The Wild Child Part 7

"In terms of popular music"-I spoke now with the authority of a former Multicultural Studies major-"you should listen mainly to East Coast hip-hop and ghetto tech from Detroit. We must reject European music categorically. Even so-called progressive house! Do you hear me, Lyuba?"

"Categorically!" Lyuba said. She looked at me with her soft, vacant gray eyes. She pressed both hands into the formidable ridge of her breastbone. "Mikhail," she said, using my formal name, which, for as long as I've lived, usually means some form of punishment is at hand. I looked up expectantly.

"Help me convert to Judaism," she said. She plopped down on the orange comforter, pressed her skinny legs into her tummy, and beamed the inquisitive look of youth in my direction. There was some tenderness there, a warmth in my belly, and I could feel it start spreading below. I looked at her beside me-little Lyuba in her too-tight denim dress, the two firm potato dumplings of her zhopa zhopa rubbing against my milky outer thigh. I needed to concentrate on the conversation at hand. Now, what was she saying? Jews? Conversion? I had much to say on the matter. rubbing against my milky outer thigh. I needed to concentrate on the conversation at hand. Now, what was she saying? Jews? Conversion? I had much to say on the matter.

"Turning into a Jew is not a good idea," I told her, my grave tone likening it to turning into a dung beetle. "Whatever you may think of Judaism, Lyuba, in the end it's just a codified system of anxieties. It's a way to keep an already nervous and maligned people in check. It's a losing proposition for everyone involved, the Jew, his friend, even his enemy in the end."

Lyuba was not convinced. "You and your father are the only good people in my life," she said. "And I want to be tied to both of you by something substantial. Think how great it would be if we could pray to the same G.o.d"-she turned her matted blond head into her armpit-"and if we could share a life together."

The second part of that sentence I decided to put aside for the moment, because all the lies and evasions in the world were not going to erase her plaintive, impossible plea from my waxy ears. So I wanted to disabuse her of the first part, at least. "Lyuba," I said in my most even (and most detestable) voice, "you must understand that there is no G.o.d."

Lyuba turned her pink face to me and smiled gratuitously, favoring me with one of her laminated thirty-one-tooth salutes (a prominent incisor had to be retired last summer after she misjudged the strength of a walnut).

"Of course there is a G.o.d," she said.

"No, there is not," I said. "In fact, the part of our soul we reserve for G.o.d is a kind of negative s.p.a.ce where our worst sentiments reside, our jealousy, our ire, our justification for violence and spite. If you are indeed interested in Judaism, Lyuba, you should carefully read the Old Testament. You should pay particular attention to the character of the Hebrew G.o.d and His utter contempt for all things democratic and multicultural. I think the Old Testament makes my point rather forcefully, page by page."

Lyuba laughed at my little tirade. "I think you believe in G.o.d in your own way," she said. Then she added, "You're a funny man."

Ah, the impudence of youth! The easy manner of their speech! Who was she, this Lyuba, Lyuba, this girl my father had rescued from some Astrakhan collective farm a few years ago, all covered in hog s.h.i.t and bruises? This sullen teenager he had adopted like the daughter he wished he had fathered instead of me-skinny, loyal, and without a tantalizing purple this girl my father had rescued from some Astrakhan collective farm a few years ago, all covered in hog s.h.i.t and bruises? This sullen teenager he had adopted like the daughter he wished he had fathered instead of me-skinny, loyal, and without a tantalizing purple khui khui he could swipe at. I had always thought of Lyuba as a contemporary version of Fenechka in Turgenev's he could swipe at. I had always thought of Lyuba as a contemporary version of Fenechka in Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, Fathers and Sons, the peasant housekeeper, obtuse and limited, who falls into the arms of the kindly minor n.o.ble Kirsanov, to be played in the movie version by Beloved Papa. My capacity for misunderstanding the range of people is truly astonishing. Lyuba was no Fenechka. She was more like a modern-day Anna Karenina or that silly brat Natasha in the peasant housekeeper, obtuse and limited, who falls into the arms of the kindly minor n.o.ble Kirsanov, to be played in the movie version by Beloved Papa. My capacity for misunderstanding the range of people is truly astonishing. Lyuba was no Fenechka. She was more like a modern-day Anna Karenina or that silly brat Natasha in War and the Other Thing. War and the Other Thing.

