Levik shuddered. If the ocean is communicating, he said, it’s saying, Go home, drink some tea, lock your doors. It’s unhappy with us and making it very clear. As long as we’re here, there’s no telling what will happen. Maybe that Cumbre volcano in the Canary Islands finally erupted and caused a massive landslide. A tsunami is headed our way as we speak.
What difference does it make where we are, then? said Marina.
Don’t you want to see your daughter one last time?
She said she had plans.
• • •
FRIDA HADN’T LIED—she had plans. She went to her parents’ bedroom and rummaged in her mother’s makeup case as if in a decorative bowl of rocks. This failed—her bones didn’t tingle. She applied lipstick the color of Chinese eggplant and thought about where she could go, then called Gabe, who did a round of verbal cartwheels before admitting he was scouring the internet for men—tonight potential, not life potential, he said, though either would work and the end result would be a new pair of sneakers. I stayed out late yesterday and feel sick, he said. That’s fine, said Frida, who anyway didn’t feel up to dealing with the train. She turned on the TV and traveled through channels, not letting her thumb rest even if the colors or poses intrigued. She usually guessed wrong as to what interested her. She made her bed, neatly tucking the corners, then got into it, then left it but didn’t bother to make it again, knowing that the urge to get in would only strike once it was made. She wasn’t hungry, which was tragic.
Marina’s perfume and Levik’s cologne lingered in the corridor until the downstairs neighbors began their supper preparations. What the Hedonovs ate nightly was a mystery, but a consistent one. Even Robert with his dulled olfactory sense timed his boardwalk outings to their hour of dining. The Hedonovs were always jumping and shouting. They took naps in shifts, on the principle that it was easier to join in the revelry than start anew. Devotion to merriment on such a scale meant only one thing: They jumped not only for the thrill of jumping but to keep something terrifying, so terrifying it couldn’t be acknowledged, at bay. Of course, after so much bouncing, one couldn’t rule out brain damage. As to how many of them there were, it was hard to keep track. The pillars could be counted—the patriarch, Uzh; his two spinster sisters, Bo and El; the matriarch, Klysma; and her deranged brother, Grad—but Klysma’s children accrued imperceptibly, blink and there were two more, and relatives in need of convalescence were always arriving for two-week stays—they considered the sea air therapeutic, and America generally lacked for sanatoria.
Before the Hedonovs a man lived there, a Refrigeration Institute friend of Levik’s (they’d bonded because their fathers were big-shot factory bosses and huge assholes, Marina had explained). The apartment had witnessed his downfall, as had Frida, whose bedroom was directly above his in a building with no sound insulation. He’d done his best with the place—wallpaper stripped, walls partially gutted, floorboards dug out, doors torn from hinges, ceiling destroyed by water damage. After he’d been taken away (mental institution? prison?), the apartment stood empty for many months. At first it was a shock, a collective shame, a disgrace; residents tried to make use of the building’s other wing. Then, simply by not relenting, by remaining destroyed and abandoned, the apartment began the transformation into abstraction, becoming a symbol of something. For a moment it was the building’s core, establishing a grid of intimacy around itself. Then the Hedonovs bought the place. It was almost a move against nature, a tempting of fate. Renovation took a year and was rather an exorcism.
But why was Frida still thinking about that man, who’d owned a shriveled-olive Chihuahua with such pure fear in its eyes that, stranded in the elevator with it, Frida would become afraid of herself, as if some force in her might awaken and make her do horrible things to that dog? It hid behind the metal cart without which the man never left home. Of that trio—the man, the cart, and the Chihuahua—only the cart’s fate was known. The blue-haired old lady who tended the lobby plants had claimed it for herself, insisting she’d been its rightful owner all along. Four years had already passed, and yet the day of his disappearance grew no less vivid. Frida had been staring at the large swirling snowflakes in her organic chemistry textbook when her mother barged in, screaming, The downstairs apartment is empty, Pasha’s gone!
That was it! His name had fallen through the cracks, perhaps not unintentionally. And now it was a simple mistake, confusing the two Pashas. Trying to break through to the surface was the other Pasha, her uncle, but instead she’d slipped out of habit on her old downstairs neighbor. Freud would’ve been pleased.
