Gary Shteyngart - The Russian Debutante's Handbook
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- Название:The Russian Debutante's Handbook
- Автор:
- Издательство:Riverhead Books
- Жанр:
- Год:2003
- Город:New York
- ISBN:0-7865-4177-6
- Рейтинг книги:4 / 5. Голосов: 1
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The Russian Debutante's Handbook: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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and
. The Russian Debutante’s Handbook Bursting with wit, humor, and rare insight,
is both a highly imaginative romp and a serious exploration of what it means to be an immigrant in America.
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This was wise. As he approached the street’s curve, which would definitively take him out of the Russians’ line of sight, the twin banks of sooty buildings echoed Shurik’s unhappy voice: “HALT!”
Exert!
And he was gone, the architecture scrolling around him, an engine swiftly firing up a dozen meters behind. Now he could only feel his head and his two feet—one, two, one, two—carrying aloft the rest of his ridiculous body, like Kostya bearing his cross. And the wind! The damn wind blew the wrong way down the never-ending street like a reprimand, slamming into Vladimir’s unfortunate chest, knocking out his air supply.
A reprisal! Like a nesting doll, the side street bore a side street. Following the rules of escape, Vladimir ducked into it. But the alley must have harbored some obscure museum, for it was chock-full of melancholy school children being siphoned through, like a slow-motion running of the bulls.
Vladimir stopped, regained a single breath, and shouted: “The Russians are coming! Run!” This warning proved especially legitimate since it was shouted in Russian and against the background of a steadily exploding hundred-meter statue of Stalin’s Foot. Pandemonium broke out, with the kiddies bleating, school bags flying through the air, teachers pushing their plumpness forward into children, children squeezed into the gray plaster of buildings, falling like toy soldiers into the vestibule of a new subterranean pizza parlor. Waving his hand in the air like a flag of national resistance, Vladimir charged through, still screaming his warning; he managed to knock down only one kid—a slow, sad-looking little Kafka who reminded Vladimir very much of himself as a child. He was sorry to see him go.
Forward! Ahead, a great light spilled into the side street, a light born of uncluttered space, of an enormous boulevard, of Prospekt Narodna—the Avenue of the Nation! Still screaming his dated warning, Vladimir careened into a crowd of peace-loving lunchtime strollers, all craning their necks to see the carnage of the Foot, caught up in the universal mood of astonishment and joy.
Behind him, his pursuers let loose the klaxon to clear the side street of third-graders. Not an easy task, since the alleyway was about as big as the BMW itself, and the sidewalks could accommodate only so many little Stolovans.
Feeling time was on his side, Vladimir pushed through the knots of businessmen in purple suits and white socks and leapt into the middle of the street. Once again, he ran. Only now there was no duality of smashed torso and Olympian legs. There was only pain and speed! Now, the happy wind was on the right side of history, and it spoke louder than the clang of the long-beaked tram heading in his direction: VLADIMIR VICTORIOUS!
He altered his course by a hair and brushed past the cream-and-orange streetcar, catching sight of the terrified babushka s clutching their Kmart bags within, for up ahead was the storied store itself. But Vladimir couldn’t even contemplate escaping into men’s casuals, just as in his frenzy he had lost sight of his original goal: finding a taxi, of which surely a dozen green exemplars by now had passed, alongside a procession of police cars, lights ablaze, rushing toward the burning Foot.
One! two! one! two! with the legs, not stopping even for a breath until the counting became a singular onetwooo, when suddenly the Prospekt Narodna concluded itself and he had to apply the brakes.
Ahead, the hazy blue of the Tavlata and a bridge spanning its length. The thought of being trapped on the bridge with nothing but the murky river below did not appeal; Vladimir turned right on the embankment, but at this point suffered a brief convulsion. His ribs scraped against each other with the imagined sound of cutlery and an immense ball of blood anchored in phlegm rose up to coat his mouth with metal. Bent over with pain, his former speed unthinkable, Vladimir made slow progress up the embankment toward the castle in the distance.
He passed the famed restaurant where he had eaten with the Groundhog, and briefly considered taking refuge in its international quarters. Any place with nymphs on the walls and Cole Porter on the piano could not possibly play host to an afternoon assassination. But the building next to it was by far more intriguing. An enormous Stolovan tricolor hung from the ground-level window; it was distinguished by the socialist star, long since banished from similar flags. Indeed, if one strained one’s ears against the hum of the city, the “Internationale,” shrill and raspy, could be heard from within like a painful birth. Of course! The Great Hall of People’s Friendship! This was where František delivered his well-paid speeches to the old communist faithful.
In the distance, where the Prospekt Narodna lapsed into the river, the auto of Shurik and Log ground itself to a full and complete stop with smoking tires and all the appropriate sounds. Vladimir turned to the other direction, the direction of further escape, to catch the monstrous, sloping hood of the Groundhog’s customized Beamer easing its way onto the embankment. And so his fate was sealed.
Past a thick velvet curtain lay the bottom floor of a spacious villa converted into an auditorium. A marble Lenin towered over an empty podium. The podium itself looked out over rows of folding chairs occupied by the Sons and Daughters of the Radiant Future—those crisp octogenarians—the grandmas still dressed in blue work dresses, their revolutionary spouses now sporting significant bosoms to which their many insignia were pinned.
Toward the front of the room, by Lenin’s left toe, to be exact, Vladimir caught sight of the youngest person in the joint save himself. His question mark of a cowlick had always been a dead giveaway in a crowded bar. František, with the benefit of his height, noticed Vladimir as well and quickly started making his way back, managing to shake every single hand that was offered him, like a rabbi during a break in the minyan services. “What the hell?” he said, pushing Vladimir back toward the velvet curtain and the street outside.
“I couldn’t get a cab!” Vladimir shouted.
“ Jesusmaria! How did you find this place?”
“The flag… You told me…” Vladimir closed his eyes and remembered to breathe at any cost. He breathed. “Look, they’ve surrounded the two streets, this way and that way. They’re going to start going into buildings. Do you see what I mean?” He looked around to see if any Guardians of the Foot were present, fearful they might recognize him from Morgan’s showdown at Big Toe… But all the babushka s looked the same to him.
“What about the Foot?” František said. “I felt the ground shaking. I thought—”
“It’s gone,” Vladimir said. “Finished.”
His voice carried all too well. Gray heads were turning, chairs squeaking backward, and the hall was soon suffused with amazed whispers of “Trotsky!”
At first, František did not pay these rumors any notice, probably figuring that anything at all could have stirred up the waves of senility fiercely undulating through the room. Instead, he was trying to calm Vladimir, reminding him that they were in this together, that they were both fellow travelers, “men of taste in a tasteless world,” and that he would do anything to save Vladimir. But by then the disparate whispers of “Trotsky!” were united into a single proletarian chant, and the two could no longer ignore the gathering momentum. With embarrassed smiles they turned to face the People and affected a little wave of the hand.
“Interesting,” František said, as he energetically massaged his bare temples. “How very Menshevik of them. I would never have imagined…But all right…Never mind. Shall we try for Plan Z, then? I take it you still know your Marxism-Leninism, Tovarishch Trotsky?”
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