Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel

by Yelena Akhtiorskaya

  Robert thought long and hard. Being forthright would be foolish. Pasha wouldn’t respond positively to news that his father had been conspiring with the man from Cambridge. But if Pasha complied, he was essentially a step away from fame in America and a respectable position that would leave him time to write. This was a matter of objective significance. Much was at stake, and Robert couldn’t afford a careless approach. He needed to be strategic. But Robert had no sense of strategy. Shameful as it may be to admit, he avoided chess. And he invested too much trust in a higher system, underestimating contingency. He believed that if you put everything down at once, the veracity magnets of the universe would sort through the mess, set it in its right order, and see through to the correct outcome—hence Robert’s characteristic sloppiness. Suddenly he heard the lock turn and footsteps. Esther let out a groan, rolled onto her side, and began to snore.

  Robert sat up, electrified. An epiphany: Pasha had the letter. He may have been obstinate, but he was also a Nasmertov, which meant that he came equipped with a reserve of relentless, pestering doubt. If he didn’t leave a bit of space for a change of opinion, he’d get claustrophobic. Robert imagined Pasha opening the mystery letter from Cambridge and devouring it in a gulp, then deciding for whatever insane reason that it must be ignored. Pasha would’ve put it away and spent the following days trying to forget its existence, until realizing that he was only driving himself to the point of having to reply. He needed the space to rethink his decision in order to not have to rethink it. So he retrieved the letter and took it to New York, figuring that if he did decide to call or write, he’d want to reread the thing first. Robert clutched the blanket, breathing hard. He looked over at Esther to see if she was hearing his thoughts, but she was asleep, head cocked back and mouth agape, screaming breath. He looked at the clock—quarter to three. He lay down, now convinced that Pasha had the man’s full contact information with him. But Pasha was going back to Odessa tomorrow evening, and if he hadn’t contacted the man yet, he wasn’t about to. Robert had the sensation of flight. He was weightless, the wind under him pumped in powerful rhythmic bursts. He was exhilarated—these were real developments, though confined to his throbbing brain. But no more new developments were coming. A small rock rolled onto Robert’s chest, and its weight pinned him to the mattress. So Pasha had the letter with him. What exactly was Robert supposed to do with this knowledge? He remembered the semi-lucid dream that had led to the breakthrough: He was in a canoe with no oars. He began to search for something to paddle with, up to this point a recurring dream, but this time he found under his seat a suitcase that crumbled to dust the moment he touched it.

  • • •

  IN ACCORDANCE WITH THEIR WISHES, Pasha had filled out over the course of the visit (he’d developed an addiction to Ritz crackers, keeping an amber stack torn at the seam in his pocket at all times—so everybody’s happy, said Esther, the roaches and the mice). His grooming had improved, he’d acquired a healthy dose of color, and the result was that he no longer looked like a poet but a computer programmer, which possibly had something to do with his wearing Levik’s clothes, sitting on Levik’s couch, getting tended to by Levik’s barber, using Levik’s toiletries and, unintentionally, Levik’s toothbrush (neither used it very regularly). Pasha was a stable poet of even temperament, Levik a tortured coder. Pasha slept soundly, had a calm demeanor and steady output not widely ranging in quality (on his off days he was great, on his good days he was excellent, and his genius needed no equivalent). Levik was volatile and moody and regularly stayed up into the wee hours, staring into the screen. He muttered, gnawed his fingernails, tugged out fistfuls of hair that needed no help in disappearing, shut himself in the bedroom for hours; cursed when he was failing, cried if he ever broke through to a solution; hid jars of unidentifiable liquid around the house; bought vast quantities of Febreze products in compulsive splurges. Passing him in the corridor, you never knew whether he’d ignore you or try to dance with you, as he was the type of man occasionally so stirred he could express himself only through dance, though an impartial observer would hardly know to call it that. This reaction to his work was odd, since the only scripting language he knew was Visual Basic. Don’t let the name fool you, said Levik. What about the fact that it had been created for beginner programmers? Levik held an entry-level position he’d secured because he’d lied on his CV and had twenty friends vouch for his credentials and because Americans refused to believe that a Russian might not be proficient in technology. A nerdy eighth-grader with too much time on his hands could’ve done Levik’s job, but looking at Levik at four in the morning in front of a massive black screen with an arrangement of code on it and a cursor blinking in the same spot for hours, you’d think he was making an effort to decipher the secrets of the universe.

