A Replacement Life

by Boris Fishman

  Two days before the closing of the inaugural fall issue, Junior Staff crackled with pre-holiday anticipation, much as the Gelmans had washed windows and waxed floors on New Year’s Eve in Minsk. The issue would include the Italian story that Arianna was checking; a roundup of back-to-school items; a piece on fall styles; Peter’s piece about the press conference; a baseball piece by the dignified, sweatered man who had been doing Century’s baseball pieces for most of the century; and comments by Beau on the arrival of autumn.

  A specially commissioned painting would appear on the cover: a pointy-nosed, ponytailed lady defying metaphysics by holding in hand the issue in question, the leaves changing outside her auto, the road ahead stretching unsubtly. The work was by Serge, one of several monomial artists used by the magazine. Serge was unable to paint unless entirely in the nude, an awkward discovery made by the magazine the previous year during a reader- appreciation watch-the-artists-paint-reproductions-of-famous-covers event.

  Having dropped off the week’s “The Hoot” (66.67 percent factual) on Paul Shank’s desk, Slava felt a twitchy, unfamiliar lightness. The final claim letters had been sealed and sent off that morning from different post offices by special emissaries (Berta, who regarded the matter with more gravity than all the Jews added together, coordinated the couriers). Slava felt as if he were sending soldiers into slaughter; he had told only Arianna about Otto—though who knew whom Vera had told by now, whether out of revenge or concern. He lifted himself above the divider and watched Arianna until she noticed him.

  “Get out before they find you new work,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “You’ll go soon, won’t you?” She meant Otto.

  He promised. He reached far over the divider and ran his knuckle down her temple. She stiffened, but then eased into his hand.

  Manhattan is the imperial seat from which the various subway lines sail toward Brooklyn like an armada. The Soviet armada is the color of yolk: The D, N, R, F, B, Q, heading to Bensonhurst, Bath Beach, Midwood, Gerritsen Beach, Mill Basin. The rest—the red 2, the green 5, the blues flirting with Queens, the browns making their excretive way across Williamsburg and Bushwick—are the trains of other countries.

  The last days of August: the Sunday of summer. The Labor Day weekend was the only thing dividing the people from the full enfilade of fall sales, styles, and shopping. For the last handful of days, the mouth of American commerce—subway platforms, the flanks of buses, bus shelters, the radio—still whispered sweetly about barbecues, swimming pools, weekend getaways, and last chances.

  Israel’s door was locked. No one answered the doorbell or Slava’s knocking. He thought about leaving a note, but then the gate creaked open at street level to reveal an old woman in a housedress. Slava called up to her in Russian and asked about her downstairs neighbor. Her ice-blue eyes radiated blank amusement.

  “Abramson?” Slava tried. “Lives in the basement apartment. Short. Big eyebrows.” He wiggled his.

  “When I moved into this neighborhood fifty years ago,” the woman said in blocky English, “there were a lot of immigrants here. Poles, like me. Germans, Irish, Italian, Hungarian, Croat, you name it. It never occurred to us that we should just speak our own language to the next person in the street.”

  Slava blanched. He was about to repeat himself in English when she waved her hand.

  “Mr. Abramowitz is in the hospital,” she said. “They picked him up over the weekend. I don’t know how serious it is, but I had to call the family.”

  “In the hospital? Why?” Slava said, as if one chose to go to such places.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He called the ambulance himself. They found him on the floor. The medics gave me the note.”

  Rooted in place, Slava appropriated this new information. The thought that swept through his mind was: I am about to lose another one.

  “He was a heavy smoker when he was young, you know,” the woman said. “I caught him smoking on the steps here once. I said he shouldn’t. I was afraid he thought I was telling him simply not to smoke on the steps. But he understood. He came back with a piece of graph paper. I think he had somebody write it out for him. It said, ‘Life is death if you don’t have a cigarette now and then.’ We had a nice laugh about it.”

  “You had to call the family?” Slava said. “In Israel?”

  “Oh, yes. I had a time figuring out the codes.”

