The Wild Child Part 3

Wasn't there a mourning period for dead parents among the Judeans? I distinctly recall Papa made me sit on a box for a week when my mother died, then we covered up every mirror in the apartment. This was according to custom, I suppose, but mostly we were trying to avoid looking at our own fat, teary punims. punims. Finally we sold the mirrors, along with my mother's American sewing machine and her two German bras. I can still recall shaky-handed Papa standing in the courtyard of our building, holding aloft the white bra, then the pink one, as the women of our building stepped up to inspect the goods. The Yeltsin era was still ten years away, but already Papa was angling to become an oligarch. Finally we sold the mirrors, along with my mother's American sewing machine and her two German bras. I can still recall shaky-handed Papa standing in the courtyard of our building, holding aloft the white bra, then the pink one, as the women of our building stepped up to inspect the goods. The Yeltsin era was still ten years away, but already Papa was angling to become an oligarch.

Downstairs, my parlor was lousy with Russians. I suppose that's what you get for living in Russia. My manservant, Timofey, and the junior policemen were making venison pie in the kitchen, singing army songs from their stints in Afghanistan, and propositioning my fat cook, Yevgenia. Andi Schmid, the German boy who had caught my father's last moments, was videotaping himself crawling around the parquet floor, howling fanatically at Lyuba Vainberg's stupid terrier. The widow herself was, by all accounts, still pa.s.sed out in the downstairs guest room, pumped full of Halcion and our German guest's synthetic drug MDMA.

My appearance stirred no one. The dead man's son might as well have been dead, too. The television was blaring the morning news program, the Minister of Atomic Energy telling his favorite Chern.o.byl joke, the one about the balding porcupine. Only Captain Belugin got up to shake my hand. "My heart is filled with sorrow," he said. "Your father was a great man."

"He's dead, so he's dead!" one of the policemen yelled from the kitchen.

"Shut your mouth, Nika, or I'll fix you one in the mug!" Belugin shouted. "Forgive Nika," he said to me. "My boys are soccer hooligans in uniform, nothing more." He bowed a little, both hands on his heart. Belugin's manner reminded me of one of Gogol's crafty peasants, the kind of fellow who knew when to flatter his master but also when to copy the ways of educated folk. A far cry from my manservant, Timofey, who thought he was clever if he made off with a block of Dutch cheese or a T-shirt he could pounce at with the Daewoo steam iron I gave him for New Year's.

"Who can forget," said Captain Belugin, "when your dear papa killed that stupid American. Oh, if only we could kill all of them! Now, Germans I like. They're much more civilized. Look at that nice young Andi pretending he's a dog. Keep it up, sonny! What does the doggie say? Gav, gav!, Gav, gav!, he says." he says."

"I'm sorry for interrupting," Alyosha-Bob said. "But why are you here, Captain Belugin? Why don't you leave Misha to his mourning?"

"I am here to settle some business," the captain said. "I am here to talk about the terrible crime that has shaken our world. I am pleased to announce that we have solved the mystery of your father's death, Misha. Your father was killed by Oleg the Moose and his syphilitic cousin Zhora."

"Ah!" I cried, but it was no surprise. Oleg the Moose and my papa were once friends and confederates. They had opened a graveyard for New Russian Jews, famous for its designer tombstones that featured the latest S-model Mercedes superimposed over a kind of ballistic menorah. As a follow-up, they were going to build a chain of American hero-sandwich shops on Nevsky Prospekt. The interiors of several landmark nineteenth-century palaces had been completely wiped out and festooned with inflatable fries and man-sized Pepsi bottles. But then, just at the stage when each investor could smell the sweaty odor of roast beef bathed in oil and vinegar, Papa and the Moose, goaded by their various relations and bookkeepers, went on the path of war.

It was time to say something heartfelt. "The evildoers must be punished," I said quietly and raised a big, squishy fist.

"That's one way to look at it," Captain Belugin said. "Here's another way. Oleg the Moose is a childhood friend of the governor of St. Petersburg. They went to chess academy together. They own adjoining property on Lake Como. Their wives go to the same pedicurist, and their children to the same Swiss boarding school. The Moose will never be prosecuted."

"But there's a tape of him murdering Misha's father," Alyosha-Bob said.

