Absurdistan: A Novel

by Gary Shteyngart

  "For God's sake, have what you wish!" I said. "Four dishes, ten dishes, what is money when you're among your brothers and sisters?" And to set the mood for the evening, I ordered a botde of Rothschild for US$1,150.

  "So let's talk some more about your art, litde brother," I said to Valentin. I was having some kind of Dostoyevsky moment. I wanted to redeem everyone in sight. They could all be Misha's Children, every last harlot and intellectual with flaxen goatee.

  "You see . . . you see . . . " said Valentin to his women friends.

  "We're talking about art now. Isn't it nice, ladies, to sit in a pretty space and talk like gendemen about the greater subjects?" A whole slew of emotions, ranging from an innate distrust of kindness to some latent homosexuality, was playing itself out on the artist's red face. He pressed his palm down on my hand and left it there for a good time.

  "Valya is doing some nice sketches for us," the mama said to me,

  "and he's helping us design our Web page. We're going to have a Web page for our services, don't you know?"

  "Oh, look, Mama, I believe the two sixteen dollars are here!" Elizaveta Ivanovna cried as the two appetizers of pelmeni stuffed with deer and crab arrived, both dishes covered by immense silver domes. The waiters, two gorgeous young kids, a boy and a girl, looked at one another, mouthed one, two, three, and then, in tandem, pulled off the lids to reveal the horrid appetizers beneath.

  "We're talking about art like gendemen," Valentin said. The evening progressed as expected. We drove to my apartment beneath a confusing cross section of the summer sky—the deep blue of the North Sea at the top, followed by the indeterminate gray of the Neva River, and, at the very bottom, a brilliant ribbon of modern orange that hung like a fluorescent mist over the dueling spires of the Admiralty and the Peter and Paul Fortress.

  Along the way, we took turns hitting the driver with birch twigs, ostensibly to improve his circulation, but in reality because it is impossible to end an evening in Russia without assaulting someone.

  "Now I feel as if we're in an old-fashioned hansom cab," said Valentin, "and we're hitting the driver for going too slow . . . Faster, driver!

  Faster!"

  "Please, sir," pleaded Mamudov, "it is already difficult to drive on these roads, even without being whipped."

  "No one has ever called me 'sir' before," Valentin spoke in wonderment. "Opa, you scoundrel!" he screamed, flailing the driver once more.

  I took them around my apartment, a gorgeous art nouveau lair built in 1913 (generally acknowledged as the last good year in Russia's history), rife with pale ceramic tile and prized oriel windows that captured and teased what remained of the evening light. With each passing room, Valentin and the whores would experience a mild seizure, the young monarchist Web designer whispering, "So this is how it is . . . So this is how they live."

  I parked them in my library, the bookshelves creaking with my dead papa's books, the collected texts of the great rabbis, the Cay- man Islands Banking Regulations, Annotated in Three Volumes, and the ever-popular A Hundred and One Tax Holidays. Servants appeared with carafes of vodka. Elizaveta Ivanovna was threatening to play the accordion for us, and Valentin was inciting the daughter to quote at will from the major philosophers, but by the time an accordion was finally produced and a copy of Voltaire cracked open, my guests had fallen asleep on top of each other. Valentin had stuck his big potato nose inside Lyudmila Petrovna's substantial cleavage and placed his arms around her hips as if they were dancing a nocturnal waltz.

  I had never seen a man cry in his sleep before.

  porkyrussmnlover@heartache.com

  I left my guests and entered the dimly lit replica of Dr. Levine's office, fished my laptop out from under my Mies van der Rohe daybed, and fired Rouenna an electronic message across the ether: hi pretty baby, its misha. wondering why u haven't written back 2

  me 4 so long, tonite chillin with some russian homies (remember how we used to chill?), you'd like 2 of these girlz, they real ghetto, remember how u used to roll up our socks at the laundromat, i miss u. much luv (4 real)

  misha aka snack dad oka porky russian lover

  p.s. hope u r doing good in school. anybody special in yr life? lemme know

  p.p.s. maybe you can come to p-burg 4 xmas break, maybe u+i can chill?!

