Pasha shrugged. The next pay phone was his turn.
Esther picked up in her usual way, as if distracted from battling a furious blaze. Pasha asked how she was feeling.
I feel fine, she said, then got angry. How could I possibly feel?
Maybe you need help around the house?
Are you trying to make an old woman laugh? What’s going on? Where’s Misha?
Right here.
So what are you calling for? Enjoy yourself! Have fun! Don’t come back till next week. Give Misha a big hello. Better yet, pass on a kiss.
My mom wants to adopt you, Pasha said as they resumed their trek.
Perfect timing—mine’s just about ready to disown me.
Your mom worships you.
First of all, said Misha, you don’t know. You haven’t seen the woman in ages. She’s down to ninety pounds and comes with a crew of surgeons. She looks like a tiny greased mannequin. But somewhere inside there’s a pea-size gland where all the remaining humanness is concentrated, and this gland wants one thing. A grandchild. That’s all. No substitutions. A goddamn grandchild. She says to me whenever we talk—which, yes, is still daily—that it doesn’t even matter what kind, a girl, a boy, sick, healthy, even a mulatto, anything with a heartbeat and tiny feet at this point.
And is that such a hard thing to provide?
Misha scratched the back of his head. There was this one girl, Lisa, a Spanish translator, not drop-dead, but sexy. Big tits. And smart as shit. Spoke like fifteen languages. We dated. After several months, several outta-this-world months, I must admit, she made the inexplicable move of leaving her husband. Scared the crap out of me. I was young. Zero regard for the average human’s timeline. Later I discovered that a brilliant, sexy, down-to-earth girl in this city—not as common as one might think.
And what about her now, this Eliza?
Lisa—remarried, two kids, lives in a wealthy suburb outside Paris. But maybe it’s for the best. She liked Tolstoy over Dostoevsky and had teeth so large her lips didn’t meet.
They paused on a scorching corner alongside a construction fence and a stretch of road being drilled into. They had arrived. Yes, really. Misha explained that as of recently this was home to all things visually groundbreaking. He pushed his shades up his slippery nose. Now they would make the rounds. Five, or was it fifteen, blocks of galleries, many of which were sure of little but their names.
It was necessary to see only a fraction of Chelsea in order to stop wanting to master it. What had Pasha imagined? That was unclear. In fact, in his disappointment he forgot that he’d imagined nothing, having come with no expectations. What he found were industrial spaces, blinding neon lights, maniacal wall scrawlings preserved with such care it was as if they were from the dawn of time, flashing signs, buttons to press, levers to manipulate, a heap of recyclables, something vaguely totemic, prim girls paired with oversize desks, an upside-down dining table, footstep echoes, a defeated feeling, white, an elephant made from ostrich feathers—but no wine. Misha charged at the desk with hair to ascertain the situation.
Only at the openings, he reported back with a shrug. In the background, a recording of a woman’s staccato shriek played on a loop, as if she were being torn to shreds and eaten alive, which had about as unnerving an effect on them as a pestering fly. Meanwhile no sign of Gerbil. Misha acquired a stricken look.
They stepped outside, letting the sky drop over them like an old quilt. Headaches were like electronics-store flyers—you had one before you realized you had one. Both of them privately wondered whether they could just abort and go home. On such hot days in the city, people were known to walk out on their families, even their jobs, so what was a friend who lived on the other side of the globe?
Misha went around the corner to check for Gerbil, returning solo but with a brilliant idea: the flea market. He’d remembered Pasha’s dedication to the one in Moldavanka, that gathering of useless objects laid out on bedbug-ridden blankets or wobbly tables by Ukrainians who sat on rickety stools, a bottle tucked behind their feet, soggy bread in their fists. Misha had never understood why objects with no inherent value should suddenly acquire it when lumped together, but for Pasha the market had been a passion.