"The tape can disappear," said Captain Belugin, drawing a rectangular outline of the videotape with his index fingers, then making a fluttering motion with his hands.

"What about the German with the camera?" Alyosha-Bob said, pointing to the filmmaker Andi Schmid, who had taken off his p.h.u.c.k STUTTGART p.h.u.c.k STUTTGART T-shirt and was thoroughly examining his own nipples. "He's a witness." T-shirt and was thoroughly examining his own nipples. "He's a witness."

"The German can disappear," Captain Belugin said. He drew a slender Teutonic outline with his index fingers and made the fluttering motion again.

"That's ridiculous," Alyosha-Bob said. "You can't just disappear an entire German."

"There are eighty million of them, and they all look fairly alike."

We were pressed into a brief silence by the last remark. "Maybe I should refer this matter to a lawyer," I said at last.

"A lawyer lawyer!" Captain Belugin laughed. "Where do you think we are, dear boy? Stuttgart? New York? Your father is dead. This is sad for you. But maybe not entirely sad. Everyone knows you don't want your father's business. You're a sophisticate and a melancholic. So here's what we do. We broker a deal with Oleg the Moose. He takes over all of your father's a.s.sets for a fair-market value of twenty-five million dollars, plus another three million for killing your papa. Twenty-eight million overall. You and Oleg shake hands. No more blood."

Alyosha-Bob stared into the captain's eyes with an American disgust that I hadn't seen in years. He spat into his own hand in emulation of our lower cla.s.ses. "How much is Oleg the Moose paying you?" he demanded. "And who approved Boris Vainberg's murder? You or the governor?"

"My commission is fifteen percent," Captain Belugin said, shrugging. "That's the standard commission around the world. As for the second question, why talk about ugly things that will only spoil our friendship?"

Timofey emerged from the kitchen with a plate of mushroom pelmeni. pelmeni. I knew Tima was just trying to soothe my nerves with food, but I had no appet.i.te and so, languidly, threw a shoe at my manservant. As the shoe knocked his temple, I saw a clear picture of my death (heart attack, naturally) at age forty-one on a high-speed train approaching Paris, an elegant Euro woman frantically dialing her mobile phone, the remains of a half-eaten train meal lumped on my crotch. Oh, dear me. Oh, dear bear cub. I did not want to die! But what could I do? I knew Tima was just trying to soothe my nerves with food, but I had no appet.i.te and so, languidly, threw a shoe at my manservant. As the shoe knocked his temple, I saw a clear picture of my death (heart attack, naturally) at age forty-one on a high-speed train approaching Paris, an elegant Euro woman frantically dialing her mobile phone, the remains of a half-eaten train meal lumped on my crotch. Oh, dear me. Oh, dear bear cub. I did not want to die! But what could I do?

"I feel bad for the world around me," I whispered. "Maybe I can start a program for kindergarten children with some of that twenty-eight million. We can call it Misha's Children."

For the first time since I had met him, Captain Belugin surveyed me with genuine pity. He turned to Alyosha-Bob, who was sweating quietly, his bald head glistening, his eyes blinking out a semaph.o.r.e of useless rage. "Don't worry yourself with ideas," Belugin said to him. "There's no one to turn to. There's only one power structure in Petersburg. Boris Vainberg was a part of it. Then one day, by his own choosing, he was not. The consequences were predictable."

"Go to sleep, Snack Daddy," Alyosha-Bob said to me. "I will talk with the captain some more."

I did as I was told. Back in my bedroom, I hooked my face into Rouenna's fragrant armpit. Half asleep, she leveraged a fatty cut of my shoulder until she was in position to drool on my arm. I kissed her glossy nose with a mad urgency, like a bird plucking worms for her chicks. "Sweeeeeeet," Rouenna exhaled between two complicated snores.

"Love you," I whispered in English.

Meanwhile, on the walnut-trimmed Eames lounge chair where Dr. Levine used to loom behind me on Park Avenue, my manservant had placed my childhood Cheburaskha doll. Cheburashka, a star of Soviet children's television, a cuddly as.e.xual brown creature with his dreams of joining the Young Pioneers and building a House of Friendship for all the lonely animals in town, a.n.a.lyzed me with his enormous liquid eyes. His even larger ears flapped in the summer wind, straining to pick up my lament.

