Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel

by Yelena Akhtiorskaya

  Andrei spared Pasha having to formulate the question and elucidated the concept of hydro years, relying heavily on the fundamental let-lie principle, which required its own brief overview. Hearing himself say worms, dirt, eye sockets, Andrei got intense jolts of pleasure. He closed with a quaint theory of calves. A woman listening in began performing a roof dance, which came with an accompanying chant. That Pasha found this long-haired swaying charming meant he was no longer in his right mind.

  The stairs were steeper on the way down, the lights dimmer. Fortunately there was someone leading the way and, if need be, a cushion. But had they gone up this many flights? Peeling gaze from shoes, Pasha found himself alone in the middle of a landing. The other set of footsteps had just been an echo of his own. The building, called Eldorado, really was a vertical city. He was stranded somewhere within it. Misha had brought him to Renata’s door, Bozhko had delivered him to the roof—the apartment number, even the floor, was a mystery. Doors were duplicating, noise tangled and muffled and coming from everywhere at once. What was being played was a programmed memory of building sounds. A flare of panic unsteadied Pasha’s footing. He gripped the railing, lowered himself onto a step.

  There was a desire to get back, an urgent need for reintegration. He felt a danger to himself. If left to his thoughts, he would have to think. Much had been riding on his having a mediocre time tonight; instead he was being a fool and enjoying himself. Excitement spoiled solitude. He’d grown accustomed to stimulation coming strictly from within. The dose could be regulated, specific flavor chosen. Sometimes satisfaction was two scoops of vanilla, other times Milton, Brodsky, a Gregorian chant or two. Laughing at a joke wasn’t without risk for someone like Pasha, who was often described as absorbed in his own thoughts. This wasn’t, as people supposed, because they weren’t interesting enough to engage him but for his own protection, the irony being that had they been interesting he would’ve been helpless against them. An inherent flaw in the heavy-duty defenses Pasha set up against humanity was that regardless of heavy-dutiness they could be demolished in an instant by exceptional people—such rarities in certain parts of the world that defenses were erected without them in mind, just as you wouldn’t install floodgates in the Sahara.

  No napping in the stairwell, said Fishman.

  Pasha was returned to civilization, but it wasn’t the same. Something had changed, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the odd configuration of chairs. Stumpy-legged Renata swooped in, and before realizing for what, he was making excuses. We went up to the roof, he said. Some people wanted to smoke.

  People are smoking in here! Don’t cover for that prick. Andrei knows the roof is off-limits. Last time the alarm went off, neighbors called the cops. They dial 911 if the wind blows too hard. And they want me out of this building. They’re praying for something like this. The sad part is that I never learn. I just figured he’d left, but he’d never leave before every last drop of life had been squeezed. And you wouldn’t go without a good-bye, would you?

  They’d missed the reading, during which Renata had called on the guest of honor, a tremendous poet and our new friend, Pavel Robertovich Nasmertov, to share a few of his poems. Pegging him for a low tolerance, she’d prepared a copy of his book and used colorful Post-it notes to mark poems she deemed it best to read (not the wordy ones or those mentioning the camps). A simple mistake had set her on this path. She was confusing Pasha with men who resembled him in superficial ways. These men, like Pasha, lacked spatial awareness, peripheral vision, guile, and garrulity; their height was excessive, only accentuating their infirmity; structural idiosyncrasies were respected with a limited, very particular range of motion that made them identifiable from miles away; their plates remained white until you put something on them; they were known to wander off without warning; in the act they groped blindly, pawing like cubs. Such men wouldn’t know what world Post-it notes came from but would appreciate their not-so-subtle assistance. Equipped with a nonverbal breed of gratitude, they rarely acknowledged the deeds on which their existences relied. It remained unclear whether they even realized that effort and care were taken on the part of another, and in this helpless opacity there was something deeply perpetuating.