"Hey," she said. "It's my favorite part of the song. When Humungous G...how do you say it? When he busts. busts."

"When Humungous G busts some rhymes," I said.

She stood up on the bed, and with her hands making jabbing urban motions, her hips thrusting like those of a fertile American university student, Lyuba sang:

Seexty-inch plasma screen b.i.t.c.h, you never seen Such mad expensive s.h.i.t Poot my fingers on your c.l.i.t Uh, s.e.x in the Lex Check my dzhenuine Rolex Vaiping c.u.m off your t.i.ts I'm busting phat beats Right past yo' shoulder It's over Now go coook for my kids

"That's very pretty," I said. "Your English is improving."

"And another great thing about Judaism," she said, "is how old it is. Boris told me that by the Jew calendar, we're in the year 5760!"

"It just doesn't stop, does it?" I said. "But what is the past, Lyuba? The past is murky and distant, while the future we can only guess at. The present! Now, that's something to believe in. If you want to know what I worship, Lyuba, it is the sanct.i.ty of the present moment."

Words have consequences. For at this point Lyuba jumped up from the bed, unhooked her Texas-style belt, and, in an Olympic moment, catapulted the hem of her long denim dress over her knees, her brown wiry pizda, pizda, her taut belly, the long pale oval of her face-until, momentarily, she stood there naked before me. her taut belly, the long pale oval of her face-until, momentarily, she stood there naked before me.

She was staring furtively into some incidental part of me, my abdomen, say, her hands by her sides. After a while, she lowered her gaze still farther, until it fell onto her own b.r.e.a.s.t.s, two little white baggies that lay peaceably atop her tanned ribs.

She picked up one breast, squeezed it, and then did likewise with the other.

"Well, that's how it is," she told me with a shrug. "I'm very hot for you inside."

I lay there, half a meter away from this young Russian woman, trying to remember who I was, exactly, and whether sympathy could masquerade for arousal or the other way around. There was reason for both. Lyuba had a lean, athletic body (especially for someone who did nothing all day), interrupted only by a swatch of shiny, hardened skin running along one hip and dipping toward her genitals, where a relative had set fire to her when she was twelve. Beloved Papa had always claimed that this was the part he kissed most gently, but it was hard to tease this simple image-Papa's fish lips puckered atop Lyuba's disfigurement, his everyday rage tempered by compa.s.sion-out of my already put-upon imagination.

Events were taking place that made me feel somehow peripheral. Lyuba was lying down on the bed once more, her legs hanging in the air, her pizda pizda a cozy brown-fur pelt between them. "I have to prepare myself," she said. She took out a plastic tube and, with a most unpleasant sound, squirted something onto her fingers. She then inserted the fingers inside herself. "This makes it easier for me," she explained. a cozy brown-fur pelt between them. "I have to prepare myself," she said. She took out a plastic tube and, with a most unpleasant sound, squirted something onto her fingers. She then inserted the fingers inside herself. "This makes it easier for me," she explained.

It was impolite to just sit there and stare. I began to take off my pants so that I could present my purple half-khui, my abused iguana, to Lyuba. It is a capital insult in this country not to make love to a naked woman, even if she is related to you. And so I was compelled to act like a man, though in reality I had long ago floated right through the ceiling, past the ocher jumble of Leninsburg roofs, over and around the golden p.r.i.c.k of the Admiralty, and onto the dark blue expanse of the Gulf of Finland, where I used to believe my dead mother's essence hovered about in a happy, cultured limbo above the topiary of one of the czars' summer palaces (though, as I've said before, nothing of our personality survives after death). my abused iguana, to Lyuba. It is a capital insult in this country not to make love to a naked woman, even if she is related to you. And so I was compelled to act like a man, though in reality I had long ago floated right through the ceiling, past the ocher jumble of Leninsburg roofs, over and around the golden p.r.i.c.k of the Admiralty, and onto the dark blue expanse of the Gulf of Finland, where I used to believe my dead mother's essence hovered about in a happy, cultured limbo above the topiary of one of the czars' summer palaces (though, as I've said before, nothing of our personality survives after death).

