“Good! Because let me tell you this: Contrary to your mother’s refugee charter, it’s all right to be less than your neighbor, to be a beta immigrant here in America where alpha immigrants are the rule. It’s all right to let stronger people take responsibility for your life, to let them drag you to a better place, show you how it’s done. Because, ultimately, my son, making compromises may be a necessity, but it’s the constant weighing and reweighing of these compromises that becomes an illness.”
Dr. Girshkin quivered with happiness at his insight. “An illness.” Right! Or, perhaps, “a madness.” That was better still.
He thought of ways he could share this information with Vladimir—maybe he could tempt him back to Scarsdale with the promise of more money, or they could plan an excursion to the city’s famous Metropolitan Museum (their Near Eastern collections were quite impressive). Yes, a museum. The perfect location for imparting important lessons.
Dr. Girshkin finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of father and son astride a winged Assyrian lion, soaring over the aerials and prickly spires of this unlovely land. The doctor couldn’t imagine where the ancient beast was taking them, but, in the end, after a long full day of suffering, it was nice to simply take to the air.
THE NEXT MORNING
in Manhattan, Vladimir shook off the shackles of slumber, vigorously brushed his teeth, took a long cathartic shower, and counted the goods: he had $800.00 from his father plus the $500.00 from Rybakov plus the still unsold Rolex and ten thousand Dunhill cigarettes. “A good start,” Vladimir said to Francesca’s sleeping form, “but I resolve to do better.” And with that Gatsbyesque mantra on his lips, he set off once again for the jolly workaday world of the Emma Lazarus Society. He had barely made it through the reception area when Zbigniew, the Acculturation Czar, leapt out of the processing room and ambushed him. “Girshkin,” he said. “It’s here.”
“Good God! What’s here?”
“Your idiot countryman with the fan. Rybakov. His FOIA is here.”
“Foh-yah?”
“Freedom of Information Act.
O moi boze!
How long have you been working here, Girshkin?” Zbigniew grabbed his employee’s shirtsleeve and dragged him to his lair, the office of the chief acculturator. Here, Lech Wal
⁄
esa waved to adoring dock workers from one wall, John Paul II smiled weakly from beneath his scepter, and taking center stage was the framed jacket cover of Zbigniew’s
vanity-press masterpiece
Pole to Pole: A Father & Son’s Journey to the Heart of Polonia.
“He got as far as the citizenship ceremony,” Zbigniew rasped happily, waving the government file at him. Vladimir had caught him right after lunch—the most satisfactory, almost postcoital part of the Acculturation Czar’s sad little day.
“That far.”
“Picture for yourself a little scenario. Rybakov is taking the oath, he is at the part where you have to swear to defend the country against all enemies foreign and domestic, and, well . . . I suppose he takes this the wrong way or, more likely, he is drunk, because he spontaneously starts beating Mr. Jamal Bin Rashid of Kew Gardens, Queens. Beats him with both his crutches, it says here, while shouting racial no-nos.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Rashid is talked out of pressing charges, but—”
“The citizenship.”
“Yes.”
“Well, can’t we do something?” said Vladimir. “I mean the man is a documented loon, surely there are exceptions for the mentally ill.”
“What can we do for him? We could put him in a home where he won’t hurt anybody. We can close down the visa section in Moscow so you Russian bastards stay home.”
Yes, of course. “Thank you,
Pan Direktor,
” Vladimir said, retreating to the unkempt comfort of his own desk. He rested his head against the desk’s cool and unforgiving metal. This wasn’t good news at all.
He had wanted Rybakov to get his citizenship.
He had wanted more goods and services out of the Georgians.
He had wanted to visit the Groundhog in Prava to extract some gifts from him personally.
At least there was the nightly dinner with the Ruoccos. Was it
bouillabaisse night already? Wait, let’s see . . .Monday—polenta, Tuesday—gnocchi . . . What came after Tuesday? According to the appointment book, a night with an anachronistic buffoon. A former best friend.
YES
,
IT WAS
Baobab Night. After ignoring Baobab’s phone calls for nearly two months, Vladimir felt an ache in his heart, a subtle reminder of his
tonkost,
the Russian word signifying empathy, quiet compassion, a generosity of spirit.
No, that’s not true. It was the
money,
of course. Bao had ways of making it, desperate ways.
