Los Angeles Noir (22 page)

“As if I don’t know how. Look at this wind. We’ll catch pneumonia here, thanks to your stupid plans,” mumbled Ivan Denisovich.

His friend ignored him, adjusting his Lakers cap that was clipped to the back of his shirt.

Ivan Denisovich ripped the umbrella off his chair. Why would he need it anyway? People know too much here. Cancer? Crap. Too much information leads to panic. He was old enough to die of natural causes before skin cancer would catch up with him.

He sat down in his chair, enjoying the view. The sun heated up his face, but it was still a winter sun, caressing, not brutal. He took off his hat and let the sun tickle his bald spot. Funny, even now with nothing left to live for, it was hard to let go of all this: the expanse of the ocean, the hazy sprawl of the beach, the seagulls, the annoying rumble of the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. It was good to be alive. No, he was not ready. He got up and covered his head, protecting it from the sun.

“Here, put some on.” He handed a tube of Coppertone to Grigory, who was already casting his rod on the water below, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. “You should quit that crap, especially with your heart!”

“Hand me a beer. And stop being my wife.”

“Where is it? I just put the cooler right here.” Ivan Denisovich searched behind the chairs. The cooler had vanished, and so had the two hobos. He peered at the crowd and spotted the two emaciated figures in dirty clothes escaping down the pier.

“Grisha, look!”

Grigory Petrovich pulled on his glasses and immediately dashed after the hobos.
“Dergy ih! Pivo! Moyo pivo!”
he yelled in pursuit, his sandals flapping against his heels.

People stared at him and made way, probably thinking another nut had been prematurely released from a psychiatric hospital. The hobos were younger and faster. The cooler was the only thing slowing them down, because it had no handle. They opened it on the run, each grabbing a can of Coors and a foil-wrapped sandwich, and threw the cooler on the ground. The ice spilled onto the asphalt with a loud crashing sound that made everyone turn.

“Beer, my beer!” Grigory yelled in English, but too late. He slowed down and grabbed his chest.

The crowd disapproved generally, of both the hobos and this gibbering old fool. Ivan Denisovich watched, afraid to leave the rest of their stuff behind.

“Grish, come on,
nuuh
, forget the beer,” he called. “Grisha, what’s up? You sick?”

Grigory Petrovich coughed, holding his chest, then made a sign to his friend to wait. People stopped gawking and went back to minding their own business. A woman in a flowing florid dress picked up the cooler and the bottle of water that had rolled out, and together with her toddler carried them over to Grigory.

Nodding at them, Grigory searched in his pockets with one hand, and revealed an old melted Tootsie Roll. He handed it to the mesmerized boy, who automatically stretched out his hand, but the mother deftly snatched it and smiled at Grigory.

“The hell with you,” he sighed, and walked back to Ivan Denisovich.

“Grish, you all right?”

“I’m dandy,” replied Grigory, pale and still panting.

“Sit down.” Ivan Denisovich pushed forward the chair, which immediately tipped over.

“A-ha-ha-ha!” exploded Grigory, and went into another coughing fit.

Ivan Denisovich handed him the recaptured bottle of water.

“The hell with it all.” Grigory picked up the chair. “It’s just too bad about the beer. The beer was a nice touch.”

Ivan Denisovich patted him on the back. “Let’s go, Vanya,” he said. “Let’s go to Plummer Park and play chess.”

Ivan Denisovich lived near Plummer Park in West Hollywood, and he often came here to listen to the mellifluous simmer of Russian speech and the sound of dominoes slammed against the table boards. He would close his eyes and imagine he was in Russia, especially when jasmine was in bloom.

But the park was changing. Young mothers brought children here after the city had built a jungle gym. The yuppies in the area came to play tennis at the city courts, disrupting the old-country rhythms of the park with their loud laughter and dull thuds of the ball. The commanding and confusing sound of English had already subjugated the fading sounds of Russian, as adolescents, none of them Russian, mind you, gathered to watch the endless chess games that Russian retirees played on the picnic tables. They could still teach a thing or two to this underwear-flashing generation.

Grigory Petrovich and Ivan Denisovich bought lunch at the Russian market on the way back from the beach. They sat on benches across from each other at the unusually empty end of a picnic table and opened the white paper packages. The aroma of dark rye, spicy Russian mustard, and fresh Mortadella were enough to convince them that the seven dollars they had squandered was well worth it. Grigory Petrovich bit into the crunchy half-pickled cucumbers, available only at the Russian market that, for some reason, disguised itself under the enigmatic and misleading name, The European Deli. Life was good again.