  I was about to enjoy my nightiy single malt fired up with 2.5 milligrams of Ativan when an incoming message pinged across the screen. I let out a happy litde yelp when I saw the overseas sender: rsales®

  hunter.cuny.edu. I thought of saving the message until the next day, knowing I wouldn't be able to go to sleep with Rouenna's words lodged like dum-dum bullets in my brain.

  Rouenna's missive was as shocking in style as in content. Gone were the hip-hop numeric abbreviations that we used to "conversate" with each other. Rouenna was trying to write like an educated young American woman, although her spelling and grammar were as arbitrary as anything on the corner of 173rd Street and Vyse. Dear Misha,

  First o f f , Fm really sorry it took me so long to answer your sweet, sweet letters to me. Tour a good Boyfriend and I owe you everything, my hunter education, my dentalwork, all my Hopes and Dreams. I want you to know that I love you and I will never take you for granite. Second o f f , Fm sorry to be writing this letter right after your tragety with your father. I know it really effected you mentally. Who wouldnt feel Sad when someone so close to you gets killed like a dog. Misha, Fve been seeing Proffessor Shteynfarb. Please dontget mad at me. I now you dont like him, but he's been a big help to me, not just aa shoulder to cry on" but an Inspiration. He works so hard, always writing and teaching and going to conferences in miami and holding office hours really late because some students have work in the day or babies. Proffessor Shteynfarb had a hard life being an immigrant so he knows about hard work. All the students like him because he take us serious. And no offense but you never really worked hard or did anything because your so rich and thats ONE BIG DIFERENCE

  between us.

  Proffessor Shteynfarb says I have self as-steam issues because no one in my family ever encouraged me to show my intelligence and all they think about is how to get by and stay out of trouble and take care of there babies. I tell him you did, that you told me to get my GED and go to hunter and that you told my mother and grandmothers and brothers and sisters and cousins and uncles and aunts not to yell at me or talk about all the Mistakes I'd done in the past, like working at that tity bar.

  He says yes thats true but that you always veiwed me from the Position of a Colonialist Oppresor. Tou always secretly look down at me. I tried to talk to you so many times about my Writing when I was in russia but you never seemed to listen. Its always you you you. Tour ignoring me just like my family and thats going to hurt my self as-steam. Also Proffessor Shteynfarb said its wrong when you throw your shoe at your servant (Fm sorry, but I think thats true). Also he says its wrong when you an your friend alosha try to do your rapping and pretend your from the ghetto because thats also being a Colonialist. He gave me a book by Edward Said, which is super hard, but its worth it.

  Proffessor Shteynfarb is making an Anthology of immigrant writing and he says my story about how they burnt our house down in morrisania is going to be the pizza resistance of the whole book. Ilove you so much, Misha. I dont want to hurt you. I always dream of your arms around me and your weird kui in my mouth. (I said ckui' to Proffessor Shteynfarb and he said that russian women dont ever use such bad words, and that I was real naughty, ha ha ha!) But lets face it, your in russia and Fm in America and their never going to let you out, so for all intensive purposes were not really together. If you want to stop paying my hunter tuition I would understand, although I would have to go back to work in the tity bar. But I hope you still love me and want to do right by me and not hurt my self as-steam anymore. Loves & Hugs & Big Wet Kisses,

  Tour Rouenna

  P.S. I just want you to know that the thing with Proffessor Shteynfarb was mutual and that he wasnt trying to kick it to me or
to any of the girls in class. He says he feels bad about being in a position of authritarity over me but that were equal in a sense because I grew up impovrished and he's a big immigrant.

  I carefully closed the laptop, waited for a beat, then threw it across the room, shattering a replica of one of Dr. Levine's wigwam photographs. I put a pillow around my face because I didn't want to see and then covered my ears with the flaps of my arms because I didn't want to hear. But there was nothing to see or hear—the room was static and silent except for the whirring of my insulted laptop. I ambulated past the library where the artist Valentin and the hookers were splayed out over one another, empty vodka carafes lazing by their feet. "I am the most generous man in the world," I said aloud as I looked at the sleeping Russians, their stomachs filled with the ex-pensive food I had bought them. "And anyone who doesn't understand that is a stupid, ungrateful bitch." I rolled down to the cellar and found my manservant, Timofey, sleeping on a soiled mattress beside my prized German laundry machine. His hands were tucked angelically beneath his big snoring head; the cord of the Daewoo steam iron I had given him for New Year's was tied several times around one leg to prevent another servant from stealing it. I thought about throwing a shoe at him, but instead gently pushed him in the stomach with my foot. "Up, up, up," I growled. "Rise, Timofey. Rise!"