  But these men were undeviating versions of themselves—and they certainly weren’t performers. When giving a reading, Pasha underwent a transformation. Before an audience Pasha embodied, occupied, seized. The capacities and drives assumed absent or atrophied appeared fully formed. He was forceful and aggressive. He was loud. Renata would’ve whispered her instructions into plugged ears, catching Pasha devoid of a shred of receptivity. After reciting a few poems, he’d notice that he had something clutched in his bloodless fingers. By this time he would’ve forgotten who introduced him or where he was. A sealed realm of acute nowness could get direly claustrophobic. To fend off this threat, any available vents were used, including objects that had accidentally slipped into this realm but still smelled of the outside world (think of prisoners who emerge with the collected Voltaire memorized). Discovering that he was holding his own book and that it was filled with flapping sticky neon squares, Pasha would’ve made a stab at the gesture. Renata would’ve been wounded for years. Any chances of hurt feelings had been averted. Renata could continue to brim with maternal sentiment. Equally fortuitous was that he’d missed the other poets. In the meantime Misha’s powers of rationalization had been called in. It was all very plain and understandable: The reason Bozhko, Fishman, and that whole gang didn’t take an interest in him was that he wasn’t a poet but a prose writer, and too Americanized at that. The only prose writer in their circle was Rosa Salem, and she didn’t count for two reasons: She was an attractive woman (despite the nose), and her prose was as incomprehensible as contemporary poetry. But it was only natural that Pasha should fall in with them.

  Lilya, of a dark magnetic beauty freshly extinct in Odessa, whose ghost still haunted the streets, was gone. She wasn’t using the facilities or tucked into a bookcase shadow. As long as she’d been pinpointable, Pasha could happily keep talking to somebody else. The reconstituted atmosphere brought a whiff of party death. What had been ambience was noise, uneven and jarring. The number of people had been cut in half, and the remaining half had to laugh harder, take up more space. The room had been plucked clean of beautiful women. The remaining ones looked as if their feet were killing them. They wore overcompensating blouses, hoping to draw attention to breasts with which they’d struck a deal that was now dusty. Like broken contraptions about to be pawned, their faces had been tinkered with at the last minute, using makeshift tools and a bit of improvisation to attain a precarious guise of serviceability that with some luck would hold for several hours. Smiles like grease smudges hastily wiped. It was impossible to imagine his wife among them. With brazen makeup and a blouse, she’d look absurd and savage. Not in a million years could she manage a grin like that. Pasha was filled with pride. No, his wife never smiled.

  As a matter of fact, I often forget the good-bye part, he said. But I’ll try to remember you’re particular about that. Here goes: Good-bye.

  You can’t leave yet. Look how much watermelon’s left.

  There’s an entire train journey ahead of me, said Pasha, though he did love watermelon.

  Oh, of course, Brighton Beach! I won’t hear of this train ride. There are extra beds, couches, closets, whatever you prefer. . . . Sleep here, and tomorrow we’ll go for brunch. I’ll show you around a real neighborhood. Do you know what bagels are?

  Very kind, said Pasha, but my family—

  Call them. Say you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, Renata will make sure of it. Nothing will happen to their little boy. I’ll get you the phone. As she was turning, a young lady, freckled and flushed all over, took her by the elbow and leaned in, conveying pure flustered youth. Renata’s eyes widened, and with a pregnant look she put the girl on pause. Seems like an urgent matter has come up, she said to Pasha with a discreet wink. Shouldn’t take m
ore than a minute. You wait here—I’ll be back with the phone. Renata’s experienced arm slid around the young lady’s emotional shoulder.

  Pasha was deliberating on Renata’s proposal when a harried and winded Misha sidled up to him. It was Pasha’s turn to see if Misha was OK. Misha replied with one of his jarring laughs. It poured out, a cascade of giggles as effervescent as his hair. They’d called him Masha because of those curls. Pasha felt a hand on the small of his back, surprised to find Misha in such a demonstrative mood. Perhaps that’s just what they needed—a little old-fashioned affection. They were childhood friends after all.