  A gust of wind crept through the spruce above them. Amid the remaining heat, you could occasionally make out autumn loitering at the door.

  “Do you know what hospital?” Slava said.

  “Maimonides,” she said. “The whole street was lit up with sirens.”

  “Does he owe you anything for the call?” he said hopefully.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “The son took it collect.”

  Slava was in a part of Brooklyn where yellow cabs did not roam, but he had Vova’s card foxed in his wallet. He kept misdialing. He made himself stop and take a long breath. The stillness he was pleased to discover inside himself that morning, a quiet readiness for his meeting with Otto—Arianna’s gift—was gone. At last it rang. “I have to get to the hospital, Vova,” Slava yelled into the phone when the cruiserweight picked up.

  Vova spoke with a solemnity that soothed Slava. As a taxi driver in the southern reaches of Brooklyn, where they died every moment of every day, Vova was no stranger to calls such as this one. “I will be there in ten minutes,” he said. And he was.

  The aging sedan squeaking and grunting over the potholed roads, Slava’s mind was stuck on the onion of Israel’s frame, horizontal on a hospital gurney. He hadn’t been called, Slava thought with a sting. But why should he have been? Who was he to Israel? They had met twice, once by accident. He was the letter writer; he wasn’t a family member. He wasn’t needed. But he was going to go anyway.

  “Ho, listen,” Vova said. “I’m sorry to bring this up now, but I’ve got you in the car.”

  “Sure,” Slava said listlessly.

  “It’s like this,” Vova said. “You ever heard of New Orleans? Where the fuck is that?”

  “Down south somewhere,” Slava said.

  “Right—well, they had this dustup with the atmosphere last year. You hear about that?”

  “I’m amazed you’ve heard about it.”

  Vova checked him out in the rearview. “You underestimate your blood, chuvak.”

  “So?” Slava said.

  “So there’s a situation down there. A warm situation, if you know what I’m saying.” Vova waited to hear whether he should go on. He did anyway.

  “All these homes beat to the ground after the storm. And if one of them’s yours, you can get money. A lot.”

  “Okay?” Slava said.

  “So there’s sixty thousand homes. And some of them are getting filed on, to get dough from the government, and some of them are not. Because the owners died, ran away, whatever. And so there’s this claim you can fill out—there’s some kind of process—I don’t know the details, this isn’t my territory, this is why I’m talking to you. But the word is it’s not hard, for those abandoned homes, to move the title to yourself. And qualify for that money.”

  “And what is your territory?” Slava said.

  “My territory is setting it up,” Vova said. “Not the paperwork.”

  “What if you apply this energy to a legal business?” Slava said.

  Vova consulted the rearview. “Should I regret I told you about this? Don’t make me regret it. You didn’t even give me a chance to spell out the details. You get a cut, obviously. They said five percent, but I am going to push for ten percent for you, because without you, it can’t happen, and I understand that. Some people undervalue the desk part, not me. And you can go there if you want, flight paid. Scope it out, get the flavor. They got African ladies down there to make your underpants wet. You ever make it with a black girl?”

  “No,” Slava said.

  “It’s a different ball game th
an—” He pointed outside the car to indicate Vera.

  “Why are you talking to me about this?” Slava said.

  “You write the letters, don’t you? You’re the paperwork guy.”

  “Does anyone keep a fucking secret?” Slava said.

  Vova started laughing. “You know how we are.”

  “How are we, Vova?”

  “We live in the real world. You’ll think about it, won’t you?”

  “I won’t do it,” Slava said. “I’m sorry, it’s not personal. Though your secret is safe. If mine is safe with you.”

  Vova considered this. “I see. Well, I admire a direct conversation.” He turned back to the wheel. They rode in silence, each chewing on Slava’s answer. Then Vova said, an olive branch: “I know a good flower store right by the hospital. We’ll be there in five minutes.” And they were.

  From the curb, Vova extended his hand through the driver’s-side window. “No hard feelings,” he said. “The offer, it was a sign of respect. I wish you health for the person inside.”

