Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

What about Nadia?

What about her? said Sveta. She was put on suicide watch. But she’d never do it! I said this to Korina at the time, and I was right. At long last Nadia has reason to live — to make sure that Pasha gets no peace. Her goal is to take away the little that he has and torment him by any means, the more trite and disgraceful the better. Nadia has no qualms about being perceived as a hysterical, deranged old shrew. And do you know what Korina replied? She said, What else would you expect from a Scorpio?

Sveta laughed to herself. Too bad Korina’s no longer here, she said wistfully.

She died ? said Frida.

God, no! An older man appeared, she was offered a position as a radio host, then the offer was rescinded, but not before she made the move to Lvov.

• • •

PASHA DIDN’T FEEL GOOD about leaving Frida alone and unentertained — though was he really a viable means of entertainment? Dreams of Georgia was the highlight of his year. Fifty-one weeks of isolation were made tolerable by it. Socially ravenous on arrival, starved for acknowledgment, by festival’s end he was sated not only for the time being but for months. To refuel was imperative; a guilty conscience wouldn’t deter.

The morning of their departure to Tbilisi, Frida was awoken by a hushed phone conversation (loud conversations rarely woke anybody), Pasha’s voice leaking from the kitchen. Nu, nu, he said, followed by a pause. Aren’t you being rash about this? When Frida’s feet stirred — they were in the kitchen — he hastened the conversation to a close. If you say it must be so… But I beg you, give the matter some time, let it sit, and then see how you feel— Fine, I won’t, good-bye.

A fly came down the pockmarked runway of Pasha’s nose, resting a moment on the tip before resuming its frenzy of flight. Frida opened the fridge, contemplating the interior as if it were a composition made with artistic intention. She pretended to chew something and swallow. She wiped her palms on her shorts and looked out the window onto a dull courtyard that resembled the inside of the fridge.

The engagement is off, said Pasha.

Frida shook her head.

Sanya and his lady friend had an argument. They came to the conclusion that they shouldn’t be getting married.

I thought she was pregnant, said Frida.

Pasha shrugged. I don’t think she’s pregnant, he said.

So it’s that simple?

It’s as simple, or as complicated, as one chooses to make it.

Really? thought Frida. How horrible. She opted to disregard that sentiment or put it aside for future analysis, suspecting that it had only the ring of truth. Does Sanya even know that I’m here?

Her question seemed to pull Pasha from the depths of thought, interrupting an unrelated contemplation of something ineffable and solemn. But was it possible to always be pondering the very nature of existence, and if it was, didn’t it constitute some sort of disorder? In response to Frida’s question, he nodded sadly. Sanya knows. He wants to take you out on the town, show you the nightlife scene of Arcadia. That’s Sanya’s meadow of expertise, as the Americantsi say.

Right now? she said, alarmed.

Pasha was tickled. Now have some breakfast. Tomorrow night.

Was Frida supposed to feel grateful at the offer? Was it meant to smooth over the fact that her entire excuse for being there had just been pulled out from under her? Assumed in the Arcadia offer was an utter lack of will on her part. Regrettably, the offer aroused a spike of positive feeling, which was by its very nature cowardly. It counteracted, it completely destroyed, the daring intensity of the rage that had just started to build. Sanya wanted to take her out to the nightclubs — well, she desperately wanted to go. Where else would she accidentally step on the foot of her future husband? That her forays into the nightlife scene of New York had been disastrous, mostly in a quiet way, pointing out a chronic inability to relax and have a good time, was irrelevant. By predisposing herself against Sanya, she’d only be harming herself. Why not try instead to empathize? Her cousin must’ve been devastated. He was embarrassed. Filled with grief and shame. He thought he’d found a life partner, not a simple pursuit in Odessa. The girls were gorgeous, sure, and liked a good time, but life-partner material they weren’t. Neither were they the least bit eager to settle for a man who didn’t own a yacht or a foreign passport, preferably both. If they did happen to settle, their bodies intuited the capitulation immediately — whatever crazy biological force had been keeping every part firm, distinct, and perky relented, letting all those parts slacken, merge, and collectively expand. Undoubtedly Sanya had been relieved to find a suitable bride and now experienced catastrophic disappointment. Aside from that, he knew that Frida had flown in for his wedding — to call it off so close to the date would’ve been mortifying for anybody. It became clear why almost a week had elapsed and Sanya had yet to make an effort to see her — he’d been undergoing great emotional upheaval.

Did he give a time?

He said he’d call an hour or so beforehand, to give you a chance to get ready.

• • •

IT WAS PAST NOON when Sveta staggered out of the bedroom in her clingy, sweated-through nightie, looking as if she’d just regained consciousness after a frying-pan whack to the skull, which probably wasn’t far afield from the effect of her pharmaceutical concoctions. Pasha had forgotten to make his silver-tray delivery, and it became evident that the treatment was hardly a luxury. Sveta knocked into the edge of the table in the corridor, sending the landline flying — batteries, plastic, not that she noticed. Pressing the heels of her hands into her wounded hip, she bent in half and yowled, then continued groping her way to the kitchen. Somewhere she found a kiwi. She ate it like a soft-boiled egg, peeling the top half and using a small rusty spoon to scoop out the flesh. By then the coffee was in a mug whose handle Pasha fitted over her hooked finger. She took it down in a single gulp. Sense returned to her gaze. Her hands jumped to her head, finding that her hair was still pinned back, ear exposed. Frida sat across the table pretending to leaf through something black and white with varying font sizes and interspersed images. Sveta was about to run out to preserve her dignity but then realized that the little dignity there was to preserve didn’t merit such effort. She sighed and tapped the mug’s rim, signaling for more coffee.

But before it was poured, she was rushing out, screaming, Our flight, our flight! It was that afternoon, in just a few hours, and they weren’t packed, and Volk said he couldn’t drive them and there wasn’t a chance they’d make it. Not surprisingly, Sveta had a frantic style of departing. No one in the family was capable of even finding a partner who knew how to depart with grace.

Pasha followed into the direction of the drawer banging, unzipping, torrential toppling. That he hadn’t packed the bags on his own or arranged for a ride to the airport or simply woken Sveta at an hour when she could do it herself without having a conniption — none of this was mentioned or seemingly even thought, except by Frida, who needed to remember that this was none of her business and she must stay out of it. But stay out of it where? Not sure what to do with herself, she found herself staring at the bookshelves in the corridor, about to pluck one of Pasha’s poetry collections from the stacks but picking up a statuette instead, placing in her palm a turtle with a globe-size tumor on its shell. Meanwhile, in the nearby bedroom, Pasha attempted to calm Sveta with the good news that now there was one less thing to worry about. A major hassle had been averted. Sveta’s curiosity was piqued (the toppling momentarily abated). Pasha explained that it was no longer necessary to change their return flight — because the wedding was off! Sveta admirably discarded the packaging in which the news was delivered. Chto, she said, and in her chto could be heard every nuance the news suddenly brought from black depths into plain sight. She had Frida in mind when that chto was uttered. But then their bedroom door closed, no more was heard.