Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

“In the hospital? Why?” Slava said, as if one chose to go to such places.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He called the ambulance himself. They found him on the floor. The medics gave me the note.”

Rooted in place, Slava appropriated this new information. The thought that swept through his mind was: I am about to lose another one.

“He was a heavy smoker when he was young, you know,” the woman said. “I caught him smoking on the steps here once. I said he shouldn’t. I was afraid he thought I was telling him simply not to smoke on the steps. But he understood. He came back with a piece of graph paper. I think he had somebody write it out for him. It said, ‘Life is death if you don’t have a cigarette now and then.’ We had a nice laugh about it.”

“You had to call the family?” Slava said. “In Israel?”

“Oh, yes. I had a time figuring out the codes.”

A gust of wind crept through the spruce above them. Amid the remaining heat, you could occasionally make out autumn loitering at the door.

“Do you know what hospital?” Slava said.

“Maimonides,” she said. “The whole street was lit up with sirens.”

“Does he owe you anything for the call?” he said hopefully.

“Oh, no,” she said. “The son took it collect.”

Slava was in a part of Brooklyn where yellow cabs did not roam, but he had Vova’s card foxed in his wallet. He kept misdialing. He made himself stop and take a long breath. The stillness he was pleased to discover inside himself that morning, a quiet readiness for his meeting with Otto — Arianna’s gift — was gone. At last it rang. “I have to get to the hospital, Vova,” Slava yelled into the phone when the cruiserweight picked up.

Vova spoke with a solemnity that soothed Slava. As a taxi driver in the southern reaches of Brooklyn, where they died every moment of every day, Vova was no stranger to calls such as this one. “I will be there in ten minutes,” he said. And he was.

The aging sedan squeaking and grunting over the potholed roads, Slava’s mind was stuck on the onion of Israel’s frame, horizontal on a hospital gurney. He hadn’t been called, Slava thought with a sting. But why should he have been? Who was he to Israel? They had met twice, once by accident. He was the letter writer; he wasn’t a family member. He wasn’t needed. But he was going to go anyway.

“Ho, listen,” Vova said. “I’m sorry to bring this up now, but I’ve got you in the car.”

“Sure,” Slava said listlessly.

“It’s like this,” Vova said. “You ever heard of New Orleans? Where the fuck is that?”

“Down south somewhere,” Slava said.

“Right — well, they had this dustup with the atmosphere last year. You hear about that?”

“I’m amazed you’ve heard about it.”

Vova checked him out in the rearview. “You underestimate your blood, chuvak .”

“So?” Slava said.

“So there’s a situation down there. A warm situation, if you know what I’m saying.” Vova waited to hear whether he should go on. He did anyway.

“All these homes beat to the ground after the storm. And if one of them’s yours, you can get money. A lot.”

“Okay?” Slava said.

“So there’s sixty thousand homes. And some of them are getting filed on, to get dough from the government, and some of them are not. Because the owners died, ran away, whatever. And so there’s this claim you can fill out — there’s some kind of process — I don’t know the details, this isn’t my territory, this is why I’m talking to you. But the word is it’s not hard, for those abandoned homes, to move the title to yourself. And qualify for that money.”

“And what is your territory?” Slava said.

“My territory is setting it up,” Vova said. “Not the paperwork.”

“What if you apply this energy to a legal business?” Slava said.

Vova consulted the rearview. “Should I regret I told you about this? Don’t make me regret it. You didn’t even give me a chance to spell out the details. You get a cut, obviously. They said five percent, but I am going to push for ten percent for you, because without you, it can’t happen, and I understand that. Some people undervalue the desk part, not me. And you can go there if you want, flight paid. Scope it out, get the flavor. They got African ladies down there to make your underpants wet. You ever make it with a black girl?”

“No,” Slava said.

“It’s a different ball game than—” He pointed outside the car to indicate Vera.

“Why are you talking to me about this?” Slava said.

“You write the letters, don’t you? You’re the paperwork guy.”

“Does anyone keep a fucking secret?” Slava said.

Vova started laughing. “You know how we are.”

“How are we, Vova?”

“We live in the real world. You’ll think about it, won’t you?”

“I won’t do it,” Slava said. “I’m sorry, it’s not personal. Though your secret is safe. If mine is safe with you.”

Vova considered this. “I see. Well, I admire a direct conversation.” He turned back to the wheel. They rode in silence, each chewing on Slava’s answer. Then Vova said, an olive branch: “I know a good flower store right by the hospital. We’ll be there in five minutes.” And they were.

From the curb, Vova extended his hand through the driver’s-side window. “No hard feelings,” he said. “The offer, it was a sign of respect. I wish you health for the person inside.”

Slava shook to match the force in Vova’s grip, as if the power would transfer to that person.

In the vestibule of Maimonides hospital, Slava was the one with the bouquet of carnations: white, pink, and red. Grandmother had liked carnations, and when Slava thought of illness, he thought of her. Now they looked paltry, the ruffed heads bobbing on the weak stems, too feminine for the sack of leather in Room 317. On the day Grandmother died, the sun blazed with an infernal fury, as if it had overheated. Now, however, the weather looked like one of those ads in Century that Avi Liss almost had to slice out: the soft sun; a long, narrow, white-clothed wooden table; towheaded children at play in the breeze; a pharaonic repast on the endless table itself. The sainted sun outside the hospital shone on an endless row of florists, bakeries, and kosher butchers, encased in ancient, artisanal concrete. The Brooklyn where the Soviet Jews lived was as ugly as the rows of apartment blocks they had left behind in the Soviet Union. Perhaps that was why they lived here.

On a monitor in Room 317, a spiky green comet shot across the beeping surface of a dark night. Spiky was good. Israel was asleep, the giant raisin of his face loosening and closing with each breath, a happy brook of saliva dribbling down his chin. Only a Gogol splayed on his chest, and he would have looked like he was napping at home. Slava pictured him licking his finger, turning the pages, and slumping over from a heart attack. But it didn’t happen that way. Israel had written out a note with instructions. That part didn’t make sense.

Slava stepped into the hallway. Maimonides looked as empty as if it belonged to them alone, as if all the illness in the world was theirs. It was pleasantly ramshackle: Paint peeled in a corner of the ceiling, and the counter behind which the nurses worked was scuffed and dented.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Slava rushed after a nurse. “Abramson. Room 317.” He pointed.

“Abramson?” she said. Her voice had a thousand cigarettes in it, though her teeth gleamed whitely. She ran her finger down a chart. “Oh, honey, he’ll be fine. His blood is normal, everything’s fine. Heartbreak hotel.”

Slava stared quizzically.