Meanwhile, in a surprise move, my mercurial genital had already engorged itself and was positioned for love, proof that one doesn't actually have to be present to consummate the s.e.x act. It dawned upon me that Lyuba had set "Busting My Nut Tonight" on repeat play, and that Humungous G's urban missive was helping me focus on the task at hand. Busting my nut when when? Why, tonight, of course. I crawled on my knees along the orange comforter toward Lyuba, bringing the khui khui toward her. toward her.

"My khui, khui," I announced sadly.

"Yes, it's your khuichik, khuichik," Lyuba said, tilting her head for a better view.

"It is possible to touch it now," I whispered, letting Lyuba tug at my much-maligned khui- khui-k.n.o.b with a cold hand. I turned it sideways so that she could see the long scar running along its underbelly, the clumps of skin attached at improvised angles like the fragmented bits of a car b.u.mper following a head-on collision.

"Ai, what happened?" Lyuba asked.

I took a deep breath and blurted out my story in one long sentence, digressing only to explain the words "mitzvah mobile." mobile."

She put the purple thing in her mouth to silence me. No matter how often it happens, it is always surprising to find a woman's wet mouth drawing tight around my khui. khui.

"Mm," she said.

"What?" I said.

She took the khui khui out. "It tastes fine," she said. "You're very clean." out. "It tastes fine," she said. "You're very clean."

"Well, I'm not worried about the taste," I said.

"Lie down on me," Lyuba said.

I did as she said. Her body was cold underneath mine, and even the inside of her pizda pizda was barely at room temperature, probably because she had overlubricated with what must have been a very cold gel. I kept slipping out and getting angry, but I used the anger to poke her all the harder. We were in the traditional baby-making position, and from my vantage point I could barely make out the contours of her small Slavic b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Lyuba's eyes were closed, and she seemed to be moving her hips from left to right to the sound of Humungous's phat beats, which was not the rhythm I had in mind. "We should be either dancing or f.u.c.king," I complained. was barely at room temperature, probably because she had overlubricated with what must have been a very cold gel. I kept slipping out and getting angry, but I used the anger to poke her all the harder. We were in the traditional baby-making position, and from my vantage point I could barely make out the contours of her small Slavic b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Lyuba's eyes were closed, and she seemed to be moving her hips from left to right to the sound of Humungous's phat beats, which was not the rhythm I had in mind. "We should be either dancing or f.u.c.king," I complained.

Either dancing or f.u.c.king. That was pure Beloved Papa. I even had that idiotic Odessa gangster accent he used when he thought he was being suave. That was pure Beloved Papa. I even had that idiotic Odessa gangster accent he used when he thought he was being suave.

"Sorry," she said, and moved her hips in a more accommodating up-and-down fashion, cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to give them more shape. I dutifully tucked into each st.u.r.dy nipple with my big American-made teeth, then moved my face up to look into Lyuba's. She was wincing in rhythm to our quiet humping (my weight is an impossible thing to bear), her eyes wet and focused on the ceiling. She squeezed my a.s.s, perhaps to encourage me. She seemed to want me to say something. To commiserate with her. But it's hard to know what to say when you're khui khui-deep inside your father's young wife.

So instead I tried to be gentle. I looked deep into the hollows beside her nose, where a herd of teenage orange freckles once roamed. The surgery that had removed them was not perfect, and I could still see, beneath the initial layer of skin, the afterimage of the burnt-out orange spots. I kissed these blemishes, her childhood's last bequest, drawing a forced smile from Lyuba. I carefully touched the hardened skin where her relative had charred her. It was the consistency of warm cellophane, and it was frightening.

"Ai," she said. "You're tickling me. Will you finish soon?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered. I was sweating all over her. The room was stale and tropical, filled with the odor of an unhealthy male body suddenly pressed into service.

