Russian Debutante's Handbook (14 page)

Once the Georgians’ lifeboat was aligned with the
Brezhnev,
Vladko rushed over to help Rybakov aboard, but the sporty septuagenarian used his crutches to catapult himself inside. “Look at me!” he cheered. “I can still whack the both of you youngsters!”

“Which gun do I bring?” Vladko mumbled, saddened by his own irrelevance.

Gun? Vladimir’s Fear-Money gland coiled around his brain and squeezed gently. “We’ll be searched,” Rybakov said. “So you might as well bring something impossible to conceal, then turn it in immediately to show compliance. The Kalashnikov, say.”

Vladko disappeared below deck.

“Ensign!” the Fan Man said to Vladimir. “Hurry up. The television program about the comical black midget starts promptly at eight o’clock Eastern Standard Time. I cannot miss it.”

“You go on,” Vladimir said, pretending to play with Fanya, the little fan, as if he couldn’t be bothered with Mr. Rybakov’s little errands. “I will await your return.”

“Oho, what is this?” Rybakov said. “Your presence is both requested and required. We’re doing all this for you, you know. You don’t want to disappoint the Georgians.”

“Yes, clearly not,” Vladimir said. “But you must see my concerns. I am from Russia originally, this is true, but I am also from Scarsdale . . . From Westchester . . .” This seemed to eloquently sum up his concerns.

“And?”

“And I’m worried about . . . Well, Georgians, Kalashnikovs, violence. Stalin was a Georgian, you know.”

“What a
pizdyuk
you are,” Rybakov huffed, alluding to the kind of man who is somehow vagina-like in nature. “The Georgians take time out of their busy schedule to pay tribute to you, they’ve sailed around the world with duty-free gifts, and you cower like a milksop. Get in here!

“And I won’t have you badmouthing Stalin either,” he added.

THE TWO SEAMEN
were the largest Georgians Vladimir had ever seen, each about two hundred pounds (the
Vlast’
must have carried some incredible rations), and each with the gloomy oblong face and fertile black moustache common to the men of Caucasus.

“Vladimir Girshkin, these are Daushvili and Pushka, both associates of my son, the Groundhog.”

“Hurrah!” the two men said. But quietly.

The swarthier of the two, the one named Pushka, which, Vladimir assumed, was a nickname, for it meant “cannon” in Russian, said in a collegial tone: “And now we will go inside for the
zakuski.
You will have to give us your weapon, blondie.”

Vladko bowed and surrendered his immense Kalashnikov, the first weapon Vladimir had ever seen; the Georgians bowed back, and Vladko bowed yet again—a merger between two Japanese banks was now seemingly complete. They walked along the starboard of the
Vlast’,
Vladimir eyeing the Statue of Liberty across the harbor, wondering if any crime could be committed directly in her sight.
The color she was painted, Soviet-cafeteria green, did not inspire confidence. Francesca, meanwhile, was likely hunting through the Arts section of the paper, rolling a cigarette over the coffee table, and planning a triumphant evening out for the two of them.

“Watch your little head, friend,” Daushvili said. They ducked into a humble room, unexposed pipework serving as roof, the walls decorated with pages of German automobile magazines and the occasional poster of Soviet pop diva Alla Pugacheva parading her strawberry bouffant at the EuroVision Song Contest, crooning her summertime hit “A Million Scarlet Roses.” The Georgians were seated around a long foldout table covered in
zakuski.
From afar, Vladimir could already spot the glossy blackness of cheap caviar flanked by plates of rusty herring. He was hoping for skewers of Georgian
shashlik,
preferably lamb, but there was no grill in sight.

The head of the group was not a captain or any kind of sailor. He was, as might be expected, dressed in sunglasses and Versace, as were the two associates to his right and left. All three had classic Indo-European faces: high, sloping foreheads; thin, albeit curved, noses; hazy traces of facial hair around the upper lip. The rest of the coterie was far coarser in appearance—bigger men with bushier mustaches, dressed in track suits. Half looked like Stalin, the other half like Beria. Several of them even wore sailor caps, although the crest of whatever navy they had once belonged to had long been removed.

“I am Valentin Melashvili,” the leader announced to Vladimir in a rumbling Bolshoi-grade bass. “The crew of the
Sovetskaya Vlast’
express their admiration for you, Vladimir Borisovich. We have just heard of your rampage through Washington on Mr. Rybakov’s behalf. And, of course, we all follow the exploits of your enchanting mother, Yelena Petrovna, in the
New Russian Word
and the
Kommersant Bizness Daily.
Sit, sit . . . No, no, not there. At the head of the table, of course. And who is this gentleman?”

