Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

Frida snuck off to the bathroom to investigate whether she hadn’t actually undergone one. Perhaps stepping onto native soil had activated, on a cellular level, some dormant capacity, unlocked hidden potential. Or maybe she’d just missed it the last time she looked: Airplane mirrors were too harsh to trust. Here she encountered the opposite problem. Two of the bulbs had burned out, and the amber remainder was moody but insufficient for an appraisal. What she found in the mirror were under-eye bags and an inflamed chin pimple, what she found behind it were pills, pills, and more pills, prescribed for Svetlana Muser and Svetlana Nasmertov. For the weak/sickly/always dying one, there wasn’t a single bottle.

He was seated at the tiny kitchen table (a converted sewing table), twirling a matchbook in his fingers. Frida had to stop herself from running out of the house. Grown woman, she said to herself, and took a seat opposite. Gravitas, unkempt leonine facial hair, an aura of solemnity encompassing all past wars, pogroms, exiles, and oppressions, a mild odor of stagnation, a high forehead — oh, very high and very steep and just a bit wrinkled — an intimidating stare, silence. This man didn’t apologize. Of course, he had no cause for apology, but this hardly mattered, since under no circumstance would he have apologized. He didn’t deal in the petty intricacies of personal relationships. In comparison to the panoramic sphere Pasha was out wandering, Frida was pinned to the present moment.

Do you like chocolate? asked Sveta, hovering over them.

The question was a trick. There was a right answer and a wrong answer, but it wasn’t nearly as obvious as it would seem. If secret code, did it have to do with their being female? Frida stared at Sveta, fierce intensity, zero comprehension.

The freezer was open, Sveta climbing inside. Her arms and head were gone, shoulders squeezing. Spit back out holding two cartons like frozen tonsils. Ice cream, she explained. You’re welcome to have.

Oh, no, said Frida very categorically, but thank you. Heat tore her cheeks. I’m not really a dessert type of person.

Sveta wished she could say the same for herself. Two happy bowls were plucked from the dish rack. She scooped vigorously with a soupspoon until one bowl contained a mountain of gooey rich chocolate, and into the other a half spoonful was gently tapped. The mountain was placed under Pasha’s nostrils, the anthill Sveta kept for herself, retreating with it into a corner.

Pasha didn’t stir. Seconds passed slowly and laboriously. The mountain began to lose height. A puddle formed at the base, particularly around the soupspoon. In the meantime he attended an itch under his beard. Frida gulped, trying to keep back a shameful surge of saliva. Not a dessert type of person? A pure and utter lie! Did Pasha notice her frequent swallowing? Did he notice the ice-cream mountain awaiting him below?

A poet, of course, noticed everything. In addition to five senses sharpened to perfection like test-ready No. 2s, he (in this case) had recourse to a mode of perception that made a mockery of any exam: the sixth poet sense. If the Russian people had to agree on one thing, it would have to be on the existence of this sense — that they themselves lacked it but that someone rare and special possessed it. Into this chosen being they could place their trust. A fatidic capacity was implied, accurate future prediction regarded as the culmination of the cosmic poet powers. But from observing Pasha, Frida would’ve surmised that he noticed nothing at all, not the pooling ice cream, not the cockroach disappearing into the sugar bowl, not even his own fingers with deep vertical grooves on the nails.

Pasha gave an openmouthed squeak and began to cough, all sorts of mysterious things loosening in his chest. The rings around his eyes went from pale green to lilac to bruise blue and back to pale green. The matchbook dropped to the table and disappeared. The soupspoon was brought to life. The corners of Pasha’s mouth were crammed with brown residue.

Don’t look so disturbed, he said. I ate my vegetables thirty years ago.

• • •

THE DOORBELL RANG. Standing on their doorstep wasn’t Sanya but Steve Martin, who seemed just about as confused by his presence there as was Frida. Tall and lean, he was more dashing on the whole than one might’ve imagined. His wispy white hair was parted on the side, and his large, bland face was made absurd, likable, and distinct by a nose — rarely did one feature carry so much weight. Frida saw him over Sveta’s bare shoulder. Sveta had changed into a handkerchief with straps. Her skin was a transparent blue like the sky over snowcapped mountains. Tiny hairs stood on end. Steve Martin saw Sveta’s bare shoulder and nothing beyond it. He addressed that shoulder with the question Are you Fridachka? The Russian words contorted his face, pulling it into a strictly Slavic direction.

Who are you? said Sveta.

Not Steve Martin but his Russian variation, Volodya, there on behalf of Avarchuk, the casino king. The explanation satisfied Sveta. Volodya was visibly disappointed when the bare shoulder retreated and was replaced by Fridachka, a staunch adherent of the many-layers policy. His beady eyes had no choice but to look into her beady eyes.

Volodya got to the point, pulling two objects from his briefcase: a cell phone and a thick white envelope. He lifted the flap of the envelope and tilted it to display the contents: colorful bills that would’ve aroused suspicions of fraudulence in a game of Monopoly. Five thousand hryvnia, to be precise.

That’s very kind, said Frida, but isn’t it a bit much?

He glanced at her quizzically. It’s the amount agreed on. Whatever you don’t use, give back to your papa. He’ll deal with Avarchuk.

My papa?

Or me. But there’s not much in there when you get down to it. You’ll see. On Deribasovskaya there are decent shops. Shoes and hats, things like that. There’s the seven-kilometer market. Dresses, teakettles. You’ll need souvenirs for the folks. A boyfriend, eh? Before long you’ll be calling me. Volodya, you’ll say, I need more dough! No problemo. As much as you want. They’ll take care of the calculations. Your papa and Avarchuk. I’m just Avarchuk’s guy. My number’s programmed into the phone under Vasya. You call me when you’re running low or if you’re in a stitch. I mean a real stitch. Not if you need a restaurant recommendation or directions to a nightclub. Not for museum hours either — you look like you’ll be wanting some of those. Call only if you need more dough or are about to be murdered. Capisce?

I won’t take it, said Frida, pushing away the goods. Tell Avarchuk to tell my papa that I don’t need anybody making arrangements for me. I’m sorry you had to waste your time.

Volodya’s eyes crinkling. She expected him to try to convince her otherwise, but he just shrugged. As he turned away, a shadow of a smirk passing across his face. Frida wanted to believe that it was intended for her, something like bemused respect at her show of independence. He folded himself away into his white car and sped off. Frida returned to what now struck her as a gnome’s home. No one asked a thousand questions about the stranger or made as many remarks about how she’d handled the situation incorrectly. It was usually at this stage of Operation Freedom that she succumbed to a devastating sense of loneliness and remembered the utter indifference of the universe as to whether she lived or died, prospered or failed, which was enough to abort the operation and send her running back into the warm bosom of her family. Now, too, she considered retracting her head into her shoulders, hiding her tail between her legs, changing her return ticket, and ordering a cab back to the airport.