"It's okay," she said. "It's this lubricant-"

"No, it's my fault," I said. "I'm taking all these medications, so it's hard to-Oh! Ah, wait, Lyubochka! Oofa!"

And so it was over. I pulled out of Lyuba and looked at my wet k.n.o.b. One of my t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es was missing. It had apparently risen up into my abdomen. "f.u.c.k, Lyuba," I said. "I'm missing an egg here. f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k."

"You're not satisfied with me," Lyuba said.

I poked around there for a bit, worried that the nonexistent G.o.d was taking His Freudian revenge on me. The t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e descended. My hands were shaking. Humungous G was still singing "I'm Busting My Nut Tonight." Never in my life had I found hip-hop to be so detestable. Plus there was something else to consider. Lyuba. Intercourse. Nature's remorseless path. "Oh, the devil take it," I said. "We didn't use a prezervatiff. prezervatiff."

"It's Monday," Lyuba said. "I never get pregnant on a Monday."

She was making a fort for herself out of the fringes of the comforter, sinking her whitish body into its orange ramparts with many postcoital sighs, preparing herself for a fine afternoon nap. What did she say? No pregnancies on Mondays. Wonderful. Now, why was Humungous G still rapping? I went over to the stereo and punched it with my big, squishy hand, but the fat urban motherf.u.c.ker just kept on bangin' bangin'.

"You're not satisfied with me," Lyuba repeated, clicking off the stereo with a remote control. "Boris usually made a special sound. Like he was happy."

"No, it was very nice," I said. I tried to think from a goal-oriented perspective, just as they taught us at Accidental College. "I finished inside you."

I looked up at the photograph of my father happily unveiling the Nokia-phone tombstone, three Soviet-era gold teeth glinting in the sun, a combed-over black curl forming a Spanish across his forehead. I felt myself losing my precarious hold on consciousness and set myself down on the bed. Lyuba yawned widely, and I smelled her lamb-tongue breath once more, which reminded me quickly of every Russian person I had ever known-from my dead grandmothers, who took me for stroller rides along the English embankment, to Timofey, my loyal manservant, who was presently waiting for me with the Land Rover on the very spot where I was once strolled. All of us had enjoyed a lamb's tongue in our lifetime. How droll!

"Let's get some sleep, then," Lyuba said. "Our bed is very comfortable. It's like staying at the Marriott in Moscow."

Our bed, indeed, was very comfortable. Her bed, indeed, was very comfortable. Her zhopa zhopa rubbed at me from behind, the way Rouenna's used to rub me when I couldn't fall asleep during anxious nights. Lyuba seemed to want me to put my arms around her little body. Her hair smelled musty and yet artificial, like nothing I had encountered before. I imagined Lyuba as a woman in her thirties, her hair hennaed a popular aquamarine color, her posture stooped like that of so many of our premature rubbed at me from behind, the way Rouenna's used to rub me when I couldn't fall asleep during anxious nights. Lyuba seemed to want me to put my arms around her little body. Her hair smelled musty and yet artificial, like nothing I had encountered before. I imagined Lyuba as a woman in her thirties, her hair hennaed a popular aquamarine color, her posture stooped like that of so many of our premature babushkas. babushkas. Would she even be alive then? Would she even be alive then?

"I hope we make lots of love together, little father," she whispered.

I tried to go to sleep, but there was nothing to dream about, except the usual Eastern European nonsense about a man sailing an inflatable Fanta bottle around the world looking for happiness. But one thought remained and would not be extinguished.

That wasn't too bright, Misha.

The curtains of consciousness were being lowered around me, gray and gold-sequined like a fading summer day here in our c.r.a.ppy Venice of the North.

Not too bright, you stepmother-f.u.c.king, father-hating joke of a man.

12.

Everything Has Its Limits.

Two hours later, outside her bedroom door, Lyuba's servants had fallen asleep, much like their mistress. Their ears were pressed to the door; even in their evening stupor, they were listening for sounds of our bed creaking. "Scoundrels," I hissed at the mess of bleary-eyed bodies. "You like to hear your mistress f.u.c.king hard, eh? May the devil take you! Well, enough! Everything has its limits, don't you know!"

