The Cosmopolitans (34 page)

Malcolm leaned back on his heels. “That’s — soon.” The
children clambered aboard a hot-air balloon.

“What, you thought I’d hang around? Stay in your mother’s
maid’s room?”

He leaned back. “You don’t have to get so — ”

“We should hug. I think.” she said.

“Sure, I just didn’t hug you before because I felt so weird. Come
on, family hug,” Malcolm said, and opened his arms and waited.

Osip

Osip had never driven a truck before, which had concerned the
man at the rental company not at all. The man got paid either way
so perhaps he didn’t care. But Osip would be driving home with his
daughter and his grandson, and he noticed with annoyance that his
hand shook on the gearshift.

When he was eighteen years old, Osip had fallen fourteen feet
onto a parquet floor. He had not been drunk or hooliganning. He
had merely been following his colonel’s order to put a new bulb
in his Black Forest “war trophy” chandelier, and when he began
swaying, had known not to reach out and grab the fragile glass. And
for this, the floor sprang up at him?

Now, he felt a similar anger. For the sake of his so-called music,
Malcolm would desert a girl like Milla Molochnik? Osip would
hack Malcolm’s web site, delete all those songs through which
they’d had to sit: “So hard to juggle / My political struggle.” What
kind of struggle could it be when no one would ever be bothered
to jail him?

He popped in a Galich tape. “Hussar’s Song” began, and he
blasted the martial chorus, muted the ironical verses.

Stalina called and Osip couldn’t resist saying, “Don’t worry
about Malcolm. I take care of him.”

“‘Take care’:
what, my dear friend, is that supposed to
mean?
”

“
We will have a masculine conversation, that’s all.
”

Stalina sighed, not in the manner of a maiden seeing her soldier
off to war. “
He has thirty years on you, and plenty of free time to
work out
besides.
”

“
And I have my time in the Russian army.
”

“
Oh, so the two of you will be inspecting speedometers
together?
”

“
You understand nothing. This is between me and him, your
female jokes are stupid in such situations.
”

She was saying something about Malcolm’s parents being
lawyers when Osip hung up. This was serious business.

Malcolm

Malcolm was unspeakably relieved to hear the elevator stop
outside his door, to hear suitcases roll close, to hear his mother trying
to jam the key into the lock. He sat on the couch, in the same clothes
he’d been wearing when he told Milla, the same clothes he’d been
sleeping in, too, a Multicult tee shirt, his bandanna, stained jeans,
and when he’d gone to the record store to avoid Milla’s dad, a cute
girl had fled the Funk section at his approach. Too tired to open the
door, he listened to the key jam again, and to his mother: “Bobby?
Did you ever talk to Carlos about the lock? Bobby?” and then his
father got the door open.

His mother kissed him. His father said, “There’s a certain musk,”
and fetched three glasses of water.

“It’s so empty. Isn’t it so empty?” his mother said, standing in
the middle of the carpet in her stocking feet, holding the glass in
both hands, like a child.

“Sit down, Jean,” his father said.

“How do you feel? Did she really leave just like that? When are
we going to see Izzy again? I thought she’d fight for the marriage.
I guess she doesn’t want to be married either, huh? What do you
think?” She had double bags under her eyes.

“Sit down, Jean.”

“How was it?” Malcolm said. His voice sounded as though he’d
just woken up. He took a sip of water.

Jean said, “The hotel: what a laugh. We switched rooms four
times. When are we seeing Izzy again? Nothing’s final yet, is it?”

He knew he shouldn’t say it, but he’d spoken to no one for four
days. “It was surprising, how fast — I thought we’d talk more.”

“Well, what do you expect? A woman scorned, she doesn’t want
to talk, right, Bobby?” She’d used Malcolm’s words against him
again, but he couldn’t feel angry and didn’t want to leave the room.

“I don’t know,” his father said to the ottoman.

“You don’t
know
?”

“Sit down, Jean.”

She sat on the edge of the piano bench. “Have you been pouring
everything into your music? That’s why you split up, isn’t it, so you
could be a rock star? Have you written loads of new songs?”