In a week Rouenna would be leaving me to resume her summer studies at New York's Hunter College. And I would be left with nothing.

6.

Beloved Papa Is Lowered into the Ground.

I don't remember much from the funeral. A lot of Jews came, that's for sure. One of the big kibbutzniks kibbutzniks from the main synagogue on Lermontov Street told me it was Papa's most fervent wish that I marry a Jewess. He pointed one out to me-tall and skinny, with long wet eyes and a luscious full-lipped mouth-standing by the open grave with a bunch of gardenias pressed to her chest. She was the kind of Russian Jewess who could be sad all year round, who could tell you a thousand different ways in which life was a serious business. "She's looking good," I concurred, "but right now I have my American friend." I bent my head toward Rouenna's shoulder. She had dressed up in her mourning miniskirt, which highlighted her hips and a.s.s, reminding us all of how we came into being. She reached up to fix my blue from the main synagogue on Lermontov Street told me it was Papa's most fervent wish that I marry a Jewess. He pointed one out to me-tall and skinny, with long wet eyes and a luscious full-lipped mouth-standing by the open grave with a bunch of gardenias pressed to her chest. She was the kind of Russian Jewess who could be sad all year round, who could tell you a thousand different ways in which life was a serious business. "She's looking good," I concurred, "but right now I have my American friend." I bent my head toward Rouenna's shoulder. She had dressed up in her mourning miniskirt, which highlighted her hips and a.s.s, reminding us all of how we came into being. She reached up to fix my blue blin blin of a yarmulke, a likeness of the synagogue's Moorish facade engraved on the back. Papa's favorite. of a yarmulke, a likeness of the synagogue's Moorish facade engraved on the back. Papa's favorite.

"When you're ready to be with a real woman, call me at the shul, shul," said the Jew. "There's no reason to be all alone in the world."

"Well, I'm not all alone," I said. I put my arm around Rouenna and pressed her close, but he wasn't buying it.

"Act quickly, little son!" he said, apropos of the sad Jewess. "Her name is Sarah, and she has many suitors." He went over to Lyuba, my father's widow, and wiped her tiny nose for her.

Lyuba was a wreck, her usually demonstrative blond hair matted over her delicate skull, her black see-through blouse torn in the traditional Jewish sign of mourning (since when was she she one of the tribe?), her arms thrown up to the heavens as if begging for the Lord to take her as well. She was howling about how "no one in the world [could] love her like [Beloved Papa]" and falling limp in the arms of fellow mourners. one of the tribe?), her arms thrown up to the heavens as if begging for the Lord to take her as well. She was howling about how "no one in the world [could] love her like [Beloved Papa]" and falling limp in the arms of fellow mourners.

Papa had wanted to be buried next to my mother, who was interred in an old graveyard in the wretched southeastern section of the city. The graveyard ab.u.t.ted a suburban station, rails littered with the morning's first half-conscious alkashy, alkashy, each trying to suck the last drop out of yesterday's bottle of Golden Barrel beer, the platform stacked with two overturned cylindrical freight cars, one sporting the stenciled legend each trying to suck the last drop out of yesterday's bottle of Golden Barrel beer, the platform stacked with two overturned cylindrical freight cars, one sporting the stenciled legend POLY POLY, the other MERS MERS.

The graves had been vandalized with cunning precision. Even the gold engraving was missing from my mother's tombstone. I could barely make out YULIA ISAKOVNA VAINBERG YULIA ISAKOVNA VAINBERG, 19391983, not to mention the golden harp that Papa had added, a reference, I suppose, to her being so cultured. (At least, unlike neighboring gravestones, hers hadn't been crowned with a swastika by the local hooligans.) Oh, my poor mamochka. mamochka. The soft flesh behind her earlobe, perfect for hiding a child's warm nose. Gray sweater torn at the elbow, despite the rat-a-tat of her American sewing machine. Nineteen thirty-nine to 1983. From Stalin to Andropov. What a pathetic time to have been alive. The soft flesh behind her earlobe, perfect for hiding a child's warm nose. Gray sweater torn at the elbow, despite the rat-a-tat of her American sewing machine. Nineteen thirty-nine to 1983. From Stalin to Andropov. What a pathetic time to have been alive.

