Gary Shteyngart - Absurdistan

And Mommy was dead. There was no one to knock him over the head with the frying pan. No Mommy, no Soviet power, nothing to fight for—he could do as he pleased. Waiting for him outside the prison gates, he found a chauffeured Volga sedan, the kind that used to ferry around Soviet apparatchiks. And standing in the shadow of the Volga, with his hands in the pockets of his dungarees and fat loving tears in his eyes, was his giant uncircumcised son.

The two-year anniversary of my own Russian imprisonment passed without ceremony. July gained in days; the White Nights were no longer so white, the blanched evening sky gave way to a palette of genuine blue, the seasonal madness of my servants—their lusty cries and frequent couplings—abated. And still I would not leave my bed. I was waiting for my analyst.

On the day Dr. Levine finally returned from Rio, the widowed Mrs. Vainberg called me, begging for an audience, her voice an accordion of unhappiness and dread. “What do I do, Misha?” Lyuba cried. “Teach me how to sit shiva for the dead. What are the Jewish customs?”

“Are you sitting down on a cardboard box?” I asked her.

“I’m sitting on a broken toaster.”

“Good enough. Now cover up all the mirrors. And maybe don’t eat pork salami for a couple of days.”

“I’m all alone,” she said in a thin, automatic voice. “Your father’s gone. I need a man’s hand to guide me.”

This kind of antediluvian talk made me anxious. A man’s hand? Jesus Christ. But then I remembered Lyuba standing up for my Beloved Papa at the funeral, trying to launch herself at Oleg the Moose. I felt sad for her. “Where are you, Lyuba?”

“At the kottedzh. The damn mosquitoes are killing me. Ai, Misha, everything reminds me of your father. Like this seven-pronged Jewish candelabra and the little black boxes he used to wrap around his arm. Judaity is so complicated.”

“Complicated, yes. I lost half my khui over it.”

“Would you like to come over?” she asked. “I bought some orange towels.”

“I need some rest, sladkaya, ” I said. “Maybe in a week or two.” Oh, Lyuba. What would become of her? She was twenty-one. The peak of her beauty had passed. And what did I just call her? Sladkaya ? My sweet one?

Timofey trudged in, a weak, servile smile hoisted onto his grim physiognomy. “I brought you a fresh bottle of Ativan from the American Clinic, batyushka, ” he said, brandishing a large sack of medications. “You know, Priborkhin’s master was also in bed with depression, but then he took a little Zoloftushka and some Prozakchik, and off he went to run with the bulls in Spain!”

“I don’t know about selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors,” I said. “I think I should stick just to anti-anxiety meds for now.”

“I want only to see batyushka smiling and throwing his shoe at me with vigor,” Timofey said, bowing as far as his cracked spine allowed.

I dialed Dr. Levine on my mobilnik. Our sessions began at five P.M. St. Leninsburg time, which meant morning on Park Avenue, the hearty American grasses swaying over the landscaped median, a procession of dark blue Town Cars ferrying moneymakers downtown, everybody tastefully dressed and with no blood on their hands. Or not too much blood, anyway.

I imagined Dr. Levine—his Semitic face freshly tanned from the beaches of Ipanema, his belly perfectly rounded from a judicious intake of churrasco and black beans—looking over the empty leather couch before him, the speakerphone turned on, the room ablaze with photographs of colorful Sioux tepees, perhaps suggesting the pathway to a better self, that tight little wigwam inside my heart.

“I’m mi-se-ra-ble, Doctor,” I howled into my mobilnik. “Lots of dreams about my papa and me paddling a boat down the Mississippi, which becomes the Volga and then some kind of African river. Or sometimes I’m eating a pierogi and my dead papa’s inside. Like I’m a cannibal.”

“What else comes to mind about that?” Dr. Levine said.

“I dunno. My manservant says I should start taking reuptake inhibitors.”

“Let’s wait another week or so before we reconsider your regimen.” I listened as Dr. Levine’s humane voice crackled across the incomprehensible distance between here and there. I wanted to reach out and hug him across the ether, but that’s just the transference talking. In fact, we used to have a strict No Hugs Rule when I saw him in person. “How are the panic attacks?” he asked. “Are you taking Ativan?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been bad, Doctor! I’ve been mixing it up with alcohol, which I shouldn’t do, right?”

“You shouldn’t mix Ativan with alcohol. That’s right.”

“So I’ve been bad!”

Silence. I could almost hear him wiping his tender, doughy nose. He gets allergies in the summer, poor guy—his only weakness. Dr. Levine is in his fifties, but, like many Americans of his social class, he has the boxy chest of an athletic twenty-five-year-old and a tight, if slightly feminine, behind. I am not a homosexual by any stretch, and yet I have dreamed many times of making passionate love to his ass, my big body draped over his smaller one, my hands rubbing his sweet gray-bearded muzzle. “Do you want me to say that you’re bad?” Dr. Levine said evenly into his speakerphone. “Do you want me to hold you responsible for your father’s death?”

“Oh, God, no,” I said. “I mean, in some way I’ve always hoped that he would die…Oh, I see what you’re saying. Oh, shit, right…I’m a bad, bad son.”

“You’re not a bad son,” Dr. Levine said. “I think part of the problem for the past two years is that you don’t really do anything with your time. You don’t spend it profitably, the way you did in New York. And your father’s death obviously doesn’t help things.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m like that Oblomov character who never gets out of bed. How sad for me.”

“I know you don’t want to be in Russia,” Dr. Levine said, “but until you can figure a way out, you have to learn to deal with your situation.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, fiddling with a fresh Ativan bottle.

“Now, remember when you were in New York, you kept telling me how beautiful Moscow is…”

“St. Petersburg, actually.”

“Sure,” Dr. Levine allowed. “St. Petersburg. Well, why don’t you start by going for a walk. Look at some of that beauty you love. Take some time to relax and feel yourself distracted by something other than your problems.”

I thought of spending a day at the pleasant Summer Gardens, eating a stick of ice cream beneath a belligerent-looking statue of Minerva. I should have bought many more ice creams when Rouenna was around, although we did enjoy at least five a day. If only I had treated her better, maybe she wouldn’t sleep with that bastard Jerry Shteynfarb, maybe she would have stayed with me in Russia. “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I must do…Precisely. I’ll put on my walking shorts right away.” Then, before I could stop the transference, I blurted out, “I really love you, Doctor…”

And then I started to cry.

I didn’t last long in the Summer Gardens. All the shady benches were taken; the heat was abusive; pious grandmothers passing by with their young charges would use me to illustrate four of the seven deadly sins. And my Rouenna, with her zippy bravado and distaste for all things classical (“Some of these statues ain’t got no ass, Misha”), was nowhere to be found.