Russian Debutante's Handbook (19 page)

A look out the window proved that all of Florida looked exactly the same from a moving vehicle. The sign on the opposite side of the highway read:
BAL HARBOUR
20. Bal Harbour was to the immediate north of Miami Beach. That was good. They were headed in the right direction and the highway was empty.

Now what the hell was that Lion saying? Vladimir recognized the last two words from Hebrew school.
“Nachon meod,”
Vladimir repeated.

“So I was right!” the Israeli said. “You
are
a Russian Jew. No wonder you’re in trouble. You people are always in trouble. You make the Spanish look good.”

Hey, what did everyone have against the impoverished, yet always-yearning Russian people? “Aw, come on,
hever,
” Vladimir said, remembering the Hebrew word for “friend.” “You’re hurting my feelings.”

“I’m not your
hever,
asshole. So what did you do back there? Kill your girlfriend?”

Vladimir ignored his comment. He was on his way. Soon his long Floridian nightmare would be over. He would never have to look at a palm tree again, or deal with another coarse, gaudy, overweight peasant.

“Hey, doesn’t that sign say ‘airport?’ ”

The Lion hit his horn to warn a moped of impending disaster, then swerved right. They drove in silence for a while, the overhead roar of jet engines providing a soothing accompaniment for Vladimir, reminding him that in less than an hour it would be his turn to take to the air. Every sign they passed said “airport” now, or else “motel” or “lobster.” Eat, screw, and leave: that was the narrative of this particular highway.

Gradually, the traffic worsened, and the Lion began moaning familiar Hebrew curses, which constituted the bulk of Vladimir’s knowledge of that language. Whoredom was a big theme with the Israelites. ‘Go fuck your mother and bring me a receipt,’ that was a popular one. Sex, family, commerce—it pushed all the right buttons.

They were creeping along, now. The moon, low and pink, looked perfect for this setting (why was New York’s moon always so lofty and gray?).

There were two peach Cadillacs in front of them and one on the left. He must have booked a seat on some kind of senior citizens’ special. He looked at the flight info scribbled on his hand. He checked his still-unsold Rolex. Flight 320, depart Fort Lauderdale 8:20, arrive New York La Guardia 10:35. The official dénouement of his peripatetic little southern tragedy would soon be printed out on card stock and placed in a paper folder with the airline’s logo.

And then, a thought. Actually, more than a thought. Four thoughts. Coming together as one.

Depart Fort Lauderdale;

peach Cadillac;

two in front, one on the left;

Jordi’s trunks tight with the outline of his shaft, a single horrific spot of wetness spreading along the inseam.

HE SLIPPED TO
the floor. Half of an asthma attack was purely psychological. You had to think straight. You had to say to yourself: I’m going to keep breathing.

“What is this?” the Lion shouted. He adjusted his rearview to get the full view of the cowering Vladimir. He turned his hundred-pound head around. “What are you doing? What shit is this?”

Inhale, exhale, one, two, three. With a wobbly wrist, Vladimir threw two hundred-dollar bills at the Lion. “Take the next exit back,” he whispered. “There’s been a mistake . . . I don’t want to go to the airport . . . They’re going to kill me.” The Lion kept looking at him. The outline of his droopy chest stared at Vladimir from the partition of his floral shirt, reminding Vladimir, for some reason, of a heart attack. Vladimir threw another hundred-dollar bill. And then another.

“Damn!” the Lion shouted. He hit the wheel in masculine fashion. “Damn, whore, fuck,” he said. He inched forward. He put on his turning light. Vladimir crept up and looked at the car on the left. The window was down; a young man with a mustache of no more than three hairs, sweating visibly in a silk jacket and buttoned-up shirt, was screaming something into his cell phone. His companion, a twin by the looks of him, was clicking something between his legs. He heard a language not unlike Spanish. No, French. He heard both Spanish and French. Vladimir crawled back down. He reemerged for a glimpse of the rear window. There was a peach Caddy directly behind them. And another one. And another one. There was a peach Cadillac in every lane. They were in a traffic jam of peach Cadillacs.

The Lion kept repositioning their car rightward. “I drive a cab,”
he chanted. “I know nothing. Livery driver. Dual citizenship. Eight years here and I love it.”

