Misha had kept his accomplishments to himself long enough. He began to spew. There was a residency in Montana for which he was a semifinalist, a book of stories coming out in Germany next spring, a reading he was asked to do with a très famous Russo-Francophone novelist whose name he couldn’t reveal. I’d tell you, but I’m under contract to keep the matter private. Pasha didn’t press. Misha had more breath stored up but had run out of things to say. He raised his fork, perplexed.
Pasha wasn’t coordinated enough to tackle his burger. After he’d tried various strategies, the patty was chopped up into tiny pieces, which were chewed only on the left side of his mouth. Whenever the meat snuck over to the right, Pasha winced in pain.
The teeth were tea-stained, wobbly; there were gaps, silver crowns, recessed gums swollen with blood. Misha ran his tongue over his own set, where order reigned, but was only partially reassured. A clammy streak formed at his taut hairline. Any doubts as to the benefit of immigration could be assuaged by one glance into Pasha’s mouth. Pasha didn’t notice the horror with which he was being analyzed. The bags applied a pleasant pressure to his feet, the way a securely potted plant must feel.
How’s Marina doing? Misha managed to ask, though not without his ears turning the shade of Pasha’s grape juice. The infatuation had begun early on. Marina wasn’t yet twelve when Misha began eyeing her nervously. The frequency of his visits intensified. Often he’d drop by when he knew that Pasha was at chess club or in detention or under the guise of chess club or detention attending samizdat activities that Misha was too cowardly to join. When Marina bloomed officially, Misha lost his capacity for speech and practically moved into the Nasmertov household. He once obtained permission to play with Marina’s beheaded dolls (proof of Pasha’s capacity for violence), but no further progress was made. Though at first his presence served to highlight Pasha’s absence, eventually he was accepted as a surrogate. After years of inept wooing, Misha’s only success was with Esther. His emigrating was detrimental to Pasha in that once again son services were in demand.
She’s fine, said Pasha. He’d give no more. First of all, she wasn’t a woman but his sister. Second of all, she was hardly a critical subject.
What were the critical subjects? And why did it feel as if they were forbidden to broach? Had the weighty material been sectioned off? They had to make do with surrounding nonsense, barred from drawing closer to anything of substance. Maybe it was just too obvious to ask the obvious questions. Or maybe they feared that if those subjects were too quickly exhausted, nothing would be left and the hollowness of their friendship would be exposed. They clung to the general stuff, steered clear of secret vulnerable wealth.
A lady named Ostraya, said Pasha. Do you know her?
Try not knowing her! She’s a character, a larger-than-life personality, said Misha, instantly reminded by the phrase’s taste of having used it not long ago. Embarrassment invigorated his chewing.
She talked my ear off the other night, said Pasha.
That means she likes you. With me she’s an ice queen — I think because I never dug her, physically.
She can’t like me — we haven’t met.
She’s heard good things, then.
A gaping void opened up, about the size of Pasha’s book. Or not so gaping — a hundred and twelve pages, to be exact. Pasha’s first collection, Ancestral Belt, had been published last year. Not only did Misha know about it, he had a copy. After finding it in his mailbox, he’d called Pasha. Congratulations. The thing’s a beauty. Can’t wait to read it. And then — nothing. But there was an unexpected breadth of response from strangers with no reason to read poems about Pasha’s dead family members. The book was receiving a cadenced, still-unfolding, thoughtful and respectful reception; it was following an aberrant trajectory, gathering momentum in erratic increments, by elusive means.
I’ll see her this Friday, said Misha. There’s this event, it’s basically a who’s who of the literary scene, a talk-of-the-town kind of thing. It’s a secret ball in the style of a Masonic meeting, but women are allowed, and it’s technically a fund-raiser, happens once a year but never on the same date or in the same place, and this year I finally got an invite. I’ve been looking forward for months.
Pasha took a long pull from his straw. So you’re saying that thing on Friday is worth going to?
If you were invited, said Misha. It’s guest-list only.
OK, said Pasha.
You mean you’ll be there?
I don’t see why not.
• • •
WE LEAVE FRIDAY AT FIVE sharp, said Marina. She stood in front of the TV, demanding attention. Images flickered behind her, commercials, which constituted their first major disenchantment with the States. How did people cope with these constant interruptions? This was no way to watch a program. They’d asked around, friends and neighbors, to see if it was possible to rewire the TV or pay somebody off so these commercials would stop. If a democracy made everyone sit through these idiotic advertisements, it wasn’t for them. You don’t have to sit through them, said friends and neighbors. You could get a sandwich or take a piss. The country’s bladder condition was clearly contagious.
Esther asked a question to which the reply was bathing suit. The commercial over, Levik yelled, with an intensity that shocked even him, for Marina to get out of the way. She disappeared. Pasha stopped leafing through Levik’s National Geographic and went to track down his sister.
Why not go on Saturday instead? he said.
And kill the entire day? Out of the question.
There may be less traffic, he offered.
Crouched over her suitcase, Marina froze, an alerted bear. You’re worried about the traffic?
It was just a thought.
You do enough thinking — leave traffic to me.
Pasha’s weight shifted. He looked at the suitcase with concern. Will we be back late? I promised I’d go to a poetry thing with Misha on Friday night. If we’re back around nine, I can still make it.
We’re going to Lake George! Yes we’ll be back late — on Monday! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve said this?
A lake? said Pasha. But, Marina, you know how I feel about nature.
Mama’s birthday is on Sunday!
Since when does she like lakes?
What’s all this about canceling your plans for me! yelled Esther, floorboards creaking as she bolted into the room. Don’t listen to her! Go with Misha!
A cigarette appeared between Marina’s lips, crackling, a second later eaten down to its filter. The lake is not optional, she said. Everybody goes.
If they didn’t feel festive yet, they would once they got there. It was Esther’s sixty-fifth birthday. If not for her, they’d be scavenging garbage dumps for carrot shavings. Prisoners in labor camps hadn’t exerted themselves at an equivalent level of intensity for such hopeless durations. No one knew when Esther awoke, because whenever they rolled out of bed, she was already at it. Shortcuts and better strategies had to exist, but this was an inkling that no one dared mention. Running an investigation into the matter would be highly dangerous for the investigators. They weren’t foolish enough to think they could stick their noses into the shit without getting mired themselves. If she wanted to pickle her own vegetables or spend an extra hour or two on homemade soap and glue in order to save pennies to be used for her exercise regimen of dropping pennies on the floor, then stooping down to pick them up one by one, what was the harm? When she complained, it was only of what she wasn’t doing: working and traveling. She wanted to make money, take trips. But the only phrases she’d been taught at the complimentary-with-immigration language lessons held at the local junior high school were Excuse me, how much does the menorah cost? and Shana Tova to you and yours and This challah tastes delicious. Until two years ago, the future of Odessa had been in her hands — all the children were under her care. Mothers had no regard for nighttime. The phone was constantly ringing in their communal apartment. For nine families there was one phone, and it had to ring loud enough to wake all nine families up. Though everyone knew that the call was for Esther (even Robert’s terminally ill patients had more restraint), they still went to the door to demonstrate that they’d been dragged out of bed. If they weren’t satisfied with how disheveled they looked, they’d mess up their hair, roughen nightgowns, moan, growl. Now the phone calls weren’t for Esther, but she answered anyway and attended to household duties as if they were children with fevers and murky urine, hoping to show how irreplaceable she was. In such a situation she’d done the worst thing imaginable — found a lump in her breast.