  Hello, boys, said a familiar voice. I’ve come to break up the party.

  The party’s just beginning, said Misha. Now, let’s get you a drink.

  Designated driver here, said Marina. Actually, personal chauffeur.

  What in the world are you doing here? said Pasha.

  On second thought, said Marina, I’ll take that drink.

  Misha tenderly disengaged from Marina’s arm and trotted across the room to the refreshments.

  Unbelievable! Mama didn’t tell you I was coming?

  It’s nice that you’re here, said Pasha with zero conviction, but, frankly, entirely unnecessary.

  Misha trotted back with an urgent delivery.

  Marina laughed. Who do you think I am, Semyon the second-floor neighbor?

  A little classier than that! Semyon cooked up the moonshine. You always went for the Stolichnaya.

  I was fourteen. Now I’m a lady. Our species drinks wine.

  Misha’s quick fingers were ready to take away the shot glass and, once it was drained, they did. She hadn’t lost the macho habit of pulling her lips back, exposing teeth, after taking down the strong stuff. And her throat made the hiss of a freshly opened can of Coke. Misha placed a more species-appropriate beverage into her swollen hand, which took the glass’s stem as if it were a grip test.

  Your timing’s auspicious, said Pasha. A minute later and you would’ve missed me.

  Maybe you got Mama’s telepathic message after all.

  Esther Borisovna does have supernatural powers, said Misha. Remember when she predicted that blaze in the Preobrazhensky Cathedral?

  The courtyard lady, Vedama, always did call Mama a witch, said Marina.

  What I meant, said Pasha, was that I’m ready to make my exit.

  You’ll just have to wait a bit, said Marina, lifting her glass. She had an adamant stance on waste, at least when it came to alcohol. A ruddy flush crept up her cheekbones, bulges that had always perplexed Pasha. Marina the Tatar, he’d teased, but she actually got upset, wanting only to be Marina just like everybody else in the family. She brought the glass to her mouth so often it would’ve been easier to keep it there. Her eyes were already losing their wideness, her forehead smoothing, focus melting. Her fanned teeth tended to turn blue instantly. Looking around, she nodded in approval. Not too shabby, she said. Though I wouldn’t want to be the one to clean it.

  I have a lady, she’s superb, said Renata. Gets the place spick-and-span in a few hours, charges practically nothing. An illegal, from Kharkov, where she taught literature. I can give you her number, though she’s overbooked as is. Renata turned to Pasha and held out the phone. Here, dial your family. Tell them you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If you prefer, I’ll do it.

  You just did! Marina began to roar. The laughter pumped in waves, jostling her organs, rising upward from her core.

  Your older sister, Renata said to Pasha, or a Brighton aunt?

  Marina continued, helpless. The production was turning hysterical. Tears blurred her vision.

  And she didn’t even smoke anything, said Misha.

  They stayed the night. They had to. Marina, at last managing to regain composure, realized she wasn’t drunk as much as cosmically exhausted. If they drove back, she’d be asleep by the Columbus Circle roundabout. Renata put them in the office where she took her patients. I’m a psychoanalyst, accredited, been practicing for ten years, she said, her stare directed at Marina. This got Marina started up again, to everyone’s dismay but Misha’s. He was prepared to trail-laugh up the steepest slopes, to absurd summits. This time Marina’s laughter quickly transitioned into a painful case of hiccups. Misha called a car service home.

  The futon’s seen better days, said Renata. Patients developed attachments to their psychoanalytic cocoons. It would be a betrayal to change it. Marina was left to do battle alone. Pasha knew better than try to solve a mise-en-scène riddle. Technically, somehow, the chrysalis had to unravel into what in this case would undoubtedly be a very crippled butterfly. But you couldn’t just jostle your way to a metamorphosis. The key, it turned out, was simply to lift the front leg while holding down the stretcher rails and punching in the back cushion as the hidden deck was tugged out from underneath and the wooden frame kicked, but gently, as it already had a crack. Then the thing opened up like new.