The Carcass was celebrating its Modern Music Week. On this particular outing, the band and its audience had bridged the gap between artist and patron: both were dressed in accordance with the same flannel-and-boots look that was starting to seep out of the nation’s unplugged Northwestern corner. Seattle. Portland, Oregon. Something or someone named Eugene. This was a worrisome development for Vladimir who did not want to wear flannels or boots, certainly not in the summer. He tugged nervously at his ample Cuban shirt. He would have to discuss this with Fran.
Meanwhile, Baobab was giving life to the “grinning from ear to ear” cliché; his entire face, even the thick nose bent at several junctures, was somehow caught up in the act of smiling. The sad thing was that it was Vladimir (just standing there drinking his beer) who provoked all this mirth in lonely Baobab.
Vladimir was reminded of their high school days: Vladimir and Baobab taking the Metro-North Railroad home from the math-and-science high school after a long day of subtle rejections by young women and men alike, discussing better ways to lodge their suburban selves into Manhattan’s starry firmament. Wasn’t this the same Baobab he once loved?
“Yup, Roberta’s still sleeping with Laszlo,” Baobab began his update, “but now I think Laszlo wants to sleep with me, too. It’ll be a nice way to bring us all together. And I’m drawing up an outline for my own system of thought. Oh, and I think I’ve finally found a major to call my own: Humor Studies.”
“But you’re not very funny,” Vladimir said.
“Real humor is not supposed to be funny,” Baobab said. “It’s supposed to be tragic, like the Marx Brothers. And I’ve found a great professor, Joseph Ruocco. Have you heard of him? He’s going to be my advisor. He’s both funny and sad. And I’m staying in New York, pal. I’m not joining this whole exodus to Prava, the fucking Paris of the 90s. That shit’ll be over in six months, I predict. No, I’m sticking with this Ruocco guy. I’m sticking with reality.”
“Baobab, I need money,” Vladimir changed the subject.
He gave an overview of his problems in a Baobabian way.
“It certainly sounds like the class struggle to me,” Baobab agreed. “Why don’t you just tell this Frannie how poor you are? It’s not shameful. Look at you . . . You have the bearing of an emancipated serf. Some women find that sexy.”
“Baobab, have you been listening? I’m not going to ask her for a handout.”
“All right,” Baobab said. “Can I talk simply?”
“Please,” Vladimir said. “I’m a face-value kind of guy. I read headlines and weep.”
“Okay, simply put, then. Jordi, my boss, is a very nice guy. Do you take my word for it?”
“No drugs.”
“He’s got a son, twenty years old. An idiot. A nullity. Wants to go to this huge private college near Miami. Yale it’s not, but they still have a selection process of sorts. Jordi paid some Indian to take
the kid’s college boards. The Hindustani did really well, which doesn’t really explain how it took the kid six years to finish high school. The college wants to interview the kid. So we’ve got to send someone down who could talk impressively.”
“You?”
“That was our thinking. But, as you can see, I’m white as a sheet. You got that olive-skinned thing going, and with that facial hair you look like a young Yasir Arafat.”
“But I’m not quite . . . Jordi’s what . . . Spanish?”
“Don’t ever call him Spanish. Jordi’s
fiercely
Catalan.”
“And what happens when the kid shows up next year? Or do I have to go to college for him too?”
“The place is so gargantuan the interviewer will never see this kid again. Trust me, it’s foolproof, and I don’t even think it’s terribly illegal. Impersonating a high school kid: not exactly the crime of the century, just a lame thing do. But for twenty thousand . . .”
“How now?” Vladimir said. Two sets of numbers floated through the stale downtown air. They didn’t resolve themselves immediately, but it was clear that $20,000, when subtracted from the needed $32,200, left a fairly workable sum. “How much money?”
Baobab put his wet palms on Vladimir’s little shoulders and shook him. He pulled down Vladimir’s snap-brim until it was tight enough to hurt. He breathed his sour breath all over Vladimir and smacked his face, only half good-naturedly. His nose was getting even fleshier and he was looking and perspiring like a man twice his age and with a heart condition too. “You better start valuing our friendship,” he said. And then he added something straight out of Girshkinland, or perhaps straight out of any familial relationship: “You fall in love with a woman, you fall out of love with a woman,
but your best friend Baobab is always there, even if he’s not always the most attractive guy to have around. You just never know when you’re going to need old Baobab.”
