Frida listened, nodding, neck pain. Having spoken their piece, they asked a single question of her. Learning that she wasn’t a poet, not even a prose writer, they returned to their peers. In between these brief encounters, Frida glanced over at her uncle, who kept sitting in that corner with his elbows on the table, and each time he looked a bit altered, enshrouded. Toward evening’s end, the café clearing though it was unclear just how quickly as smoke impaired visibility, an older woman with owl eyes and the matronly derriere to which the pinch rightfully belonged approached Frida. Perfectly sober, she took pride in her controlled manner, as if she were a cheetah that had tamed itself. Studying Frida, she said in English that was accented, mannered, and perfumed, Lawyer or accountant?
Neither, Frida said quite proudly.
I didn’t think so. Tell me you’re a dentist and I’m leaving.
Medical school — just finished my first year.
Congratulations, said the woman, stifling a yawn.
But I’m not going back.
So it gets interesting.
Frida beamed.
Your poor parents — they must be heartbroken.
They don’t know yet, said Frida, trying out a deranged fantasy on this ridiculous lady. The heartbreak will come later — first it’ll be wrath. But they can’t force me back to school when I’m half the world away.
So you’re here waiting out the wrath?
I’m getting to know the family.
The woman introduced herself. She was Renata. This was said as if it were common knowledge what a Renata was, in theory. Being Renata was like being atheist or vegetarian. Most people gave their names and their hands; they didn’t truly introduce themselves. Renata truly introduced herself. There was a deluge of epithets: poet, essayist, psychoanalyst, wife, mother, mystic, Jew, woman.
Keep going and you’ll get to dentist, said Frida.
Are you as incorrigible as your uncle?
I wouldn’t know. We haven’t exactly been engaging in long conversations — or conversations of any kind, for that matter.
You see the two men he’s been talking to the entire night? Does it surprise you that they’re the most famous men in the room?
Yes. Nobody here seems famous.
Renata sighed. Nobody was a stranger to her. She dealt in psychological tendencies.
Whatever you’re implying, said Frida, don’t. I’ve heard my fill. Those men look interesting.
Those men are interesting. What it comes down to is that they’re men.
So he’s a misogynist as well?
Have you read Svetlana’s poetry?
Who’s Svetlana?
Your aunt.
Pasha’s wife? Sveta? She’s a poet, too?
A far more modern and thrilling one than your uncle, if you care for my opinion. I’m not alone in it. Svetlana’s a prodigious talent, but fully eclipsed by your uncle. It’s a shame — all that thwarted potential. Sure he claims to support her writing, the way Picasso might encourage his three-year-old to paint. He’s terribly condescending, and she doesn’t even notice. She worships him. The trouble with me was that I never worshipped him. I considered him an outstanding poet — his early poems were in a different league from the stuff of recent years — and I happily introduced him to the who’s who of the émigré scene. But once I had no more to offer, he washed his hands of me. He stopped writing letters, stopped sending manuscripts. He dedicated a whole collection to me after his last visit to New York, poems I can’t bear to reread. There’s an openness, a frankness, even a dash of romanticism. I’ve decided that I myself invested the poems with earnestness. Pasha would like to be an earnest man, but he’s not an earnest man. Perhaps that’s a central conflict. He’s not earnest, nor is he full of faith. You know what he’s full of? Himself. But don’t be lazy. Read your uncle’s poetry, especially his first collection — you may find it interesting — it’s about your family after all.
Renata paused, her gaze caught by someone behind Frida. She lowered her lashes, melted into a demure smile. Frida was left alone, sitting in a warm seat over someone’s half-chewed shashlik and lipstick-rimmed wineglass, trapped in a hot, airless rage. Why would Renata just assume that Frida hadn’t dabbled in her uncle’s canon? And how come her parents never told her that Pasha wrote a book about their family? Why hadn’t they given the book to her or asked if she was interested in taking a look at his others? Did they consider her devoid of curiosity? Admittedly, she’d never inquired. When a poem was mentioned or news came of another collection to be published, Frida was seized by an urge to plug her ears and vacate the room. She preferred to be kept in a state of ignorance. Her body resisted the information. In fact, she knew exactly where Pasha’s books were: slumped against each other on the top shelf in the corridor of their apartment. At any time, with any passing whim, she could’ve taken one down. Instead she’d been collecting excuses and justifications in order to support the theory that she was being willfully excluded from his readership. She had it all — the hurt feelings, the accusations — but there was no one to tell it to. Pasha certainly didn’t care whether his American niece had taken the time to read a single one of his collections. His blatant indifference made any theory of willful exclusion laughable. She could’ve read the poems but hadn’t. The willfulness was entirely on her end. Her surface apathy hid a deeper ambivalence, eschewal, restraint. Dig through those layers and reach a bedrock animosity. Frida felt only more confirmed in that stance. Why make an effort when there was no chance of its being reciprocated? But was she really looking for reciprocation from Pasha? No, she wanted it from her family. The rules that were writ in stone for her didn’t apply to Pasha — he didn’t reside within a block radius of the family headquarters, didn’t consult on every minor decision, didn’t put in the mandatory quality time, either of bonding or household labor, wasn’t a doctor, wasn’t even a Jew! And yet he got away with it. Not only that, he reigned supreme. They consulted him. He’d won. Was this fair? How could Frida not be resentful? Although the fact of the matter was that those rules from which he was not exempt must’ve once applied — he’d just had the resolve to struggle against them. I should read the poems, thought Frida.
Efim was still twirling the saltshaker.
This is only the beginning, he said sadly. It’s a steady degradation from here on in. Most of these guys won’t be sober again until they return home three weeks from now. Then they’ll start chronicling in extensive detail their experiences on LiveJournal, finding they all remember things a bit differently. They’ll launch internet battles, terrorize with comments, go on unfriending sprees.