The Cosmopolitans (8 page)

Lev

The open air makes the smell fly off me and the headache with
it. The crows fly off the roof, which superstition says is a sign that
either bad luck or money is departing, which brings us to the Jewish
Question.

The Affair of the Cosmopolitans, the Affair of the Dictionary,
the Affairs of the Doctors, the Engineers, the Theater Critics: Stalin’s
whimsical purges. Remember the time he accused those Yiddish
poets of spying for Israel? Have you guessed what happened to that
merry band who traveled the world proclaiming the end of anti-
Semitism?

When they weren’t trying to establish an American satellite in the
Crimea (The Affair of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee), the Jews
were pretending to be Soviets: Mendelsteins renaming themselves
Molochniks! And many writers of the pastoral Ukrainian school of
brooks and Masha: circumcised under their kaftans. What right did
that Yitzhak so-called Goyko (really, Gavstein) have to sing about
our Ukrainian maypoles, our Ukrainian cabbage soup? demanded
the vigorous Fourth Estate.

Internationalism: once, the Bolsheviks said that all nations
would be equal and welcome in the Soviet Union. Jews — and what
greater proof of their effete Cosmopolitanism could there be? —
believed them.

Stalina’s father, Josef (another lucky name) Kandel supervised
the graduate work of an enterprising lazybones who told him to
write her a nice dissertation. He refused. Instead of a dissertation,
she wrote an editorial: How dare this Kandel boss around the real
Ukrainian engineers? What right had he to study our Ukrainian
sucrose? The local newspaper lived to disseminate the people’s
intelligence.

Lev

We skip past the next two years like cats skipping roof to
roof. False elections, massacres, poison letters: what is the point of
immigration if we are doomed to the same conversations we had
in Old Eastern Europe? Haven’t we all had enough of history, of
the pathetic surprise on everyone’s face? (Yes, Petya, it’s really you
they’re going to kill, you’ve exhausted your allotment of Peace.)
I treat history like my grandmother told me to treat dogs, wolves,
inspectors, anti-Semites and bees: I don’t bother it, it doesn’t bother
me. You would be happier if you did the same.

The Molochniks, condensed:

Osip’s Y2K team dissolved, and another round of layoffs spared
him, but took his pension. Stalina got into a long feud with a shiftless
sample provider and was deemed insufficiently nurturing by her
laboratory director.

Katya ran away to California, because California was mellow
and no one there would care about her voice.

Norwalk Technical College kicked Roman out for cheating. He
hadn’t bothered to hide it: in Nizhny Tagil, everyone had done the
same. None of the Chaikins were very surprised. Soon afterwards,
Leonid received a promotion and a wonderful new haircut,
memorialized by his mother in a dozen photographs.

Milla found a job, right out of college, right in Stamford. Her
parents were as happy as she’d hoped, the happiest they’d been since
Katya had left.

After many, many visa delays, Pratik Rehman, an exchange
student from Bangladesh, arrived at the Molochnik household.

Yana said she was disenchanted with academia, and enrolled in
graduate school for education.

In the wake of the events, anything was possible. Despite
Pratik’s generous and repeated geography lessons, certain members
of the Neighborhood Watch continued to ask him about Afghanistan.
Katya finally called: she was fine, if they’d just stop looking, she
would be fine. She was taking classes, she was doing so much better
than she had in Stamford. If they’d just stop looking, she’d call
again. Following the example of an influential trance musician who
had just done the same, Malcolm proposed to Milla.

Stalina

Milla and Malcolm sat on the couch, looking at the fireplace,
the lamps, everywhere but at Osip and Stalina, like coquettes in an
Ostrovsky play. “I’ve been wondering,” Malcolm said, petting the
stubble on his right cheek, “What’s going on with the statues?”

Stalina glanced at the Art Deco figurines arrayed on the
bookshelf behind her. Perhaps Malcolm’s parents were able to afford
more elaborate pieces, but she doubted they possessed her aesthetic
courage. Some of her figurines danced in the nude. The Soul said,
“
This rogue is challenging you in your own home.
”

“No, not those,” Malcolm said, laughing. “The ones outside.
Yeah, like driving in today, I saw this girl in a leather jacket, right by
the mall. But then, I looked, and she was a statue.”

“I told him they’re everywhere,” Milla said breathlessly.

“I do not know,” Stalina said. Malcolm hadn’t driven in to talk
such
irunda
, nonsense.

