Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

That was seven hundred fifteen days ago — they were still counting, though it was getting less clear to what end. At first it made the change manageable, marked progress. It’d seemed that if not counted, the days might either not pass or sneak by in clusters, two or more at a time. One thing a Soviet upbringing taught you was to pay attention. Not like these lax Americans who didn’t even monitor their nickel-and-dime transactions at the grocery store. But what about the pennies — should you bother with those?

Since Levik’s father had issued the official invitation, Pasha wasn’t able to legally tag along. The understanding was that they’d collect twigs for a nest, then send for Pasha and his humble flock. But he put a freeze on the plan. Why? The many reasons he provided never quite added up to an explanation. But then the Soviet Union fell, Esther was diagnosed…. Visits hadn’t ever been part of the plan at all. It was strange. There had been all this tragedy and finality, and suddenly you just had to have the money for the flight. No matter — soon they’d get Pasha over here for good. Notions were flying about. Considering Pasha’s allergy to life-decision discussions, the plan was to trap him into one immediately, get it out of the way. They’d agreed not to relent when the hostage began to squirm. But after what Pasha had been through, the scheme couldn’t be put into action. They weren’t monsters. Pasha’s talent was to shift dynamics until all sympathy was directed toward him. A steady current flowed his way. He aroused feelings without necessarily returning them and was permanently enclosed in an aura of exemption. It was inadvertent, though Pasha himself claimed that nothing was inadvertent, that there were no such things as accidents or coincidences.

They believed in accidents and coincidences, but too many of them happened to Pasha. Whereas they were admirably bronzed, he looked like he’d barely escaped a house fire. Last night they’d bathed him in ice water cooled with rubbing alcohol as he slipped in and out of feverish delusions about an underground washing-machine city and a trash-can blues band; this morning he seemed better, certainly quieter, but the water blisters hadn’t improved and the thermometer, slipped out of a mossy armpit, read 38.6 degrees Celsius. And in such a state he was headed to Manhattan, no stopping him — as if anyone were trying, other than Esther with an appeal of, Wait one more day, and Robert’s hushed plea, Wait for me! But he was off. Damn him, Esther spit. Where’s he going? What does he know about this godforsaken city?

He knew that he couldn’t bear another minute in their little kingdom by the sea. Locating a chariot to take him out was no challenge. The entire neighborhood — cardboard castles, sand fortresses, Chinese take-out joints and all — went into Richter-worthy convulsions whenever a train pulled into the aboveground station. Stepping into the subway car, he took a seat with caution, as if someone might intercept and make him stand. His discomfort wasn’t physical — the air-conditioned car provided great bodily pleasure — but stemmed from the sense that a secret code was being intentionally withheld. He alternated between peering into faces and focusing on his knees. On Cortelyou Road a spark of panic flashed in his yolky eyes, and he said something incomprehensible to no one in particular. There was no response. He fell back into a glassy stupor. Another spark and he spoke again, louder. The car was packed with Russians who saw that he was in need of help, but some implacable force prevented them from becoming heroes. How bewilderingly Russian he was… it was simply indecent. His flailing let them possess their own proficiency, which was nevertheless too tenuous to be tested. And they knew the importance of being discreet. Someone was always watching. Luckily, there was Joe from Sheepshead Bay to come to the rescue. He screamed, he forced the Russki to repeat himself, making one wrong guess after another. But there would be no giving up. The destination, it was finally determined, was Manhattan Island. Did this trolley take him there? Manhattan’s big, said Joe, looking around. Where in Manhattan you wanna go? But Pasha had stopped listening. He was satisfied, requiring no more.

Deciphering maps wasn’t one of Pasha’s fortes. Languages were. He knew English, but strangers in an existential hurry did not. To be locked into the most desperate exchanges, from which both parties left aggravated, with a residue of elemental human failure, wouldn’t do. In the margins of his notebook were the phone numbers of old acquaintances and friends of friends whom he hadn’t the least intention of contacting. But there were pay phones on most corners, and a few even produced a dial tone. Hello, Arkadii Gulovich, this is Pavel Robertovich Nasmertov, currently in your monumental city, doing very well, positioned at the intersection of street number fifty-three and Avenue of the America, having just visited the Modern Museum of Art. Can you direct me to Guggenheim?