  "Please forgive me, batyushka" Timofey murmured out of instinct, trying to shake off a deep slumber. "Timofey's just a sinner like the rest of them."

  "Make pies," I instructed my manservant, my body leaning precariously over his, so that he held up his arms out of fright. He mumbled incomprehension. I tried to explain: "Meat pies, cabbage pies, venison pies. I don't want you to stop making pies, you hear? Whatever's in the refrigerators, I want to eat it right away. Don't disappoint me, Timofey."

  "Yes, batyushka). " Timofey cried. "Pies, pies, pies." He sprang up from his mattress and started running around the cavernous cellar, rousing the servants and commandeering them up the stairs. The house shook with commotion. As usual, when crisis struck, the servants began taking their frustrations out on one another. Yevgenia, my fat cook, was hitting her common-law husband, Anton, who in turn was giving it good to Lara Ivanovna, the pretty new servant. I returned to my analytic room and picked up the laptop. The quickwitted Timofey had already furnished my desk with a half-eaten tin of salmon pate and a tub of artichoke hearts. I began to fill my mouth with two shaking hands as Rouenna's letter came out of the printer. Shteynfarb. I could see him now: an ugly litde man, dry lips, a Mohawk of black hair carved out by teenage alopecia, dark lizard pouches beneath his eyes, everything in his manner filled with artifice, bullshit laughter, and easy bonhomie. He probably impregnated half his writing class, the half that wasn't knocked up already. Rouenna's major accomplishment in life was staying clear of pregnancy by the advanced age of twenty-five. She was the only woman in her family who didn't have kids, for which her tias and abuelas and pri- mes made fun of her mercilessly. Now even that was in danger. And once Shteynfarb gave her one kid, the rest would start coming. Once a girl got "belly" on 173rd Street, she'd be pregnant till menopause. I reread the letter. It wasn't my Rouenna writing it. The feistiness was gone. The humor and rage. The love, given either unconditionally or with a poor woman's protective reserve. She claimed Shteynfarb was restoring her "self as-steam," but for the first time since I'd met her, Rouenna seemed to me utterly servile and beaten. Timofey brought in the first steaming meat and cabbage pie, the room suddenly ablaze with heat and sustenance. I licked my lips, locked my feet together, clenched my right hand into a fist, and swallowed the pie in three takes. Then I went back to the letter, circling sentences with my red pen and writing my responses in the margin. Proffessor Shteynfarb had a hard life being an immigrant so he knows about hard work.

  Bullshit, Rouenna. Shteynfarb's an upper-middle-class phony who came to the States as a kid and is now playing the professional immigrant game. He's probably just using you for material. We got so much more in common, the two of us. You said it yourself, Rowie. Russia is the ghetto. And I'm just living large in it, that's all. Who wouldn't live large in the ghetto if they could?

  Tou always secretly look down at me.

  From the first night I met you, when you kissed my thing so tenderly, there hasn't been another woman in my life. I am so proud of you for being strong and not giving in to peer pressure and trying to make your life better by becoming an executive secretary. You are worth ten thousand Jerry Shteynfarbs on a bad day, and he knows it. Proffessor Shteynfarb said its wrong when you throw your shoe at your servant

  Why don't you ask Professor Shitfarb to explain the term "cultural relativism" to you. When you live in this kind of society, you've got to throw your shoe sometimes.

  If you want to stop paying my hunter tuition I would understand, although I would have to go back to work in the tity bar. Of course I'm not going to stop paying your tuition. I'm the one who got you to stop working at the titty bar, remember? Everything I have is yours, everything to the very last, my heart, my soul, my wallet, my house. [I decided to finish my response with an appeal to Rouenna's favorite imaginary character.] Just remember, Rouenna, that whatever you do, it is between you and God. So if you want to hurt me, go ahead. But you know that He watches every move you make.

