“Ten,” Vova sighed.
Slava was about to pass thirteen dollars to the front seat when Vera’s eyes sent out an ultramarine blast of distress. Her hand reached into his wallet and removed another five. Speechless, Slava passed eighteen dollars to the front seat.
“He takes care of me,” she said vaguely as they walked into the fluorescent embrace of her friend’s building.
The guests were in their midtwenties, everyone paired up, and they spoke Russian, normally distressing to Slava, but his had been receiving an unfamiliar workout in recent weeks. Slava stood to the side while Vera exchanged elaborate, lippy greetings with her friend Lara and Lara’s boyfriend, Stas.
“Everyone?” Vera said, taking Slava by the arm and walking him into the living room. His discomfort retreated slightly, her hand warm and familiar. “This is Slava. Slava is a writer.” The assembled brayed in admiration. “He works at the best American magazine.”
“Playboy?” said a potbellied young man in a blazer. The other boys laughed. The girl whose arm was entwined with his laid a free fist into his gut.
“That’s Leonard and his Galochka,” Vera said. “Leonard is our resident literario. You guys will have something to talk about. That’s Lyova, that’s Oslik. Everyone, introduce yourselves and make Slava feel at home, please. Girls, let’s go set the table.”
His girlfriend rising, Leonard shook his poetic curls and patted the freshly vacated seat next to him. There were half a dozen boys altogether, drinks in their hands.
“What are you drinking?” Leonard inquired.
“Vodka?” Slava proposed.
“Incorrect!” Leonard announced, and the boys squealed with laughter. He was their ringleader, by the look of things. Each of their glasses held a caramel-colored liquid. “Galina Mikhailovna, my dove!” Leonard called out toward the kitchen, using his girlfriend’s patronymic, the way wives and husbands did in the old times.
Galochka, who was setting a plate of herring in oil on a lacy tablecloth, looked up. The girls were working with daunting facility. One was setting the table with gold-rimmed plates, another following with filigreed thimbles, and a third unloading bowls of salad Olivier and boiled potatoes. Slava wished he could be in their circle instead. Vera caught his eyes and mouthed, Everything okay? Embarrassed, Slava nodded.
“Dove, get our guest a glass of cognac, would you?” Leonard bleated.
“I’ll take care of it,” Vera whispered to Galochka, and moved to open one of the bottles.
“So what kind of writer are you?” Leonard turned back to Slava. “I read a lot. Unlike the rest of these knuckleheads. John Grisham, James Patterson. Suze Orman is very good. Last year, I read The Count of Monte Cristo.”
The rest of the boys nodded reverently.
“Why do they call you Oslik?” Slava said tentatively to a skinny boy in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Oslik” meant “donkey.”
“Oslik?” Leonard answered for him, grinning. “Oslik!” he said, and brayed. “Why do we call you Oslik?”
“I don’t have an elevator in my building,” Oslik said, sniggering. “We came back from shopping one day and had to carry it all the way to the fifth floor.”
“Like a donkey!” Leonard said.
Oslik laughed with everyone else.
“If Oslik thinks I am going to marry him in these conditions,” said a short, bulbous girl who was helping to set the table, “he’s severely mistaken.” Everyone laughed again.
“Boys!” Vera shouted. “Positions, please! The table’s almost ready. Leonard, please pour? Girls, who’s drinking what? Vodka for me.”
While everyone was trooping toward the table, Slava’s cell phone rang. He had opened it by the time he realized he shouldn’t have: It would be Grandfather requesting an update. He’d stand over you counting thrusts if you let him.
“Hey,” Arianna said. “You’re somewhere.”
Slava froze. After too long without speaking, he dashed to a corner of the living room. “Funeral,” he blurted out.
“What?” she said.
“The shiva?” He worked with what he had given himself. “We’re trying it out. Like you said.”
“Oh — okay. It’s only the seven days after — Oh, it doesn’t matter. Good for you. Okay, no problem. I’m sorry to interrupt. Tell everyone my condolences. From your work friend.” She laughed quietly.
“But what was it?” Slava said. Looking up, he saw Vera observing him skeptically. He realized he was wedging himself into a corner, his hand covering the phone. He straightened, as if talking to no one other than Grandfather.
“A club, a band,” she said. “No big deal.”
“That works well for us,” Slava said, trying to sound casual.
“Sla-va! Everything’s ready,” Vera shouted in English. Several people behind her whooped, laughter following. Slava looked at her hatefully.
A long, stinging pause on the other end. Then Arianna said: “I should run.”
“Hold on—”
“I’ll see you on Monday, okay?” she said, and hung up.
Slava cursed himself. Then Vera. Then himself. Vera called for him again.
When everyone had sat down and the thimbles had been filled by Leonard’s pink hand, Vera raised her glass.
“The hosts, Verochka, are supposed to raise the first glass,” Leonard said.
“Leonard,” Lara hissed. “You know I don’t mind. Vera is like a sister.”
“Thank you, Larochka,” Vera said. “This one’s been reading The Count of Monte Cristo too much, with his table etiquette.” Everyone laughed as Leonard frowned, and Slava understood that Vera was the only person at the table permitted to contradict him. “I would like to welcome Slava to our table,” Vera went on in Russian. “And I would like to say a word in honor of Slava’s grandmother, who passed away a week ago. A proud woman and a strong woman. I remember her from when I was a little girl. She was so kind, but you never messed with her!”
Again, the table laughed. Oslik slapped the table. “For grandmothers!” he announced.
“Babushka, oh, babushka,” Leonard recited with cautious dreaminess. His tone meant that the words were coming from a poem. He was hoping to regain the upper hand of the conversation. Everyone turned to him, but he couldn’t recall the remainder of the lines. “Something, something!” he rescued himself, and everyone laughed.
“Slava, what’s it like to be at a Russian table?” Vera said as everyone drank. “Different from your American friends?”
“It’s very intimate,” Slava said, hoping that he was providing the response she wanted.
Everyone burst into hysterical laughter, Leonard’s eyes gleaming with his now indisputable restoration to the crown of the male pyramid. Vera laid a hand on Slava’s arm. Slava felt her breath on the edge of his earlobe. “Intimno is for the bedroom only,” she said in Russian. “At a table like this, you say it’s very warm, or close.”
Slava bulged his eyes for the benefit of the group. The laughter redoubled. Then Slava laid a hand on Leonard’s forearm and made flirty eyes. Oslik was so gratified that he had to pull his chair back from the table so he could double over.
“To Slava!” Oslik said. “To Slava!” all of them echoed, even Leonard, slapping Slava’s back so hard that Slava nearly spat out a piece of herring.
“So we were promised stories about Italy,” Lara said after everyone had settled down.
“Let’s eat,” Slava tried to encourage everyone.