Surrounded by such polyglot commotion, it was easy for Vladimir to abandon his post—the so-called Russia Desk, covered with bureaucratic ink stains and newspaper clippings about Soviet Jews in distress. But before Vladimir could accompany Mr. Rybakov to his penthouse, an impassioned well-wisher rang him at the office.
“DEAREST VOLODECHKA!” Mother shouted. “Happy birthday . . . ! Happy new beginning . . . ! Your father and I wish you a brilliant future . . . ! Much success . . . ! You’re a talented young man . . . ! The economy’s improving . . . ! We gave you all our love as a child . . . ! Everything we had, to the very last . . . !”
Vladimir turned down the volume on the headset. He knew what was coming, and, indeed, seven exclamation marks down the road, Mother broke down and started wailing God’s name in the possessive: “Bozhe moi! Bozhe moi!”
“Why did I get you that job, Vladimir?” she cried. “What was I thinking? You promised me you would stay no more than one summer—it’s been four years! I’ve stagnated my own son, my one and only. Oh, how did this transpire? We brought you to this country, and for what? Even the stupid native-born do better than you . . .”
On and on she went, through a barrage of tears, gurgling and explosive nasal contretemps, about the joys of going to college and then law school, the lack of status in being a desk slave for a nonprofit agency, working for eight dollars an hour while his contemporaries were going full steam ahead with their professional educations. Gradually, her soft, steady wail increased in tempo and pitch, until she reminded Vladimir of a devout woman at a Middle Eastern funeral the moment her son’s coffin is lowered into the ground.
Vladimir sat back and sighed loudly in protest. She couldn’t stop, not even on his birthday.
It had taken his own father a year of courtship and a decade of marriage to adapt to Mother’s talent of bawling at will. “Don’t cry. Oh, why are you crying, little porcupine?” the young Dr. Girshkin would whisper to his wife in their dim Leningrad apartment as he ran his hands through her hair, hair darker than the exhaust hanging over the city, hair which even strong Western hair-curlers could not curl (they called her Mongolka, and she was, indeed, one-eighth Mongolian). Intermittent flashes of neon would illuminate the tears descending her oblong face as the meat-store sign positioned directly below their flat struggled to keep alight in the erratic power grid. He would never forgive her for not responding to his caresses until late into the night, when she fell asleep and instinctively curled into his shoulder, long after somebody had mercifully put out the MEAT sign and the streets surrendered to the foggy and indiscernible Petersburg darkness.
Vladimir, as well, suffered under his mother’s accusative wails as B-plus report cards were ceremonially burned in the fireplace; as china was sent flying for chess-club prizes not won; as he once caught her in her study sobbing at three in the morning, cradling a photo of the three-year-old Vladimir playing with a toy abacus, so bright-eyed, so enterprising, so full of hope . . .But the coup de grace took place during the wedding of a California Girshkin when Mother publicly broke down and accused Vladimir—shyly disco-dancing with a fat cousin—of having “the hips of a homosexual.” Oh, those sensuous hips!
Guilt-ridden and confused, Vladimir looked to his father for reinforcement, or at least an explanation, but one was not forthcoming until his early teens, when his father took him on a long autumn walk through swampy, gaseous Alley Pond Park—Queens’ gift to the nation’s forests—allowing his mouth to expel the word “divorce” for the first of many times.
“Your mother suffers from a kind of madness,” he had said. “In a very real and medical way.”
And Vladimir, young and tiny but already a child of America, said, “Aren’t there pills she can take?” But the holistic-minded Dr. Girshkin did not believe in pills. A strenuous alcohol rubdown and a hot banya were his universal prescriptions.
Even now, when Vladimir felt more detached from her sobs than ever, he remained at a loss for what to say in order to bring them to an end. His father had never figured it out either. Nor did he ever gather the courage to go through with his meticulously planned divorce. Mother was, for all her faults, his sole friend and confidante in the New World.
“Bozhe moi, Vladimir,” wept Vladimir’s mother, and then she stopped abruptly. She did something with the phone: it beeped. For a moment there was nothing. “I’m putting you on hold, Vladimir,” she said finally. “There’s a call from Singapore. It could be important.”
