Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

Frida persisted, and not in order to flirt. One must have a sense of ceremony. The men were responding to a cry for help. They wanted to dazzle with heroism. Frida didn’t intend to insult them further by not coming out on the landing. A fire, even just the threat, demanded respect. (There was little excitement in Frida’s life recently, or none at all.) She stood by the stairs radiating concern. That’s the most delicious fire I ever smelled, said one of the button-nosed firemen, referring to Inga-from-across-the-hall’s cooking. Frida wanted to congratulate him on his joke but didn’t even manage a grin.

They lumbered down the stairs in a fury of grunts, scrapes, burps, and groans. Having seen them off, Frida returned to the apartment, overstepping a mound of spilled cat food and the colony of roaches partaking, skirting the pile of neglected pianos and bicycles and an ab roller like a cherry on top, into her mother’s toasty bedroom.

Still no fire, she reported. But the guys seemed in good spirits.

That’s nice, said Marina, tucking a yellow strand into her ponytail and leaning into the mirror. Frida hopped onto the unmade bed — a cherished, elusive moment was upon them. The makeup case had been laid out, unzipped. Marina’s manicured fingers reached inside, and the plastic tubes and compacts, the lipsticks, mascaras, eye shadows, and rouges began to stir in the dark, rearranging. Marina knew what she was looking for, oblivious to the hypnotic purr emitted by her search. It was as if she were choosing bones from Frida’s body. A pair of rusty tweezers emerged, efficiently attacking a chin hair.

You know how Anna and I take our Friday-night walks? said Frida.

You do?

Well, we’ve been meaning to make it more of a thing.

That’s nice.

But yesterday I stayed in—

I remember.

Do you know why?

Nowhere to go. Lipstick found Marina’s taut lips, traveling smoothly back and forth like a swinging car on the Ferris wheel.

Because Anna’s cousin is in town from Poland.

She couldn’t invite you to hang out with her cousin?

Frida swallowed. That isn’t the point.

Anna’s cousin might be your soul mate.

He’s in high school. And they were doing a family thing, a sit-down dinner. I wouldn’t even have wanted to go. But I do want to go to—

I told you, Frida, not another word about the wedding.

Have you even considered—

Does it seem like I’ve had time to consider something? She smudged eyeliner with a fingertip, dabbed a few powdery finishing touches, assessed herself, and gave a long, defeated sigh.

You’re not old, said Frida.

But you are. Turned away from her reflection, Marina lost the pout and vacant mirror stare, released her belly, dropped to a slouch. And it’s Saturday night.

I have plans, if that’s your way of asking.

That involve leaving the house?

Fuck off!

Lighten up a little, said Marina.

I’m leading a pathetic existence!

Follow me. Marina looked both ways before crossing the corridor. Dusk was creeping up the walls (crooked, stained, what can you do?), lending a somber touch to their journey. The destination was the computer chair, into which Marina sort of just fell. One hand felt around for her glasses, the other smacked the mouse several times in her particular way of rousing the machine. She typed with one stiff finger, staring down at the keyboard, then up at the screen, then down at the keyboard. Ten minutes later a message appeared. Photos attached. Somebody’s perfect catch of a son had split from his girlfriend and relocated from New Jersey to New York — he was shy, he was vulnerable, he didn’t know his way around Greenwich Village (liked sushi).

Frida glanced at the keyboard. A different message overtook the screen: GREETINGS, AMERICANTSI…

Marina’s eyes bulged. Don’t forget I was the one who showed you this, she said, and don’t make me regret it.

Sanya had gotten engaged, news he deemed worthy of sharing with his estranged Western aunt, who then made the mistake of sharing with her strange, not-distant-enough daughter. Getting married at last, that sullen, mousy boy…. OK, so it was hard to get sentimental. The guy was thirty-two and had two kids from two different women, both older and married. Otherwise his record was clean. Not a single divorce. This was to be his first relationship in the eyes of Ukraine. And he was Frida’s only cousin — there were dozens of photos of the two of them in the cardboard box stashed away in some not readily accessible nook of the apartment. Though it was probably more readily accessible than she remembered. In her mind it had to be unearthed, dug up. A major effort had to be involved. All those photographs of them together, or not exactly together but caught in the same frame. A courtyard scene: Frida in ballooning denim overalls, staring into a well (old, dry, someone’s rubber ducky at the bottom), next to her a ratty courtyard child of indeterminate sex grimacing into the camera, and in the background Sanya squatting over a neat mound of something (probably dog feces; he went through a prolonged fascination, the only time Pasha displayed a measure of paternal concern). At birthday parties they were seated together but never to be found looking at each other or even in the same direction. But at that age a seven-year difference was very significant (this phrase, repeated over and over). Sanya hadn’t been the type to take anybody under his wing; he’d needed someone to do that for him, but there had been no takers.

We should all go, said Frida.

Obligations, work, money, protested her mother.

But you’re always going on about how you walked him in the baby carriage and his first time saying Mama was directed at you, how everything would be different if we stayed together as a unit, poor Sanya this, poor Sanya that, practically an orphan.

You’ve certainly changed your tune, said Marina. What happened to not another wedding ever again? You barely survived the last one. This is vulgar, that trashy, the other pathetic. My friends will never let me live down your lovely toast. Marriage — an obsolete institution, remember?

That’s here in America, where people spend a decade orchestrating an apocalyptic celebration with registries and flower arrangements and twenty-piece bands. By no means am I opposed to weddings on principle. In fact, I wouldn’t mind one of my own. And to be honest, I like the way this sounds. Engaged in May, married in August. That’s a proper duration.

She’s obviously knocked up, said Marina.

He didn’t marry the other two!

This time the girl is high-maintenance.

If Frida wasn’t fighting off the accusation that she was singing the same old tune, it was that her tune had changed, and which was the worse offense not even Marina could say. To top it off, Frida was tone-deaf — the intractable pronouncement of her piano teacher, the wife of Rostislav Dubinsky, first violinist of the Borodin Quartet, made after spending two lessons with Frida in 1994. Heartbroken, Esther had demanded a second opinion. Perfect pitch runs in the family, she’d insisted. For the second opinion, Marina had wanted to know, Should we get Shostakovich’s widow or Prokofiev’s?

The computer made a sound and went black. Marina swiveled her chair around. Though I’m not saying it wouldn’t be nice to go. Who knows what’s going on over there? Slumped down, arms hanging lifelessly, Oioioi! she cried. Even if we don’t go, we’ll have to send at least a thousand dollars. That’s what’s expected of the Americantsi! And if we go, don’t even think about it. It’ll be a ten-grand affair. Of course, I do want to go, she said. She got up and went to the window. Who says I don’t want to? Believe me I do. Only it’s absolutely a hundred percent out of the question. Papa would kill me if he found out I even told you about this. Though of course it would be good, even necessary, to go. Not that Pasha said anything the last time we spoke. That he was nominated for another prize, he didn’t forget to mention, or that he’s being translated into Finnish. But about his son’s wedding not a word. Either way, we should’ve gone back for a visit years ago. It’s shameful that we haven’t made the time.