But what about her uncle? She had so little to go on, practically nothing of any substance, and yet he loomed so large over the household. He was a mythic creature, a legend. It was impossible to imagine him as the father at a wedding. Dancing? Rejoicing? He slipped out of all the scenarios her mind conjured up for him. Sitting in a dentist’s chair, ordering from a menu, stretching a hamstring, filing taxes, trailing a tour guide—not Pasha. Her uncle didn’t tie shoelaces or own a cell phone. There was no laundry in his life, though a checkered, yellowed ironing board leaned against the wall behind his desk. The legs of the desk were as crooked as those of his landlady, who had three white hairs sprouting from her chin and at midnight hovered over the charcoal-smudged city astride her broomstick.
Entire seasons refused to contain Pasha. Surrounded by icicles, heaps of snow, and grime, sure, but not sunbathers or trees in bloom. Frida was always hearing about terrible snowstorms, Pasha unable to leave his house for weeks, classes at the university canceled, heating broken, tram tracks iced over. In nostalgia tales of the fair Odessa spring, Pasha didn’t figure. Her uncle was stuck in February, unable to fix the radiator because no tool made sense in his large white hands. He could prod some handles, jiggle screws, but the result was that the heating shut off altogether and he huddled beneath five blankets watching his breath while everyone else frolicked seaside or wandered under the birches that had a frail, purebred quality. Pasha awoke with his beard frozen to the wooden boards, bedbugs in the fissures, windows clouded with frost. God forbid he should smile under a clear blue sky. In old photos Frida’s family made Odessa look like a resort town. There are cliffs, roaring waters, rustic picnic tables on rough terrain, tomatoes spilling out of their skins, thick sausages, young cheeses, dark bread. Tan faces. White teeth. Men, small to medium in stature, prematurely saggy but with shapely calves, stand around in tiny swimming trunks. Women tower over them. Breasts, breasts everywhere. No telling where body ends and bosom begins. Esther abounds—here she’s bending over a table (is she going for the last circle of kielbasa on the plate or to tug a tempting braid—Marina’s, perhaps—cut off by the frame?), and there she poses on a boat, hair slapped against her cheek, squinty satisfaction, an ample arm slung over the railing. Marina runs around in white underwear long past an acceptable age.
Pasha chooses not to leave the snow. He wears fur caps with the earflaps pinned, exposing a catastrophic excess of cartilage. Skin strains over nose and ears. His overcoats are as severe as his facial expressions. The sky is low, almost as dark as the shadows under his eyes. The gravity of the Soviet situation is on display, Stalin’s legacy palpable in the photos Pasha populates. The Nasmertovs through their documentation constructed an Eden from which they could be evicted. Pasha did no such thing, almost as if he knew he wouldn’t need it. Or was this mere hindsight? Perhaps it was Frida’s faulty memory. It was years since she’d gone through that box of old photos.
The jumping abated. Frida put her ear to the floor. Uzh liked to plant his seed into Klysma nightly. During this ritual Klysma wailed and pleaded with God, for material possessions or help with their financial situation, which really was in need of divine intervention. It appeared to be a slow night, when it would take forever. Frida could go get a sandwich and easily make it back in time.
But in getting sandwiches Frida got distracted. The kitchen window looked out on the ocean, which had the cast
-aside air of a large piece of grandparents’ furniture thrown to the curb. Grandparents put plastic covers on sofas so butts and sweaty palms wouldn’t damage the fabric, and children sat on the loud, sticky plastic but didn’t realize it was a cover, nobody told them, and they suffered, assuming this was just what sitting on sofas was like. The ocean seemed to be inside such a plastic cover, and somewhere at the back there was a zipper that could be undone. But why wax lyrical when Pasha had that angle covered? Outside it was gray and muggy, not at all reminiscent of anything, and Frida sat by a south-facing window, in despair.
