That one subject excluded, there was nothing she didn’t intend to discuss. The latest gossip was particularly welcome — was Brukhmansha’s anorexic daughter still seeing the balding poodle groomer? Had the Marazams finalized their divorce? Did Lera’s daughter get out of rehab, or at least go back into it? Marina found her daughter’s newfound garrulity and excitability disturbing and was adopting shameful habits such as turning the lock quietly when she got home from work, loitering in the locker room of the Y, tiptoeing from bathroom to bedroom, where she exhibited all the signs of someone hiding out, strategies that invariably failed at avoiding an encounter. At least Frida had a particular way of leaning her weight on the door handle, allowing Marina a chance to brace herself.
Frida barged in, forehead glistening, hair rising. She looked as if a cherry pit had gotten lodged in her throat and she was about to commence choking.
The firefighters are here, she said.
Give them my regards, replied Marina, not glancing up from her book (unable to make out a single word).
Frida hurried into the hallway. She was worried about her mother. She suspected that Marina had succumbed to clinical depression. She knew the checklist backward, and the signs were impossible to miss: Marina had virtually stopped cooking (once a fervent pastime), lost her joie de vivre, always claimed to be exhausted yet was never asleep when Frida paid visits (Frida took it as her duty to keep her mother engaged). And now her mother was forgoing a chance to flirt with the firemen — unimaginable that the old Marina would have passed up such an opportunity. Admittedly, the opportunity was lately in abundance. Someone in the building — was it Igor from the fourth floor or crazy Marusya? — had gotten into the habit of reporting fires, and several evenings a week the staircases were scaled by firemen. At the identifiable bustle, doors unlocked, men in slippers and boxer shorts emerged, women in hair rollers and bathrobes, gunky spatulas still in hand. Everyone hoped and prayed for a fire, and it was as if the firefighters themselves were failing to conjure the flame. Interest waned. People gave up going out on the landing.
Frida persisted, and not in order to flirt. One must have a sense of ceremony. The men were responding to a cry for help. They wanted to dazzle with heroism. Frida didn’t intend to insult them further by not coming out on the landing. A fire, even just the threat, demanded respect. (There was little excitement in Frida’s life recently, or none at all.) She stood by the stairs radiating concern. That’s the most delicious fire I ever smelled, said one of the button-nosed firemen, referring to Inga-from-across-the-hall’s cooking. Frida wanted to congratulate him on his joke but didn’t even manage a grin.
They lumbered down the stairs in a fury of grunts, scrapes, burps, and groans. Having seen them off, Frida returned to the apartment, overstepping a mound of spilled cat food and the colony of roaches partaking, skirting the pile of neglected pianos and bicycles and an ab roller like a cherry on top, into her mother’s toasty bedroom.
Still no fire, she reported. But the guys seemed in good spirits.
That’s nice, said Marina, tucking a yellow strand into her ponytail and leaning into the mirror. Frida hopped onto the unmade bed — a cherished, elusive moment was upon them. The makeup case had been laid out, unzipped. Marina’s manicured fingers reached inside, and the plastic tubes and compacts, the lipsticks, mascaras, eye shadows, and rouges began to stir in the dark, rearranging. Marina knew what she was looking for, oblivious to the hypnotic purr emitted by her search. It was as if she were choosing bones from Frida’s body. A pair of rusty tweezers emerged, efficiently attacking a chin hair.
You know how Anna and I take our Friday-night walks? said Frida.
You do?
Well, we’ve been meaning to make it more of a thing.
That’s nice.
But yesterday I stayed in—
I remember.
Do you know why?
Nowhere to go. Lipstick found Marina’s taut lips, traveling smoothly back and forth like a swinging car on the Ferris wheel.
Because Anna’s cousin is in town from Poland.
She couldn’t invite you to hang out with her cousin?
Frida swallowed. That isn’t the point.
Anna’s cousin might be your soul mate.
He’s in high school. And they were doing a family thing, a sit-down dinner. I wouldn’t even have wanted to go. But I do want to go to—
I told you, Frida, not another word about the wedding.
Have you even considered—
Does it seem like I’ve had time to consider something? She smudged eyeliner with a fingertip, dabbed a few powdery finishing touches, assessed herself, and gave a long, defeated sigh.
You’re not old, said Frida.
But you are. Turned away from her reflection, Marina lost the pout and vacant mirror stare, released her belly, dropped to a slouch. And it’s Saturday night.
I have plans, if that’s your way of asking.
That involve leaving the house?
Fuck off!
Lighten up a little, said Marina.
I’m leading a pathetic existence!
Follow me. Marina looked both ways before crossing the corridor. Dusk was creeping up the walls (crooked, stained, what can you do?), lending a somber touch to their journey. The destination was the computer chair, into which Marina sort of just fell. One hand felt around for her glasses, the other smacked the mouse several times in her particular way of rousing the machine. She typed with one stiff finger, staring down at the keyboard, then up at the screen, then down at the keyboard. Ten minutes later a message appeared. Photos attached. Somebody’s perfect catch of a son had split from his girlfriend and relocated from New Jersey to New York — he was shy, he was vulnerable, he didn’t know his way around Greenwich Village (liked sushi).
Frida glanced at the keyboard. A different message overtook the screen: GREETINGS, AMERICANTSI…
Marina’s eyes bulged. Don’t forget I was the one who showed you this, she said, and don’t make me regret it.
Sanya had gotten engaged, news he deemed worthy of sharing with his estranged Western aunt, who then made the mistake of sharing with her strange, not-distant-enough daughter. Getting married at last, that sullen, mousy boy…. OK, so it was hard to get sentimental. The guy was thirty-two and had two kids from two different women, both older and married. Otherwise his record was clean. Not a single divorce. This was to be his first relationship in the eyes of Ukraine. And he was Frida’s only cousin — there were dozens of photos of the two of them in the cardboard box stashed away in some not readily accessible nook of the apartment. Though it was probably more readily accessible than she remembered. In her mind it had to be unearthed, dug up. A major effort had to be involved. All those photographs of them together, or not exactly together but caught in the same frame. A courtyard scene: Frida in ballooning denim overalls, staring into a well (old, dry, someone’s rubber ducky at the bottom), next to her a ratty courtyard child of indeterminate sex grimacing into the camera, and in the background Sanya squatting over a neat mound of something (probably dog feces; he went through a prolonged fascination, the only time Pasha displayed a measure of paternal concern). At birthday parties they were seated together but never to be found looking at each other or even in the same direction. But at that age a seven-year difference was very significant (this phrase, repeated over and over). Sanya hadn’t been the type to take anybody under his wing; he’d needed someone to do that for him, but there had been no takers.