Out on the English Embankment, Timofey and my driver, Mamudov, were sitting on the hood of the Land Rover drinking shots of vodka, blasting the Spartak-Zenit football match on the speakers, and hugging each other in a warm drunken embrace. "Hullo, gentlemen!" I shouted to them in English. "Do you want to hear something? I'll tell you, then! Everything has its limits!"

And I walked off down the embankment like a supercilious transvest.i.te b.i.t.c.h, swinging my hands in the air and my hips below. I pa.s.sed by the Bronze Horseman, the statue of the curly-haired a.s.shole Peter the Great charging up a steep rock, galloping northward, abandoning the ruined city he founded for the fair sh.o.r.es of Finland, leaving those of us without an EU visa nothing but the tail end of his fat bronze mare.

"Everything has its limits!" I shouted to a wedding party posing beneath Peter, skinny-a.s.s twenty-year-olds who could not grasp the empty terror of the rest of their lives.

"Hurrah, strange one!" they shouted at me, vodka bottles raised, drunk as all get-out.

One of their grandmothers stood guard over their wedding car, a crushed Lada micro-sedan festooned with blue and white ribbons. "That's what I thought, too," she happily told me through her two teeth. "That everything has its limits. But each year I'm proven wrong!"

"Rejoice, babushka babushka!" I shouted. "Soon things will change. There will be limits! To everything!"

"Yes, limits or labor camps," the grandmother said. "Either way, I'm happy."

By this point Timofey and Mamudov were following behind me in the Land Rover, Timofey leaning out his window, yelling, "Come back, young master! All will be well! We'll go to the American Clinic. Dr. Yegorov, your favorite, has walk-in appointments today. A new supply of Celexa just came in."

I turned around, one hand on my hip, one giant fist in the air. "Won't you acknowledge, dear Timofey, that everything has its limits?" I shouted. "That I am not just some educated, Westernized animal you can kick in the mug?"

"I acknowledge!" Timofey yelled. "I acknowledge! What more do you want?"

But I wanted more. Oh, did I ever want more. I took off down the embankment, my b.u.t.tery thighs slapping against each other, until I hit the green confectionery of the Winter Palace, one of its lesser buildings draped with the sign THIS YEAR THIS YEAR'S WHITE NIGHTS BROUGHT TO YOU BY DAEWOO. I stopped and breathed in the cheap diesel fuel and burning tar, the heavy air of a third-world metropolis misplaced five thousand kilometers to the north, but lacking the rich scent of burning goat and honey cakes.

Even the evocative stench of poverty we couldn't get right.

Turning on the Palace Bridge, I counted three of the cast-iron lampposts, until I reached the stretch of asphalt where my father was executed. There was nothing there. Just a traffic jam of old Ladas, with one lone Land Rover bringing up the rear. "Batyushka, come back," I could hear Timofey screaming in the distance. "There's no need to panic! We have Ativan in the car. Ativan!" come back," I could hear Timofey screaming in the distance. "There's no need to panic! We have Ativan in the car. Ativan!"

I sat down by the third lamppost. The city's horizons were crowding me in; the fortresses and domes and spires were meant for either a smaller person than me or a greater one. But understand me: I was looking for something in the middle. I was looking for a normal life. "Everything has its limits," I said to the crush of pa.s.sing Ladas and their haggard occupants. "Everything has its limits," I whispered to a teenage boy writhing in a Polish hatchback rigged up as a munic.i.p.al ambulance, its broken siren emitting the wrong squawk, more a dirge than a warning.

Timofey had quit the Land Rover and was running toward me with two bottles of meds in each hand. I took out my mobilnik mobilnik and dialed Alyosha-Bob. It was Monday evening, and I knew I would hear the motley sounds of Club 69 on the other end. and dialed Alyosha-Bob. It was Monday evening, and I knew I would hear the motley sounds of Club 69 on the other end.

"Yo!" Alyosha shouted past the din.

