Did you see him earlier today?
I don’t think so, said Misha, leaving room for possibility as he rushed to the calendar where he jotted everything from Mama’s Birthday to Buy New Toothbrush so that each month became a solid ink-black block of accomplishment. The date of Pasha’s arrival was nowhere to be found. He’s not here, said Misha. I’m not sure where he is.
The line went dead.
Misha didn’t finish flossing his sculpted popcorn molars, though the upkeep of his teeth was the closest he had to a sacred rite. He dropped into a regal velvet-cushioned chair at the head of his oval endangered-wood dining table, which as a bachelor’s dining table was strictly ornamental and somewhat forbidding. It was sterile, strange, a place he never sat. The apartment looked different from here, longer, the ceiling lower. Why did he feel so unsettled? Pasha was in the city, out wandering the streets, catching up with someone more important. Misha had held back from asking Robert when Pasha had arrived—the question would only prove that he didn’t know, implanting doubts in Robert’s mind as to their friendship. Misha was proud to be the one called for information on Pasha’s whereabouts. He didn’t want cracks in Robert’s perception of their bond. It was suddenly very important that Robert consider him Pasha’s dearest New York friend. But after he dug around in his brain, he seemed to recall that Pasha had been scheduled to arrive on the eighth. Today was July 6, which meant that Pasha had been in the city for a month with no word. A month! Misha sat with perfect posture at the dining table (his mother had picked it out, and it demanded perfect posture), overtaken by a vaporous distress, which was replaced by anger at Pasha, because who did he think he was, a hypocrite surely, but this accusation stuck to Pasha like paper snow, since Pasha was unhypocritical to a fault. The anger petered out, and Misha was returned to nipping sadness, or had he just forgotten to turn on the air conditioner?
• • •
MARINA, juggling bags, arms, appointments, swooped into the living room to peck her grounded brother good-bye. Overscheduling led to domino-effect lateness, threadbare excuses that no one demanded or believed. Pasha tugged an appendage, toppling bags, plopping her into his lap. Why has Mama never had any patience with me? he asked.
What are you talking about?
Everything I’ve ever done has been met with disapproval. When I stayed in bed, reading, she’d yell that I needed fresh air, but when I took up soccer, she mocked me for days. Who are you fooling? she said. Her reaction was never to the activities but to me, like that time with the stamps.
An undeniable thrill in being confided to. Pasha had never spoken to her this way before, his fingers locked around her wrist, the immediacy of his hushed voice and strained mouth—Marina couldn’t help feeling deemed worthy. From the youngest age, Pasha had given the impression that the family was a nuisance, their clannish mentality a constraint; their affairs didn’t merit a second thought in his globally scaled brain. Evidently this impression couldn’t have been more false. Deep-seated grievances and injustices had been eating away at him all these years. He mentioned minor events from adolescence the way he’d refer to a passage from the Old Testament. He put on the professor face. Switched into lecture mode. Let’s look at the incident of May 18, 1972, when Mama took my entire collection of literary journals and. . . . Having exhausted the list, he asked Marina to provide some insight.
Insight? she said. I’m sorry, Pasha, I don’t have it.
How about more memories in the same vein? It took hundreds of hours of psychoanalytic toil just to unearth these. There must be more. My tendency is to bury traumatic episodes. Your memory should be terrific for the stuff. That’s why I thought you might provide—
Some insight, yes, I get it. But I’ve got nothing. She kneaded the dough of her knees. It’s a hot soup, she said, and time is like cornstarch. Last week I locked my keys in the car, poured milk into the washing machine. Though on second thought, she said, is it possible that the psychic work didn’t retrieve memories but invented them? Take your literary-magazine episode. I remember it differently. You found out the KGB was on its way, but it was Rema who called to tell you. And Mama didn’t burn your magazines. Mama wasn’t even home at the time. You dumped your magazines into the fireplace yourself, forgetting, though you later denied having been told, that all of Mama’s valuables—her jewels and heirlooms, gold coins and cash—were hidden in a little sack under the grate.
Pasha’s arm slackened, allowing her to disengage. That can’t be, he said softly.
Marina gathered her bags. It’s incredible that you don’t remember. I’d bet all of Odessa remembers Mama’s screams.