Vladimir covered himself with a handy map of Georgia that was lying on the floor. He must have spent an hour like that: bathed in his own sweat, smelling the blood on his upper lip, cocooned within the furry hold of the Lion’s Crown Victoria. Each second he thought he head the clicking sound or the mention of “Girshkin” amid the international conversation next door. He found himself too exhausted to think about it. The dreamy void loomed ahead, but he could hardly permit himself to fall asleep. Stay awake! Breathe! Think of the turbo-prop skirting the runway, so close, too close . . . and yet copilot Rybakov knew exactly what he was doing, the fearless grin on that pumpkin face spoke of a history of near-misses.

Meanwhile, back on the ground, the Lion kept turning on the right signal, which emitted a comforting mechanical chime, the belltone of American civilization as far as Vladimir was concerned. The car drifted into the rightmost lane, then inched its way onto a service road. “Agaa!” the Lion shouted.

“What’s wrong?” Vladimir screamed.

But it must have been a war cry, a release of tension, because at that point the Lion stepped on the gas, and the car squealed past the following: a self-proclaimed “pancake palace”; a New Souls Rising Millennial Temple & Spa; an unidentified store shaped like an igloo; two minor country roads; fifty hectares of arable land; a grove of palm trees; the vast parking lot of something called Strud’s.

It was at Strud’s that the Lion came to a full and complete stop. The car’s suspension let out an ominous creak, which Vladimir immediately matched with a bloody exhale. “Get out!” the Lion said.

“What?” Vladimir wheezed. “I just gave you four hundred dollars.”

“Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” the Lion screamed, the first two times in Hebrew, the final two in his new language.

“But look!” Vladimir shouted, indignity overcoming asthma. “We’re in the middle of . . .” It was hard to say where. “What am I supposed to do? At least drive me to the bus station. Or Amtrak, or, no . . . Let me think. Just drive north somewhere.”

The Lion spun around to face the back seat and grabbed Vladimir by his shirt. His face—stubby double-jointed nose, gray bags under the eyes glistening with sweat—reminded Vladimir of Jordi’s miserable physiognomy. And this was a fellow tribesman! They spoke the same language, had the same god, and the same-shade ass. There was a moment of silence in the car, save for the sound of Vladimir’s shirt tearing further in the Israeli’s hands and the heavy breathing of the Lion, who was clearly looking for words to elucidate the finality of their driver-passenger relationship. “Okay,” Vladimir preempted him. “I know where I’m going. I have nine hundred dollars left. Take me to New York.”

The Lion brought him closer, breathing onion and tahini all over his sweating passenger. “You,” he said. The next word could have been “little,” but the Lion chose to leave his harangue at the level of a pronoun.

He let go of Vladimir and turned around, crossing his arms on top of the steering wheel. He snorted. He uncrossed his arms and tapped the steering wheel. He pulled a golden Star of David from the confluence of his hairy cleavage and held it between thumb and index finger. This little ritual must have given him focus. “Ten thousand,” he said. “Plus the cost of an auto-train back.”

“But all I have is nine hundred,” Vladimir said, even as he caught his wrist sparkling in the sunlight. Success! He threw his Rolex over the Lion’s shoulder, where it made a rich and hopeful sound against his meaty lap.

The Lion gave the watch a healthy shake then held it against his
ear. “No serial number on back,” he mused. “Automatic chronograph.” He consulted his Star of David once again. “Nine hundred dollars plus the Rolex plus five thousand more you get from a cash machine.”

“My credit limit is three thousand,” Vladimir said.

“Oofa,” the Lion said and shook his head. He opened his door and started moving his bulk outside.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“I have to call my wife and explain things,” the Lion said. “She thinks I have a girlfriend.” And then, with shoulders hunched and both hands jammed into the pockets of his silk trousers, the Lion set off for the bleak discount wasteland of Strud’s.

VLADIMIR SLEPT THROUGH
the eastern seaboard.

It wasn’t as if the drive was uneventful. The conked-out Vladimir, mumbling comforting childhood words in his sleep (kasha, Masha, baba), managed to miss a flat tire, a half-hearted chase by some inept South Carolina patrolmen, and the Lion screaming and flailing wildly as a friendly Southern critter, perhaps a chipmunk, rubbed up against him at a Virginia rest stop.

Twenty-five hours of uninterrupted sleep, that was the legacy of Vladimir’s northward journey.

He woke up in the Lincoln Tunnel, somehow knowing immediately where he was. “Good morning, criminal,” the Israeli grumbled up front. “Good morning and good-bye. Soon as we’re out of the tunnel, I will say
shalom
to you.”