  Pasha poring over a lined page was a far cry from Levik’s impassioned computer sessions. Face expressionless, equanimity unruffled. Marina composing a shopping list seemed more inspired. And he worked so early in the morning he was essentially still asleep. The only other person awake at the time was Esther, which had been a source of much bristling. Dawn was a very particular time, unlike dusk, when a million things could be happening. At dawn there were silent missions, at dusk pre-dinner drinks. Esther and Pasha didn’t like to share their precious matutinal commodity. But Esther set up base in the kitchen and bathroom, two places difficult to avoid for long. She’d fix Pasha with a piercing gaze, judging every food and drink decision he made. Why take three spoonfuls of instant coffee when one sufficed? The wafer should go on a plate, but why should he care about that if Mama’s there to wipe away the crumbs? Today wasn’t just any morning, however, but Pasha’s last. She’d made a fresh batch of cottage cheese for the occasion, and he wasn’t being shy with helpings. She felt an urge to hug a little boy to her breast. Instead, finding herself behind her pasty giant, she pinched his back fat (the drawstring of Levik’s pajama pants cut into Pasha’s skin, creating convenient bulges).

  How’s the writing going? she asked, eyes ablaze.

  Fine, said Pasha, on guard. The question came out of the blue; it was, in fact, the first time his mother had mentioned his writing. She’d never been the most supportive of the poetic endeavor. But maybe, Pasha thought, she’s come around. Perhaps the question constituted a gesture; she was reaching out. Actually, he said, it’s been a little rough—they say the second book is where it gets difficult. Why do you ask?

  You’ve been eating a lot.

  Not any more than usual.

  More frequently than usual.

  What’s that got to do with my writing?

  Maybe you’re compensating.

  Do you think it’s been easy to get anything done in this house?

  We manage.

  You make soup.

  And you eat plenty of it!

  Pasha repackaged the wafers, spooned cottage cheese back into the pot, poured his coffee down the drain. I’m going for a walk, he said, and, not entirely sure why, as he wasn’t actually angry, headed for the door and executed a dramatic slamming.

  Robert dragged himself into the kitchen, grumbling for having overslept. The concept, however, was no longer relevant. There were no consequences to snoozing past the alarm, which made him all the more disgruntled for doing so. Being ten minutes late to work was something a person could grasp. It focused and sublimated the intangible unhappy feeling and even made it fun—occasional tardiness was a transgression, a small, harmless one. Now there was only the intangible unhappy feeling.

  You didn’t wake me, he said.

  You were sleeping so sweetly, said Esther.

  She gets a boost from seeing me at my worst, thought Robert—perhaps the third mean-spirited thought he’d had since the Second World War. He fell into a dejected slump by the window. A cup of coffee appeared under his nose.

  You know I’ve been trying to cut down.

  Nonsense, said Esther. The stuff gives you a pulse. After he’d taken a few sips, she added,
Pasha went off somewhere.

  I wasn’t looking for him.

  I thought maybe you had an idea where.

  You mean, did I get a dream communication from him? No, I did not. He didn’t say a word. But you could’ve asked.

  I didn’t want to intrude.

  Robert shot her a who-are-you-kidding look.

  For a walk was what he said. But Pasha doesn’t walk. Now I’m worried.

  How long has he been gone?

  Half an hour.

  Relax for now. I’ll tell you when to worry. Is there any cottage cheese left?

  The news of a fresh supply lifted the gloom—what a difference between the stiff brittle pellets of a week-old batch and the airy clumps of a new one. Along with a teaspoon of raspberry jam—a heavenly marriage. That they’d been having it for breakfast for the past thirty-five years never diminished the gustatory surprise. Robert had been walking around with white crud in the corners of his mouth for decades.

  Satisfied, he was ejected from the kitchen.

  And now? Esther called to him. Should I worry now?

  How long’s it been?