The individuals he wished to see he’d refrain from calling until getting his bearings in their city. Too many warnings were tacked onto this metropolis. You’ll be overwhelmed and disoriented, you’ll be yelled at, robbed, cheated. Nothing like it. It may have taken two hours to find his way out of the Met, but he could now be tested on the medieval wing. When with utmost satisfaction he decided to return home, he placed his final call to one Renata Ostraya. This turned out to be a bit of a blunder. The lady introduced herself as the spiritual custodian of the émigré literary scene. She was extremely glad he was touching base. There were a slew of not-to-be-missed events throughout the month, most of them held at a venue for which she could vouch — her place. These were the poets Pasha had to be introduced to, and these were the poets, entre nous, it was better to avoid altogether. Pasha took truncated breaths, repeatedly failing to insert a comment that might extricate him from the litany. He didn’t have it in him to stop feeding coins to the machine. He nervously fondled its bendy spine. When Renata ran out of steam, he asked about a direct route from Madison Avenue to Brighton Beach. You’re staying there ? So began another round about the unfortunate Brighton ghetto and the gorgeous Upper West Side. It was very soulful in that part of the city — just like Europe. Then the coins ran out. A robotic female voice warned of impending doom. The pay phone shuddered, Renata dispersed.

The train was waiting for him to saunter inside before it closed its doors. Wedged into the corner, feeling mighty, Pasha went to work sifting the free literature amassed at information desks, making two piles, one to discard and one for further study. He next looked up when the conductor shouted, Last stop, last stop, train going to the yard, everybody off! He grabbed a pile, suddenly unsure whether he’d grabbed the one intended for keeping or for tossing, and scrambled out onto the platform. He’d arrived at Woodlawn, in the Bronx.

• • •

IF ESTHER AND ROBERT NASMERTOV were to give an official account of their son’s relationships (which, to be sure, they’d be glad to do), the name Misha Nasmarkin would be assigned, with harmonizing confidence, that parentally beloved distinction of best friend. In accordance with the rule for household-endorsed friendships, it had its origins in tender youth. From first grade all the way through to tenth (the last year of schooling prior to college), with the exception of that one year Pasha stayed home due to let’s not get into it, the two boys had been in the same class. At thirteen they both made the leap to the gifted-and-talented high school (unhindered by the four layers of added hurdles, one for each Jewish grandparent). They’d taken up a common cause — the death of Ms. Pulvitskaya, enemy of literature (a cause of which even the parents approved). And the surnames! It was as if the universe had, in the spirit of economy, created two boys but one desk. Day after day, year after year, it was their four legs, twitching and kicking or lifeless and numb, Misha’s on the left, Pasha’s on the right, but regardless because all four belonged to the desk. Ten-year-old Pasha had already demonstrated a catastrophic intolerance for the idiocy of others, yet he found a soft spot for Misha, not in response to a quality inherent in Misha but to Misha’s struggle with the class, which met his ceaseless attempts at fitting in with merciless contempt that in turn sparked in Misha a still more fervent desire for acceptance. Misha was the pit stuck in the windpipe of a burly beast. Pasha adopted him, allowing him to get away with remarks, tastes, and habits that from anybody else would’ve been grounds for that person’s obliteration from Pasha’s psychic radar. In a room of thirty, Pasha might acknowledge the existence of a handful. Many of the obliterated were teachers, their assignments obliterated along with them. Pasha would’ve been expelled on more than one occasion had his father not been the Dr. Nasmertov. For those deranged teachers with no mortal fears (Ms. Pulvitskaya), Robert would bring smoked pork sausage wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. The taste bent her soul in such a way that even outside her stomach nothing could remain as stark and unbending.