Pasha’s gloom lifted. For two hours he was transfixed by junk, of which he acquired a fair amount. His bags were so heavy that dinner had to be at the diner one block away. Collapsed into a booth, Misha sighed with exhaustion, Pasha with contentment. A miserably thin waitress appeared overhead, prompting menu misunderstandings, what was what, so many pages, each item trailing a baffling list of ingredients, all overlapping. Pasha made a joke that it was like the poems of someone Misha didn’t know, and the waitress disappeared. Hamburgers arrived, deconstructed, plastic-looking tomato and onion slices fanned out on giant plates.
Misha had kept his accomplishments to himself long enough. He began to spew. There was a residency in Montana for which he was a semifinalist, a book of stories coming out in Germany next spring, a reading he was asked to do with a très famous Russo-Francophone novelist whose name he couldn’t reveal. I’d tell you, but I’m under contract to keep the matter private. Pasha didn’t press. Misha had more breath stored up but had run out of things to say. He raised his fork, perplexed.
Pasha wasn’t coordinated enough to tackle his burger. After he’d tried various strategies, the patty was chopped up into tiny pieces, which were chewed only on the left side of his mouth. Whenever the meat snuck over to the right, Pasha winced in pain.
The teeth were tea-stained, wobbly; there were gaps, silver crowns, recessed gums swollen with blood. Misha ran his tongue over his own set, where order reigned, but was only partially reassured. A clammy streak formed at his taut hairline. Any doubts as to the benefit of immigration could be assuaged by one glance into Pasha’s mouth. Pasha didn’t notice the horror with which he was being analyzed. The bags applied a pleasant pressure to his feet, the way a securely potted plant must feel.
How’s Marina doing? Misha managed to ask, though not without his ears turning the shade of Pasha’s grape juice. The infatuation had begun early on. Marina wasn’t yet twelve when Misha began eyeing her nervously. The frequency of his visits intensified. Often he’d drop by when he knew that Pasha was at chess club or in detention or under the guise of chess club or detention attending samizdat activities that Misha was too cowardly to join. When Marina bloomed officially, Misha lost his capacity for speech and practically moved into the Nasmertov household. He once obtained permission to play with Marina’s beheaded dolls (proof of Pasha’s capacity for violence), but no further progress was made. Though at first his presence served to highlight Pasha’s absence, eventually he was accepted as a surrogate. After years of inept wooing, Misha’s only success was with Esther. His emigrating was detrimental to Pasha in that once again son services were in demand.
She’s fine, said Pasha. He’d give no more. First of all, she wasn’t a woman but his sister. Second of all, she was hardly a critical subject.
What were the critical subjects? And why did it feel as if they were forbidden to broach? Had the weighty material been sectioned off? They had to make do with surrounding nonsense, barred from drawing closer to anything of substance. Maybe it was just too obvious to ask the obvious questions. Or maybe they feared that if those subjects were too quickly exhausted, nothing would be left and the hollowness of their friendship would be exposed. They clung to the general stuff, steered clear of secret vulnerable wealth.
A lady named Ostraya, said Pasha. Do you know her?
Try not knowing her! She’s a character, a larger-than-life personality, said Misha, instantly reminded by the phrase’s taste of having used it not long ago. Embarrassment invigorated his chewing.
She talked my ear off the other night, said Pasha.
That means she likes you. With me she’s an ice queen—I think because I never dug her, physically.
She can’t like me—we haven’t met.
She’s heard good
things, then.
A gaping void opened up, about the size of Pasha’s book. Or not so gaping—a hundred and twelve pages, to be exact. Pasha’s first collection, Ancestral Belt, had been published last year. Not only did Misha know about it, he had a copy. After finding it in his mailbox, he’d called Pasha. Congratulations. The thing’s a beauty. Can’t wait to read it. And then—nothing. But there was an unexpected breadth of response from strangers with no reason to read poems about Pasha’s dead family members. The book was receiving a cadenced, still-unfolding, thoughtful and respectful reception; it was following an aberrant trajectory, gathering momentum in erratic increments, by elusive means.