  I put down my red pen. I was thinking of the homemade sign crayoned on the door of Rouenna's family's apartment by one of her nineteen litde nieces: NO SMOKING NO CURSING NO GAMBLING INSIDE

  THIS HOUSE JESUS LOVES YOU. We used to sit on a creaking bench in a weed-choked yard behind Rouenna's housing complex, doing a bit of what she called "roughhousin'," as beautiful brown children ran around us, engulfed by summertime happiness, yelling to each other:

  "When I get out, puta, I'm gonna break your fucken face, I fucken swear."

  What I wouldn't pay for one more July night on the corner of 173rd Street and Vyse, one more chance to kiss Rouenna and cradle her in my big arms. I always dream of your arms around me and your weird kui in my mouth.

  My laptop beeped demonstratively. I was worried it might be more bad news from Rouenna, but the message was from Lyuba Vainberg, my father's widow.

  Respected Mikhail Borisovich,

  I have learned to use the Internet because I hear it's how you prefer to communicate. I am lonely. It would be my pleasure to invite you for tea and zakuski tomorrow. Please tell me if you can come and if so I will send my servant girl out for meat in the morning. If you refuse me, I won't blame you. But perhaps you will find pity for a lost soul. With respect,

  So that's how it happened between us. We were both lonely and lost.

  11

  Lyuba Vainberg Invites Me to Tea

  Lyuba lived on the English Embankment, a gorgeous pastel crush of mansions anchored by the yellow curve of the old Senate Building. The Neva River does its best to be civil around here, flowing with a majestic resolve and lapping up the granite embankment with a thousand frothy tongues. Speaking of tongues, Lyuba had prepared one of her celebrated lamb's tongue sandwiches, very tasty and juicy, with extra horseradish and spicy mustard and garnished with a dollop of gooseberry preserve. She even prepared it in the American manner for me, with two pieces of bread instead of one. I quickly asked for seconds, then thirds, to her immeasurable delight. "Ah, but who looks out for your diet at home?" she asked, mistakenly using the polite form of address with me, as if acknowledging the fact that I was thirty.

  "Mmmm-hmmm," I said, letting the tender tongue dissolve on my own ( like making out with a sheep, I thought). "Who cooks for me? Why, Yevgenia, of course. Remember my cook? She's round and rosy."

  "Well, I do my own cooking now," Lyuba said proudly. "And when he was alive, I always supervised Boris's diet. There are things to consider other than taste, you know. You have to think of your health, Misha! For example, the lamb's tongue is widely known to possess minerals that give you energy and manly power. It's terribly good for you, especially when you alternate it with Canadian bacon, which
helps heal the skin. My servant girl gets only the best from the Yeliseyev store." She paused and looked me up and down, enjoying my girth, my time-tested ability to expand under pressure. "Perhaps I should come over and cook for you," she said. "Or else you're always welcome to come here and eat with me." Death changes people. I had certainly changed since Beloved Papa's decapitation, but as for Lyuba, she was positively unrecognizable. It's no secret that Papa treated her like his daughter in many ways—several times she had called him papochka, "litde father," while doing an improvised lap dance at the kitchen table or giving him a supposedly discreet hand job during the Mariinsky Theatre's mindnumbing performance of Giselle (she thought I had dozed off by the grape harvest scene, but I was not so lucky).

  But now that our papochka was gone, Lyuba was handling selfparenting with great aplomb. Her very diction had improved. It was no longer the sloppy New Russian of her idiot friends, a gangsterinfluenced provincial drawl interspersed with borrowed words like

  "dragon roll" and "face control," but a more reserved speech, flattened and depressive, the kind favored by our more cultured, penniless citizens. I was also inspired by her choice of dress. Gone was her usual Leather Lyuba motif; in its place, a blouse and skirt of dark contemporary denim fastened by an oversize red plastic belt with an enormous faux-Texan buckle. It was very Williamsburg, Brooklyn, circa right now.

  "I must wipe your chin," Lyuba said, scrubbing my double grapefruit with three of her long mustard-scented fingers.