Gary Shteyngart - The Russian Debutante's Handbook

“No,” she said. Only she didn’t say it in mock modesty, such as done with a flourish of the arms and a stretch of the word: “Naaaaaawh.” Instead, it was just a quiet syllable, perhaps one could even read some plaintiveness into it, which surely Vladimir did. Her “no” meant that no, he hadn’t been hearing her name all night. Hers was not a name like that.

Is it possible: Love at first word? And with the first word being “No”? Here one should suspend disbelief and answer affirmatively: Yes, in post–Reagan/Bush Manhattan with its youth pierced, restless, weaned on flashing image and verbally disinclined, it is possible. For with that one word, Vladimir, who had been out of love with himself ever since his ignominious flight from the Midwest, recognized a welcome substitute for self-love. After all, here was a woman who was alone and apart at parties, who worked as a submissive, who, he suspected, allowed herself extravagance only in dress, but otherwise knew that her world had limits.

In other words, he could love her.

And even if his suspicions proved wrong, he was still—it is necessary to admit this—aroused by the thought that foreign hands were upon her body, intent on hurting her, while at the same time wondering what kind of sex they could have together, and what he could do to change her life. And she looked cute, baby fat and all, especially in that unholy get-up. “Okay,” he said, knowing to tread lightly. “I just wanted to meet you, that’s why I came over.” Oh, Vladimir, gentle pick-up artist!

But meet her he did. Clearly it had been a while since a man had talked to her at length and with a minimum of intimidation (Vladimir the foreigner was himself intimidated). The next nine hours were spent talking, first in Baobab’s bedroom, then in a nearby diner, and finally in Vladimir’s bedroom, about their twin escapes—Russia & Connecticut—and within twenty-four hours they were discussing the possibility of further escape, together, into a circumstance where they could at least provide each other with dignity (that exact word was used). By the time Vladimir was ready to kiss her it was already ten in the morning. The kiss was meager yet affectionate, and following the kiss they fell asleep on top of each other, sleeping well into the next day.

BACK AT THEcarcass, Baobab was still going on about Vladimir’s problems in his Baobab way. But Vladimir had just one more thing to say on his own behalf: “Is it true that it could be over with Challah? Can I really end it on my own?” He answered the question himself. Yes, yes. To end it. It had to be done.

“Yes, the break-up,” Baobab said. “If you want my expert help, if you want me to write an essay or something, just ask. Or better yet, let Roberta handle it. She can handle anything.” He sighed.

“Yes, Roberta,” said Vladimir, bent on imitating the cadence of Baobab’s speech. “I’m beginning to see, Bao, that just as I must solve my problems by myself, so you must be a man and do something about the Roberta situation.”

“Something manly?”

“Within reason.”

“Challenge Laszlo to a duel? Like Pushkin?”

“Can you be more successful than Pushkin? Can you see yourself using a side arm, accurately shooting the Tatar, hmm…?”

“Vlad! Are you volunteering to be my second? That’s awfully white of you. Come, let’s kill that bastard.”

“Paff!” Vladimir said. “I won’t take part in this insanity. Besides, you said we were going to drink the night away. You promised me early liver failure.”

“Your friend is reaching out to you, Vladimir,” Baobab said, putting on his crumpled fedora.

“I’m useless in a confrontation. I’ll just be an embarrassment to you. In fact—”

But Baobab cut him off by executing a low bow and heading for the door, the ill effects of his battered hat now visibly compounded by his stupid engineer boots. Poor guy. “Hey! Promise me no fisticuffs,” Vladimir shouted to him.

Baobab blew him a kiss and was gone.

It took a full minute for Vladimir to register the fact that he had been abandoned, left without a drinking partner on a boozy Sunday night.

Without a drinking partner, Vladimir continued drinking. He knew many Russian songs about drinking alone, but the tragicomic import of their stanzas could not dissuade him from a volley of bourbons and the single gin martini that managed to sneak in, its three crisp olives tinkling in a shapely glass. Tonight we drink, but tomorrow…a long stretch of sobriety in which Vladimir would wake up with a clear head and deal knowingly with immigrants. Such fascinating people. How many of his contemporaries, for instance, got to meet the likes of Mr. Rybakov, the Fan Man? And how many could inspire his confidences?

Resolved: Vladimir’s an okay kind of guy. Vladimir toasted to himself with his fifth bourbon, and showed his laminated teeth to the waitress who actually smiled back a little, or at least opened her mouth. “S…” Vladimir began to say (the completed word would have been “So”), but the waitress had already left with a tray of drinks for the graduate students at the billiards table. They drank wild fruity things, the scholars.

Another hour of this, and Vladimir was genuinely debilitated. Nothing could be said in his favor. His image, as seen in a nearby martini decanter, showed a Russian pyanitsa, a drunken lout with his thinning hair slicked down by sweat, the buttons of his shirt opened beyond what was desirable. Even his laminated teeth—the pride of the Girshkins—had somehow attracted a gritty element along the bottom row.

The grad students were still shooting pool, maybe he could wave at them, do a drunken wave, that’s allowed when you’re drunk. He could be a character…

He quaffed the new bourbon down in no time. There was a woman sitting alone at a table no bigger than an ashtray at the end of a row of such tables leading up to the door and the street. How long had she been there? There was something of the pyanitsa in her appearance as well—her head was tilted to one side as if her neck muscles had failed her, her mouth was wide open, her dark hair dried and matted. Also noticeable through Vladimir’s haze was (starting from the top and working down) paleness, dark eyes, a blank gray sweatshirt, more paleness in the hands, and a book. She was reading. She was drinking. If only Bao had left him one of his books, but what for? So they could read at each other across a bar?

He took out a cigarette and lit it. Smoking made our Vladimir feel dangerous, made him think of running through Central Park at this late hour, sprinting to the sound of urban cicadas, zigzagging left and right like a soccer player, fooling death that lurked in the shadows between the park lights.

It was a plan.

He got up to leave, and the woman looked up at him. As he walked toward the door to outwit death in the park, she was still looking at him. She was right in front of him now and she was still looking at him.

He was sitting in the chair opposite her. Something must have tripped him, or else he just found himself sitting down on the warm plastic. The woman looked about twenty, her forehead developing an interstate of life’s first creases.

“I don’t know why I sat down,” Vladimir said. “I’m going to get up now.”

“You scared me,” the woman said. Her voice was deeper than his.

“I’m getting up now,” he said. He put one hand on the table. The book was Manhattan Transfer. “I love that book,” he said. “I’m leaving now. I didn’t mean to sit down.”

Again he was on his feet with the unsteady landscape around him. He saw the doorknob approaching and stuck out an anticipatory hand.

There was a chuckle behind him. “You look like Trotsky,” she said.