Beloved Grandma Polya arrives from Leningrad and, with her sparse hair and country smile, accompanies me on trips across Rome, walking me up and down the Tiber in my snazzy new Italian light coat, watching the sun do things to the enormity of St. Peter’s Dome or wondering at the Pyramid of Cestius rising out of the ancient ocher cityscape. “Grandma, aren’t pyramids supposed to be in Egypt?” The map of Rome is so worn there are thumb-bored holes where the Colosseum and the Piazza del Popolo should be, and I have truly destroyed the Villa Borghese. Grandma, sweating in the new heat, looks around apprehensively. More than fifty years before, she was born in a stifling Ukrainian village, and now she is in the Caput Mundi. “Grandma, did the Romans really vomit in the Baths of Caracalla?”
“Perhaps they did, little Igor. Perhaps they did.”
Grandma has other things to worry about. Her husband Ilya, my father’s stepfather, is a dour worker whose own best buddies in Leningrad have nicknamed him Goebbels. By Russian standards he is not an alcoholic, meaning he is not drunk from eight in the morning until pass-out time at night. Still Grandma Polya has had to carry him off the tram more than once, and more than twice he has beshat himself in public. Since his arrival, our small rooms in Ostia are loud with battle. One day I find a treasure on the staircase of Grandma’s building, a gold watch encrusted with possible diamonds. My father returns it to the Italian family living atop Grandma and Ilya, and they offer him a fifty-dollar reward. Puffed with pride, my father generously refuses the astronomic sum. The Italians counter with a five-dollar reward and a free trip to a local café for a cappuccino and some panini. “Idiot!” Ilya shouts at my father, with his little gopher-like head atremble and the perpetual web of spittle in front of him. “Good-for-nothing! We could have been rich! A diamond watch!”
“God will see my deed and bless me,” Papa replies magnanimously.
“God will see how stupid you are and never send you anything else!”
“Shut your stinking mouth!”
“Go to the dick!”
“Don’t swear. The child can hear.”
In my bathroom with my Raphael Madonna as the adult world trembles around me: “Santa Maria, Santa Maria, Santa Maria.” And then my memorized list of Roman Forum ruins: “Temple of Saturn, Temple of Vespasian, Temple of Castor and Pollux, Temple of Vesta, Temple of Caesar.”
Two handsome Americans from the CIA come to interview Papa. They want to know about his previous job at the LOMO (Leningrad Optical Mechanical Amalgamation) factory, present-day makers of the hipster cameras used in Lomography, but back in 1978 manufacturers of telescopes and sensitive military technology. Of course, my father has never been anywhere near the sensitive military stuff. He had been known to conduct “disruptive pro-Zionist and anti-Soviet conversations” about Israel and the 1967 Six-Day War, possibly the most glorious six days of his life, until one day his boss called him in and said, “Fuck your mother, Shteyngart, you can’t do anything right! Get out of here!” A stroke of luck to have a father with such a big mouth, for had he become acquainted with the factory’s military technology, we would never have been allowed to leave the Soviet Union.
The enemy spooks leave empty-handed, but one day my father sits me down for a chat. My toys, at the time, in addition to my Mozart candy wrapper and my Madonna, are two clothespins with which we hang our laundry to dry in the Mediterranean heat. One is a red “Tupolev” and the other a blue “Boeing.” Whenever I’m not drooling over the Sistine Chapel, I do my boy’s stuff. I race the two airplanes across the quiet Ostia streets, across the cold sands of the nearby beaches, always letting the Tupolev plane win over the enemy jetliner.
The skies over Ostia are sunny and the May air is brisk, the perfect atmosphere for a U.S.-USSR jet race.
My father and I are sitting on the shabby bedspread in our apartment. I prepare my Boeing and Tupolev clothespins. And he tells me what he knows. It was all a lie. Communism, Latin Lenin, the Komsomol youth league, the Bolsheviks, the fatty ham, Channel One, the Red Army, the electric rubber smell on the metro, the polluted Soviet haze over the Stalinist contours above Moscow Square, everything we said to each other, everything we were.