The Serb waved awkwardly, his hair an incongruous yellow mop in a sea of black curls. “Vladko, go outside,” Rybakov instructed. “We are with friends now. Go!”

First they disarm the Serb, then they throw him out altogether. “Death!” Vladimir’s Fear-Money gland was shouting. “Death is the very opposite of money.”

“Well, to begin with,” Melashvili said, “a toast to the Groundhog, our friend, our benefactor, our great mountain eagle circling the steppes . . .
Za evo zdarovye!
”

“Za evo zdarovye!”
Vladimir cheered as he plucked a shot glass off the table. Now what the hell was he cheering about? Get a hold of yourself, Volodya.

“Za evo zdarovye!”
Rybakov shouted.

“Za evo zdarovye,”
the other Georgians said simply.

“So, here’s a question for you, Vladimir,” the charming Melashvili said. “I know you’ve been to university, so you might know the answer to this one. Question: Who on the Lord’s earth can match the hospitality and generosity of the Georgian people?”

Obviously a trick question. “No one,” Vladimir started to say, but Melashvili interrupted him. “The Groundhog!” he cried. “And to prove it, the Groundhog sends you fifty cartons of Dunhill cigarettes. Pushka, fetch the smokes! Look here. Five hundred packs. Ten thousand cigarettes. Sealed in cellophane to maximize freshness.”

Dunhills. Vladimir could easily unload them for two dollars a pack. He could set up a little stand on Broadway. He could call out to the jaded masses in his best immigrant accent, “Dunhill! Dunhill! Top 100 percent number one brand! I give special price! Only just for you!” He could make an even thousand dollars, which, added to the five hundred Mr. Rybakov had given him, would net him $1,500.00 for the day. Now, if he subtracted that amount from the $32,280 he needed for Francesca to love him forever, that would leave him . . . Let’s see, eight minus zero is eight, then carry
the one . . . Ah, math was tricky business. Vladimir never had the patience. “Thank you, Mr. Melashvili, sir,” he said, “but, honestly, I do not deserve such favor. Who am I? I am only this young fellow.”

Melashvili reached over to ruffle Vladimir’s hair, soft and pliable from the application of Frannie’s Aboriginal Sunrise shampoo. “What gentle manners,” the Georgian said. “Truly, you are a child of St. Petersburg. Please take the Dunhills. Enjoy the European quality in good health. Now, may I ask another question? What do our Golden Youth wear on their wrists these days?”

Vladimir was stumped. “It’s a difficult question. Perhaps—”

“Personally,” Melashvili said, “I think nothing will do but this genuine Rolex watch. Recently acquired from Singapore. Completely legal. The control number has been removed from the back.”

Even better. At least fifteen hundred dollars from some fence on Orchard Street. Together with his previous loot, an even three thousand. “I will accept the Rolex with a heavy heart,” Vladimir said, “for how will I ever repay your kindness?” Hey, not bad! he thought. He was getting the hang of this. He executed a little bow, the kind of bow they all seemed to favor—Georgian, Russian, and Serb alike.

He had to admit it was a pleasure dealing with these people. They seemed so much more polite and cultured than the work-obsessed Americans who crowded Vladimir’s city. Sure, they likely committed all sorts of unfortunate violence in their off-hours, but then again, look how articuate this Melashvili was! He probably dropped in on Vladimir’s uncle Lev whenever he was in Petersburg and they went, together with their wives, to the Hermitage and maybe for some jazz afterward. Bravo! Yes, Vladimir was ready to listen and learn from these people. Maybe he could even introduce them to Fran. He did his little bow again.
How can I repay your kindness?
Indeed.

Melashvili bristled: “No, not our kindness at all,” he said. “We are merely travelers of the seas. The Groundhog! The Groundhog is to be thanked. Isn’t that so, Aleksander?”

“Yes,” Mr. Rybakov said. “Let us all thank my little Hog.”

The Georgians whispered their thank yous, but this was hardly enough for Mr. Rybakov. “Let’s go around the room,” he shouted. “The way they do on that fat
schwartze
’s talk show. Let’s talk about what we like most about working for the Groundhog.” Rybakov thrust an imaginary microphone at Pushka. “Pushka, you say what?”

“Huh?”

“Pushka!”

