Ivan Denisovich stood, paralyzed. His extremities stiffened and froze, despite the heat, and his head buzzed. He watched the paramedics load Grigory Petrovich into the van and close the door. Someone pointed to him, and the young woman in the paramedic uniform shook his shoulder. She held a pad in her hand and asked him something. He didn’t respond. She offered him water.
He pushed away the plastic cup and whispered, “Grisha.”
She handed him a pen and held her pad pointing to the empty page. He understood, and wrote, Grigory Petrovich Shurov-May 13, 1931, Moskva, U.S.S.R. He wished he could add war hero, or something important to the line, but Grigory didn’t have any distinctions, and was too young to have participated in the war.
Ivan Denisovich climbed inside the ambulance and sat across from the zipped-up plastic bag that used to be his best friend. He tried to avoid looking at the slug-shaped object laid out on the gurney, but his eyes kept drifting to the head, because the zipper was right over Grigory’s large nose, and Ivan worried about it leaving scratches on his face.
He had to tell Valentina, but how could he? He remembered a Jewish joke where a man was sent to gently deliver the news to the wife that her husband had passed away. He rang the doorbell and an attractive woman opened the apartment door. “Is widow Abramowitz home?” he asked, removing his hat. “Why widow? I have a husband,” she replied with arrogance. “Bubkas is what you have instead of a husband,” blurted out the man, and ran for the exit.
Ivan Denisovich smiled and immediately started to weep, because he knew that no one except Grigory would have understood him joking now.
The door opened and Valentina stared at him from the dim apartment. The smell of burning canola oil enveloped the two of them like a nostalgic blanket.
“Nuuh, finally. Where’s my oaf? Parking? We’ve been going crazy looking for you. Sofia called four times.” She winked at Ivan Denisovich. “Jealous.”
Valentina’s blue eye shadow had caked over her eyelids, her hair was up in soft pink rollers, and she wore white fluffy rabbit slippers. The Queen of Fucking Everything sparkled from her apron.
Ivan Denisovich had rehearsed his lines several times on the way from the hospital, but Hold yourself together, Valentina, your husband is deceased just wouldn’t roll off his tongue.
“Valyusha, our Grishka is gone,” he gushed, and collapsed on her shoulder.
“Are you drunk? Idiot.” She shook him, trying to find his face. “What the hell you’re talking about?”
“He’s dead, Valya!” slobbered Ivan Denisovich. “Something’s burning in the kitchen.”
Valentina stood there blocking the entrance, staring not so much at Ivan Denisovich as inside herself. She pushed him out of her way and dashed downstairs, her slippers flapping against her rough bare heels.
“He’s not there,” yelled Ivan Denisovich, and followed her down, holding onto the railing.
Valentina darted to the corner and looked up and down the street, then froze, watching Ivan Denisovich’s solitary figure approach her. His shoulders sank and his face turned sullen. He opened his arms to embrace her, uncertain which one of them needed to be held more.
“No. No, no.” She pushed him away. “He can’t do this to me.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips as if plotting revenge for Grigory Petrovich’s return.
“Come,” Ivan Denisovich said quietly. “Let’s go in. You’ll burn down the house.”
They sat on the sofa holding onto each other. The TV flickered with grainy images from Russian Candid Camera. A pretty young woman with fake hair glued to her back asked strangers on the beach to help her apply sunblock. Some laughed, some were disgusted and walked away, and some expressed sympathy to the poor girl, suggesting electrolysis. The phone rang ten times, but Valentina and Ivan Denisovich didn’t move, staring at the TV screen.
Ivan Denisovich suddenly felt what he hadn’t felt for a long time. He wasn’t sure if it was Valentina or the hairy woman in a bikini on the screen. He glanced at Valentina’s soft round breasts, something he had avoided for the last twenty years. That one time was a mistake, they shouldn’t have done it, and Valentina and he agreed to keep it a secret from their spouses. They didn’t even particularly like each other, but there they were. He always thought it was her fault, all that ass swish-swooshing she liked to do, and those low-cut dresses she flaunted. He used to tell Grigory Petrovich that this kind of exhibitionism wouldn’t lead to anything good, but Grisha liked it. Ivan Denisovich later wondered if his friend knew about them, and even stopped seeing Grigory for a few years. He also wondered if she ever did it with anyone else. Secretive little wench. She knew what she was doing.
Ivan Denisovich watched Valentina’s hand go up and down her thigh. It was like a tic. She hadn’t stopped for ten minutes. Just rubbing and rubbing, rubbing and rubbing. He cleared his throat. Valentina’s daughter and grandchildren were not coming back for another two hours. Was she thinking the same? Did she know what he was thinking? He suddenly wanted to undo her dress and spill her soft large body onto the sofa.
“Oy, kak pusto! Kak strashno! Oy, Vanya, why?” She tossed from side to side over the barely rumpled sheets. “So lonely… so scary. So empty… so alien…” She glanced at him, sitting on the side of the bed. “Even you,” and she wrapped her face in the pillow to muffle her weeping.
Ivan knew he should hold her, try to calm her down, but he was overwhelmed by what had just happened, and couldn’t bring himself to touch Valentina again. The thought of embracing her warm, flaccid body whose faint perspiration had a completely foreign flavor nauseated him. He turned away, and another smell, Grigory Petrovich’s dear smell, wafted from the pillow, and he noticed a few strands of his friend’s hair on it. He simultaneously wanted to throw the pillow against the wall and bury his face in it forever.
Ivan Denisovich reluctantly patted weeping Valentina on her broad undulant back and grabbed his boxers off the chair.
The sun was down and the apartment would soon fill with children’s laughter, regardless of what had happened.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, pulling on his pants.
“No, we’ll manage. We always do, we have to,” Valentina sniffled, wiping her nose on the discarded T-shirt. “You ain’t Grisha, don’t even try.”
She stood up and undid her rollers in front of the black lacquer vanity that had been purchased from the same store as Sofia’s. She suddenly seemed taller, more imposing, despite her bright pink bra and underwear. Her peroxide-blond hair slipped down her round shoulders in large stiff waves.
“Nuuh, what are you staring at? Haven’t seen a naked woman?” she smirked, shaking out her curls like a girl.
“No, I’m just…” and he realized he hadn’t for some time.
“Sveta, pass the fish,” said Sofia Arkadievna to her daughter. “Oy, I still can’t get over it.” She squeezed Ivan Denisovich’s arm in sympathy.
The TV was on, a low hum in the back of the room. Sveta and her husband Alex had stopped by for dinner. Ivan Denisovich noticed they always came to eat at the end of the month, probably ran out of money. No wonder. Her husband was an idiot, spending money on stupid haircuts and designer T-shirts. He was not a husband, he was a liability.
“Pap,” said Alex, chewing the fish and mashed potatoes with his mouth open.