An instrumental version of “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore” blared from the electronic bowels of Mother’s corporation and into Vladimir’s ear.
It was time to go. Mr. Rybakov, left unattended, had stumbled back into the reception room and was terrorizing the security guard once more. Vladimir was close to hanging up when Mother returned with a whimper. Vladimir cut her off: “So how are things with you?”
“Terrible,” said Mother, switching to English, which meant job-talk. She blew her nose. “I have to fire someone in office.”
“Good for you,” Vladimir said.
“Is big complication,” groaned Mother. “He is American African. I am nervous I will say something wrong. My English not so good. You must teach me to be sensitive to Africans this weekend. It is important skill, no?”
“I’m coming over this weekend?” said Vladimir.
His mother made an effort to laugh and told him how insane it would be not to have a birthday barbecue. “You’re only twenty-five once,” she said. “And you are not a—How you say? A complete loss.”
“I’m not on crack, for one thing,” Vladimir volunteered cheerfully.
“And you’re not homo,” said his mother. “Hmm?”
“Why do you always—”
“Still with Jewish girl. Little Challah-bread.”
“Yes,” Vladimir reassured her. Yes, yes, yes.
Mother exhaled deeply. “Well, that’s good,” she said. She told him to bring his swimming trunks on Saturday because the pool might be fixed by then. She managed to both sigh and kiss Vladimir good-bye at the same time. “Be strong,” was her last, enigmatic bit of advice.
THE LOBBY OF Mr. Rybakov’s building, the Dorchester Towers, was centered around a tapestry depicting the Dorchester coat of arms, a double-headed eagle clutching a scroll in one beak and a dagger in the other—the graphic story of New Money and how it got that way. Two doormen opened the door for Vladimir and his client. A third one gave Vladimir a piece of candy.
Displays of wealth, American-style, always made Vladimir feel as if Mother was behind him, whispering into his ear her favorite bilingual nickname for him: Failurchka. Little Failure. Woozy with spite, he leaned against an elevator wall, trying to ignore the rich red glow of Burmese Padauk wood, praying that Rybakov’s apartment would be one hovel of a penthouse, government-subsidized and littered with crap.
But the elevator doors opened to reveal a sunny, cream-colored waiting hall, outfitted with sleek Alvar Aalto chairs and an ingenious wrought-iron torchiere. “Right this way, pork chop . . .” said Rybakov. “Follow me . . .”
They gained the living room, which was also inoffensively cream-colored except for what looked like a Kandinsky triptych taking up an entire wall. Beneath the Kandinsky, two sets of sofas and recliners were arranged around a projection television. Beyond was a dining room where an overextended chandelier hung centimeters above a grand rosewood table. As big as the apartment was, the furniture seemed destined for a place even bigger. Just wait and see, said the furniture.
Vladimir took in this tableau as slowly as he could, his gaze settling, of course, on the Kandinsky. “The painting . . .” Vladimir managed to say.
“Oh, that. It’s just something Miss Harosset picked up at auction. She keeps trying to sell me on abstract expressionism. But just look at that thing! This Kanunsky guy was obviously some sort of a pederast. Ah, let me tell you, Volodya, I’m a simple man. I ride the subway and iron my own shirts. I don’t need money or modern art! A cozy ou
thouse, some dried fish, a young woman to call out my name . . . This is my philosophy!”
“Miss Harosset,” Vladimir said. “She’s . . . your social worker?”
Mr. Rybakov laughed brightly. “Yeah, social worker,” he said. “That’s it exactly. Ah, Volodya, you’re lucky to be so young. Now sit down. I’ll make tea. Don’t let these fool you.” He waved a crutch at Vladimir. “I’m a sailor!”
He disappeared through a pair of French doors. Vladimir sat down at one end of the table, more appropriate for a state dinner than for a sip of tea, and looked around. A string instrument not unlike a Russian balalaika hung on one wall along with several yellowing military certificates. On the opposite wall, there was only a framed black-and-white photograph showing the face of a frowning young man bearing the Fan Man’s thick brows and light green eyes. A cold sore stretched along much of his pouted lower lip like an excavation in progress.
Beneath the photo stood a simple nightstand on which perched a wide-blade fan, its metal chassis gleaming.