“Thank you,” Vladimir said. “Thank you for that.”
A PEACH CADILLAC
.
Vladimir had never seen one before, but he knew these vehicles once played an important part in the cultural development of the United States. This particular peach Caddy was idling by the curb of the Miami International Airport and belonged to a man who, along with most Mongolians and Indonesians, went by only one name; in this case, Jordi.
Jordi had amiably carried Vladimir’s enormous duffel bag stuffed with collegiate attire through the airport maze and was remarking on how Vladimir had had the good sense to come prepared, though he would have gladly taken Vladimir shopping for a tweed jacket and rep tie. “That’s what I like about you immigruns,” he was saying. “You’re not spoiled. You work hard. You sweat rivers. My father was an immigrun, you know? He built up our family’s business with his own hands.”
Built up his business? With his own hands? No, Jordi neither sounded nor resembled the drug dealer out of central casting, which Vladimir was expecting with some dread. He wasn’t even Picasso-looking, which, Vladimir imagined, was the semblance to which all Catalan people aspired. He looked like a middle-aged Jew with a textile business. Middle-aged but closer to retirement than
the glory days: his wide face burrowed with the wrinkles of over-tanning; his gait was brisk and yet he took the time to swagger in his glowing ostrich-skin loafers like a man with accomplishments behind him. “I have often dreamed of visiting Spain,” Vladimir told him.
“Si ma mare fos Espanya jo seria un fill de puta,”
Jordi said. “Do you know what that means? ‘If my mother was Spain I’d be a son of a bitch.’ That’s what I think of the Spanish. White spics, that’s all.”
“I would only visit Barcelona,” Vladimir assured the Catalonian.
“Eh, the rest of Catalunya ain’t bad either. I fucked some little lady in Tartosa once. She was like some kind of dwarf.”
“Small women can be nice,” Vladimir said. He wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular.
“We’ll have to take off the goatee,” Jordi said, once they were in the chilled car. “You look too old with the goatee. We’re sending the kid to college, not to law school. Law school comes later.”
What a coincidence: Jordi and Mother had similar plans for their progeny. Perhaps an introduction was in order. But how terrible that Vladimir would lose his prized goatee, which made him look five years older and ten years wiser. Fortunately, the very same hormones that were skimming off the top of his head were already sprouting hair efficiently most places below. And then there was the matter of the twenty thousand dollars. “I’ll shave right away,” Vladimir said.
“Good boy,” Jordi said, reaching over to squeeze Vladimir’s shoulder. His hands smelled like baby powder; the rest of his smell, as circulated by the gale-force air-conditioning, consisted of nine parts citrus-based cologne, one part male. “There’s some soda in the cooler if you want,” he said. He had that quaint working-class Queens pronunciation which turned “soda” into “soder,” “tuna” into “tuner,” and the U.S. into a mythopoetic land called “Ameriker.”
Around them swirled the blightscape of motels with German
and Canadian flags, crappy chain restaurants with electrified cows and lobster tails, and, of course, the ubiquitous palms, those dear old friends of the temperate Northeasterner. “This is a nice car,” Vladimir said, by way of conversation.
“It’s a little too niggered up, don’t you think? Tinted windows, oversized tires . . .”
Ah, a little racism before lunch. Time to put your progressive instincts to work, Vladimir. The Girshkins spent a hundred thousand dollars a year on your four-year socialist powwow in the Midwest. Don’t let the alma mater down. “Mr. Jordi, why do you think people of color prefer tinted windows and the like? I mean, if that really is the case.”
“Because they’re monkeys.”
“I see.”
“But take a peach Caddy without the tinted windows and the fat tires, and you got yourself a classy car, correct? I’ll tell you something: I rent four hundred of these a year. Everyone who works for me—New York, Miami, Côte d’Azur—everyone’s got a peach Caddy. Don’t like my style, work for someone else,
barrada. Pendejo.
Subject closed.”
Meanwhile, the trashy motels of the north were giving way to the dignified Art-Deco facades of South Beach, and Jordi told Vladimir to keep a lookout for the New Eden Hotel & Cabana, which Vladimir remembered from his past journeys through South Beach as a tall, somewhat crumbling resort next to the modernistic loop of the Fountainebleau Hilton, the flagship of the mink-stole era.