  Forty-five minutes!

  Not yet! Robert yelled as he lathered the unkempt shaving brush and puffed out a cheek. But he didn’t finish because he was standing over Pasha’s suitcase. Though it wasn’t really Pasha’s suitcase. It was Robert’s—a patient had once given it to him as a present. The patient was a luggage merchandiser with arteriovenous malformation and early-onset Parkinson’s. His name was Volodya Laramshtik and genetic misfortune had tailored his life so that the Nasmertovs never suffered from a dearth of luggage. Robert’s slipper nudged the flap. What an unhappy sight: clothes and papers swirling together in a panic. He got to his knees and set to work. Give Robert a chisel, curettes, even scissors, and the procedure was sure to go smoothly. But digging with bare hands wasn’t his forte. He was inexperienced in this line, and it wasn’t as mindless as he assumed. After an arduous spurt, he noticed that he wasn’t breathing. And he was sifting blindly, not registering what he was putting aside. He began again, this time trying to integrate three operations: breathing, digging, and discerning. It was a while before he asked himself, Why am I diligently inspecting every article of clothing when right here is a massive pile of papers? The weight of the papers shocked him. Just lifting them out of the suitcase drained his strength. He divided the papers into several stacks and picked up the first: disconnected stanzas, notes, illegible scribbles. The moment the word papa jumped out at him, a creak resounded. Robert turned. The door swung open, and in the doorway appeared Esther’s rear end, often of assistance around the house, since her hands were generally occupied. Robert was relieved, not only to see that it was Esther but by the very sight of that rear end. She couldn’t really be sick with a rear end of such grand proportions. Cancer ate at people. Left them brittle and emaciated, wasted away. That rear end was absorbing all its nutrients. But now she about-faced, gasped. She stood frozen, wide-eyed—she was bringing in Pasha’s laundry.

  You scared me, she said, and proceeded to waddle into the room, setting the neat stack on the edge of the couch. Then her legs buckled under her like felled trees. Robert thought she was collapsing and jumped to attention, but she was just sitting onto the floor beside him. What are we searching for? she asked.

  I’m not sure, said Robert. To avoid eye contact, he looked down, spotting a letter on top of the second pile, written on Harvard University letterhead. He began to read it and laughed aloud, so stilted and stuffy was the Russian in which it had been composed. The man was John Lamborg, chair of the Slavic languages and literatures department at Harvard University, specializing in the linguistics and semiotics of medieval Rus. He also taught a class that reflected a more heartfelt interest: stylistics of twentieth-century Russian poetry. Robert copied out the address and returned the letter.

  I’m done here, an exultant Robert said, and stood.

  Well, I’m just getting started, replied Esther.

  • • •

  PASHA SURFACED ON THE STREET. An unfortunate turn of events, really. Unlike Tolstoy, Pasha wasn’t one for long, aimless walks. But a destination eluded him. Why not look at it as a last chance to explore? Weren’t there hole-in-the-wall trinket shops that had tempted in passing, alleyways with a Venetian allure? But the neighborhood had ossified, no longer explorable, just usable. Did he need anything? Perhaps some tomatoes?

  In fact he needed to pack, but returning to the apartment wasn’t an option. He let himself be carried downstream by a pour of sunlight. Summer had officially overstayed its welcome. Despite a wildly enthusiastic reception, those who’d eagerly awaited its arrival now wanted to be granted relief. Dumb heat was being pumped into a hothouse atmosphere. The inability to sustain a thought made surroundings materialize. What was that? A shrub. And beside it? An old lady scavenging through the trash bin. Across the street scurried Rurik Schvarts. Esther’s dearest friend had been Rurik’s mother, Raya, a hardened lady prone to fits of maniacal laughter, who died at forty-seven from a lightning strike during a rendezvous with a lover. Rurik was a failed violinist. Fortunately, failed violinists were too resentful to look around when returning home with groceries. He disappeared with two limp bags into a building.