  • • •

  NOT THAT MARINA HAD MANAGED to sleep, but she awoke to a barrage of numbers. This occasionally happened—nightmares lingered in code. Digits swirled down the consciousness drain. They banded into sequences that senselessly harassed. If the numbers were vivid enough, she took it as a sign to buy a lotto ticket. Clearly misinterpreting the message. But this unassuming morning, after a hasty raffle, a number stood out in pure gold on a backdrop of red velvet—seven hundred and thirty. Two years! It was the anniversary of their arrival, the realization a shock, as if she hadn’t been obsessively counting. It was an occasion, not an accumulation. The others had been unusually tight-lipped about it. Was it possible they’d forgotten? Perhaps after the previous year’s hullabaloo, they felt the need for understatement with this one, a measure of nonchalance. Pasha was loaded into the car and made to wait as Marina picked up some understated pastries and nonchalant champagne. They got back to an empty apartment. While arranging the fruit bowl, which took some mastery, she noticed the phone light blinking red.

  A man’s gruff voice, heavy accent. Her heart thumped throatward. It was one of the Hasidic brothers—addressing her! Too overwhelmed to listen, she played the message back, and again. It was brief.

  Fired! said Marina. Sitting around the table, they’d lifted glasses, hadn’t yet clinked.

  Esther grew indignant—who’d ever heard of one of their own getting fired? But she dropped the act and put on the kettle when Marina began to rant. The families were slobs, treated her like shit, were practically abusive, never offered anything to eat but forbade her from bringing her own food into the house because of their wacko laws! Kosher shmosher! Food was food, something they would know if they had ever suffered from a lack of it! They hadn’t liked her from the beginning, something about her specifically, say, her long hair or the way she dressed, and yet she’d done the best she could with their pigsty. A handkerchief, warm from Esther’s breast, wiped Marina’s eyes. The tea made her chapped lips tingle and swell, and she slurped loudly, trying not to recall Krolik’s perplexed expression at the sight of pepperoni, his tense forehead too new to wrinkle. How quickly he’d swallowed those few bites, hardly chewing, before taking off with the evidence.

  SIX

  ROBERT WAS FIXATED on the man from Cambridge, the fact of whose existence Pasha had let slip and then promptly forgotten. This man accompanied Robert throughout the day but became central at night. He started to say things, such as, Get Pasha to contact me, this is very important.

  Who are you? Robert asked, but the man would say no more. Robert’s questioning persisted, and a few hours later the man introduced himself formally as professor emeritus at Harvard and foremost translator of Russian poetry into English. I’ve worked with Brodsky and, briefly, Nabokov. I’ll translate Pasha’s tome and, once it’s published, secure him a position as lecturer. He’ll be in Massachusetts, more convenient than Russia. It’s quite close, just consult a map—anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to brush up on your American geography. There are trains, expensive but the height of luxury
. And when the time comes, Frida has an easy in.

  Here Robert felt obliged to kindly object. Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? How old is Frida? Ten at most. And at what age do they finish school in this country, twenty? So you see it’s still a while before she applies to university, and besides, an easy in will not be necessary. But I do think you’re onto something with translating the book, hardly a tome, and getting Pasha a position. He’d be very good with the students. He’s always exhibited a pedantic sensibility.

  Then he must respond, said the man from Cambridge. I’ve read his book and sent him a long letter introducing myself and extolling the virtues of his poetry, going through a few of the poems in significant detail. It’s not every day that a collection by an unknown Russian poet moves me to propose a translation. There’s no money in it for me, you understand that, I hope. And I’m not dying for an additional project—as is, I’m drowned in deadlines. The point being I’ve done all that I can.