If only she could have seen me in New York. I would have made her proud. I'd have taken her to a simple clothing shop and bought her a middle-cla.s.s sweater in some bright new color. That was part of my mother's beauty-she would have had no need for Botox or marabou-covered mules, not like all the visiting New Russian trash. See, when you're cultured, being middle cla.s.s is enough.

Meanwhile, the haughty Northern sun had a.s.sumed its noontime perch and was doing its best to set our skullcaps ablaze. In Russia, even the sun has a distinctly anti-Semitic disposition. Gusts of wind smelling of something Soviet and unkind-polymers?-coated us with empty candy wrappers roused up from the garbage pit of a nearby housing complex, which was, like so many other things, partly collapsed and partly on fire. Gooey with chocolate and spit, the wrappers stuck to us like leeches, turning us into advertis.e.m.e.nts for such homegrown delicacies as SNEAKERS SNEAKERS and and TRI MUSHKETEERS TRI MUSHKETEERS.

It was a shtetl shtetl funeral, in many ways, a kind of impromptu klezmer act minus the musical instruments. Lots of wailing and feigned heart attacks, the pressing of young faces to old bosoms. "Comfort the child!" some putz was screaming in my direction. "The poor orphan! May G.o.d watch over him!" funeral, in many ways, a kind of impromptu klezmer act minus the musical instruments. Lots of wailing and feigned heart attacks, the pressing of young faces to old bosoms. "Comfort the child!" some putz was screaming in my direction. "The poor orphan! May G.o.d watch over him!"

"I'm fine!" I shouted back, waving weakly at the excited mourner, one of my idiot relatives, no doubt. They were all sticking their business cards into my pocket, in hopes of an eventual handout (Papa had left them nothing), and wondering why I was so estranged from the lot of them, why I wasn't friends with my harebrained cousins or s.l.u.tty young nieces and predatory nephews, who spent their Friday nights tearing down Nevsky in their cheap Russian Niva jeeps, trying to pick up malnourished girls in tight synthetic duds or working-cla.s.s boys with primitive greaser haircuts. The number of Vainbergs, young and old, still haunting the earth amazed me. During the thirties and forties, Stalin had killed half my family. Arguably the wrong half.

My manservant followed two steps behind me, carrying a leather pouch in which was interred a pair of pork-and-chicken roulettes from the famed Yeliseyev food shop, a bottle of Ativan, and a slug of Johnnie Walker Black, all in case I felt faint and started to teeter over. My only friends, Alyosha-Bob and Rouenna, huddled together in a corner, their relative Western beauty and steady demeanor giving them the air of American movie stars. I spent half the funeral walking toward them but was constantly waylaid by supplicants.

The aforementioned synagogue crew was on hand, old men with shaky hands, moist eyes, and big loose bellies-many mentions of Papa being the moral consciousness of our city by the Neva, a human pillar holding up the Lermontov synagogue like some demented Hebraic Atlas. And, by the way, look at that sad Jewess by the grave! Quiet Sarah! With the gardenias pressed to her heart! To her very heart! To her very heart! For no heart beats stronger (or faster) than a Jewish heart! Ah, what a couple we would make! The rebirth of Leninsburg's Jewish community! Why should I be alone for even one more hour? Take this day of sadness, Misha, and make it one of renewal! Listen to your elders! Show the heartless swine who did this to your papa, show them that... For no heart beats stronger (or faster) than a Jewish heart! Ah, what a couple we would make! The rebirth of Leninsburg's Jewish community! Why should I be alone for even one more hour? Take this day of sadness, Misha, and make it one of renewal! Listen to your elders! Show the heartless swine who did this to your papa, show them that...

Well, the only problem with such a gesture was that the heartless swine in question, Oleg the Moose and his syphilitic cousin Zhora, had actually been invited invited to Beloved Papa's funeral. After Alyosha-Bob had convinced him that I could survive in Europe only with a minimum of thirty-five million dollars, Captain Belugin had dragged them along as a sign of our budding rapprochement. In fact, tall, pale-faced Oleg the Moose and his rosy, horizontal cousin-their shapes roughly approximating Don Quixote and Sancho Panza-were already ambling over to me to share their condolences, my idiot relatives quietly parting before them, cowed by their murderous zeal, the fact that Oleg and Zhora had actually done to Boris Vainberg what each relative had long dreamed of doing. to Beloved Papa's funeral. After Alyosha-Bob had convinced him that I could survive in Europe only with a minimum of thirty-five million dollars, Captain Belugin had dragged them along as a sign of our budding rapprochement. In fact, tall, pale-faced Oleg the Moose and his rosy, horizontal cousin-their shapes roughly approximating Don Quixote and Sancho Panza-were already ambling over to me to share their condolences, my idiot relatives quietly parting before them, cowed by their murderous zeal, the fact that Oleg and Zhora had actually done to Boris Vainberg what each relative had long dreamed of doing.

