Gary Shteyngart - The Russian Debutante's Handbook

As he went past her, he felt a change in temperature; her body was always in deep negotiation with the atmosphere around it, and it made him want to reach out with a comforting arm, the arm he had cultivated for the past month with Francesca. Instead he said: “I’ll have the money by tomorrow. I promise you that.”

Outside, it was Sunday, the first of September. He was homeless in a certain way, but the heat clothed him in several layers, and, of course, Francesca and his new family were only six avenues to the west. Ah, humiliation. It always left him with a vaguely vinegary taste in his mouth, and, when dispensed by a woman, made him long to see his father, who had a singular appreciation for the ego’s lacerations.

Challah had become proficient at her craft.

And he needed money.

PRESENTLY, THE TRUTHbecame obvious: state-sponsored socialism had been a good thing. Vladimir spent his waking hours daydreaming of the simple life of his parents. A walk along the Neva River with your intended: no charge. Box of stale chocolates and one wilted rose: fifty kopeks. Tickets for two to the Worker’s Allegorical Puppet Theater: one ruble, ten kopeks (student rate). Now that was courtship! Empty wallets, empty stores, hearts filled with overflowing… If only he and Frannie could travel back in time, away from the crude avarice of this uncultured metropolis, back to those tender Khrushchev nights.

Vladimir woke up with a start. Oh? And what the hell was this? A daredevil roach was making her way up the death blades of the paper shredder. An enterprising couple in ethnic garb was wrestling with an acculturation facilitator over a set of fingerprints. Dah! He was at work! The Emma Lazarus Immigrant Absorption Society, that nonprofit gulag, was open for business!

Yes, all the signs pointed to his somnolent weekday money-making, every hour bringing with it another U.S.$8.00. He had been asleep from nine to noon. Three hours. Twenty-four dollars. Two dry martinis and a tapa of jamon serrano. A Bombay silk handkerchief for Fran.

“Not enough,” he said aloud. A recent tête-à-tête with his calculator had pinpointed the need for an additional $32,280 per year to meet Challah’s rent and the most basic Fran-based expenditures. With needy eyes he surveyed his little precinct. A junior clerk at the adjacent desk was effortlessly inhaling her homemade noodles and octopus, glancing impatiently at her faux Cartier watch with every breath of food.

“Mmph,” the junior clerk said.

This mindless grunt set Vladimir off on a trail of thoughts which brought him, in a roundabout way, back to the money-centered dreams he had been dreaming for the past three hours, and there, in the middle distance, suspended in the air, there floated…an Idea. A turbo-prop flying over a deserted landing strip, its pilot a certain Soviet sailor-invalid.

It took eight rings for Mr. Rybakov to hop over to his phone. “Allo! Allo!” the breathless Fan Man said. There was splashing in the background. The grind of machinery. A kind of improvised yodeling. Well, someone was starting his afternoon on a high note.

“Allo, Mr. Rybakov. Vladimir Girshkin, your resettlement specialist and faithful servant.”

“And it’s about time,” Rybakov shouted. “The Fan and I were wondering…”

“My apologies. Work, work. The business of America is business, as they say. Listen, I was just inquiring about your case in Washington—”

Vladimir stopped. Okay. That was a lie. Not so hard. Just like lying to Mother. Or pretending with Challah. Now what?

“Washington,” said the Fan Man. “Columbia District. That’s our nation’s capital! Oh, you crafty little fuck… Well done!”

Vladimir took a deep breath. He tugged on his polyester tie. It was time for the pitch. It was time for the money. “I was wondering,” he said, “if you could reimburse me for the plane fare.”

“Of course. Plane fare. Such trifles. How much?”

Vladimir tried on a few sums. “Five hundred dollars,” he said.

“Flying first-class, I see. Only the best for my Girshkin. Say, let’s meet around five. I’ll give you the money and we’ll take the SS Brezhnev for a harbor run.”

“SS Brezhnev? ” Had Mr. Rybakov peeked into Vladimir’s socialist dreams?

“My new speedboat.”

“Capital,” Vladimir said.

AT THE APPOINTEDtime Vladimir squeezed into an elevator. At ground level he found his own tattered compatriots from the office (their loafers scuffed and unpolished, their dresses acrylic blends from bargain basements) flushed out onto Broadway: a single nonprofit ray amid the gleaming masses of the surrounding law offices and investment firms. He quickly crossed the high-rise graveyard of Battery Park City, and arrived, red-cheeked and winded, at the marina.

The SS Brezhnev was a cigarette boat—long, thin, and sleek, a veritable Francesca of the seas—bobbing playfully between two gargantuan yachts, both under the blue flag of Hong Kong, both looking bloated and unwieldy in comparison to their neighbor.

“Ahoy,” Mr. Rybakov cried in English, waving his captain’s hat.

Vladimir clambered onto the boat and hugged the happy Rybakov. He noticed that both he and his host were wearing vintage trousers, plaid shirts, and shiny ties. Throw in the guyabera and janitor pants, and the two of them could start their own clothing line.

“Welcome aboard, friend,” Rybakov said. “A pleasant day for a sail, no? The air is clear, the water placid. And here I have prepared a parcel with your reimbursement and a complimentary sailing cap.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Why, it fits just perfectly.” Now the look was complete.

“I’ve had Brezhnev’s likeness imprinted on the back. And allow me to introduce you to Vladko, my maritime Serb and first mate. Vladko! Come meet Vladimir Girshkin.”

A hatch opened, and from the lower deck there emerged a preternaturally tall, round-chested, pink-eyed, near-naked young man, as substantial as anything Serbian myth ever produced. He blinked repeatedly and covered his eyes. Behind him, a large striped cat (or maybe a small tiger) roamed a devastated landscape of crushed tomato-soup cans, empty gas canisters, deflated soccer balls, and all kinds of time-worn Balkan paraphernalia: coats-of-arms, tricolors, blown-up photographs of fatigue-clad men with guns standing solemnly around makeshift graves.

“Ah, I believe we share practically the same name,” Vladimir told Vladko.

“Ne, ne,” the Serb protested, his expression still that of a man emerging from a bomb shelter. “I am Vladko.” Perhaps his Russian was limited.

“And this,” said Rybakov, pointing to a miniature fan mounted on the dashboard, “is the Fan’s little niece, Fanya.”

“I have had the pleasure of meeting your esteemed uncle,” Vladimir started to say.

“But she’s too young to talk!” Rybakov laughed. “Oh, you romantic cad.” He turned to the Serb: “Vladko, hey there! First mate on the bridge! Start the engines! Away we go!”

With a postindustrial hum like that of a desktop computer powering up, the Brezhnev ’s engines were engaged. Vladko expertly navigated her past the hefty sloops of the marina, setting course around the southern tip of Manhattan Isle. A boat ride! Vladimir thought with childish glee. It was one of the million things he’d never done. Oh, the stench of the open sea!

“What did you see in Washington?” Mr. Rybakov shouted over the gnashing wind and roiling waters, both easily separated by the Brezhnev ’s aerodynamic prow.