“Dad? Do you know why they’re here?” Milla asked.

“I am hearing maybe something to do with developer’s son.”
Osip, today, would not make a joke about property values: he
understood the seriousness of the situation.

“
She is as our fertile land after rainfall, or before appending
Finland,
” the Soul said. Today, it smelled of flowery perfume, the
kind of perfume that some men would buy and drink. Was it possible
that Milla, with all the excellent American birth control available,
had still somehow managed to get herself pregnant?

“Okey-dokey,” Stalina said, bracing herself.

“We got engaged a week ago,” Milla said, glancing at Malcolm
with every other word.

“And you are in the position?” Everyone, including Osip, looked
at her strangely. She’s been trying to translate from Russian, to avoid
having to use the only American way of saying it she remembered,
a crude colloquialism: “You are sticking up?” Osip gave her a
reproachful look.

“Mom, no,” Milla said, and then to Malcolm, “She means ‘up
the stick.’” She and Malcolm giggled because it was very funny that
she had such a stupid mother. As soon as she noticed the look on
Stalina’s face, though, Milla stopped. She probably hadn’t meant
anything by it, Stalina told herself, as her daughter unclasped her
hands to show a tiny engagement ring. “See, Mom, and you thought
he’d never want to get married, you said, ‘he’s not even on five-year
plan.’” She was giddy at the thought of having pleased her parents.

Stalina tried to smile. Milla was trying to do the right thing,
getting herself married when so many young people just wanted
to be swinging in the trees with the other singles. Stalina, in turn,
would make the sacrifice of not asking Malcolm whether he had a
job, at least not in any obvious way.

Osip’s exchange student, Pratik, timidly opened the front door.
“I have brought nuts.” He put a wax bag on the coffee table.

Stalina said, “So sit, Pratik, we’ll have nut party.”

“I need to study, unfortunately,” he said, heading upstairs. His
maroon backpack hit him at every step — what, in Bangladesh they
didn’t have adjustable straps? “
Don’t let the Oriental distract you,
”
the handkerchief admonished.

Stalina said, “And so, you get married, it is very nice, and
then…”

“I want to have kids, I want to have, like, five kids,” Malcolm
said.

“Okay, big Jewish family, and in the morning you wake up, and
eat balanced breakfast, and then…go to office, or just —” What was
the slang? “Or hang?”

Malcolm looked about to laugh.

She said, “It is easy question about future.” The handkerchief
disagreed: “
It is never easy to divine what will meet us on life’s
winding,
” etc., and suggested they conjure upon a rooster.

Osip escaped to the liquor cabinet and stood staring at its not
very voluminous contents: Malibu, vodka, Manischewitz, and a few
bottles of red wine. He patted the bottles, as if to comfort them.

“Actually,” Malcolm said after a pause. He now looked as
though Stalina’s question was exactly what he had been hoping she
would ask. “I am trying to choose between these two careers I’ve
been interested in for a long time: law and journalism. So on the law
side, I’ve signed up for the LSAT, that’s the Law School —”

“I know,” Stalina said. “My girlfriend Alla has niece who’s
lawyer.”

“Okay,” Malcolm said, leaning back. “I’ve also” — he seemed
proud to be in possession of that
also
— “talked to a friend of my
parents who’s going to give me an internship — he’s a civil rights
lawyer. Should I open this?” He had Pratik’s bag of nuts in his
hands.

“Excuse for a minute,” Osip said, returning with wine glasses.
“What is it mean ‘internship’?”

Stalina answered in Russian: “
Like Yana had, at the children’s
club, voluntyorstva for no pay.
” Osip sighed quietly.

“This one is really prestigious,” Milla said. “It’s more of a
fellowship.”

“Anyway,” Malcolm said, picking out an almond, “journalism
is another strong option. I don’t know if you guys remember, but
sophomore year, I actually ran a newspaper —”

“Yes,” Stalina said, beginning to feel nauseated. A two-page
tabloid for street people — how do you make money on something
like that?

Malcolm nodded, drank some wine.

“Okey-dokey,” Stalina said. “But before you tell us you want to
be mathematician.”

“Yeah, but that was before I took that class, and realized what
math metamorphoses into after Calculus, it’s a hydra.” Malcolm
laughed a how-silly-of-me laugh, the kind of laugh only very
confident people could afford. If Stalina ever laughed like that at
work, people would laugh along with her, thinking all the while: Of
course, the woman with the accent made a mistake.