TEN
HER MOM HAD GOTTEN her the job, lest she have too leisurely a respite from medical school, but there was little in the way of actual work. She sat at the reception desk in a decrepit medical office with a car-wash vibe, recorded the names and Social Security numbers of the senior citizens who came in, processed their Medicare information, and distributed ten-dollar bills. The majority of patients never actually laid their impaired eyes on the physician. This sort of seedy operation would’ve been unacceptable from a regular doctor, but Dr. Gamsky was Yuri, a family friend. Many days of Frida’s childhood had been spent in his lively Manhattan Beach home, playing with his worldly-wise daughter, Diane, until that abruptly came to an end. Frida’s parents never had to try hard for plausibility with their stories. If Yuri’s beautiful wife, Larissa, went to Africa on safari and two weeks later Diane got accepted and immediately sent off to the best boarding school in the country, in neither Canarsie nor Bensonhurst, there could be no better explanation for why Frida would no longer be deposited in their Manhattan Beach home. Once or twice a follow-up question was raised, whether Diane’s mom had returned from safari or if Diane’s boarding school had an address to which a letter and a charm bracelet could be sent, but then Frida forgot to ask again. She paid no mind to the fact that Larissa’s name was mentioned in a whisper until it stopped being mentioned at all or that her friend was, from that point on, referred to as Poor Diane. Only several years ago, when Diane just as suddenly came back into the picture, seven months along on her dad’s doorstep, did Frida’s mom mention juvenile facilities, illegal powders, older men, but in passing, as if Frida had been in on the situation all along. Pressing for details now would mean admitting to the horrific extent of her gullibility, so she was resigned to remain in the dark as to what exactly went down, certain only that the closest thing to a real safari had been that Manhattan Beach home, and she’d never even known it.
The atmosphere in the office was particularly tense this Monday morning. Giant Dr. Gamsky sat in Frida’s chair at the front desk, clutching his forehead. He looked up, his cheek creased and marked by a cuff-link-size indentation that did little to assuage Frida’s fear that he slept in the office. After vigorously blinking away the fog, he said, Look who’s finally here.
I’m not late!
He waved her off as if she were being trifling about it and informed her that today he wanted to do things a bit differently. Would that be fine with her?
She nodded tentatively.
How are your hands? he asked.
She held them out. I’ve been told they’re small for my size.
He snatched a palm and squeezed. She squeezed back.
They’ll do, he said. Forget the old system. This is not a bank, you can tell them that. No more free money. If they want a checkup or a massage—great—if not, tell them to get the hell out.
But the procedure is a medical massage—I haven’t been trained.
It’s basically the same as what you’d give your boyfriend. A bit more wrist action, if you feel up to it.
But if I’m massaging, said Frida, her throat getting stiff, who’s at the desk?
Let’s play it by ear, said Dr. Gamsky, a favorite phrase, used whenever he felt backed into a corner or thrust into the realm of the hypothetical. Laborious thinking made him feel like a cat chasing its tail. He wasn’t built for problem solving. He stood and retreated to the back. Yuri’s standing was an event. Even if he tried to be casual about it, the room underwent a transformation. Whoever witnessed his rising was robbed of breath. He was so tall and hulking, so huge and statuesque. His size was an accomplishment in itself and had probably tampered with his ambition. Why should he strive like the little folk? His presence used to intimidate Frida. Out of all her parents’ friends, Yuri had been the most alien. He was representative of the male breed and the only one male enough to belong to it.
She was left alone to stare at the door. Gum wrappers accrued, one for every email sent like a paper airplane into an iron curtain. About an hour later, an old man entered. He moaned all the way to her desk, as if being in pain made him more deserving of recompense.
Very windy out, he said. Where’s the sheet?
It’s right here, said Frida, sticking a blank pad in front of his nose. But before you sign, you should know that our policy has changed.
Not for me, he said. I’m in a hurry.
For everybody.
Just the money, miss.
That’s precisely the issue. Our new policy is that this is not a bank. How about a massage or a checkup?
He peered at her uncomprehendingly. They examined each other’s face, finding them odder than they’d imagined. The old man decided to try again. I’ll take the ten rubles, he said, making sure to be as clear as possible.
No.
It’s my right.
A new policy, Frida said desperately.