We are going to the enemy.
“But, Papa, the Tupolev-154 is still faster than the Boeing 727?”
In a resolved tone: “The fastest plane in the world is the Concorde SST.”
“One of our planes?”
“It is flown by British Airways and Air France.”
“So. It means. You’re saying …”
We are the enemy.
I am walking down the Ostia boardwalk with my grandmother. In the distance is the Luna Park’s sad little Ferris wheel I am still too afraid to ride. The Tupolev and the Boeing take off, and I clatter down the wooden runway with the two clothespins in my hands above my head, circling my grandma Polya, who lumbers forward lost in her own thoughts, smiling occasionally because her little grandson is healthy and running around with two clothespins. The red pin, the Tupolev, instinctively reaches for the sky, wants to win over the blue Boeing, just as the stylized lines of the Kremlin are reaching for the red star, because we are a nation of workers and strivers. We.
The goal of politics is to make us children. The more heinous the system the more this is true. The Soviet system worked best when its adults—its men, in particular—were welcomed to stay at the emotional level of not-particularly-advanced teenagers. Often at a dinner table, a male Homo soveticus will say something uncouth, hurtful, disgusting, because this is his teenager’s right and prerogative, this is what the system has raised him to be, and his wife will say, Da tishe!—Be quiet!—and then look around the table, embarrassed. And the man will laugh bitterly to himself and say, Nu ladno, it’s nothing, and wave away the venom he has left on the table.
The blue pin is overtaking the red pin, the Boeing is too fast, too well designed, to lose. I do not want to be a child. I do not want to be wrong. I do not want to be a lie.
We are crossing the Atlantic on an Alitalia Rome-JFK flight. The stewardess, as devoted and beautiful as the Madonna in my pocket—my Moscow Olympics pin is swimming in the Mediterranean—brings me a special gift, a glossy map of the world and a collection of stickers representing the various models of Boeing in the Alitalia stable. I am encouraged to pin the Boeings all over the map. Here is the vast red terra incognita of the Soviet Union, and there is the smaller blue mass of the United States with its strange Floridian growth on one side. Between these two empires lies the rest of the world.
Our plane dips its wing as it approaches, and we catch a jumble of tall gray buildings filling up the window like the future. We are approaching the last twenty years of the American Century.
One of the few photographs we have from this period. We were too busy suffering.
1979. Coming to America after a childhood spent in the Soviet Union is equivalent to stumbling off a monochromatic cliff and landing in a pool of pure Technicolor. I am pressing my nose to the window of the taxiing jetliner, watching the first hints of my new homeland passing by. Oh, that immense solidity! The sweep of what used to be JFK’s Pan Am terminal with its “flying saucer” roof and, above, the expanse of sky that doesn’t press down on Queens, as the Russian sky tramples Leningrad, but flows past in waves, allotting a bit of itself to each red-bricked or aluminum-sided house and to each of the lucky families that dwells within. The airliners in their bright liveries are clustering around a sea of gates like hungry immigrants trying to get in, Sabena, Lufthansa, Aer Lingus, Avianca.
The intensity of arrival will not abate. Everything is revelation. On the ride from the airport, I am shocked by my first highway overpass, the way the car (a private car bigger than three Soviet Ladas) leans into the curve hundreds of feet above the greenery of Queens. Here we are floating through air but in a car. And buckled into the backseat, with my parents also leaning into the airborne curve, I feel the same emotions I will experience when choking upon my first cheesy American pizza slice mon
ths later—elation, visceral excitement, but also fear. How will I ever measure up to the gentle, smiling giants strolling this land who launch their cars like cosmonauts into the infinite American sky and who live like lords in their little castles on forty-by-one-hundred-foot lots in Kew Gardens, Queens? How will I ever learn to speak English the way they do, in a way so informal and direct, but with the words circling the air like homing pigeons?
But along with the revelation of arrival is the reality of my family. It is fitting that I am wearing my Italian sweater with its epaulets. The Alitalia plane was also a troop transport. I have landed in a war zone.
