• • •
THE DOORBELL RANG. Standing on their doorstep wasn’t Sanya but Steve Martin, who seemed just about as confused by his presence there as was Frida. Tall and lean, he was more dashing on the whole than one might’ve imagined. His wispy white hair was parted on the side, and his large, bland face was made absurd, likable, and distinct by a nose — rarely did one feature carry so much weight. Frida saw him over Sveta’s bare shoulder. Sveta had changed into a handkerchief with straps. Her skin was a transparent blue like the sky over snowcapped mountains. Tiny hairs stood on end. Steve Martin saw Sveta’s bare shoulder and nothing beyond it. He addressed that shoulder with the question Are you Fridachka? The Russian words contorted his face, pulling it into a strictly Slavic direction.
Who are you? said Sveta.
Not Steve Martin but his Russian variation, Volodya, there on behalf of Avarchuk, the casino king. The explanation satisfied Sveta. Volodya was visibly disappointed when the bare shoulder retreated and was replaced by Fridachka, a staunch adherent of the many-layers policy. His beady eyes had no choice but to look into her beady eyes.
Volodya got to the point, pulling two objects from his briefcase: a cell phone and a thick white envelope. He lifted the flap of the envelope and tilted it to display the contents: colorful bills that would’ve aroused suspicions of fraudulence in a game of Monopoly. Five thousand hryvnia, to be precise.
That’s very kind, said Frida, but isn’t it a bit much?
He glanced at her quizzically. It’s the amount agreed on. Whatever you don’t use, give back to your papa. He’ll deal with Avarchuk.
My papa?
Or me. But there’s not much in there when you get down to it. You’ll see. On Deribasovskaya there are decent shops. Shoes and hats, things like that. There’s the seven-kilometer market. Dresses, teakettles. You’ll need souvenirs for the folks. A boyfriend, eh? Before long you’ll be calling me. Volodya, you’ll say, I need more dough! No problemo. As much as you want. They’ll take care of the calculations. Your papa and Avarchuk. I’m just Avarchuk’s guy. My number’s programmed into the phone under Vasya. You call me when you’re running low or if you’re in a stitch. I mean a real stitch. Not if you need a restaurant recommendation or directions to a nightclub. Not for museum hours either — you look like you’ll be wanting some of those. Call only if you need more dough or are about to be murdered. Capisce?
I won’t take it, said Frida, pushing away the goods. Tell Avarchuk to tell my papa that I don’t need anybody making arrangements for me. I’m sorry you had to waste your time.
Volodya’s eyes crinkling. She expected him to try to convince her otherwise, but he just shrugged. As he turned away, a shadow of a smirk passing across his face. Frida wanted to believe that it was intended for her, something like bemused respect at her show of independence. He folded himself away into his white car and sped off. Frida returned to what now struck her as a gnome’s home. No one asked a thousand questions about the stranger or made as many remarks about how she’d handled the situation incorrectly. It was usually at this stage of Operation Freedom that she succumbed to a devastating sense of loneliness and remembered the utter indifference of the universe as to whether she lived or died, prospered or failed, which was enough to abort the operation and send her running back into the warm bosom of her family. Now, too, she considered retracting her head into her shoulders, hiding her tail between her legs, changing her return ticket, and ordering a cab back to the airport.
I’ll be off to sleep, said Pasha. I’ve got an old man’s bedtime, to go with the old man’s body. His hand landed on Frida’s shoulder. The moment of truth was upon them. She twisted up her face, straining to channel her chaotic inner existence, her uncertainty, her fear, her lack of footing, which Pasha seemed at last on the brink of acknowledging and shedding light on. He gave two squeezes and said, For tomorrow. Any requests?
The low ceiling was spore-speckled, brown. Water damage: a sinister force spanning nations. She shook her head.
None at all?
She had no requests at all. At last she’d attained such a state. Requests led to anguish, a correlation anybody would recognize. Best to do away with them altogether.
But Pasha persisted. There’s absolutely nothing in particular you want to see?
Was this a test? Was the requestless existence she considered an accomplishment actually a failure? To come up empty-handed seemed as unwise as not even making an educated guess on a multiple-choice exam. The dacha, she declared.
Why don’t you sleep on it, said Pasha. It’s been a long day. Sveta put fresh sheets and a towel on the armchair. Make yourself comfortable, at least as comfortable as possible on that thing. Try experimenting with positions — I’m told there’s one in which you don’t even feel the metal bar.
• • •
JARRED AWAKE BY A RINGING phone, Frida sprang upright and rattled off, Mama, don’t worry, everything’s fine. On the other end, a man’s voice shouted in Ukrainian for a steady thirty seconds. People said it was a melodic language, and they were right.
Are you trying to sell me something? Frida asked.
The line went dead.
In her hand was the cell phone she’d so nobly refused to accept. On top of her suitcase lay the envelope full of cash.
Sleeping beauty, said Pasha when she stumbled into the kitchen. Too groggy to say for sure, but she detected sarcasm. It hadn’t exactly been a spectacular night of rest. Regardless of jet lag or a foldout sofa through which snaked a metal bar so limber it managed to jab everywhere at once, trying to repose in the room that housed Pasha’s collections was no easy feat. At least the icons — countless pairs of eyes embedded in misshapen-as-if-spilling heads, thick globs of boneless babies — could be turned off with the lights, but it was in the dark that the pendulum clocks struck out, not entirely in unison, and proceeded to spend the night in a bravura competition. Toward dawn, in a thrill of ingenuity, Frida had tied her uncle’s shoes by their laces to the pendulums, finding not long thereafter that the courtyard served as breeding grounds for livestock.
A man dressed as a pirate sat beside Pasha, directing at her an unctuous grin under an indulgent mustache with upward-tapering tips. The rapacious gleam in his eyes was studied but effective. A white ruffled shirt stretched taut over a barrel chest. He had everything short of an eye patch. And the hat was rather a sombrero. He introduced himself as the foremost painter of Odessa — the most controversial, the least liked, the most talented and underappreciated, the least reimbursed and validated, the most prolific and modern, and had he already mentioned underappreciated? An understatement! Try ostracized and shunned, admittedly not as much as Pavel Robertovich. Your uncle, said the pirate before Frida had finished pouring cold coffee into a mug, is the greatest poet not just in Odessa and not in all of Ukraine but in all of Russia, which is why people hate him. They want him to rot in the ground.
Pasha laughed — spare, dismissive, but a laugh nonetheless. He’d acquired human color overnight and seemed, on the whole, less world-historically solemn.
The coffee wasn’t doing a proper job of reviving, perhaps because it was impossible to believe in the power of Ukrainian coffee. If the coffee worked, it would’ve been a far different country. The only effect was a leaden tongue.
Where’s Sveta? she asked.
You’re not the only sleeping beauty around here, said Pasha. Thanks for the reminder. He rose and began to fuss. For somebody who moved so sluggishly, an incredible clatter was generated. Everything banged against everything else. Anything capable of clanging didn’t hesitate to do so. That Sveta didn’t run in, wondering about the earthquake, was testament to the potency of her slumber. Half an hour later, Pasha was finished. For all the noise, effort, mess, there was surprisingly little yield: a fresh brew of coffee (the batch from which Frida had just taken went down the drain) and a soggy egg mass. These were delicately placed on a silver tray with an undoubtedly rich history and majestically carried off to the master bedroom.