“We were all victims of that totalitarian regime,” he said, pointing a yellowed fingernail at the black-and-white images. “Just look at that gut of mine.” The womenfolk examined Uncle Alex’s potbelly, saying he looked pretty well fed for a “victim.”
“What are you talking about?” Uncle Alex protested. “I was in good shape. I boxed for years. I broke my nose in two places. Look, the bridge is busted up, too.” The womenfolk took to Bob right away and excitedly kept the conversation going. The dry California wine did a number on Aunt Amalia, an ample, middle-aged woman. She was enthralled by the pictures dating back to the late seventies, all those scenes of picnics and beaches; she offered nasty commentary on the cast’s silly hairdos and outdated swimsuits. Naturally, Uncle Alex got the worst of it. Like any couple that had missed their chance at an amicable divorce, the two of them nagged each other incessantly. Aunt Amalia was really letting the luckless Uncle Alex have it, berating him for his pretense to a lifestyle he couldn’t afford. Uncle Alex could only take so much. She was about to finish him off for good, so somewhere between the pasta and the coconut cookies he excused himself, wishing his nephew sweet dreams and declaring resolutely that America, the cradle of democracy, would make a real man out of him, the kind of man who could be a worthy member of an open society—i.e., he wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of his nutjob father, Seva. Aunt Amalia suggested drinking to that. Lilith skooched over closer to Bob.
Bob found himself between two women—now he could relax. He had finally done what his father had asked him to do: he had restored balance to things, found the remnants of their family scattered across the world, gathered all the Koshkins together, and listened to the shared blood pumping through their veins. What is it that really ties a family together, after all? Remembering the deceased and procreating to secure your legacy.
“Speaking of procreating… ,” Bob thought to himself, furtively eyeing Lilith. She took after her mother—she had the same wide hips, the same hairdo, and the same bright red lips. Her mom was looking about as good as could be expected, considering her lifestyle. You could plainly see what the future held for Lilith. The next twenty years or so were going to take a serious toll on her.
“A lack of transparency makes it unclear how one should pursue upward mobility,” Bob speculated in one of his emails to his dad. “Faced with a lack of legitimate ways to climb the social ladder, we often resort to practices that are purely spiritual in nature, such as starting a family, joining a church, or even just daily meditation. Unfortunately, this journey usually ends in rehab.” Lilith sat by him for a whole hour after that, inching closer and closer until he could feel the fiery curve of her hips. She criticized the locals and their proclivities, commended Bob for having such strong convictions, and chewed bubble gum; the aroma of her oils and lotions nearly overpowered him.
“Boy, I’d like to get her into the sack,” Bob thought to himself, as he told them about his native city’s struggle with xenophobia and the problems of post-totalitarian life. “But she’s my cousin. What would others think about our relationship? Sleeping with your cousin may be frowned upon in the country of enduring democracy. That’s something people only do in the East. There’s something so hopelessly post-totalitarian about all this. Only we could think of doing something like that.” So he turned toward his Aunt Amalia, still feeling the heat emanating from his cousin’s nubile body and greedily inhaling the fragrant air through his nostrils. Meanwhile, Aunt Amalia was getting fired up, smoking her menthols and picking at the cold pasta like it was a dead patient lying on the operating table after a long and unsuccessful surgery. She told Bob about their family’s trials and tribulations, about their long years in exile, about having to ride in boxcars and ships’ holds, about transit zones, about having their clothes disinfected, about the scent of freedom, about equal opportunity, about squeezing the slave out of yourself, drop by drop, about enduring democracy as the foundation for inner peace, and about multiculturalism as the foundation for coexistence, even with black people.
“Obviously, we identify most with the ethnic Ukrainians and their moral code,” she told Bob, her voice somewhat grating from the alcohol. “They’re all nationalists. That’s what draws us to them.” Bob couldn’t see any real logic in her claim, but he still enjoyed talking about nationalism in the abstract. When he was asked about the goings-on back in the old country, he gave them the following answer:
“Obviously, we have all witnessed numerous cataclysms that have left an indelible and irreversible mark on the city itself, and on its residents, for that matter. Clerics, ventriloquists, and street magicians fought doggedly for years, and eventually took control of city hall. Racing all the way up the social ladder before anyone could knock them down and getting to the top of the political hierarchy, they decided to tackle the most pressing issues. First of all, the city walls were reinforced, with special care being taken on the east side, where the threat of nomadic border tribes loomed. Also, two long avenues were built, one stretching from the eastern gate to the western gate and the other running from the bridges up north to the basin down south. A pyramid was erected where the two avenues intersect to symbolize the new government’s commitment to tasteful architecture and fiscal transparency. Events commemorating the memory and legacy of our dearly departed ancestors have become a regular occurrence. Water from the city’s two rivers is consecrated every Sunday for use by the utilities department. There are more flags around town now, too.
“The insignia they bear are mostly lions, jackals, and fighting cocks,” Bob continued, “which are supposed to represent the government’s firm commitment to further social upheaval. Although many reforms have been implemented smoothly and effectively, the problems of post-totalitarianism and xenophobia still haven’t been eradicated. This new, post-totalitarian state has knocked all the social ladders out from under me, so I have no hope of moving up. I’ve been dealt a bad hand—I’m forced to waste away in the back alleys of the ghetto, fecklessly contemplating the ills of social inequality and religious intolerance.
“And those assholes,” Bob exclaimed, crying and alternately tugging at Aunt Amalia’s arm and leg, “are gonna keep me down, they’re never gonna give me a chance.”
Aunt Amalia was listening, biting her lip anxiously. Lilith was patting Bob on the back, which made him sob even more theatrically. It was only after midnight had rolled around, another bottle of California wine had been polished off, and Bob’s tall tales had escalated to the realm of two-headed state employees responsible for education and burning witches in the central market, that Aunt Amalia had finally had enough. She suggested that everyone go to sleep, preferably in separate beds. Leaving the dining room, she assured Bob that he’d come to the right place, and that America, the cradle of multiculturalism, would make a real man out of him—if he acted like one, of course.
He couldn’t even look at the pasta the next morning.
That’s how his Philadelphia summer got under way. He didn’t have much of anything to do because nobody had offered him a job yet—he had two months left until his flight back home, two months to explore the unknown and absorb his new reality. During the first few days, Bob took some pictures by the Rocky statue and stopped by the Ukrainian Cultural Center. Its young members, who had been born in exile, were discussing Ukrainian nationalism. They took Bob for an Irishman because of his thick accent and red sideburns, but they had no idea how this fuckin’ Irish guy could know each and every member of the Ukrainian Parliament. They arm-wrestled a bit and sang some nationalist songs. Bob made a big show of not wanting to join in, but it didn’t last—pure, Irish-bred love for Ukraine filled his passionate voice. Bob fell asleep toward the end of the meeting, slouched over in his chair. The other guys called him a cab, but they didn’t know his address. They went through his pockets and found his cellphone. He had a picture of the Rocky statue as his wallpaper, so that’s where they dropped him off.