Gary Shteyngart - The Russian Debutante's Handbook

In the interim, his recent maneuvers with the airline had empowered him, and now he was ready to dispense some authority Baobab’s way. He dialed the bastard collect, and after the familiar, bumbling voice hesitantly accepted the charges, Vladimir began without restraint: “So, I just spent some time looking over Jordi’s prick, and I meant to ask you, to borrow Jordi’s words, how do you take it?”

On the opposite end of the eastern seaboard there was silence. “And he still hasn’t given you the Brooklyn College franchise?” Vladimir said. “I think for all your hard work you might at least demand Brooklyn. Don’t sell yourself short, Thumper.”

“He didn’t, did he?” Baobab said.

“No, he didn’t, you living proof of social Darwinism. I’m standing by the road to the airport, my shoulder’s bashed in, I can hardly walk, but my asshole’s still intact, thanks for asking.”

“Listen.” Baobab paused as if he himself was listening. “I really didn’t… He would grope me sometimes or squeeze my ass, but I thought—”

“You thought?” Vladimir said. “Are you sure? Remember how you always had extra time on tests in school because you had the doctor’s note saying you were dyslexic? You faked that note, didn’t you? Come clean now. You’re not dyslexic, you’re just a fucking idiot, am I right?”

“Now—”

“Now let’s take stock, why don’t we? You’re twenty-five years of age, majoring in Humor Studies, your girlfriend can’t go to the movies without a legal guardian, and your boss is keen on banging your bum for kicks. And you wonder why you don’t get together with Fran and her friends more often? Believe me, that would be the last I’d ever see of Fran. Her anthropological curiosity only goes so far.”

“Okay,” Baobab said. “I heard you. Okay. Where are you, exactly?”

“Are you going to make everything all right, sweetheart?”

Baobab remained calm. “Where are you, Vladimir?”

“I told you, on the way to the airport. My meter’s running.”

“And where is Jordi?”

“Gee, I would think he’s trying to find me, unrequited love and all.”

“Cut it, cut it,” Baobab said. “So he tried to… And you ran away?”

“Well, I hit him first,” Vladimir said. “I socked him a nice one!” Socked him a nice one? When would this night end already?

“Jesus Christ. You really are fucked beyond anything. Listen, don’t take a plane to New York. Go to Wichita, go to Peoria—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” shouted Vladimir, a pinch of apprehension already registering on his uncharted Fear-Money gland, uncharted save for when it ran against his bladder. “What, he’s going to track me down in New York and kill me?”

“I doubt that he is the one that’s going track you down, but, yes, he might very well take the time out to kill you, and maybe fuck you one last time for good measure. Vlad, listen to me! He’s got a hundred people working for him in the Bronx alone. Last year my friend Ernest, this crazy spic who used to run the LaGuardia College franchise, he called Jordi a maricón, as a joke, you understand…”

“And?”

“‘And?’ you say? And? Who do you think these people are?” Baobab shouted. “The Catalan cartel! My God, the way they kill, the flair with which they commit violence… It’s modernismo! Even you Russians can learn a thing or two. And then there’s the fact that he tried to… That you know that he’s—”

“I see what you’re saying, now. You’re saying that although you were fully aware that this man is a killer and a pederast, you nonetheless encouraged me to go down to Florida with him. To stay in the same hotel with him.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know? I knew he liked that waif look, but you’ve got all that hair on your face.”

“Not anymore, you dolt!”

“Look, you needed the money!” Baobab said. “I thought this was a way to win back your respect. You’re the only friend I have, and you’ve been spending all your time—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now. You are one deluded monkey, Baobab. I’m trying to stay mad at you, but it’s not easy considering… Considering this is just a night for me, but you’re going to spend an entire lifetime in this condition. Fare thee well, my poor sod.”

“Wait a second! He’s probably tapped my line. He’s probably going to have the Miami airport surrounded.”

“Well, he’s in for a surprise because I’m going to the Fort Lauderdale airport.”

“Jesus Christ! Don’t tell me that! The phone’s bugged.”

“Yes, and I’m sure all of Lauderdale is surrounded by angry Catalonians with semiautomatics and glossy headshots of me. Is there free therapy at City College? Why don’t you look into that after your humor class?”

“Wait! Forget the bus terminals and the train stations! And don’t rent a car! He can trace…”

Vladimir hung up and ran to his impatient Israeli.

“Onward!” he shouted.

“YOU’RE IN BIGtrouble, nachon meod?” the Lion said. He laughed and laughed, upsetting the rearview mirror with his happy hands.

Vladimir looked up. He had actually been asleep for a minute or two. This is what extreme fear did to him after its initial effects petered out: it put him to sleep. A thoroughly fear-inducing, but somehow dreamless sleep, its sole background—a bottomless void.

A look out the window proved that all of Florida looked exactly the same from a moving vehicle. The sign on the opposite side of the highway read: BAL HARBOUR 20. Bal Harbour was to the immediate north of Miami Beach. That was good. They were headed in the right direction and the highway was empty.

Now what the hell was that Lion saying? Vladimir recognized the last two words from Hebrew school. “Nachon meod,” Vladimir repeated.

“So I was right!” the Israeli said. “You are a Russian Jew. No wonder you’re in trouble. You people are always in trouble. You make the Spanish look good.”

Hey, what did everyone have against the impoverished, yet always-yearning Russian people? “Aw, come on, hever, ” Vladimir said, remembering the Hebrew word for “friend.” “You’re hurting my feelings.”

“I’m not your hever, asshole. So what did you do back there? Kill your girlfriend?”

Vladimir ignored his comment. He was on his way. Soon his long Floridian nightmare would be over. He would never have to look at a palm tree again, or deal with another coarse, gaudy, overweight peasant.

“Hey, doesn’t that sign say ‘airport?’”

The Lion hit his horn to warn a moped of impending disaster, then swerved right. They drove in silence for a while, the overhead roar of jet engines providing a soothing accompaniment for Vladimir, reminding him that in less than an hour it would be his turn to take to the air. Every sign they passed said “airport” now, or else “motel” or “lobster.” Eat, screw, and leave: that was the narrative of this particular highway.

Gradually, the traffic worsened, and the Lion began moaning familiar Hebrew curses, which constituted the bulk of Vladimir’s knowledge of that language. Whoredom was a big theme with the Israelites. ‘Go fuck your mother and bring me a receipt,’ that was a popular one. Sex, family, commerce—it pushed all the right buttons.

They were creeping along, now. The moon, low and pink, looked perfect for this setting (why was New York’s moon always so lofty and gray?).

There were two peach Cadillacs in front of them and one on the left. He must have booked a seat on some kind of senior citizens’ special. He looked at the flight info scribbled on his hand. He checked his still-unsold Rolex. Flight 320, depart Fort Lauderdale 8:20, arrive New York La Guardia 10:35. The official dénouement of his peripatetic little southern tragedy would soon be printed out on card stock and placed in a paper folder with the airline’s logo.