He had written only one, and it was probably crap. He confessed
to it.

She sprang up. “Play it for us. Shouldn’t he play it for us?”

He was grateful to have a reason to stand. He was grateful not to
be facing his father. He was grateful for the cold, clean keys. He was
grateful, almost to the point of tears, that his mother had asked.

Milla

Milla awoke face-down on a rough, bleach-smelling pillow:
Stamford. Izzy. Where? “Izzy!”

“
Like a fishwife
,” her mother said, entering her room with a tray.
“
He is sleeping very nicely in our room
,
like yesterday and the day
before.
”

Milla tore out of bed and down the hall. It appeared that her
mother had been telling the truth.

Before Milla had managed to climb back beneath her blanket,
Stalina barked, “Kasha,” and lifted a lid off a dish. The smell of old
shoes steamed out at her. Her mother had forgotten — of course —
that Milla was the daughter who hated kasha. Milla gave so little
trouble, Milla had such an easy nature, Milla would forgive, Milla
wouldn’t mind. If Stalina cared to know, which she clearly didn’t,
Milla would have given anything for one of Malcolm’s omelets.
She’d never eat another omelet.

“Don’t you have work?” she said. If her mother only left, she
could call Malcolm again. She’d dreamed about another way he
had mistreated her: he had never once considered her worthy of
a conversation about literature. She’d heard him talk about Saul
Bellow to his friends, but never to her. Well, he’d talk about Saul
Bellow today, even if she had to wake him, which she would.
(Yana had said, “Or, you could just write your feelings in a letter?
You wouldn’t have to mail the letter, necessarily, even.” Milla had
explained that an unsent letter wouldn’t get her an apology. Perhaps
it had merely been a bad connection, but Milla had been surprised
by the wimpy, appeasing tone of Yana’s advice.)

Stalina sat on the edge of her bed. “I have twenty minutes. You
will tell me all your feelings of rejection and loss. Is normal.” Her
mother gave her the sticky, hot dish, and a brisk nod.

Milla said nothing.

“Now, nineteen minutes.”

“Are you a psycho?” Milla said, knowing how nasty and
adolescent her voice sounded, not that it had sounded that way
when she’d actually been an adolescent, oh no, how could it have,
between work and school, her grim youth portioned out in hunched
shoulders and paper cuts.

Her mother put her hands on her hips and smiled an understanding
smile. “It is like making pee, this sharing, yes?”

Milla said, “This is the most hurtful, the most stupid idea —”

“Ah-ah.” Her mother shook her finger, but did not seem at all
offended. “
Eggs do not teach the hen,
we will do this until you feel
super-better.”

“Super-better, what the —” not even Yana had been able to
curse in front of their mother — “fuckety fuck fuck!” She threw the
burning dish across the room: a summer storm of kasha, swift and
fierce. When she looked back at her mother, Milla knew she wore
an expression almost feral. She yanked off her wedding ring. It fell
with a plink. She looked for other things to throw. The alarm clock:
she’d never need it again, she’d never go back to work, she’d been
driven mad. Her mother jumped out its way.

“
Millatchka, you’ll wake the child, be careful
,” her mother said,
reaching out a hand to her, but not stepping forward. Out of fear?

“
Be careful
? Are you fucking kidding me?” she said. This
called for her to make some momentous statement, but, she didn’t
know whether she had been too careful or its opposite in marrying
Malcolm. She threw her bedroom slippers at Stalina. They hit her
knees. They were soft, they couldn’t have hurt much, but her mother
backed out the door.

Jean

There were few people Jean Strauss loved more than her lovely
Greek secretary Helice. Just like that saying about how women
should be lambs in — where? — she couldn’t remember — and
tigers in the bedroom, Helice was a lamb inside Jean’s office and a
tiger in the reception area. She screened everyone, even Bobby.

Which was why Jean was shocked to see Stalina running through
her office door on her chunky legs.

“Oh — hi!” Jean said. “What are you doing here? Did you take
the awful train?” She tried to peer past her for Helice.

“For a mad dog, seven
versts
is not out of way,” Stalina said,
slamming the door shut.