“Set them up, Vanya. I’m gonna kick your butt, as they say in America.” His teeth crunched against the taut flesh of the pickle, its subtle saltiness a perfect match for the robust flavor of the sandwich.

“
Black Sea and the sacred Baikal,”
Grigory blasted, following his opening gambit.

Ivan Denisovich wiped his forehead and neck with a handkerchief. The weather made it hard to concentrate. He was convinced that hot weather was responsible for the collapse of many ancient civilizations. Who could think in the heat?

Grigory unwrapped the dry salted fish from the market, and, holding it by the tail, hit it against the edge of the picnic table to soften it up.

“You’re distracting me.”

“Tugodum,
lighten up, you old goat. We’re not playing for money,” laughed Grigory, peeling the skin off the fish.

“Don’t you dare touch the chess pieces with those fishy fingers. It’ll make me vomit.”

“There you are again, just like Valentina. Nudge, nudge, whine, whine.”

Ivan Denisovich, nauseous from the sight of the fish, and yet feeling suddenly at home, inhaled as if it were the aroma of lilacs in spring and moved his knight to the middle of the board in what he thought was a very elegant combination. Yet as soon as he let go of the piece, he realized his mistake. How could he not have noticed that he was exposing his king? How could he be so stupid? He felt embarrassed. If Grigory didn’t see it, he would convert to Catholicism and start believing in miracles. Why was he playing chess instead of shopping for Sofia Arkadievna?

“Nuuh,
Denisich, watch out! It’s over, pal.”

Grigory Petrovich grabbed his Queen, leaned back in a slow swoon, as if ready for a backstroke, and suddenly plunked back off the bench, flat on the ground. The children continued to run and giggle by the jungle gym, the chess and domino players were absorbed in their own games. Ivan Denisovich thought it was some kind of a joke again. He peeked under the table, but his friend remained on the ground, clutching the Queen in this stiff fist. Ivan Denisovich carefully slipped off the bench and stared at the lifeless body by his feet.

“Pomogite!
Somebody, help! Call an ambulance!” he screamed, and dropped on his knees in front of Grigory. “Grisha, Grish! Come on! Cut it out! Look, I’m right here! Don’t go! The ambulance is coming! Grisha! Somebody, help!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, shaking Grigory Petrovich, lifting his head off the dusty ground.

The children’s laughter from the playground merged with the sharp siren of the approaching ambulance. Mothers clutched their babies as if death was contagious. A few men stopped their game of chess and surrounded the prostrate body.

Two exhausted paramedics, a man and a young woman, jumped out of the vehicle and checked Grigory Petrovich’s pulse. They ordered the spectators to step back and pulled a box out of the van. The man efficiently exposed Grigory Petrovich’s pallid chest with its flowerbed of gray hair, and attached the defibrillator pads to his skin. The girl pressed the button on the box, following her partner’s signal. Grigory’s body jolted on the ground, lifting his feet and head, and sprawled back, lifeless. He was like one of those rubber frogs that leaped when air was pumped into them through a tube. They did it again, this time his feet shook longer, but seemingly without any relationship to the rest of his body. They tried once more for good measure, but it was clear—he was gone.

Ivan Denisovich stood, paralyzed. His extremities stiffened and froze, despite the heat, and his head buzzed. He watched the paramedics load Grigory Petrovich into the van and close the door. Someone pointed to him, and the young woman in the paramedic uniform shook his shoulder. She held a pad in her hand and asked him something. He didn’t respond. She offered him water.

He pushed away the plastic cup and whispered, “Grisha.”

She handed him a pen and held her pad pointing to the empty page. He understood, and wrote,
Grigory Petrovich Shurov—May 13, 1931, Moskva, U.S.S.R.
He wished he could add
war hero
, or something important to the line, but Grigory didn’t have any distinctions, and was too young to have participated in the war.

Ivan Denisovich climbed inside the ambulance and sat across from the zipped-up plastic bag that used to be his best friend. He tried to avoid looking at the slug-shaped object laid out on the gurney, but his eyes kept drifting to the head, because the zipper was right over Grigory’s large nose, and Ivan worried about it leaving scratches on his face.

