The Cosmopolitans (33 page)

Stalina

Osip couldn’t tell Stalina what to do, and she didn’t have to
tell him where she was going. He was sulking in front of a raid
on a prostitution ring on television, and didn’t turn around to say
goodbye or notice she was wearing her spangled blazer.

The handkerchief talked of
yet another betrayal, how long
would her lord continue to tolerate
, and so on. She drove to the
address an all-too-pleased Alla Chaikin had given her. Alla Chaikin
had blurted out that she was so relieved Roman was leaving her
house, “
becoming independent, I mean, and marrying such a
nice, intelligentnaya girl
,” that she and Arkady would pay for the
entire wedding themselves. Stalina had made only token protests,
uncomfortable as that was, because Osip would have noticed if
she’d paid.

She pulled up to a Lutheran church. “You are welcome,” two
sweatshirted ladies inside the front door said, and sent her to the
basement. If Katya and Roman were not inside, then it could mean
that they were still waiting in line at the courthouse (a rabbi was too
much
tsuris
, Alla had said), or it could mean they had changed their
minds.

Stalina opened the door and saw the children immediately,
because there were only about thirty people in the hall. Katya was
wearing a terrible fringed cowlady dress and clinging to Roman’s arm.
“
She has staked her all on this Queen of Spades
,” the handkerchief
said.

She hugged Katya, who made a crack about her father’s silent
treatment, and forced a hug from Roman, whose unwashed neck she
could smell. They were married, that was it. She was going to make
the best of it, as soon as she’d made sure.

“Yeah, Mom, we’re really married, you can go to the corner and
cry now,” Katya said.

Banished, she prepared for the onslaught of Alla. However,
Alla and Arkady were busy talking to the other guests, all Russians,
screeching and shouting about someone’s pool party. Stalina knew
some of the other people’s faces, she’d seen them at Alla’s parties,
or when Osip dragged her to see some former singer from the former
country performing at the JCC.

It smelled of coffee. Someone had left the door to the men’s
room open.

Stalina was not materialistic. She and Osip had had a very plain
wedding. As long as the children were happy, what need had they of
Jean-style champagne flutes, flowers, and music? Alla had ordered
from the Russian deli, and the guests had clearly enjoyed the
salat
olivier
and bagels: the plastic container had been scraped almost
clean, the basket was empty but for half a yellow disk.

Alla finally approached, and said, “
Poor girl, you don’t know
anyone here but us.
” Was Stalina imagining her slightly vindictive
tone? It was true that she and Osya had avoided Stamford’s
Russkaya
companiya
. They’d wanted American friends, straight-thinking,
normal, easy people, only, the Americans hadn’t wanted them. “
I
can introduce you…
” Alla said, with too much pity in her voice for
Stalina to be able to accept.

And where were Katya and Roman’s friends? There was only
one young man, blonde, in a camouflage jacket, passing a wine bottle
back and forth with Roman. Everyone else was of her and Alla’s
age, they were Alla’s friends, of course. It was not a fair wedding.

Someone plugged in a boom box, and when the first notes
played, the guests shouted along, “Ai yai yai yai yai…”

Roman and Katya had vanished. The blonde young man was
drinking alone. She pulled Alla’s fleshy silk back away from the
singing circle. “Where are the children?”

Merriment left Alla’s face and it was all vertical lines. “
Do you
know, Stalinatchka, Roman has never offered me a single word of
condolence for my sister? The young are so selfish, aren’t they? Not
Leonid, of course, but we had a chance with him, we had him since
birth.
”

Stalina drove in circles until she came to a gazebo that sat on a
patch of land opposite a suite of dentists’ offices. Inside were two
figures, one flashing white in the darkening air. She parked her car
in a traffic lane — who was around to stop her? The handkerchief
had gone silent. Mosquitoes and fireflies hurtled in her path. At the
same moment she knew that it was Katya, pulling on Roman’s arm,
Katya saw her, shook her head, waved at her to leave. For some
reason, which Stalina regretted even as she opened her car door, she
obeyed.

