Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

“And a grandson of yours—”

“Takes opportunity by the balls.”

“What is the opportunity here?” Slava said. He didn’t hear an answer and asked again.

“Helping people,” Grandfather said.

“Your specialty,” Slava said.

“Yes, my specialty,” he mocked Slava. “Oh, hike up your skirt already. You’re flirting a little too long. Do you want a name or not?”

Now Slava made him wait. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Then why all the foreplay? Some of us have a limited time on earth. Go out with Vera tonight, I’ll give you a name tomorrow. Just let me know if I have to call you at her apartment.” He started laughing wickedly. “I was your age, she’d be old news already.”

“I don’t need you,” Slava said without conviction. “I’ll ask Israel. He’ll give me names. Your neighborhood is full of people who want money for free.”

“Do it,” Grandfather said. “Just watch you don’t say something to the wrong person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have to go, cucumber,” Grandfather said.

“That’s what Grandmother called me. Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, grave all of a sudden. They were quiet while they waited for the ill feeling to dissipate. It was impossible to escape each other. Other people could throw down the phone, move to another part of the country, change their names, but Grandfather and Slava were sealed to each other like a husband and wife. They were married in the old way, without release. They would be vicious toward each other, wait till the burn settled, start in on each other again. They were deathless.

“Your grandmother would have walked under a tank for you,” Grandfather said. “And that’s the kind of girl Vera is. One of ours. A girl who will think of you first. But no kind of stupid cow, either, painting her nails all day. She’s got a salary, an apartment.”

“Is it you’re too proud to make peace yourself?”

“You don’t know anything ,” Grandfather hissed. Slava saw the spittle flying from his gold teeth on the other end of the line. It was the face Grandfather had worn when he cut up that man in Minsk fifty years before, a face Slava had been sheltered from.

“Fine,” Slava said. “Give me a name.”

“What do you think, I’m a two-year-old?” Grandfather said, pleasant again. “Date first, name tomorrow. Good luck, Don Juan.” And with that, he hung up.

Vera called shortly after Slava had hung up with Grandfather, as if Grandfather had given a signal. The grandfather arranged it:

Slava’s grandfather to Vera’s grandfather: “He wants to go out with Vera tonight, but can she call him? He doesn’t want to impose.”

Vera’s grandfather to Vera: “Slava wants to join you, but this one’s shy, apparently. You have to ask him.”

Vera to Slava: “What are you doing, Slava? Grandfather gave me your number. I started telling my friends about our Italian adventures. They want to meet you.”

Vera wore an amber-colored leather jacket over a cowl-necked blouse and jeans over black heels that narrowed to fine points. They clopped like hooves down the steps of her apartment building. Her hair, swept up into a wave captured mid-crash, and her eyelids, fatigued with ultramarine shadow, sparkled with synonymous gloss, lending a wanton appearance to a face that seemed still young and unformed.

“Where are we going?” he said. “You look nice.”

“Thank you, Slava,” she smiled. “Avenue I. By the banya.”

“We can take the F,” he said.

“No, no, taxi,” she said. “Call, please?” She reached into her purse and handed Slava a card. “Ask for Vova.”

Vova was a former cruiserweight, the span of his hands nearly the size of the steering wheel. A crew cut crowned the square of his head.

“Where tonight, Verochka?” he said when the young people were piled into the backseat.

“Avenue I. Lara’s,” she said.

“I’ll be taking you back?” Vova said.

“Yes, please.”

“Just call when you’re ready.”

They rode in a festive silence, the streets slick after a brief, indecisive rain.

“Your friend, does he speak?” Vova said finally.

“I’m sorry, Vovochka,” Vera said. “It was rude not to introduce him. Tell Vova something about yourself, Slava.”

“I work at a magazine,” Slava croaked.

“One of ours?” Vova inquired. “A fitness magazine?”

“An American one,” Vera said proudly.

“An American one!” Vova smacked his lips. “Important people in the car, it turns out. That gives you enough bread, working at a magazine?”

“I’m thinking about driving a taxi,” Slava said. He hated these Russian men whose kingdoms were the size of their taxicabs.

Vera elbowed Slava and gave him a cold look. With shame, he remembered that her father drove a taxicab. However, his comment had the intended effect of diminishing the cruiserweight’s interest in further conversation.

They pulled up at a building that looked just like Grandfather’s — brick, an arched entryway wearing too many layers of paint. Slava hadn’t realized young Russian people continued to live in these neighborhoods even though they were old enough to live wherever they wanted. They sat in the car until Slava realized he would be paying. “And how much?” he inquired.

“Ten,” Vova sighed.

Slava was about to pass thirteen dollars to the front seat when Vera’s eyes sent out an ultramarine blast of distress. Her hand reached into his wallet and removed another five. Speechless, Slava passed eighteen dollars to the front seat.

“He takes care of me,” she said vaguely as they walked into the fluorescent embrace of her friend’s building.

The guests were in their midtwenties, everyone paired up, and they spoke Russian, normally distressing to Slava, but his had been receiving an unfamiliar workout in recent weeks. Slava stood to the side while Vera exchanged elaborate, lippy greetings with her friend Lara and Lara’s boyfriend, Stas.

“Everyone?” Vera said, taking Slava by the arm and walking him into the living room. His discomfort retreated slightly, her hand warm and familiar. “This is Slava. Slava is a writer.” The assembled brayed in admiration. “He works at the best American magazine.”

“ Playboy ?” said a potbellied young man in a blazer. The other boys laughed. The girl whose arm was entwined with his laid a free fist into his gut.

“That’s Leonard and his Galochka,” Vera said. “Leonard is our resident literario. You guys will have something to talk about. That’s Lyova, that’s Oslik. Everyone, introduce yourselves and make Slava feel at home, please. Girls, let’s go set the table.”

His girlfriend rising, Leonard shook his poetic curls and patted the freshly vacated seat next to him. There were half a dozen boys altogether, drinks in their hands.

“What are you drinking?” Leonard inquired.

“Vodka?” Slava proposed.

“Incorrect!” Leonard announced, and the boys squealed with laughter. He was their ringleader, by the look of things. Each of their glasses held a caramel-colored liquid. “Galina Mikhailovna, my dove!” Leonard called out toward the kitchen, using his girlfriend’s patronymic, the way wives and husbands did in the old times.

Galochka, who was setting a plate of herring in oil on a lacy tablecloth, looked up. The girls were working with daunting facility. One was setting the table with gold-rimmed plates, another following with filigreed thimbles, and a third unloading bowls of salad Olivier and boiled potatoes. Slava wished he could be in their circle instead. Vera caught his eyes and mouthed, Everything okay? Embarrassed, Slava nodded.