Club 69 is a gay club, but anyone who can afford the three-dollar cover charge-in other words, the richest 1 percent of our city-shows up there at some point during the week. h.o.m.os.e.xuality aside, this is without a doubt the most normal place in Russia, no low-level thugs in leather parkas, no skinheads in jackboots, just friendly gay guys and the rich housewives who love them. It brings to mind that popular phrase bandied about by expatriate Americans over their bagels and cream cheese: civil society. civil society.

Alyosha-Bob and his Svetlana were sitting beneath a statue of Adonis, watching a submarine captain trying to sell his young crew to a gay German tour group. The seventeen-year-old boys were awkwardly trying to cover their nakedness, while their drunken captain barked at them to let go of their precious goods and "shake them around like a wet dog." I suppose civil society has its limits, too.

"I've got to get out of Russia," I said to Alyosha-Bob. "Everything has its limits."

"Yes, fine," Alyosha-Bob said. "But why now, exactly?"

I saw my future with Lyuba. Picking out paisley furniture in Moscow's IKEA. Being called little father as I mounted her. Supper beneath the meter-long oil painting of Maimonides; dinner next to Papa's censorious black-and-white gaze. Eventually two rich, unhappy children: a five-year-old boy in a Dolce & Gabbana gangster suit, his younger sister lost beneath an alligator's worth of leather accessories. Everywhere around us snickering servants, collapsed infrastructure, sniveling grandmothers...Russia, Russia, Russia...

But how could I explain all this to Alyosha-Bob? St. Leninsburg was his playground. His drunken dream come true.

"Are you running away because you f.u.c.ked Lyuba today?" Svetlana asked.

"Is it true?" Alyosha-Bob asked. "You gave it to Boris Vainberg's old lady?"

"Do you see what kind of a city we live in?" I said. "I gave it to her just three hours ago. We should never hand out mobilniki mobilniki to the servants. It's probably the talk of the Internet by now." to the servants. It's probably the talk of the Internet by now."

"I agree with you, Misha," Svetlana said. "You should should leave. I keep telling this idiot"-she pointed to Alyosha-Bob-"that we have to get out of here, too. There's a one-year master's in public relations program at Boston University. They have this practice lab where you can work as an account executive for local nonprofits. I could work for the Boston Ballet! I could be cultured and clever and earn a respectable living. I'd show the Americans that not every Russian woman is a wh.o.r.e." leave. I keep telling this idiot"-she pointed to Alyosha-Bob-"that we have to get out of here, too. There's a one-year master's in public relations program at Boston University. They have this practice lab where you can work as an account executive for local nonprofits. I could work for the Boston Ballet! I could be cultured and clever and earn a respectable living. I'd show the Americans that not every Russian woman is a wh.o.r.e."

"Listen to her," Alyosha-Bob said. "The Boston Ballet. And what's wrong with our Kirov? It was good enough for Baryshnikov, no?"

"You just want to spend your whole life here, Alyosha," Sveta said, "because back in America you're a nothing man."

"Shh! Look who's here," Alyosha-Bob said. "The murderer."

Captain Belugin, wiping his h.o.a.ry face with the sleeve of his green Armani shirt, ambled over to our table. He looked older than when I'd seen him at Papa's funeral, his ears drooping down like cabbage leaves. "Allo, brothers," he said, crashing down on a stool. "Sveta. How are you, pretty one? brothers," he said, crashing down on a stool. "Sveta. How are you, pretty one? Nu, Nu, we're all aficionados of Club 69, I see. And what of it? It's a good business to be queer. Sometimes I like a little boy beside me. They're more hairless than my wife. More feminine, too. Hey, Seryozha." He waved to a cherubic young fellow in a thong, dishing out vodka from a slop pail. "Give it here, good lad." we're all aficionados of Club 69, I see. And what of it? It's a good business to be queer. Sometimes I like a little boy beside me. They're more hairless than my wife. More feminine, too. Hey, Seryozha." He waved to a cherubic young fellow in a thong, dishing out vodka from a slop pail. "Give it here, good lad."

"Well, my Alyosha's not a pederast," Svetlana said. "He merely comes to Club 69 for the atmosphere. And to make connections."