He had to tell Valentina, but how could he? He remembered a Jewish joke where a man was sent to gently deliver the news to the wife that her husband had passed away. He rang the doorbell and an attractive woman opened the apartment door. “Is widow Abramowitz home?” he asked, removing his hat. “Why widow? I have a husband,” she replied with arrogance.
“Bubkas
is what you have instead of a husband,” blurted out the man, and ran for the exit.

Ivan Denisovich smiled and immediately started to weep, because he knew that no one except Grigory would have understood him joking now.

The door opened and Valentina stared at him from the dim apartment. The smell of burning canola oil enveloped the two of them like a nostalgic blanket.

“Nuuh,
finally. Where’s my oaf? Parking? We’ve been going crazy looking for you. Sofia called four times.” She winked at Ivan Denisovich. “Jealous.”

Valentina’s blue eye shadow had caked over her eyelids, her hair was up in soft pink rollers, and she wore white fluffy rabbit slippers.
The Queen of Fucking Everything
sparkled from her apron.

Ivan Denisovich had rehearsed his lines several times on the way from the hospital, but
Hold yourself together, Valentina, your husband is deceased
just wouldn’t roll off his tongue.

“Valyusha, our Grishka is gone,” he gushed, and collapsed on her shoulder.

“Are you drunk? Idiot.” She shook him, trying to find his face. “What the hell you’re talking about?”

“He’s dead, Valya!” slobbered Ivan Denisovich. “Something’s burning in the kitchen.”

Valentina stood there blocking the entrance, staring not so much at Ivan Denisovich as inside herself. She pushed him out of her way and dashed downstairs, her slippers flapping against her rough bare heels.

“He’s not there,” yelled Ivan Denisovich, and followed her down, holding onto the railing.

Valentina darted to the corner and looked up and down the street, then froze, watching Ivan Denisovich’s solitary figure approach her. His shoulders sank and his face turned sullen. He opened his arms to embrace her, uncertain which one of them needed to be held more.

“No. No, no.” She pushed him away. “He can’t do this to me.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips as if plotting revenge for Grigory Petrovich’s return.

“Come,” Ivan Denisovich said quietly. “Let’s go in. You’ll burn down the house.”

They sat on the sofa holding onto each other. The TV flickered with grainy images from Russian
Candid Camera
. A pretty young woman with fake hair glued to her back asked strangers on the beach to help her apply sunblock. Some laughed, some were disgusted and walked away, and some expressed sympathy to the poor girl, suggesting electrolysis. The phone rang ten times, but Valentina and Ivan Denisovich didn’t move, staring at the TV screen.

Ivan Denisovich suddenly felt what he hadn’t felt for a long time. He wasn’t sure if it was Valentina or the hairy woman in a bikini on the screen. He glanced at Valentina’s soft round breasts, something he had avoided for the last twenty years. That one time was a mistake, they shouldn’t have done it, and Valentina and he agreed to keep it a secret from their spouses. They didn’t even particularly like each other, but there they were. He always thought it was her fault, all that ass swish-swooshing she liked to do, and those low-cut dresses she flaunted. He used to tell Grigory Petrovich that this kind of exhibitionism wouldn’t lead to anything good, but Grisha liked it. Ivan Denisovich later wondered if his friend knew about
them
, and even stopped seeing Grigory for a few years. He also wondered if she ever did it with anyone else. Secretive little wench. She knew what she was doing.

Ivan Denisovich watched Valentina’s hand go up and down her thigh. It was like a tic. She hadn’t stopped for ten minutes. Just rubbing and rubbing, rubbing and rubbing. He cleared his throat. Valentina’s daughter and grandchildren were not coming back for another two hours. Was she thinking the same? Did she know what he was thinking? He suddenly wanted to undo her dress and spill her soft large body onto the sofa.

“Oy, kak pusto! Kak strashno! Oy,
Vanya, why?” She tossed from side to side over the barely rumpled sheets. “So lonely … so scary. So empty … so alien …” She glanced at him, sitting on the side of the bed. “Even you,” and she wrapped her face in the pillow to muffle her weeping.

Ivan knew he should hold her, try to calm her down, but he was overwhelmed by what had just happened, and couldn’t bring himself to touch Valentina again. The thought of embracing her warm, flaccid body whose faint perspiration had a completely foreign flavor nauseated him. He turned away, and another smell, Grigory Petrovich’s dear smell, wafted from the pillow, and he noticed a few strands of his friend’s hair on it. He simultaneously wanted to throw the pillow against the wall and bury his face in it forever.