Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

But in getting sandwiches Frida got distracted. The kitchen window looked out on the ocean, which had the cast-aside air of a large piece of grandparents’ furniture thrown to the curb. Grandparents put plastic covers on sofas so butts and sweaty palms wouldn’t damage the fabric, and children sat on the loud, sticky plastic but didn’t realize it was a cover, nobody told them, and they suffered, assuming this was just what sitting on sofas was like. The ocean seemed to be inside such a plastic cover, and somewhere at the back there was a zipper that could be undone. But why wax lyrical when Pasha had that angle covered? Outside it was gray and muggy, not at all reminiscent of anything, and Frida sat by a south-facing window, in despair.

HER MOM HAD GOTTEN her the job, lest she have too leisurely a respite from medical school, but there was little in the way of actual work. She sat at the reception desk in a decrepit medical office with a car-wash vibe, recorded the names and Social Security numbers of the senior citizens who came in, processed their Medicare information, and distributed ten-dollar bills. The majority of patients never actually laid their impaired eyes on the physician. This sort of seedy operation would’ve been unacceptable from a regular doctor, but Dr. Gamsky was Yuri, a family friend. Many days of Frida’s childhood had been spent in his lively Manhattan Beach home, playing with his worldly-wise daughter, Diane, until that abruptly came to an end. Frida’s parents never had to try hard for plausibility with their stories. If Yuri’s beautiful wife, Larissa, went to Africa on safari and two weeks later Diane got accepted and immediately sent off to the best boarding school in the country, in neither Canarsie nor Bensonhurst, there could be no better explanation for why Frida would no longer be deposited in their Manhattan Beach home. Once or twice a follow-up question was raised, whether Diane’s mom had returned from safari or if Diane’s boarding school had an address to which a letter and a charm bracelet could be sent, but then Frida forgot to ask again. She paid no mind to the fact that Larissa’s name was mentioned in a whisper until it stopped being mentioned at all or that her friend was, from that point on, referred to as Poor Diane. Only several years ago, when Diane just as suddenly came back into the picture, seven months along on her dad’s doorstep, did Frida’s mom mention juvenile facilities, illegal powders, older men, but in passing, as if Frida had been in on the situation all along. Pressing for details now would mean admitting to the horrific extent of her gullibility, so she was resigned to remain in the dark as to what exactly went down, certain only that the closest thing to a real safari had been that Manhattan Beach home, and she’d never even known it.

The atmosphere in the office was particularly tense this Monday morning. Giant Dr. Gamsky sat in Frida’s chair at the front desk, clutching his forehead. He looked up, his cheek creased and marked by a cuff-link-size indentation that did little to assuage Frida’s fear that he slept in the office. After vigorously blinking away the fog, he said, Look who’s finally here.

I’m not late!

He waved her off as if she were being trifling about it and informed her that today he wanted to do things a bit differently. Would that be fine with her?

She nodded tentatively.

How are your hands? he asked.

She held them out. I’ve been told they’re small for my size.

He snatched a palm and squeezed. She squeezed back.

They’ll do, he said. Forget the old system. This is not a bank, you can tell them that. No more free money. If they want a checkup or a massage — great — if not, tell them to get the hell out.

But the procedure is a medical massage — I haven’t been trained.

It’s basically the same as what you’d give your boyfriend. A bit more wrist action, if you feel up to it.

But if I’m massaging, said Frida, her throat getting stiff, who’s at the desk?

Let’s play it by ear, said Dr. Gamsky, a favorite phrase, used whenever he felt backed into a corner or thrust into the realm of the hypothetical. Laborious thinking made him feel like a cat chasing its tail. He wasn’t built for problem solving. He stood and retreated to the back. Yuri’s standing was an event. Even if he tried to be casual about it, the room underwent a transformation. Whoever witnessed his rising was robbed of breath. He was so tall and hulking, so huge and statuesque. His size was an accomplishment in itself and had probably tampered with his ambition. Why should he strive like the little folk? His presence used to intimidate Frida. Out of all her parents’ friends, Yuri had been the most alien. He was representative of the male breed and the only one male enough to belong to it.

She was left alone to stare at the door. Gum wrappers accrued, one for every email sent like a paper airplane into an iron curtain. About an hour later, an old man entered. He moaned all the way to her desk, as if being in pain made him more deserving of recompense.

Very windy out, he said. Where’s the sheet?

It’s right here, said Frida, sticking a blank pad in front of his nose. But before you sign, you should know that our policy has changed.

Not for me, he said. I’m in a hurry.

For everybody.

Just the money, miss.

That’s precisely the issue. Our new policy is that this is not a bank. How about a massage or a checkup?

He peered at her uncomprehendingly. They examined each other’s face, finding them odder than they’d imagined. The old man decided to try again. I’ll take the ten rubles, he said, making sure to be as clear as possible.

No.

It’s my right.

A new policy, Frida said desperately.

I’m a veteran. Do you want to see my medals? They were in his pocket. He had eleven total. Three came in little red boxes, another two were in transparent plastic cases so scratched they were no longer transparent, and the rest were loose. Yet they were all, sheltered or not, in equally deplorable condition. He gave them to Frida one by one, and she looked at them carefully as if appraising with knowledge, meanwhile hoping that this might buy her time and calm the man, who must’ve had a very large pocket, maybe even had his pants tailored specifically so that the pocket could contain all his medals. She’d been holding the same medal up to her face for a long time. The others were like large, thin coins or copper stars under triangular, striped bands, but this one, which had been in one of the nontransparent plastic cases, looked like a life float with slits, in the center of which was Stalin’s profile, which seemed like a decapitated head, a very finely shaped decapitated head, with hair like the choppy sea.

At this moment two more seniors hobbled in wielding Medicare cards. One of them was a woman (never a good sign). They began to feed each other’s sense of righteousness and entitlement. Before the two of them even reached Frida’s desk, the man with the medals was reporting that Dr. Gamsky was trying to put one over on them. Apparently, senior citizens, veterans of the Great Patriotic War, survivors of Stalinism, weren’t very flexible. They used the word no freely but didn’t acknowledge it when it was used against them. And evidently they thought that doctors in this country just handed out cash. We will report you, they said. The authorities will find out that Dr. Gamsky got greedy and started keeping our bills for himself. The authorities would reprimand Dr. Gamsky and distribute the bills to their rightful owners, who had big plans for them, you could be sure of that.

Let us see the doctor, said the woman.

For a checkup? Frida asked.

For a word.