I’ll see her this Friday, said Misha. There’s this event, it’s basically a who’s who of the literary scene, a talk-of-the-town kind of thing. It’s a secret ball in the style of a Masonic meeting, but women are allowed, and it’s technically a fund-raiser, happens once a year but never on the same date or in the same place, and this year I finally got an invite. I’ve been looking forward for months.
Pasha took a long pull from his straw. So you’re saying that thing on Friday is worth going to?
If you were invited, said Misha. It’s guest-list only.
OK, said Pasha.
You mean you’ll be there?
I don’t see why not.
• • •
WE LEAVE FRIDAY AT FIVE sharp, said Marina. She stood in front of the TV, demanding attention. Images flickered behind her, commercials, which constituted their first major disenchantment with the States. How did people cope with these constant interruptions? This was no way to watch a program. They’d asked around, friends and neighbors, to see if it was possible to rewire the TV or pay somebody off so these commercials would stop. If a democracy made everyone sit through these idiotic advertisements, it wasn’t for them. You don’t have to sit through them, said friends and neighbors. You could get a sandwich or take a piss. The country’s bladder condition was clearly contagious.
Esther asked a question to which the reply was bathing suit. The commercial over, Levik yelled, with an intensity that shocked even him, for Marina to get out of the way. She disappeared. Pasha stopped leafing through Levik’s National Geographic and went to track down his sister.
Why not go on Saturday instead? he said.
And kill the entire day? Out of the question.
There may be less traffic, he offered.
Crouched over her suitcase, Marina froze, an alerted bear. You’re worried about the traffic?
It was just a thought.
You do enough thinking—leave traffic to me.
Pasha’s weight shifted. He looked at the suitcase with concern. Will we be back late? I promised I’d go to a poetry thing with Misha on Friday night. If we’re back around nine, I can still make it.
We’re going to Lake George! Yes we’ll be back late—on Monday! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve said this?
A lake? said Pasha. But, Marina, you know how I feel about nature.
Mama’s birthday is on Sunday!
Since when does she like lakes?
What’s all this about canceling your plans for me! yelled Esther, floorboards creaking as she bolted into the room. Don’t listen to her! Go with Misha!
A cigarette appeared between Marina’s lips, crackling, a second later eaten down to its filter. The lake is not optional, she said. Everybody goes.
If they didn’t feel festive yet, they would once they got there. It was Esther’s sixty-fifth birthday. If not for her, they’d be scavenging garbage dumps for carrot shavings. Prisoners in labor camps hadn’t exerted themselves at an equivalent level of intensity for such hopeless durations. No one knew when Esther awoke, because whenever they rolled out of bed, she was already at it. Shortcuts and better strategies had to exist, but this was an inkling that no one dared mention. Running an investigation into the matter would be highly dangerous for the investigators. They weren’t foolish enough to think they could stick their noses into the shit without getting mired themselves. If she wanted to pickle her own vegetables or spend an extra hour or two on homemade soap and glue in order to save pennies to be used for her exercise regimen of dropping pennies on the floor, then stooping down to pick them up one by one, what was the harm? When she complained, it was only of what she wasn’t doing: working and traveling. She wanted to make money, take trips. But the only phrases she’d been taught at the complimentary-with-immigration language lessons held at the local junior high school were Excuse me, how much does the menorah cost? and Shana Tova to you and yours and This challah tastes delicious. Until two years ago, the future of Odessa had been in her hands—all the children were under her care. Mothers had no regard for nighttime. The phone was constantly ringing in their communal apartment. For nine families there was one phone, and it had to ring loud enough to wake all nine families up. Though everyone knew that the call was for Esther (even Robert’s terminally ill patients had more restraint), they still went to the door to demonstrate that they’d been dragged out of bed. If they weren’t satisfied with how disheveled they looked, they’d mess up their hair, roughen nightgowns, moan, growl. Now the phone calls weren’t for Esther, but she answered anyway and attended to household duties as if they were children with fevers and murky urine, hoping to show how irreplaceable she was. In such a situation she’d done the worst thing imaginable—found a lump in her breast.