Robert came to Pasha’s rescue. He brewed a pot of Earl Grey, spooned some syrupy quince jam onto a saucer, and snuck into the living room, where the desquamating inmate lay under a massive heap of art books. Flaps of skin hung off his nose and ears, his chin finding a new shape with each scratch. It looked like a root vegetable that had been partially grated, then thrown away because of pervading rottenness.
I don’t want, said Pasha.
I come with an offer, Robert said, setting the ruse on the floor. We say we’re going for a walk on the boardwalk but really sneak off to Manhattan!
Pasha reached for the jam. No way, he said, licking the tiny spoon.
You mentioned the Frick.
It’s two hours just on the subway.
We’ll take a cab.
The last thing I need is another scolding.
Pasha’s refusal only restored his father’s ease. Here’s the phone, then. Call Misha.
I’d rather hold off. He doesn’t even know I’m here.
Don’t be so sure. Robert shuffled out, a sad sight. Though America filled people out (with such tasteless food that you had to keep on the search for flavor), Robert proved the exception: America shrank him. Over the last year, he’d been dragged to doctors, had his organs inspected, put on a strict diet of lard, red caviar, and French fries. Nothing was wrong, and nothing worked. The admirably, reassuringly plump Robert, a stern doctor with a double chin so perfect it served as a guiding credential, whose paunch pulled taut his striped gray vest and made any neurosurgery seem hopeful, was no more. He was gaunt—every surface that had been convex had concaved, as if a vacuum cleaner had turned on at his core. He became wholly implausible as a physician. Luckily, most of his remaining patients lived in other cities, consulting by phone. His clothes hadn’t changed, the same two charcoal suits that now looked like bunkers in which Robert was hiding. The curse of shabbiness—when a barber cut Robert’s bristle-thick gray hair, the result was that it stuck out more sharply in every direction; shaving with these disposable razors, he bled; his shirttails went untucked; there was always a button to miss, a zipper to overlook. What had Esther done to deserve this? The shabbiness was innate, but how well it had been hidden under layers of respect and busy living. They’d been so involved. A stethoscope and a reflex mallet had done wonders for Robert’s image. With the layers peeled away, the shabbiness was profound. In fighting this impossible battle (Pasha had inherited the gene, and Marina and Levik were inveterate slobs), Esther forgot herself. She lived as if the Master Photographer would arrive at any moment to snap the one photograph that counted, to be filed away into the Permanent Records, yet she never took into account that as part of the family she’d also be expected to pose.
Pasha found her duct-taping the split slits of the yellowed blinds clattering with the breeze. Art project? he asked.
It’s not even a project. I’
m not even here. I’m actually where I need to be, which is in the oven. Come, take this. She handed him the duct tape, clamped his fingers over the cracked slit she’d been holding perfectly aligned.
By the way, Nadia called while you were out. She’s not very happy.
Is she ever?
She’s particularly unhappy, then.
Her moods aren’t my responsibility.
Calling your family is.
I’ve hardly been here a day!
It’s been a few.
Well, you know what they say, time flies . . .
Don’t you care how Sanya’s doing?
He’s grown. Takes care of himself.
He’s sixteen! Do you need me to remind you of yourself at his age? Nadia claims you don’t make any effort with him.
Since when do you listen to Nadia?
Since she’s allowed by law to call me Mama.
Mama, she’s unhinged!
That much was clear the moment you brought her through the door.
That happened on the same day she started calling Esther Mama. In that time, in that place, everyone had been in a rush to the altar. For good reason—a walk down the aisle with nothing but butterflies or buckwheat in the bride’s stomach was unheard of. But marriage was by no means a life sentence. The babies matured quickly, becoming adults by their sixth or seventh birthday, and the guys, however decent, often returned to the streets, though never for long. Nets were ubiquitous, vision blurry. All of this was understood, not necessarily openly talked about. Adolescent Pasha had been ahead of his peers in his grasp of certain subjects (those that came with a textbook) and equivalently behind in what Esther called the Life Subject. Of course it was the only subject at which he wished to excel. When at the age of eighteen he introduced his new wife, Nadia, Esther asked with resignation, When’s she due? He laughed. We’re not expecting! Esther spit on the floor and reddened. You married her just to marry her? What a romantic! You could’ve at least had the decency to knock her up. Now how am I supposed to explain this to everybody?