I’m a veteran. Do you want to see my medals? They were in his pocket. He had eleven total. Three came in little red boxes, another two were in transparent plastic cases so scratched they were no longer transparent, and the rest were loose. Yet they were all, sheltered or not, in equally deplorable condition. He gave them to Frida one by one, and she looked at them carefully as if appraising with knowledge, meanwhile hoping that this might buy her time and calm the man, who must’ve had a very large pocket, maybe even had his pants tailored specifically so that the pocket could contain all his medals. She’d been holding the same medal up to her face for a long time. The others were like large, thin coins or copper stars under triangular, striped bands, but this one, which had been in one of the nontransparent plastic cases, looked like a life float with slits, in the center of which was Stalin’s profile, which seemed like a decapitated head, a very finely shaped decapitated head, with hair like the choppy sea.
At this moment two more seniors hobbled in wielding Medicare cards. One of them was a woman (never a good sign). They began to feed each other’s sense of righteousness and entitlement. Before the two of them even reached Frida’s desk, the man with the medals was reporting that Dr. Gamsky was trying to put one over on them. Apparently, senior citizens, veterans of the Great Patriotic War, survivors of Stalinism, weren’t very flexible. They used the word no freely but didn’t acknowledge it when it was used against them. And evidently they thought that doctors in this country just handed out cash. We will report you, they said. The authorities will find out that Dr. Gamsky got greedy and started keeping our bills for himself. The authorities would reprimand Dr. Gamsky and distribute the bills to their rightful owners, who had big plans for them, you could be sure of that.
Let us see the doctor, said the woman.
For a checkup? Frida asked.
For a word.
I’ll go back and get him, she heard herself say. Cataract stares bored into her back. The bathroom door was just barely ajar, with no light inside. Frida nudged it with her foot. Dr. Gamsky wasn’t inside, but she was, staring at her own glistening face in the mirror. She lifted her shirt—breasts. Farther in, two doors led to examining rooms and one, on the opposite wall, was to Dr. Gamsky’s private office. The examining room at the far end was used as storage, but the first examining room was fully functional, at least in appearance, imparting a very necessary sense of hope. That’s where Frida went, knocking but not waiting for a reply and finding it empty. A wad of used paper towels lay on the floor like squashed vermin
. The bariatric footstool was standing on the counter, and a cabinet door hung open. The roll of paper over the exam table didn’t reach the table’s edge. It wasn’t torn or dirty but was no longer crisp. It was just terribly old.
That left one option. Frida knocked on Yuri’s private office. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the crack—silence. Dr. Gamsky, she called. No answer. She tried the knob, and it gave. What was she afraid of? It was the expression on Dr. Gamsky’s face; unfortunately he was only too capable of mustering shame. But the room, which reeked of ammonia, was empty. She peeked into the storage room, dark and dense. This confirmed her suspicion: a hidden door. All this time she’d been wondering what Yuri was doing back there, and actually he hadn’t been back there at all.
More seniors had gathered. This qualified as civil commotion. These people had nothing to get back to. They could easily stay in the office all day. Perhaps the only thing more valuable than the ten-dollar bill was the opportunity to band together when it was denied them.
The doctor isn’t feeling well right now, said Frida. No one seemed to register this inane announcement.
Nu, said the woman. Where is he?
He said he’d be here in a minute, said Frida. But I’ll go see what’s taking so long. She grabbed her purse and went in search of the hidden door. It couldn’t be very hard to find, as it had to be large enough for Dr. Gamsky to fit through. Her cheeks were burning. She must’ve been crying. She entered the office and looked around. A shelf of medical textbooks, framed diplomas, a desk stacked high with papers, manila folders, binder clips, a coffee-stained mug—perhaps everything was fine after all. But if everything were fine, she wouldn’t be putting her hand on the wall and walking the length of the room, feeling for disturbances that might indicate a hidden passageway. In order to pass behind the desk, she pushed in the chair, but it wouldn’t go. She pushed harder. A groan issued from beneath. Frida’s heart thumped, and a bubble of icy fluid punctured in her chest, releasing the substance in all directions. She managed to squat down to inspect. At first she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Tufts of salt-and-pepper hair, knuckles, cuff links. Dr. Gamsky was folded tightly into the space under his desk. His knees were drawn into his chest, spine twisted and neck bent so that his head rested on his left shoulder, the one pressed up against the back of the desk. A half-empty bottle stood beside his usable hand.
Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel Page 16