FOUR
THEY MADE IT OUT to Lake George still on speaking terms, a not-inconsiderable feat for which the reward was being presented with a vast array of separate directions to go off into, the newfound spaciousness startling less in comparison to the car, dubbed Green Cow for a reason, than to their apartment and to the whole city they’d been so inexplicably hesitant to leave behind. Esther headed straight for the kitchen, attacking drawers and cupboards, sniffing wherever something may have been left behind claimable as theirs. There’s olive oil! she yelled. And coffee grounds! Two squares of paper towel! Not bad at all. They’d brought their own provisions, of course, and she began sorting through plastic bags, operating on a damaged eggplant, installing the meat grinder, but suddenly stopped, went to the window, ran her finger along the sill. She stared at her furry fingertip. Took a breath. The dank air was satisfying. One gulp and the entire summer lodged in your guts. She took in more and looked at the untended garden, almost crying out, We forgot the television!
Gaze refocused, there was no garden to speak of. An open field of matted grass, weeds like gray hairs, a patch of turned-up soil, two stolid motels undulating across an overheated road. She turned and was slapped by an unfamiliar kitchen.
Old habits had conjured up their dacha.
Oh, their dacha. But there was no garden, and she was in a cabin with fake wood paneling, Formica countertops, a neutral blur of smothered smells, deflated polyester comforters whose floral pattern mirrored the sensibly sized nature paintings. Esther’s hands itched to plant tomatoes and hang up the hammock; she half expected to see Robert crawling on all fours with his tool kit and overhear Levik’s under-the-breath cursing as he battled the metal shutters, then his full-fledged fit as he changed the propane tank so she could begin to cook. Two trips were necessary to haul everything from their apartment in the city to their dacha on Tenth Fountain, of utmost importance, for everyone’s sake, the television.
Pretending to be consumed by tasks, they were really just observing their arms in motion. Murky sensations nagged. After the initial ecstasy of freedom, time stalled. The vacation seemed to hover over its beginning, unable to attain liftoff. Doubts arose. They became aware of what could go wrong and how far they were from home and pleaded to be quietly (without fuss) returned to their bedrooms, where time resided effortlessly, like a mouse whose peep was heard only occasionally in the depth of night. Pasha’s CD player had a tiny knob for adjusting volume and muting murky sensations; he used it freely.
Don’t you think it’s time to wake Frida? said Esther, standing in the doorway u
nder a stuffed moose head wearing a far pleasanter expression.
Marina, engulfed in an easy chair, looked up from the “Visiting Lake George” brochure. But she was carsick the whole way up, she said.
Just don’t complain to me when she keeps you up all night.
A quarrel ensued, alleviating the existential disquiet. Esther won. They approached the king-size bed on the far end of which Frida was balanced like a glass half over a table’s edge. They stood above her, engulfed in a warm cloud of sleep. Go on, said Esther’s elbow. On being awoken, Frida gasped for air, convulsively catching her breath. Her gaze scaled the walls. No lilac wallpaper soup-streaked and lumpy from air bubbles, no drab macramé curtains, no glistening Russian tram slipping into the painting of a glistening Russian street. Frida’s long in-breath was interpreted, by both mother and grandmother, as a cue to exhale, but then she was seized by violent sobs. Marina barged into the hall. Esther smothered Frida’s tears with a breast and began to sing her favorite song—no, not the one about the orphan boy on the street after the war selling papirosi and not the one about the obese beauty with an elephant step, the other one about the swaying rowan tree and the tall oak that stand on opposite sides of the road never to meet.
Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel Page 5