I backed away, clutching a pa.s.sing candy wrapper with both of my big, squishy hands, but they were soon upon me. "Your father was a great man," said Oleg the Moose, nervously combing back his pompadour, his trademark single antler. "A righteous man. A leader. He loved his people. I still have that 1989 article about him from the American magazine, the one where he's dancing around with a jug of moonshine. What was it called? 'Shabbat Shalom in Leningrad.' You know, it wasn't always easy between us, but all our disagreements to the very last were just fights between brothers. I think, in some measure, we're all sort of responsible for his death. So Zhora and I are going to pledge a hundred in Leningrad.' You know, it wasn't always easy between us, but all our disagreements to the very last were just fights between brothers. I think, in some measure, we're all sort of responsible for his death. So Zhora and I are going to pledge a hundred shtukas shtukas each to the synagogue. Maybe they'll buy some extra Torahs or something. We're going to call it the Boris Vainberg Judaica Renaissance Fund." each to the synagogue. Maybe they'll buy some extra Torahs or something. We're going to call it the Boris Vainberg Judaica Renaissance Fund."

A shtuka shtuka was a was a thing, thing, or US$1,000, the basic unit of measurement in my dead papa's universe. A hundred or US$1,000, the basic unit of measurement in my dead papa's universe. A hundred shtukas shtukas was not very much, a week of whoring on the Riviera. I looked down at my pricey German shoes, both covered with a fine iridescent film. What the f.u.c.k? d.a.m.n polymers floating in from the railroad, likely. I pledged right then and there to donate at least one thousand was not very much, a week of whoring on the Riviera. I looked down at my pricey German shoes, both covered with a fine iridescent film. What the f.u.c.k? d.a.m.n polymers floating in from the railroad, likely. I pledged right then and there to donate at least one thousand shtukas, shtukas, US$1,000,000, to Misha's Children. US$1,000,000, to Misha's Children.

"You know what, let's make it two hundred shtukas shtukas each," said syphilitic Zhora, picking violently at a back tooth with his pinkie, looking like the bald Chern.o.byl porcupine they joked about on television. "The cantor said the synagogue needs a new ark. That's where they stash the Torahs after they're done singing from them." each," said syphilitic Zhora, picking violently at a back tooth with his pinkie, looking like the bald Chern.o.byl porcupine they joked about on television. "The cantor said the synagogue needs a new ark. That's where they stash the Torahs after they're done singing from them."

I stood there listening to my father's killers. Oleg and Zhora were of Papa's generation. All three had been made fatherless by the Great Patriotic War. All three had been raised by the men who had managed to avoid battle, the violent, dour, second-tier men their mothers had brought home with them out of brutal loneliness. Standing before the menfolk of my father's generation, I could do nothing. Before their rough hands and stale cigarette-vodka smells, I could only shudder and feel, along with fright and disgust, appeas.e.m.e.nt and complicity. These miscreants were our country's rulers. To survive in their world, one has to wear many hats-perpetrator, victim, silent bystander. I could do a little of each.

"How's your health?" I asked syphilitic Zhora.

He made a circular motion around his crotch. "Eh, you know, a little better, a little worse. Every day something new. The key is to catch it at the early stage. There's a new venereal clinic on Moskovsky Prospekt-"

"If you don't want to end up like Zhora, better put a sock on your gherkin," Oleg the Moose said with fatherly solicitude. We laughed quietly. "By the way, how's it going with your visa situation?" he asked. "I think you'll have better luck with the American consulate now that your father is gone. Even the worst tragedies often bring with them something positive."

