“May we help you with something?” the flattop repeated. His face had a single long crack running from forehead to chin, as if he had been dropped one time too many as a child. “This place isn’t for you, fellow. The consulate is closed. Shove off.”
“I want to see the chargé d’affaires,” I said. “I am Misha Vainberg, son of the famous Boris Vainberg who peed on the dog in front of the KGB headquarters during the Soviet times.” I leaned against the wall of the consulate building and spread my arms out, exposing the white of my stomach the way a puppy shows he’s defenseless in front of a larger dog. “My father was a very big dissident. Bigger than Sharansky! Once the Americans hear of what he’s done for freedom of religion, they’ll build a statue to him in Times Square.”
The two security guards smiled broadly at each other. It isn’t often anymore that you can beat up a Jew in an official capacity in Russia, so when the chance comes, you have to grab it. You have to beat the Jew for church and fatherland or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The guy with the Caesar cut flexed the rolls of his neck in provocation. “If you don’t leave immediately,” he said, “you’re going to have some problems with us.”
“Maybe you should go to the Israeli consulate,” the flattop suggested. “You’ll have better luck there, I’m sure.”
“Suitcase! Train station! Israel!” Caesar chanted the familiar Russian mantra urging Jews to leave the country. Flattop took up the refrain, and they shared an enjoyable moment.
“Just wait until I tell the chargé d’affaires that a pair of anti-Semites is guarding his consulate,” I sputtered, alcoholic drool dappling my chin. “You’ll be working at the consulate in Yekaterinburg, so dress warm, fuckers.”
It took me a while to figure out that they were punching me. I was staring at a woman beating her carpet outside her window, thinking those were the thuds resonating along the quiet street. To be fair to my tormentors, Flattop and Caesar were good strong Russian boys in their late twenties, purposeful and furious. But beating the lard out of me is not an activity to be done casually; it takes hard work and a certain amount of smarts. One can’t just keep hitting me in the stomach and tits, hoping that I’ll crumple like a cheap pastry.
“Ooooh,” I moaned, going through the motions of drunken incomprehension. “What’s happening to me?”
“Let’s punch him in the liver and kidneys,” Caesar suggested, wiping his sweaty brow.
They started aiming for those delicate organs but with few results. The elastic bands surrounding me took each bruise with equanimity. Whenever fist met fat, I merely stumbled to the side, turning to face either Flatty or Caesar. I used each brief occasion to tell them a little about my life.
“I studied multiculturalism at Accidental College…”
Left hook to liver.
“My mama named me Misha, but the Hasids called me Moses…”
Right jab to left kidney.
“I’m starting a charity for the poorest kids, called Misha’s Children…”
Hammer blow to liver.
“Rouenna kissed the underside of my khui…”
Kidneys, one-two punch.
“I am a better American than most native-born Americans…”
Roundabout to the spleen.
“I went into analysis to work on my weight issues…”
Open-fisted liver poke.
“When I move back to New York, I think I’ll live in trendy Williamsburg…”
There were curses and panting around me and the plebian stench of heavy exertion. I felt sad for these boys trapped in their stupid Stars and Stripes outfits, guarding the very people they should have hated the most. We would all die together in this stupid fucking city of frozen windowpanes and grotty courtyards. Our gravestones would be vandalized, our names covered with swastikas and bird shit, our mommies with their frying pans rotting away by our side. What was the point of it all? What was keeping us from the inevitable? “You should aim for the throat and spine,” I slurred to my assailants. “If you punch my hump, maybe I’ll die on the spot. What good is being alive, anyway, when it’s always at somebody’s mercy?”
The guards slowly lowered themselves to the curb, and I slid down to join them, panting along with them out of camaraderie. They put their hands around my back, so that all three of us were linked. “Why do you want us to hurt you?” Flattop asked. “Do you take us for animals? We don’t like hurting people, no matter what you think.”
“I have to go to America,” I said. “I’m in love with a beautiful girl from the Bronx.”
“The famous one with the big ass?” Caesar asked.
“No, her name is Rouenna Sales. She’s only famous on her own block. I’ve sent her a dozen electronic mails this week, and she hasn’t written back. She’s being chased by a poseur who has American citizenship. A writer.”
“A good writer?” Caesar asked, taking out a flask and passing it to me.
“No,” I said, taking a swig.
“Well, then why are you worried? A smart girl wouldn’t go with a bad writer.”
Flattop pressed me to him. “Don’t despair, brother,” he said. “We may have nothing in this country, but our women have kind, beautiful souls. They will love you even if you’re lazy or drunk or give them a thrashing now and then.”
“Or even if you’re fat,” Caesar suggested. We took more swigs of the moonshine. As far as my new companions were concerned, I was no longer a parasitic Jew but someone to be trusted. An alcoholic.
“I love Russia in my own way,” I blurted out. “If only I could do something for this country without looking like an asshole.”
“You said something about Misha’s Children,” Flatty reminded me.
“How can I mend young hearts when my own is broken? My dear papa was recently taken away from me. They blew him up on the Palace Bridge.”
“Very sad,” Caesar said. “My father was just run over by a bread truck.”
“Mine fell out of a window last year,” Flattop said. “It was only the second story, but he fell on his head. Kaput.” We each made a deep mourning sound with the combination of our noses, throats, and lips, as if we were tragically sucking noodles out of an iron bowl. The sound traveled slowly down the street, stopping at every door on the way and secretly adding to each household’s despair.
“We should get up,” I said. “I should leave you be. What if one of your American masters came walking down the street? They would fire you.”
“Let them all go to the devil,” Caesar said. “We’re talking to our brother here. We would die for our brother.”
“We’re already so ashamed of ourselves to be wearing the American flag on our sleeves,” Flattop said. “You remind us of our country’s dignity. They can punch Russia over and over again, but she will never fall. Maybe she’ll slide down to the pavement as we have… you know, for a drink… But she will never fall.”
“Help me, brothers!” I cried, meaning no more than they should help hoist me to my feet, but they took it in a more spiritual light—they set me upright on my feet, dusted off my Puma tracksuit, rubbed the sore spots where they had hit me, and kissed me three times on my cheeks. “If you have children who need winter boots or anything else,” I said, “come by Bolshoi Prospekt on the Petrogradskaya Side, house seventy-four. Ask for Boris Vainberg’s son, they all know who I am. I’ll give you every one I have.”