“Well,” Pushka said. “I guess I’ll say that I like working for the Groundhog.”

“No, but what specifically,” the Fan Man said. “ ‘I like the Groundhog, because . . .’ ”

“I like the Groundhog because . . .” The ensuing two minutes were silent enough for Vladimir to hear the masculine beating of his new Rolex. “I like him because . . .Because he is merciful,” Pushka finally said to everyone’s relief.

“Good. Now state an example.”

Pushka pulled at his moustache and turned to Melashvili who nodded in encouragement. “An example. State an example. Let me think. Well, I’ll give you an example. Back in eighty-nine my brother set up a little black-market currency exchange by the Arbat in Moscow, knowing full well that the Groundhog had already claimed that territory as his own . . .”

“Oh, no!” several voices said. “God help him!”

“Right, you’re expecting the worst,” said Pushka, his tone getting stronger as he reached the moral of the story. “But the Groundhog didn’t kill him. He could have, but all he did was take his wife. Which was fine, because everyone took his wife. She was that kind of a wife. And so—”

“And so he taught him a lesson without resorting to violence,” Melashvili filled in quickly. “You’ve proved your point: The Groundhog is merciful.”

“Yes,” the Georgians muttered. “The Groundhog is merciful.”

“Very good!” Mr. Rybakov said. “That was a good example and well told. Bravo, Pushka. Now let’s continue going around the table. Daushvili, you say what?”

“I’ll say . . .” The big man looked Vladimir over, curling a mangy eyebrow until it reminded Vladimir of a sea horse resting on its side, something he had once seen in an aquarium or perhaps only in a dream.

“I like the Groundhog because . . .” Rybakov prompted him.

“I like the Groundhog because . . . Because he holds no prejudice against the southern nationalities,” Daushvili said. “Sure, sometimes he’ll call me a Georgian black-ass, but only when he needs to put me in my place or when he’s in one of his lighter moods. As for persons of the Hebrew race, like our esteemed guest Vladimir Borisovich here, I’d say the Groundhog is positively awed by them. ‘Three Yids,’ he’s always saying. ‘All you need is three Yids to rule the world . . .’ ”

“Which brings us to the most important point about the Groundhog,” Melashvili interrupted. “The Groundhog is a modern businessman. If the marketplace doesn’t tolerate prejudice, why should the Groundhog? He needs the best and brightest on his side no matter what shade their ass. And if Vladimir can tame America’s immigration police and get Mr. Rybakov his citizenship, well, who can tell how far the Groundhog will take him . . . Or where eventually he will land.”

“Yes,” Vladimir said, toying with the clasp of his sparkling Rolex. “Who can tell.” He realized that this was one of the first things he had said during the entire interview, or get-to-know-you session, or whatever this was. The others must have noticed this as
well, for they looked at Vladimir expectantly. But what more could he say? He had been delighted just to listen to them.

Vladimir finally broke the silence. “Is there any butter?” he asked. “I like a little butter on my caviar sandwich. That’s how my mother, the esteemed Yelena Petrovna, used to make it for me when I was just a boy.”

A fresh stick of butter was produced. Melashvili gently unwrapped it himself. Several crewmembers helped Vladimir spread it on black bread.

Soon they would toast Mother’s health.

DR
.
GIRSHKIN COUNTED
off eight hundred dollars in fresh twenties, wetting his fingertips between each and every bill. “It’s better that you come to me with your sad money troubles,” he said to Vladimir, “than get some damn credit card . . .”

His fingers shaking with money-lust, Vladimir counted his father’s gift. He whispered the mounting dollar amounts in Russian, the language of longing, of homeland and Mother, his money-counting language:
“Vosem’desyat dollarov . . . Sto dollarov . . . Sto dvadtsat’ dollarov . . .”
Dr. Girshkin, too, whispered along, so that to Western ears father and son might have been caught in the act of solemn prayer.

Afterward, Vladimir was charmed by how his father neatly arranged a backyard table with napkins and cutlery, as if he was a guru past his prime, receiving one of the few visitors who still bothered to ascend his mountaintop. His father removed a recent Polaroid from the fridge door showing a smiling Dr. Girshkin holding a tremendous glossy-black flounder with the hook still embedded in one fatty lip, and placed it on Vladimir’s plate by means of introduction. The fish itself broiled away in the kitchen.

“Now, tell me about this new woman,” said his father, taking off
his pants, which he did whenever his wife was off the premises. “She’s better than Challatchka?”