By twenty-one Pasha was a father. No longer ahead or behind but, along with the rest, somewhere in the thick of it, he felt sorry for himself—while Esther felt obliged to side with her daughter-in-law, who had the valid complaint that not long after they exchanged gold bands, Pasha stopped paying attention. Esther sided with Nadia, partly for revenge. Much heartache could’ve been avoided had he taken to Dora: sensible, warm, from a nice Jewish family, a good cook, not too homely (a beauty in comparison to Nadia). She would’ve treated Pasha like a king. Instead he chose the cold, insane, pasty, pear-shaped, droopy-haired Northern Nadia, who didn’t even give off the good-in-bed aura.
Pasha was handed the phone well into the second ring. Sanya picked up. Mama’s catatonic, he said. Half an hour later—that’s half an hour of international-calling minutes—Sanya managed to coax his mother to the phone.
We miss you, she said in an evaporated residue of a voice. We want you back.
Pull yourself together. I’ll be back in no time.
When?
You know when.
But that’s so long from now, Pashinka. . . .
During her lethargic slumps, lasting about a week, Nadia became as pitiful as possible. A burst of household activity ensued. Hopping out of bed before dawn, she’d mop floors without sweeping or use a wad of wet toilet paper to smear window grime. The fervor amounting to nothing, she’d yell, This is why we never have company! You should be ashamed! How do you stand to live in such filth? These scenes took place in front of Nadia’s toothless mother, who barely reached Pasha’s hip bones and wore a kerchief wrapped twice around her shrunken face. She slept in the kitchen. She used to share her thoughts, then began to think better of it, and by now had reached the ideal state of not having a thought to hold back. She didn’t speak, so it was hard to tell to what extent dementia had eaten her brain. When there were shouts—and when weren’t there?—she sat by the window with eyes shut, smacking her lips. This deactivated mode had its disadvantages: She stopped helping around the house. The apartment suffered, but dust balls and vermin were easier to ignore than Olga Ivanovna’s screech. At one time he’d been afraid for her life—the woman’s histrionics could’ve made a strangler even out of her angelic Lenin. And she probably wasn’t even that old. At her pace she could easily persist for another half century. But why think of such horrors when they existed in a different time zone?
Esther was rushing out of the kitchen when Pasha said, Wait. I wanted to ask you something.
Quickly!
What do you think of when I say fireplace?
Chimney sweep.
Oof, said Pasha, relieved. So you don’t think about—
The time you burned to a crisp everything precious to me in a fit of hysterical paranoia?
THREE
TAKE THE Q to 14 ST/UNION SQUARE, keep to the back of the train, get out the narrow exit behind a long-haired man tangoing with a life-size doll, cross to Virgin Megastore side of Broadway, go in direction away from George Washington on horse (numbers get smaller) until E. 4 Street, cross to corner with Tower Records, summon willpower to resist revolving doors, find door a bit farther down, tell Jamaican doorman with lazy eye you’re there for Mikhail Davidovich Nasmarkin, confirm you mean Meesha in the loft, sigh with relief as he directs you to an elevator and illuminates a button, launch up to some preposterous floor, shut eyes to avoid surfaces busy with your decrepitude.
The blob of color at the end of the hall was Misha. Gold sneakers consumed his ankles, denim shorts fell almost to those ankles, and a yellow carnation peeked out of the breast pocket of his camouflage T-shirt. Flattened by their embrace. His corkscrew brown hair could’ve been apportioned into five poodles. I can’t believe you’re actually here, he said in a way that made Pasha wonder, Why not? The next half hour was spent getting the atmosphere just right. What was Pasha’s beverage of choice? There were cocktail mixes, espresso varieties, iced herbal teas, fresh-squeezed juices, and vintage wines. Bob Dylan was laid on the gramophone but, failing to satisfy, was replaced by Charles Mingus. Misha announced them as if they were coming out onstage to perform. Pasha took a seat on a stiff couch but was moved to a stiffer couch, closer to the skylight.
I see you eyeing that beanbag, said Misha. Don’t be shy.