  Slava shook to match the force in Vova’s grip, as if the power would transfer to that person.

  In the vestibule of Maimonides hospital, Slava was the one with the bouquet of carnations: white, pink, and red. Grandmother had liked carnations, and when Slava thought of illness, he thought of her. Now they looked paltry, the ruffed heads bobbing on the weak stems, too feminine for the sack of leather in Room 317. On the day Grandmother died, the sun blazed with an infernal fury, as if it had overheated. Now, however, the weather looked like one of those ads in Century that Avi Liss almost had to slice out: the soft sun; a long, narrow, white-clothed wooden table; towheaded children at play in the breeze; a pharaonic repast on the endless table itself. The sainted sun outside the hospital shone on an endless row of florists, bakeries, and kosher butchers, encased in ancient, artisanal concrete. The Brooklyn where the Soviet Jews lived was as ugly as the rows of apartment blocks they had left behind in the Soviet Union. Perhaps that was why they lived here.

  On a monitor in Room 317, a spiky green comet shot across the beeping surface of a dark night. Spiky was good. Israel was asleep, the giant raisin of his face loosening and closing with each breath, a happy brook of saliva dribbling down his chin. Only a Gogol splayed on his chest, and he would have looked like he was napping at home. Slava pictured him licking his finger, turning the pages, and slumping over from a heart attack. But it didn’t happen that way. Israel had written out a note with instructions. That part didn’t make sense.

  Slava stepped into the hallway. Maimonides looked as empty as if it belonged to them alone, as if all the illness in the world was theirs. It was pleasantly ramshackle: Paint peeled in a corner of the ceiling, and the counter behind which the nurses worked was scuffed and dented.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Slava rushed after a nurse. “Abramson. Room 317.” He pointed.

  “Abramson?” she said. Her voice had a thousand cigarettes in it, though her teeth gleamed whitely. She ran her finger down a chart. “Oh, honey, he’ll be fine. His blood is normal, everything’s fine. Heartbreak hotel.”

  Slava stared quizzically.

  “Lonely,” the nurse smiled. “Old and lonely. We see it all the time. Seventy, seventy-five, family far away. The insurance company should come up with a code. Let me go, honey, I actually need to give him a new IV.”

  Slava returned to the room. The sun shone luminously through the wide window. It seemed especially outlandish to be ill during such weather. One of Israel’s eyes popped open, like a diver emerging from the deep.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, and snapped it closed. He opened it again. “Where did you come from?” He coughed.

  “Are you sick, or are you not really sick?” Slava said.

  “Me? I’m fucking tired,” Israel said, and closed his eyes again. Then he opened them.

  “Hollywood’s crying after my grandfather?” Slava said.

  “Did they say anything about—” Israel started.

  “Yuri? He’s coming,” Slava said. He had no knowledge of this, but Israel didn’t need to know that.

  “Might as well be the Messiah himself,” Israel sighed.

  “Nice play,” Slava said.

  Israel looked up at Slava. “I am at your mercy,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe.”

  “I’m sorry, Slava,” Israel said. A tear rolled out of his eye, then stopped in place, as if, like its owner, it was too tired to go on. “Yes, I envy your grandfather, but not because he has a twenty-four-hour home nurse. Because you’re one borough away.”

  “So you will go with Yuri to Israel,” Slava said.

  “If he takes me,” Israel said. “I’ll die in the Jewish homeland. That’s not so bad.”

  “Where would you prefer to die?” Slava said.

  “In Minsk. I don’t want English on my headstone and I don’t want Hebrew on my headstone. In Russian: ‘Iosif Abramson. Date of birth, date of death. The tea was bitter and he blamed existence.’” He broke into hoarse laughter.

  “You’re tempting fate, Israel.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Israel said. “Just let me look at my son one more time. He’s coming, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sure he is.” Slava took the old man’s hand, dry and crabby. “You don’t have to go, you know. I’ll come for soup.”

  “You already have a grandfather,” Israel said.

  Slava took the old hand with both of his. They looked through the windows at the lunatic sunshine. “Will you do what I say?” he said to the old man.

