Where did she find this treasure? Well worth immigrating for.
“I have a name.”
“Oh, c’mon, Pap, we’re all family here.”
“Grigory was family. And you…” Ivan Denisovich shook his hand.
“Stop it, Papa. What did he ever do to you?” whined Sveta.
She was not his Svetka anymore. His Svetka who used to jump and laugh until her braids were undone. She had lost her sense of humor, as if being dull meant being smart.
“To Grisha’s soul, may he rest in peace.” Sofia Arkadievna lifted her glass filled with vodka to the brim.
Ivan Denisovich thought it strange that his wife, who didn’t like vodka and rarely drank at all, was about to chug a full glass of the clear demon.
“A good man is gone.” She put down the empty glass and inhaled on a slice of brown rye. “Let’s go see Valentina. I don’t treat her right. I should give her something.”
Ivan Denisovich realized that his wife was already drunk, and acting out of character. He gazed around the room as if he had accidentally entered the wrong apartment. He searched for something familiar, something to hold onto, and was happy to see the little yellow-and-brown throw that Sofia Arkadievna had crocheted when Svetka was born. Russian newspapers and magazines were scattered on the glass coffee table, covered with fingerprints. The blue-and-white flowery china-one of the few things they brought with them when they emigrated-held the proverbial fried cod, mashed potatoes, and beet salad. Stolichnaya vodka in Czech crystal glasses with golden trim completed the setting. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the world, and on the TV screen an old black-and-white film with Katyusha missiles blasting against the night sky annihilated Nazi troops in the field. Ivan Denisovich almost believed he was back in Russia, and for a moment felt warm inside, as if the shot of vodka had spread slowly through his veins into the most remote areas of his body, pushing out the pain. He suddenly loved everyone, even his son-in-law with his idiotic spiky hair.
“Milaya.” He hadn’t called Sofia Arkadievna “my beloved” for many years. He reached for her face and noticed she was crying. “Milaya, don’t cry. It will be all right.”
“How would you know, you old goat?” She sounded just like Grigory.
“Mama?” Sveta stared at her weeping mother from across the table. “Ma, what’s wrong?”
“Ma, ma!” Sofia Arkadievna mocked her daughter. “That’s what,” and she grabbed the platter and threw it across the room. It hit the wall just below the family picture gallery, and the fish mixed with broken china slid down the wall and landed on the polished top of the bookcase.
Sveta jumped from the table, covering her mouth with both hands, as if afraid to release any sound. The men didn’t move.
On the screen, a hazy-eyed war heroine sang “Moscow Nights” to a room full of somber officers.
“I’m sorry,” cried Sofia Arkadievna, and plunked her head over her arms on the table. “I’m so sorry, Vanya. For everything.”
Sveta made a sign to her husband to help her clean up the mess. He wanted to finish his food, but she handed him a rag and a bucket to take care of the fish on the bookcase.
Ivan Denisovich remained still. Everything in his past had to be suddenly rearranged, like a Rubik’s cube when you moved one square and the whole thing collapsed and you had to start over. Only he had no time left to put it all together again. He stood up, unexpectedly sorry for himself, picked up his keys, and walked out the door.
He reached the corner. The night was cool, but jasmine filled the air. The leaning palms looked like bottle brushes against the dark red glow of the evening sky. A young couple across the street laughed, drinking out of a brown bag and smoking. Ivan Denisovich approached them and demonstrated that he wanted a cigarette. They smiled, handed him a Marlboro, and offered to light it. He nodded in gratitude and limped away, his legs rubbery from the first puff.
Cars zoomed by, up and down Fountain Avenue. An older woman with a grocery bag struggled with her keys. A black teenager coasted on his bike, hands off the bar, just like Grigory used to, back in Moscow. A Latina beauty pulled her screaming son out of a beat-up Toyota; then a paraplegic rolled past him in a motorized wheelchair and disappeared inside an apartment building.
Ivan Denisovich shivered and regretted having forgotten his jacket. He glanced at the window on the third floor that framed the orange-tinted light from his apartment. The balcony was filled with old suitcases, geraniums in clay pots, and laundry hanging from the line. Two plastic chairs, his and Sofia Arkadievna’s, stood in the middle, facing the street. They often sat there in the evenings, drinking cold tea and watching neighbors down below. He noticed that the chair cushions were still there. How many times did he have to tell her not to leave them out overnight?
He threw his cigarette on the ground, crushed it against the asphalt with his slipper, and shuffled back home.
ROGER CRUMBLER CONSIDERED HIS SHAVEBY GARY PHILLIPS
Mid-City
Roger Crumbler considered his shave. On this his fiftieth birthday, he was pleased that while his stubble became grayer each week, he still had a head of hair-and it was still dark.
The face in his bathroom mirror had held up fairly decently for half a century. Though not for the first time he considered minor cosmetic surgery to correct the bags under his eyes, a trait among the men in his family. Was it true that Preparation H reduced the puffiness? There was a kind of logic to that since hemorrhoids were what…? An enlarged vein, right? But what caused those sacks under the eyes? Fluid? He’d have to Google that. It was always good to have something new to learn.
Working the shaving gel into his whiskers, Roger smiled, mentally outlining the day ahead. At the office he had to complete a final review of the Carlson Foundation financials. There had been no major blips on the radar save for some inconsistencies on a pass-through grant from a city agency. The Carlson Foundation funded reading programs for low-income youth, and the city of Los Angeles was a partner in that endeavor. Such inconsistencies were not unusual given the accounting procedures of the bureaucrats versus the private sector. This was a minor concern, and he would resolve it with a phone call or two to his City Hall contacts.
Yet it was because of those inconsistencies that he was able to do what he’d done. For him. For Nanette.
Roger turned his head this way and the other, making sure he’d covered his face evenly as he massaged the warm foam into his pores. At one of those precious west side fundraising dinner parties saving spotted owls (or maybe it was spotted actors), a dermatologist with skin flawless as plastic told him that you should allow five minutes for your night beard to soak properly. He didn’t adhere to this advice each morning, but he wasn’t going to be fifty every morning either. This was, after all, a big day.
After reconciling the financials, there would be the regular weekly staff meeting. He’d already written and copied his report earlier this week, so there should be no surprises there either. The company, Nathanson and Nathanson, was a boutique CPA firm that nonetheless commanded more than eight million in billing last year, with a clientele that ranged from old-line family foundations like Carlson to heavy hitters in the film and music business. Roger was senior vice-president and was up for partnership.
That in itself was something, considering the firm had been started in the ’40s, when there were still a smattering of orange groves along Wilshire. Run and grown by the founder, Sig Nathanson, then turned over to one of the sons, Gabe, and nephew Martin, in the ’70s. The only other partner outside of the family had been a member of the founder’s temple, and Roger was not a member. Unlike the late Sammy Davis, Jr., he’d only joked over drinks about converting. And what about Whoopi Goldberg? She wasn’t really a member of the tribe, was she? Something else to Google.