“I think for five thousand dollars you can drop me off at my home,” Vladimir said.

“Ai! Listen to this
gonif!
And where is home? Riker’s Island?”

Where was home? Vladimir actually had to think about it for a second. But when it came to him, he couldn’t help but smile. It was
three
P
.
M
. according to the dashboard clock and Francesca would likely be at home, in her bedroom mausoleum, surrounded by text and counter-text. He hoped that his twenty-four-hour absence, the missing humidity of his breath against her neck at night, the lacuna in his constant considerate companionship, in his “superhuman ability to abide,” to quote Joseph Ruocco, was already taking a toll on her; that when he walked through the door, her face would register something perfectly out of character—the unalloyed happiness of dating Vladimir Girshkin.

They turned down Fifth Avenue and Vladimir squirmed in his seat. Just a minute more. Come on, Lion! The Israeli nimbly cut through the traffic of yellow cabs, leaving raised fists and honking in his wake (just look at that upstart with the Crown Victoria and the Florida license plates). The names on the storefronts were now as familiar as family—Matsuda, Mesa Grill . . .In a previous lifetime, Vladimir had left a small fortune at each of them.

“
Gonif
comes home,” the Lion said, pulling up to the beige Art Deco of the Ruoccos’ building. “Don’t forget to tip,” he said.

Half-dazed and half-civil, Vladimir fished a final fifty-dollar bill out of the torn pocket of his torn shirt and passed it to his driver.

“Keep it,” said the Lion, suddenly avuncular. “And try to live a clean life if you can, that’s my advice to you. You’re very young. You’ve got a Jewish brain. There’s still hope.”

“Shalom,”
Vladimir said. His strange adventures with the big Israeli were coming to an end. Closure was an elevator ride away. And there, ambling into the lobby with his unique dinosaur-like gait, was Joseph Ruocco, surviving the heat in his too-colonial-for-comfort khaki ensemble (“Conradian,” Fran had called it). Vladimir was about to surprise him with a shout of
“Privyet!,”
a familiar Russian greeting he had taught the Ruoccos, when he saw that the professor was accompanied by—

WELL
,
THAT WOULDN’T
be accurate. First he heard the voice. No, first he heard the laughter. They were laughing. No, that’s not true either. First he heard the professor’s voice then he heard the bullshit laughter, then he heard the other voice, and
then
he saw.

A giant hand, gold-cuffed, Florida-brown, and smelling of baby powder was slapping the professor manfully about the shoulders.

A peach car of a familiar make was parked along the sidewalk of 20 Fifth Avenue, its blinkers blinking.

Jordi was making a new friend. One both funny and sad.

“What happened to your shirt?” the young Brazilian doorman started to ask Vladimir, almost loud enough for the professor and Jordi to hear at the opposite end of the lobby.

But before he could finish, the beat-up man before him, this little guy who accompanied the Ruoccos’ daughter every day, and who always seemed to the doorman either too sheeplike or too haughty for his own good . . .this trembling, barefaced Lothario was out the door, across the avenue, around the corner, gone from sight. He was
history,
thought the doorman, smiling at the phrase he had picked up from a headline in the
Post.

“
I
’
M NOT GOING
to Wichita,” Vladimir said, the word “Wichita” rendered by his accent as the most foreign word imaginable in the English language. “I’m going to live with Fran and it’s going to be all right. You’re going to make it all right.” But even as he was laying down the law, his hands were shaking to the point where it was hard to keep the shabby pay-phone receiver properly positioned between his mouth and ear. Teardrops were blurring the corners of his eyes and he felt the need to have Baobab hear him
burst out in a series of long, convulsive sobs, Roberta-style. All he had wanted was twenty thousand lousy dollars. It wasn’t a million. It was how much Dr. Girshkin made on average from two of his nervous gold-toothed patients.

“Okay,” Baobab said. “Here’s how we’re going to do it. These are the new rules. Memorize them or write them down. Do you have a pen? Hello? Okay, Rule One: you can’t visit anyone—friends, relatives, work, nothing. You can only call me from a pay phone and we can’t talk for more than three minutes.” He paused. Vladimir imagined him reading this from a little scrap of paper. Suddenly Baobab said, under his breath: “Tree, nine-thirty, tomorrow.”