Milla

She came home from work to find Malcolm doing laundry, a red
bandana wrapped around his forehead. He’d ordered in Japanese
food, her favorite, which they couldn’t really afford, but Milla was
happy anyway: not everyone’s husband would do that. Izzy was
asleep in their room, so deeply asleep Milla had to watch for a
moment to make sure his stomach was moving. It was, of course.
She had to stop being such a worrier.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” she said as they began to eat, “your parents
going away?”

“Huh?” Malcolm was distracted, even for him. A grain of rice
was stuck in the cleft on his chin.

“Just, your mom’s always saying she never takes vacations.”

“I told them we needed some time.”

Milla pinched the grain off of him. “That’s nice.”

“Not just time, time to talk.” He piled beef teriyaki on his plate,
but instead of eating it, reached across the table and put his hand
on her shoulder. She flinched for some reason. He said, “This has
nothing to do with you. It’s my fault, okay?”

“What?” She grabbed a fistful of edamame.

“Look, it’s not fun enough.” He got up and started pacing. “I
don’t mean it’s not fun enough. I mean maybe not life-affirming
enough. Or —”

“Quiet. Don’t wake him.” She felt the individual grains of miso,
like spores of a fungus, inside her mouth. The gold-edged mirrors
reflected and refracted her stupid pink suit jacket.

“He’s fine. And I invite you to gigs, but you hardly ever come,
and you don’t like parties. And it’s okay. It’s great that you want to
stay home with Izz and watch TV and shop online and eat leftovers.
Somewhere out there” — that was line from a movie, wasn’t it?
Sung by a ragged mouse? “Somewhere out there, there’s a guy
for you, who likes those things. But I like to go out into the world
and just explore, go to new countries, surf, meet people, have real
conversations, you know? And there are songs I need to write, and I
can’t write them with —”

“You’ll wake him.”

“He’s fine. I just gave him a little cough syrup.”

“You
what
?” She ran to the crib and shook Izzy awake. “Are
you okay? Does your tummy hurt? Do you want your bottle?”

Izzy started to cry. Tears leaked from Milla’s copycat eyes.

Malcolm said, “It was just a few drops, man. My mom did it to
me all the time when I was little.”

“He could be brain-damaged.” She started shaking.

“No way. Iz-man, what comes after one?”

He gulped. “Two.” He poked Milla in the eye with two fingers.
She tested Izzy’s knowledge of their names, colors, objects. Malcolm
eventually sat on the bed.

“Ready to get back to sleep, bud?” Milla said.

“No way.” Izzy kicked her in the stomach, and it was too much
all of a sudden.

“You want your movie?” she was barely able to say. Izzy was
in love with a Hebrew language video, featuring impossibly young,
busty mothers and their compliant children. He nodded.

“Turn it on. Please,” she said to Malcolm, who’d wandered
into the study after them. He knew the movie without asking. Those
things were important in a marriage. The children spun around a
blue and white parachute. Izzy sat on top of the back of the couch,
which she usually didn’t allow. She held on to his legs. “Maybe we
can make it more fun,” she said.

“I doubt it,” Malcolm said, as if he were discussing the prospects
of an inferior band.

“But you’re my rock.” Why had she said that? It wasn’t true.

Malcolm said, “My parents are totally fine with having you stay
for a while, so you don’t have to worry about that.” He crouched
down in front of them, blocking the screen, and Izzy pushed at his
shoulder.

“Can you move?” Milla said. Izzy climbed down and stepped on
her thigh. “Ow.” She pulled him onto her lap.
“Jean specifically wanted me to tell you to stay here as long as
you want.”

“Move,” Izzy said, kicking Malcolm off balance.

Malcolm sat down hard on the floor, said “Owsers” with a small
smile.

“You told them?” Milla said. The children made sandcastles in
double time.

“Jean wanted me to tell you, she’s been showing Izzy’s photos
to everyone in Cabo, and they’re really impressed. People think he
must be four or five, he’s so big.”

“She’s not allowed.” Izzy pushed at her cheek.

“What?” Malcolm crouched closer.

“It’s unsafe to — she’s not allowed. Tell her.”

Malcolm raised a palm, “Let’s calm —”

“I want you to tell her.”

Malcolm shrugged. “All right.” She had some temporary power.
What else might she ask of him?

“We’ll move out tomorrow.” Izzy squirmed from her lap and
threw himself on the floor.