  An odor of derangement hung about Brighton, wafting extra from under the train tracks. There were too many instances of household appliances used as hats, baby carriages with things other than babies in them, heated conversations with a sole visible party. The condolences distributed by the émigré poets upon learning where Pasha was holed up for the duration of his visit were understandable, though he couldn’t help being suspicious of a response so quickly issued and unvarying across the board. Only his family had a different idea. They said regularly, Isn’t it wonderful here? Look how nice it is! They seemed to be neither lying nor telling the truth. Pasha couldn’t say he’d come around to their point of view, but he’d softened to the place. No longer did it strike him as a nostalgic bubble beyond hope. Rather, despite its being just that, there were undeniable charms, for example the little grandmas selling prescription pills and old furs on the corner, the physics professor with his pile of used watches, the open-air concerts by ardent if not expert musicians. And if nothing else, there was something to be said for the fact that there were more bookshops in Brighton than in the entire country to which Pasha was shortly to return.

  Seeking refuge from the heat in one of the larger bookstores on Ocean Parkway, he was reminded that if Russians put in a decent effort, they could mimic German sterility. The effort was misdirected. The immaculateness of a bookstore or a couture tie shop or a faux-Italian lingerie boutique didn’t compensate for the raging chaos in other arenas of Russian life: politics, family, drink. Nevertheless, it was a comforting lie, like the kitchen of a grandmother. Though Pasha himself wasn’t neat, sterile, or orderly, and his life wasn’t cataloged or alphabetized—not even the genres were distinct—he wasn’t impervious to the effect of these qualities in a bookstore. That odor of derangement stopped right at the door. The air inside had been imported from the atmosphere over an Alaskan lake. Outside, the concrete was melting. Here, Pasha’s teeth clamored. Thoughts were like warts blasted with liquid nitrogen. The poised saleswomen, the straight-backed stacks. Just as there was a superior class of humans who didn’t perspire, there were books that didn’t accumulate dust. There was no way to tell which books the public neglected. They were all equally pristine, waiting not too eagerly to be chosen. They seemed to boast of a system of self-grooming, like cats.

  As his sister had predicted, Pasha had come to fear his own name. There were creatures that resided eternally in the underworld but were able to rise to street level on the condition that they identify some poor individual by his or her full name: first, last, and patronymic. Using all possible tactics, they tried to prolong the conversation that ensued, because the moment it was over, back to the underworld they went. Pavel Robertovich Nasmertov, the voice said, and insta
ntly grew flesh. Pasha turned to find an interesting creature indeed.

  I thought it was you, she said. And where else?

  Pasha looked at her quizzically. She pointed to a sign, so large and perfectly positioned that it was invisible.

  I’m afraid this is misrepresentative, he said. The majority of my life is spent outside the poetry aisle.

  Yet you look quite at home.

  On the contrary, I’m finding it stifling. They must’ve just washed the floors.

  And of course you object?

  Not on principle. I like clean floors as much as anybody. But the chemicals make me light-headed.

  Then you need some fresh air.

  Pasha looked abstractly to the stacks. Anyway, there’s no room in my suitcase for more books, he conceded.

  They nodded politely to the well-built boy guarding the door from scores of invading armies and emerged into the tightly packed heat. A train pulled into their skulls.

  Are you leaving soon? she asked abruptly as passengers overhead were advised to stand away from the platform while the train was entering and leaving the station.

  Tonight, said Pasha. I’m sorry, but do I know you?

  She turned away in the odd chance that her pale cheeks were capable of mustering color, and said that they’d met, just briefly, at Miss Ostraya’s.

  Right, said Pasha, though he thought he would’ve remembered had he met this young woman, if only because of her ear. The right one was unremarkable, but the left was tiny, shriveled, mangled; it looked like a stick of gum that had been chewed not too long, then stuck clumsily on the side of her head as if under a desk. Her copper-in-the-sunlight hair was worn shoulder length and shaggy to best shroud the deformity. A tricky operation. Though small, the ear was jagged—it had a way of poking through. And New York was a blustery city, particularly Brighton. From the direction of the Verrazano, they were being blasted night and day. Each gust defied her efforts. Under the sway of the elements, she couldn’t be sure when the ear was hidden, when on display. To check would only draw attention. The technique she’d developed was to check in with her toes, letting the choppy strands brush over her cheeks.