"Hey, if you go to Washington, tell my son to stop diddling Spanish girls and tend to his studies," said Zhora. "Hold on a minute! I'm going to give you his e-mail address at the university." He handed me a sc.r.a.p on which he had written, with curly Cyrillic flourishes, "And tell him nothing less than Michigan for law school, that little popka. popka."

We laughed again, the p.r.i.c.kly voltage of fraternity coursing through our triumvirate, leaving me a little shocked. "There's a funny anecdote about three Jews-" I started to say, but was interrupted by a starchy, provincial scream.

"Murderers! Animals! Swine!" Lyuba was shrieking from the open grave. "You took my Boris! You took my prince!"

Before we knew what was what, she made a run for Oleg and his cousin, her skinny arms windmilling past the large patriarchal Vainbergs and all the small fry with their orange perms and leather f.a.n.n.y packs. Tear-streaked and crimson, with a child's delicate pink lips, Lyuba's face looked uncharacteristically young, so young that I instinctively extended a hand to her, because this kind of youth does not survive long in our Leninsburg; it's burned out like those malicious orange freckles that had once ringed her nose.

"Lyuba!" I shouted.

Captain Belugin acted quickly, shoving the poor widow under his blazer and gently herding her away from the funeral party, toward the railroad track with its overturned polymer cars. He was chanting comforting mantras above her cries ("All is normal...it's only nerves"), although I could hear her last m.u.f.fled words: "Help me, Mishen'ka! Help me strangle them with my very hands!"

I turned away from her, looking instead to Sarah, the pretty Jewess, the prize of our people, proffering us a collection of her saddest smiles and also something smooth and pale and blooming in her hands. Gardenias.

Soon it was time to bury Papa.

7.

Rouenna in Russia.

Ghetto Daze, Part II.

"I didn't come all the way to freaking Russia to look at no oily paintings, Snack," Rouenna said. We were in the Hermitage, in front of p.i.s.sarro's Boulevard Montmartre on a Sunny Afternoon. Boulevard Montmartre on a Sunny Afternoon. Rouenna was flying out the next day, and I had thought she might want to check out our city's unequaled cultural patrimony. Rouenna was flying out the next day, and I had thought she might want to check out our city's unequaled cultural patrimony.

"You don't want no oily...?" I stammered. We had spent five years loving each other in New York, and I still had no idea how to respond to the vagaries of Rouenna's mind, which in my imagination resembled a gorgeous ripe sunflower being pummeled in a summer storm. "You don't like late-nineteenth-century impressionism?" I said.

"I came here to be with you, bobo, bobo," she said.

We kissed: a 325-pounder in a vintage Puma tracksuit and a brown woman in a push-up bra. I could feel the babushka babushka guards creaking with racial and aesthetic indignation, but that only made me kiss Rouenna harder as I ran my big, squishy hand along her arched back and into the open crevice of her two-fisted a.s.s. guards creaking with racial and aesthetic indignation, but that only made me kiss Rouenna harder as I ran my big, squishy hand along her arched back and into the open crevice of her two-fisted a.s.s.

We heard a cough filled with phlegm and suffering. "Behave yourself in a cultured manner," an old voice instructed.

"What the b.i.t.c.h say?" Rouenna asked.

"The old people will never understand us," I sighed. "No Russian ever can."

"So we outie, Snack?"

"We outie."

"Let's go home and cuddle."

"You got it, shorty." During her two weeks here, I had tried to show Rouenna a picture of life in St. Leninsburg in 2001. I'd bought us a motorboat and a sea captain and taken her around the ca.n.a.ls and byways of our Venice of the North. She'd let out a few "ooohs" and "dangs" and "aw, dips" at some of the more spectacular palaces, their fading pastel coloring more appropriate for South Beach than for just south of the Arctic Circle. But, like most poor people, she was less a sightseer at heart than a dedicated economist and anthropologist. "Where the n.i.g.g.az at?" she'd wanted to know.

I a.s.sumed she meant people of modest means. "They're everywhere," I said.

"But where the real real n.i.g.g.az at?" n.i.g.g.az at?"

