Gary Shteyngart - The Russian Debutante's Handbook

“See, here’s the thing about you, Vladimir,” she said. “I like you because you’re nothing like my boyfriends back home and you’re nothing like Tomaš either… You’re worthwhile and interesting, but at the same time you’re… You’re partly an American, too. Yeah, that’s it! You’re needy in a kind of foreign way, but you’ve also got these… American qualities. So we have all these overlaps. You can’t imagine some of the problems I had with Tomaš… He was just…”

Too much of a good thing, Vladimir thought. Well then, here was the scorecard: Vladimir was fifty percent functional American, and fifty percent cultured Eastern European in need of a haircut and a bath. He was the best of both worlds. Historically, a little dangerous, but, for the most part, nicely tamed by Coca-Cola, blue-light specials, and the prospect of a quick pee during commercial breaks.

“And we can go back to the States when all this is over,” Morgan said, grabbing his hand and starting to pull him back to her panelak with its promise of stale Hungarian salami and a glowing space heater. “We can go home!” she said.

Home! It was time to go home! She had selected her quasi-foreign mate of a line-up of wobbly candidates, and soon it would be time to head back to Shaker Heights. Plus, as an added bonus, she didn’t even have to declare him at customs; Citizen Vladimir had his own shiny blue passport embossed with a golden eagle. Yes, it was all coming together now.

But how could Vladimir abandon all that he had achieved? He was the King of Prava. He had his very own Ponzi scheme. He was avenging himself for his entire rotten childhood, swindling hundreds of people who most likely deserved his vengeance. He was going to make Mother proud. No, he wouldn’t go home!

“But I’m making money here,” Vladimir protested.

“It’s okay to make some money,” Morgan said. “We could always use the money. But Tomaš and I are going to wrap it up with the Foot pretty soon. We’re thinking maybe April or so for the detonation. You know, I can’t wait for that damn thing to explode already.”

“Eh…” Vladimir paused. He was attempting, momentarily, to order and catalog her entire psychology. Let’s see. Blowing up the Foot was an act of aggression against the father, right? Therefore, Stalin’s Foot represented the authoritarian constraints of a Middle American family, ja? A Day in the Life of Morgan Jenson, that sort of thing. So her panic attacks were gone because, to quote her campus shrink, Morgan was lashing out. At the Foot. With Semtex. Or C4, rather.

“Morgan—” Vladimir started to say.

“Come on,” she said. “Walk faster. I’ll make us a bath. A nice warm bath.”

Vladimir dutifully increased his pace. He looked back once more at the condemned panelak s and at the blazing ravine, and noticed the quadruped figure of a stray dog pawing the edge of the precipice, trying to see if it could slip down to the warmth of the tire factory without losing its canine footing. “But Morgan!” Vladimir shouted, yanking her coat sleeve, suddenly worried about the most elemental thing of all.

She turned around and presented him with the Face of the Tent, the halo of sympathy he had found in her eyes after he had climbed on top of her. Oh, she knew what he wanted, this shivering homeless Russian man in a pair of purple earmuffs from Kmart-Prava. She grabbed his hands and pressed it to her heart buried deep beneath her peacoat. “Yes, yes,” she said, hopping on one foot to keep warm. “Of course, I love you. Please just don’t worry about that.”

HE LEARNED NOTto worry about it. He put his arms around her. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. She must have done likewise.

Their devotion to their strange projects was inspiring. They were as busy as New York office workers and Vladimir, for his part, just as productive. By the end of the year the PravaInvest juggernaut had rumbled across the expatriate landscape to collect over five million U.S. dollars through sales of its uncommon stock, its brisk business in veterinarian supplies, and the quick turnover at the Metamorphosis Lounge. The FutureTek 2000 even presented the public with a shiny plastic box labeled “fax modem.”

The dedicated staff was mobilized. Kostya took the financial reigns, František ran the burgeoning agit-prop machine, Marusya performed daily miracles out in the opium fields, Paavo dropped “phat” beats with distinction, and Cohen even managed to turn out a spiffy little literary journal.

Yes, a lot had happened to Cohen since the misadventure with Gusev and the skinheads, his much-trumpeted liaison with Alexandra being but one long ostrich feather in his mighty rabbit-fur cap. Recently, for example, Vladimir’s friend had delved into Cagliostro in a way that, clearly, he had never delved into anything before. Each week he managed to spend at least fifty hours at the computer, surprising himself with what his single-mindedness and organizational skills could accomplish even when creativity failed. Cohen was even planning to use his night of Gusevian woe as a starting point for a long essay on the failings of Europe and, unavoidably, his father.

Satisfied of his subordinates’ entrepreneurial zeal, Vladimir allowed himself a month in the West with Morgan. The first week of March found them in Madrid running from club to club with a group of friendly Madrileños who chased after the night’s pleasure with the zest of Americans dashing after Pamplona bulls. Weeks two and three were spent in Paris, particularly at a mellow Marais boîte where some kind of fusion jazz was served up with a course of cheeses, and much champagne was consumed. By the fourth week Vladimir woke up at London’s Savoy Hotel, as if hoping that its proximity to the financial doings of London’s City would cure his hangover with a shot of Anglo mercantilism. Sobriety was desperately needed: Cohen had talked him into a trip to Auschwitz some thirty hours later. “For my essays,” he had said.

Vladimir spent the day in the bathtub, alternately soaking himself then getting up to shower. It was a beast to behold, this shower: four separate heads that attacked from all angles: a regular spray from on top, a drip by shoulder level, a fountain straight to the hip, and a risqué geyser that rammed into Vladimir’s genital area (to be used sparingly, that one). When he was dizzy from shower, Vladimir would sink back into the tub and thumb through the Herald Tribune, which thankfully had little to say that day, much like Vladimir himself.

With darkness only a few hours away, Vladimir dried his newly plump little body and started dressing for the evening. Morgan was still passed out, her behind lifting and falling slowly beneath the sheets in keeping with her subdued breath; she was dreaming perhaps of her terrorism or some long-dead family pet. After admiring this sight for a bit Vladimir gazed out the window where he could see a sliver of the Thames and a rain-soaked shoulder of St. James. Part of the view was taken up by a lonely skyscraper off in the distance, which, Vladimir had read in the hotel’s glossy literature, was a new development called Canary Wharf, billed as the tallest building in Europe. An architectural nostalgic, Vladimir recalled one of the last times he had spent with Baobab, sitting up on his friend’s roof, looking at the lone tower they were building across the East River in Queens.

He watched the Wharf for an indeterminate amount of time, letting himself be taken back to the days when Challah and Baobab could still count as the sum total of his affections; when through their failings he could draw comparative strength; when that childish feeling of superiority had been enough to sustain him. By the end of this reverie he found that his mobile had crawled into his hand. The dial tone hummed, indicating that the phone had been engaged.