Pasha plopped down—it was harder than he thought.
Tell me everything, man, said Misha, sitting at last. He switched the cross of his legs. Pasha opened his mouth, but Misha stuck up a just-one-moment finger, flew out of his chair, rounded the corner, and was back with crocheted coasters for their sweating drinks. Force of habit, he apologized. But once again he was stooped over the gramophone, fidgeting with the volume knob, because Mingus was getting out of hand. Returned with a bowl of cayenne-smoked pistachios. Don’t blame me when you’re addicted. Pasha obediently popped one into his mouth. Rotated it around in his cheek. Within several seconds his eyes shrank into slits of water and a trickle could be seen dangerously near set-off in a nostril. Attempts to bite down proved futile. Misha pretended to look out the window. See that hotel across the street? he said. There’s a pool on the roof. Models sunbathe topless. He craned his neck. Not right now, though. Pasha reached for a napkin to spit out the unbroken nut. Something in the apartment intensified its whir.
Weren’t we going to go somewhere? said Pasha, sinking deeper into the chair’s loosely packed, grainy cushion.
Misha turned sharply. My place is stuffy, isn’t it?
It’s a superb apartment.
It gets OK light. I didn’t even pick it out, to be honest.
And location—it’s the artistic crux of the island, no?
Don’t remind me. The hood’s gone to shit. It wasn’t like this when I moved—much grittier.
Looked very respectable to me, said Pasha.
Exactly. There used to be bums, whores, syringes. Now it’s bearded collies and NYU baseball caps. He sighed. Where I’m taking you is the real artisti
c crux. It’s as avant-garde as it gets. I guess we probably should be going. We don’t want to miss the free wine.
They walked under an awry drizzle, getting sprayed in odd spurts. The sky, however, was a flat, far, uniform blue. Air-conditioner piss, Misha explained as Pasha looked up in concern.
Shopping bags knocked against Pasha’s knees. He stepped off the curb into the path of a bicycle. Misha pulled him aside. The cyclist, on a food-delivery mission, swerved and yelled, baring teeth, disappearing into traffic. Evidently, visibility was determined not by air quality but by motion. You could see for miles on end in an open field or on a beach because there was little movement to absorb. In Union Square visibility was never more than an arm’s reach. Misha indicated a turn. They veered into deeper, darker, more substantial avenues. Men on corners demonstrated the hot dog as a two-bite affair. The top of Pasha’s head felt, oddly, lower than his feet.
Misha decided to recruit an artist friend to show them around the galleries, which had only recently colonized the area and weren’t so easy to navigate. The friend was advertised as a character, one of those larger-than-life personalities, a bit of a sociopath—but who isn’t, really?—and a brilliant conceptualist. He’d be perfect for the task, insisted Misha, as if trying to convince Pasha. They stopped at a pay phone, and Misha pulled from his briefcase the fattest most bursting soggy tattered crumbling spine-disintegrating phone book Pasha’d ever seen. And a zip bag of quarters. The artist friend didn’t answer. Misha persisted, trying every pay phone they passed as if the problem were with them. When he finally got through, the conversation lasted ten seconds. The artist was reposing in his country home. Misha walked on, deep in thought. He suddenly had another friend, an art critic, who would do an even better, certainly more thorough job. In this case the conversation lasted past the minute mark, interspersed with several desperate laughs. Alas, it was a no. The art critic was staying true to his title, composing a piece of criticism due last Monday. He’s always behind, said Misha. It’s a mystery how he still gets work. They kept on. Pasha could tell that Misha’s brain kept on, too. The fire escapes, gnarled, rusted, rising, were like the waste of his thoughts. And indeed it wasn’t long before another call was placed, this time without the phone book’s assistance or any information about the man being dialed. Misha looked over both shoulders before being engulfed by the booth. Pasha stood in the center of the sidewalk until a man snagged his arm and yelled a brief phrase that definitely included fuck or fucker or fucking, a word Pasha realized he’d been waiting for. He squeezed against a building. Misha hung up. He said, I had to call back this guy, Gerbil, and he happened to ask what I was doing, so I told him, and now he wants to meet us there. That won’t be a problem, will it?
Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel Page 4