I didn't want to take her to the outer suburbs, where I hear people are subsisting practically on rainwater and homegrown potatoes, so I took her to the nether reaches of the Fontanka River, the quasi-industrial area our grandparents called Kolomna. I hasten to paint a picture of this neighborhood for the reader. The windswept Fontanka River, its crooked nineteenth-century skyline interrupted by the postapocalyptic wedge of the Sovietskaya Hotel, the hotel surrounded by symmetrical rows of yellowing, waterlogged apartment houses; the apartment houses, in turn, surrounded by corrugated shacks featuring, in no particular order, a bootleg CD emporium, the ad hoc Mississippi Casino ("America Is Far, but Mississippi Is Near"), a kiosk selling industrial-sized containers of crab salad, and the usual Syrian shawarma hut smelling invariably of spilled vodka, spoiled cabbage, and some kind of vague, free-floating inhumanity.

"This is what I'm talkin' about," Rouenna said, looking around, breathing it all in. "South Bronx. Fort Apache. Morrisania. f.u.c.kin' A, Misha. And you're saying these just average folks?"

"I guess," I said. "I don't talk to the common people much, really. They look at me like I'm some kind of freak. In New York, when I get on the subway and homeys see my size, they give me respect."

"That's 'cause you look like a rap star," Rouenna said, kissing me.

"That's 'cause I am am a rap star," I said, licking her lips. a rap star," I said, licking her lips.

"Behave yourself in a cultured manner," a pa.s.sing babushka babushka spat at us. spat at us.

Rouenna was no stranger to violent death, so when Papa was blown up on the Palace Bridge, she knew how to be tough and not let me fall into further melancholy. "You gotta 'snap, crackle, pop' out of this," she told me, holding me forcefully by my lower chin and snapping the fingers of her other hand.

"Like the American Rice Krispies cereal," I said, smiling. " 'Snap! Crackle! Pop!' "

"What I just say? Did you call your shrinkie-doodle-doo?"

"He's at a psychiatric conference in Rio all month."

"Now, what do you pay that a.s.shole for? All right, spudster. I'm gonna have to fix you up myself. Take 'em off. Show me what you got for mommy."

I unzipped my Puma tracksuit, letting everything spill out in short order. I got down on the Mies van der Rohe daybed, a.s.suming my a.n.a.lytic position with difficulty. Because my neck is so fatty, I suffer from terrible sleep apnea-impossibly loud snoring, constant shortness of breath. It gets worse when I lie on my back, so when Rouenna sleeps next to me, she instinctively pushes me over on the side with one of her muscular thighs, and I instinctively marshal my fat into an unconscious rollover. A night camera would probably capture something like a postmodern underwater ballet.

"Flip," Rouenna said. I got down on my stomach. "Thatta boy."

She laid her hands on what I call my "toxic hump," a black molten peak of stilled flesh and bad circulation, a monument to inactivity grown during the two years of my Russian exile, the repository of all my anger, a kind of anti-heart on the back of me that keeps the sadness pumping. As Rouenna began to knead and contour the intractable hump with her thick fingers, I began to warble in humility and delight: "Oh, Rowie. Don't leave me. Oh, Rowie. Oh, lovey. Don't go."

The sadness poured out of my toxic hump and flooded the far-flung veins buried like transatlantic cables across my body. I recalled my mommy's tear-stained face after she lost me at the Yalta train station one summer and thought the dastardly Gypsies had kidnapped and eaten me. "I would have killed myself if something had happened to you," Mommy said. "I would have thrown myself off the cliff of the Sparrow's Nest." Of course, Mommy lied to me constantly, the way mothers in terrible societies do to keep their children from needlessly suffering. But I knew she was telling the truth just then. She would have killed herself. Her life was contingent upon mine. A nine-year-old child, I briefly foresaw my parents' deaths-cancer ward, a ball of flame-and buried the knowledge deep in my then-tiny gut.

"You're not breathing right, honey," Rouenna said. The idea of my impending loneliness had formed a chicken bone in my throat. I was slowly losing oxygen. "Do like me," Rouenna said. She inhaled slowly, held the air in, then released it all over my left ear. The heavy incidence of sour cream and b.u.t.ter in the Russian diet had added a new dimension to her breath. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, tied back with a kind of wide summer bandanna, were a rea.s.suring presence against the toxic hump and the warm, sweaty flesh that gathered around it like the foothills of Mount Etna.

"I love you so much," I said. "I love you with everything I have."

"I love you, too," Rouenna said. "You'll get through this all right, baby. You gotta have faith."