“I see introductions are in order,” Rybakov said, wheeling in a cart with a miniature samovar, a bottle of vodka, and plates filled with matjes herring and Riga sprats. “Fan, this is Vladimir. Vladimir, Fan.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Vladimir said to the Fan. “I’ve heard such wonderful things.”
The Fan said not a word.
“The Fan’s a little tired,” Mr. Rybakov said, stroking the blades with a velvet cloth. “We spent all last night drinking and singing hooligan songs. ‘Murka, oh, my Murka . . . Oh, my darling Murka . . . Hello my Murka and goodbye!’ Do you know that one?”
“You betrayed our romance . . .” Vladimir sang. “Oh, my darling Murka . . . And for that, my Murka, you will die!”
“What a beautiful voice you have,” Mr. Rybakov cheered. “Maybe we can form a little impromptu singing society. The Red Army Choir in Exile. What do you say, Fan?”
The Fan remained silent.
“Do you know that he’s my best friend?” Rybakov suddenly said of the Fan. “My son’s gone, Miss Harosset’s running around doing the Devil’s work, so who else is there for me? I remember when we first met. I had just landed at Kennedy Airport, my son was being held up in customs—the Interpol fellows wanted to have a little heart-to-heart with him . . . And then the women from the local Hebrew society came by to give money to the arriving Jews. Well, they took one look at my Christian mug and they gave me a salami instead, and some of that awful American cheese . . . And then—I guess it was because of the jungle heat that summer—the Hebrews took pity on me and gave me my Fan. He was so spontaneous. Right away, we started chatting like a pair of old shipmates! We haven’t been apart since that day.”
“I haven’t made many friends in this country either,” Vladimir mused quietly. “It’s hard for us Russians to make friends here. Sometimes I get so lonely—”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Rybakov interrupted, “Very nice, Vladimir, but the day is short, so let us forget our sadness and talk like men.” He cleared his throat, then continued magisterially.
3. FATHERS AND SONS
“VLADIMIR, THE FAN wishes to relate to you story. A secret story.”
“Do you like secrets, Volodya?”
“Well, to be truthful—” Vladimir said.
“Sure, everyone likes secrets. Now, our secret story begins with a father and son, both born and raised in the great port city of Odessa. You see, Volodya, a closer father and son there could never be, even though this father, a sailor by profession, was often sailing around the world and had to leave the son in the care of his many lovers. Arrr,” Mr. Rybakov growled with evident pleasure. He settled into a nearby recliner and adjusted the pillows.
“Each long separation weighed on the father’s heart,” he said, closing his eyes. “At sea, he would often conduct imaginary conversations with his son, even if the cook, Akhmetin, that lousy Chechen, would make fun of him mercilessly and undoubtedly would spit in his soup. But then, one day in the late 1980s . . . guess what happened? Socialism started to collapse! And so, without further thought, the father and son immigrated to Brooklyn.
“Horrible circumstances,” Rybakov complained. “A studio apartment. Spanish people everywhere. Oh, the plight of the poor! Now, the son, Tolya was his name but everyone called him the Groundhog (that’s a funny story too, how he got that name) . . . Anyway, the son was happy to be reunited with his papatchka, but he was still a young man. He wanted to bring a girl over, to screw her thoroughly from top to bottom. It wasn’t easy on him, believe me. And there was no work around that really took advantage of his natural intelligence. Maybe a few Greeks hired him to blow up their diners for insurance purposes. He was proficient in these matters, so boom boom—” Rybakov took a big slurp of vodka. “Boom boom. He made ten, twenty thousand like that, but still the son was restless. He was a genius, see?” The Fan Man pointed to his head for clarification.
Vladimir touched his own head in agreement. The combination of tea and vodka was making him sweat. He fumbled in his pocket for a tissue, but found only the ten hundred-dollar bills Rybakov had given him. The bills felt crisp, almost starched; for some reason, Vladimir wanted to put them inside his underwear, feel them cosset his privates. “And then the son got a special tip,” Mr. Rybakov went on. “He made a connection. He went first to London, then to Cyprus, then to Prava.”