  Israel cocked an eyebrow. “Like how?”

  “Just do what I say right now. Get up and get dressed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “‘We’re following you now, Gogol’—who said that? That’s the problem with all of you: You don’t mean what you say. You use the big words, but they’re worth a turd. Come on.”

  “But my son is supposed to come.”

  “You think Israel is two hours away? We’ll be back well before.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’re trusting me.”

  “What if the nurse finds out?”

  “So when it’s your own hide, you cry. Show me you have balls, Israel. Show me you don’t hide behind the young ones with your big words.”

  While Israel pissed, Slava made a phone call. “Come back?” Vova said on the other end. “I can be there in ten minutes.” Vova was always ten minutes away. But Slava needed him to switch cars. “Are you serious?” Vova said. That was going to be extra. “I know, just do it,” Slava said impatiently. “You didn’t reconsider our arrangement, did you?” Vova said. “It could be fifteen percent if you want.”

  After Israel was done, Slava heaved him back onto the bed. The old man was faking his unraveling, but he was no colt. In Slava’s hands, Israel surrendered, shy when Slava removed his blue gown. These old men had fucked their way through Minsk, two million people, but they remained modest as children.

  Israel was left in a pair of checked boxers, the white belly that had seemed so estimable while hidden settling meagerly over the band of the underwear. The belly skin was as soft as a newborn’s. While Slava retrieved Israel’s clothes from the locker, the old man crossed his feet like a boy and peered with perplexity at the squares of his toenails.

  First Slava pulled on the trousers, leg by leg, Israel playing inept. Then an undershirt, Israel’s arms like slabs of pale, old salmon struggling to come through the openings. A short-sleeved summer shirt followed, then a pair of white socks and white sneakers.

  “There you are,” Slava said, surveying his work. “Ready for the first day of school. Come on.”

  They peered out of the doorway like two burglars. Only one nurse at the nurse station. “Wait for me,” Slava said. He walked up to the nurse and started asking about the prayer room, located on the side of the hallway facing away from the path Israel needed for the elevator. When the nurse,
Slava giving her his best smile, looked that way, Slava waved his hand behind his back and Israel waddled toward the elevators around the corner from the nurses’ station. When Slava joined him there a moment later, Israel stuck out his thumbs. “Not bad,” he said. “Where are you taking me?”

  You had to give Vova credit. Ten minutes, like he said, plus five to switch his sedan to a limo. He even found a livery cap somewhere, the actor. “What the fuck is this?” Israel stopped in his place, sighting the vehicle—black, sleek, pouncing, beautiful.

  “You said you wanted to see Manhattan,” Slava said. “If you’re moving to Israel, this is your chance.”

  While Slava wedged Israel into the backseat, Vova ran down the block to the liquor store (flowers, bakeries, liquor—these establishments filled out the block where Maimonides was located, proving that certain claims about the efficiencies of the American market were not overstated), coming back with an Asti Spumante that a true Soviet citizen preferred to better champagne.

  They saw it all, Slava seeing most of it for the first time himself, though thanks to Arianna, now he could imagine how one led to the other. The Statue of Liberty, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Times Square, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Central Park. At stoplights, Slava made Israel raise his head through the sunroof. Around them, Fifth Avenue anthilled in oblivion, sublime and grotesque. “The women!” the old man shouted. “Look at the women!” Slava raised the bottle of Asti Spumante, and he and Israel drank to the women of Fifth Avenue, the tourists stopping to snap pictures of them peering out the sunroof, though the natives continued to march on, officially untouched.

  They went as far north as Riverside Park, Slava asking Vova to swing by the statue of the American president Ulysses S. Grant. Slava told the old man all about the American president. Israel listened like a schoolboy. “I want to get out,” he said. “I want to feel it under my feet.”

  While Vova idled, they strode arm in arm onto the grass of Riverside Park, the bottle of champagne in Slava’s hands. They sat down on a bench and swigged from it like two homeless men.

  “So, this is it,” Israel said.