Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

Oh, of course, Brighton Beach! I won’t hear of this train ride. There are extra beds, couches, closets, whatever you prefer…. Sleep here, and tomorrow we’ll go for brunch. I’ll show you around a real neighborhood. Do you know what bagels are?

Very kind, said Pasha, but my family—

Call them. Say you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, Renata will make sure of it. Nothing will happen to their little boy. I’ll get you the phone. As she was turning, a young lady, freckled and flushed all over, took her by the elbow and leaned in, conveying pure flustered youth. Renata’s eyes widened, and with a pregnant look she put the girl on pause. Seems like an urgent matter has come up, she said to Pasha with a discreet wink. Shouldn’t take more than a minute. You wait here — I’ll be back with the phone. Renata’s experienced arm slid around the young lady’s emotional shoulder.

Pasha was deliberating on Renata’s proposal when a harried and winded Misha sidled up to him. It was Pasha’s turn to see if Misha was OK. Misha replied with one of his jarring laughs. It poured out, a cascade of giggles as effervescent as his hair. They’d called him Masha because of those curls. Pasha felt a hand on the small of his back, surprised to find Misha in such a demonstrative mood. Perhaps that’s just what they needed — a little old-fashioned affection. They were childhood friends after all.

Hello, boys, said a familiar voice. I’ve come to break up the party.

The party’s just beginning, said Misha. Now, let’s get you a drink.

Designated driver here, said Marina. Actually, personal chauffeur.

What in the world are you doing here? said Pasha.

On second thought, said Marina, I’ll take that drink.

Misha tenderly disengaged from Marina’s arm and trotted across the room to the refreshments.

Unbelievable! Mama didn’t tell you I was coming?

It’s nice that you’re here, said Pasha with zero conviction, but, frankly, entirely unnecessary.

Misha trotted back with an urgent delivery.

Marina laughed. Who do you think I am, Semyon the second-floor neighbor?

A little classier than that! Semyon cooked up the moonshine. You always went for the Stolichnaya.

I was fourteen. Now I’m a lady. Our species drinks wine.

Misha’s quick fingers were ready to take away the shot glass and, once it was drained, they did. She hadn’t lost the macho habit of pulling her lips back, exposing teeth, after taking down the strong stuff. And her throat made the hiss of a freshly opened can of Coke. Misha placed a more species-appropriate beverage into her swollen hand, which took the glass’s stem as if it were a grip test.

Your timing’s auspicious, said Pasha. A minute later and you would’ve missed me.

Maybe you got Mama’s telepathic message after all.

Esther Borisovna does have supernatural powers, said Misha. Remember when she predicted that blaze in the Preobrazhensky Cathedral?

The courtyard lady, Vedama, always did call Mama a witch, said Marina.

What I meant, said Pasha, was that I’m ready to make my exit.

You’ll just have to wait a bit, said Marina, lifting her glass. She had an adamant stance on waste, at least when it came to alcohol. A ruddy flush crept up her cheekbones, bulges that had always perplexed Pasha. Marina the Tatar, he’d teased, but she actually got upset, wanting only to be Marina just like everybody else in the family. She brought the glass to her mouth so often it would’ve been easier to keep it there. Her eyes were already losing their wideness, her forehead smoothing, focus melting. Her fanned teeth tended to turn blue instantly. Looking around, she nodded in approval. Not too shabby, she said. Though I wouldn’t want to be the one to clean it.

I have a lady, she’s superb, said Renata. Gets the place spick-and-span in a few hours, charges practically nothing. An illegal, from Kharkov, where she taught literature. I can give you her number, though she’s overbooked as is. Renata turned to Pasha and held out the phone. Here, dial your family. Tell them you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If you prefer, I’ll do it.

You just did! Marina began to roar. The laughter pumped in waves, jostling her organs, rising upward from her core.

Your older sister, Renata said to Pasha, or a Brighton aunt?

Marina continued, helpless. The production was turning hysterical. Tears blurred her vision.

And she didn’t even smoke anything, said Misha.

They stayed the night. They had to. Marina, at last managing to regain composure, realized she wasn’t drunk as much as cosmically exhausted. If they drove back, she’d be asleep by the Columbus Circle roundabout. Renata put them in the office where she took her patients. I’m a psychoanalyst, accredited, been practicing for ten years, she said, her stare directed at Marina. This got Marina started up again, to everyone’s dismay but Misha’s. He was prepared to trail-laugh up the steepest slopes, to absurd summits. This time Marina’s laughter quickly transitioned into a painful case of hiccups. Misha called a car service home.

The futon’s seen better days, said Renata. Patients developed attachments to their psychoanalytic cocoons. It would be a betrayal to change it. Marina was left to do battle alone. Pasha knew better than try to solve a mise-en-scène riddle. Technically, somehow, the chrysalis had to unravel into what in this case would undoubtedly be a very crippled butterfly. But you couldn’t just jostle your way to a metamorphosis. The key, it turned out, was simply to lift the front leg while holding down the stretcher rails and punching in the back cushion as the hidden deck was tugged out from underneath and the wooden frame kicked, but gently, as it already had a crack. Then the thing opened up like new.

• • •

NOT THAT MARINA HAD MANAGED to sleep, but she awoke to a barrage of numbers. This occasionally happened — nightmares lingered in code. Digits swirled down the consciousness drain. They banded into sequences that senselessly harassed. If the numbers were vivid enough, she took it as a sign to buy a lotto ticket. Clearly misinterpreting the message. But this unassuming morning, after a hasty raffle, a number stood out in pure gold on a backdrop of red velvet — seven hundred and thirty. Two years! It was the anniversary of their arrival, the realization a shock, as if she hadn’t been obsessively counting. It was an occasion, not an accumulation. The others had been unusually tight-lipped about it. Was it possible they’d forgotten? Perhaps after the previous year’s hullabaloo, they felt the need for understatement with this one, a measure of nonchalance. Pasha was loaded into the car and made to wait as Marina picked up some understated pastries and nonchalant champagne. They got back to an empty apartment. While arranging the fruit bowl, which took some mastery, she noticed the phone light blinking red.

A man’s gruff voice, heavy accent. Her heart thumped throatward. It was one of the Hasidic brothers — addressing her! Too overwhelmed to listen, she played the message back, and again. It was brief.

Fired! said Marina. Sitting around the table, they’d lifted glasses, hadn’t yet clinked.

Esther grew indignant — who’d ever heard of one of their own getting fired? But she dropped the act and put on the kettle when Marina began to rant. The families were slobs, treated her like shit, were practically abusive, never offered anything to eat but forbade her from bringing her own food into the house because of their wacko laws! Kosher shmosher! Food was food, something they would know if they had ever suffered from a lack of it! They hadn’t liked her from the beginning, something about her specifically, say, her long hair or the way she dressed, and yet she’d done the best she could with their pigsty. A handkerchief, warm from Esther’s breast, wiped Marina’s eyes. The tea made her chapped lips tingle and swell, and she slurped loudly, trying not to recall Krolik’s perplexed expression at the sight of pepperoni, his tense forehead too new to wrinkle. How quickly he’d swallowed those few bites, hardly chewing, before taking off with the evidence.