Prava? Vladimir perked up. The Paris of the 90s? The stomping ground of America’s artistic elite? The SoHo of Eastern Europe?
“Oh, yes,” the Fan Man continued, as if he had sensed Vladimir’s disbelief. “Eastern Europe. That’s where you make the money these days. And sure enough, in a couple of years the son takes over Prava, the cowed natives bending to his will. He runs the taxi racket at the airport, arms contraband from Ukraine to Iran, caviar from the Caspian Sea to Brighton Beach, opium from Afghanistan to the Bronx, prostitutes in the main square, right outside the Kmart. And he sends his lucky father money every week. Now that’s a thankful son. Could’ve put Papa in a nursing home or a psycho farm, which is what children do in these cynical times.”
Mr. Rybakov opened his eyes and turned to Vladimir, who was nervously fingering his balding temples.
“So,” Rybakov said, “now that the Fan is silent, there’s time for us to think the story over. How do we feel about this interesting tale? Are we outraged, in a kind of American way, about the activities of the son? Are we worried about the prostitution and the contraband and the diners blowing up—”
“Well,” Vladimir said. “The story does raise some issues.” The Rule of Law, that bedrock of Western democracy—that was one issue. “But we do have to remember,” Vladimir said, “that we are poor Russians, that we live in difficult times for our homeland, and that we often have to take special measures to feed our families, to survive.”
“Yes! An excellent answer!” said the Fan Man. “You’re still a russki muzhik, not like some of these assimilationist children with their law degrees. The Fan is pleased. Now, Vladimir, I must make a clean breast of it—I baited you up here for more than just herring and vodka and the reminiscences of a tired old man.
“This morning, the Fan and I had a conference call with my son, the Groundhog, in Prava. He, too, is a big fan of your mother. He knows that the son of Yelena Petrovna Girshkin will not disappoint us. Oh, Vladimir, stop with your modesty! I won’t hear of it! ‘I’m not my mama’s son!’ he cries. ‘I’m a simple man!’ You’re a little cucumber, that’s what you are . . .
“Well, cucumber, the Fan and I are pleased to offer you the following proposition: Get me my citizenship, and my son will make you an associate director in his organization. The minute I’m naturalized you’ll have a first-class ticket to Prava. He’ll turn you into a schemer of the first rank. A modern businessman. A . . . how do you Jews say it . . . ? A gonif. Job pays more than eight dollars an hour, that’s for certain. Requires knowledge of English and Russian. Candidate should be Soviet and American all at
once. Interested?”
Vladimir crossed his legs and brought himself forward; he hugged himself in this position and shuddered a little. But all this physical melodrama was ridiculous. From a logistical standpoint, there was simply nothing there. He was not going to become a mafioso in Eastern Europe. He was the coddled single child of Westchester parents who had once paid twenty-five thousand dollars a year to send him to a progressive Midwestern college. True, Vladimir was not known to traverse a well-defined moral landscape, but trafficking arms to Iran was definitely off his map.
And yet, in the very back of his mind, a window opened and Mother leaned out shouting for all to hear: “Soon my Little Failure will be a Big Success!”
Vladimir shut that window with a bang. “There’s really no need for this, Mr. Rybakov,” he said. “I will refer your case to my agency’s lawyer. He will help you fill out the Freedom of Information Act form. We will find out why your citizenship application was denied.”
“Yes, yes. My son and the Fan are of a like mind on this issue as well: You are a Jew, and a Jew isn’t stupid; you have to give him something to make it worth his while. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old Russian proverb: If there’s no water in the sink, then the Yids have had their drink . . .”
“But Mr. Rybakov—”
“Now, listen to me, Girshkin! Citizenship is everything! A man who doesn’t belong to a country is not a man. He is a tramp. And I am too old to be a tramp.” There was a moment of silence save for the smacking sounds the old sailor made with his fleshy lips. “Would you be so kind,” he whispered, “as to set the Fan to high. He wants to sing a song in celebration of our new understanding.”
“Just press the HIGH button?” Vladimir asked, his stomach sounding the requisite music of nervousness. What new understanding? “My mother says first you must set a fan to medium and then after a while set it to high, because otherwise the motor—”
The Russian Debutante’s Handbook Page 2