There are two hateful words that will define my next decade in America. The first is rodstvenniki; see under “Relatives.” The second is razvod; see under “Divorce.”
Our first problems are geographic. My mother doesn’t want to go to New York, which in the 1970s is known around the world as a bankrupt, polluted, crime-ridden metropolis. Channel One in Leningrad has dutifully shown us clips of the homeless negry on Manhattan streets choking under billows of racism and smog. We have also been told that San Francisco would be better for my asthma. (At least one fellow Russian asthmatic I know ended up in dry, sun-baked Arizona based on similar geographic principles.) But the matriarch of my father’s relatives, Aunt Sonya, wants my father to sell leather jackets at the flea market with her son, Grisha.* In Rome, my mother had been petitioning the venerable Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the deliverer of Soviet Jews, to send us to San Francisco while in New York Aunt Sonya has been petitioning for us to come help them sell leather jackets.
Family reunification takes precedence, and we are sent to New York instead of Northern California, where so many members of my generation of Soviet immigrants are currently making a fantastical living in the Google sector of the economy. My mother, having abandoned her own dying mother in Leningrad, has been thrust into the maw of my father’s family, whom she regards as volchya poroda.
A wolfish breed.
In addition to Grandma Galya, we have abandoned two beautiful Europeanish cities, Leningrad and Rome, for—Queens. Which is where the wolfish breed lives. We are surrounded by constellations of redbrick apartment buildings with struggling people of many races and creeds. To my mother’s eye the whole setup looks like a sad approximation of what cultured European life should be.
My parents and I are housed together with Aunt Sonya in her small Forest Hills apartment. The experience of hearing the word rodstvenniki (relatives) slither out of my parents’ mouths has soured me on the very concept of having relations, and one particular incident from the days we live together has stuck inside my memory hole. My older Distant Cousin Tima has done something bad, has incorrectly sold a leather jacket at the flea market perhaps, and his father, Grisha, strikes him in front of the whole family. There’s a Russian phrase here—dal emu po shee, to give one across the neck. I am on the floor of Aunt Sonya’s apartment with my new toy, an American pen that you can click open and shut, completely engrossed in the beautiful clicking motion, and then: the sound of open palm hitting adolescent neck. Distant Cousin Tima is a swarthy, gangly boy with a Sephardic-like outbreak of mustache, and I can see him cringe and fold into himself as he’s being struck. He stands there with the hurt on his neck, with everyone’s eyes on him as if he were naked. My first thought is: I’m not the one being hit! And my second: Tima is not going to cry. And he doesn’t. He shrugs it off, smiles bitterly, and then stores it up for some future use. This is what will separate Distant Cousin Tima, or Tima, MD, as he is now called, from a crybaby like me.
Industrious and crafty, our relatives are already making the kind of flea market money that will soon land them in one of Long Island’s most storied suburbs, the kind of money that requires many strikes across the neck. In 1979, some of that money has been sunk into televisions so big (a diagonal measurement of twenty-five inches!) that I try not to play with my pen next to them, worried that if they explode in the Soviet manner they will take the entire living room down with them. Money has also been spent on stenki, literally “walls,” a kind of mahogany-based shelving unit, lacquered to a fanatical buff, that, along with the leather jacket, is so loved by Russians. Lying on the floor, I stare at my own mahogany reflection, knowing that the lacquered “walls” and the twenty-five-inch Zenith with Space Command remote control are the utmost in human achievement. If we do everything right, if my parents learn to sell leather jackets with great cunning, someday we can live like this, too.
Through the hairy network of immigrants, my father finds an apartment in quiet and safe Kew Gardens, Queens, for the fair price of $235 per month. The one-bedroom apartment will have to accommodate three generations of us: me, Mama, Papa, Grandma Polya, and her belligerent husband Ilya, or Goebbels to his friends. With our two army-green sacks and three orange suitcases made out of real Polish leather, we leave one battlefield, our wolfish relatives, for closer quarters in which to nurse Old World grievances and to brew fresh New World ones.
As for the wolfish relatives themselves, I hardly see them after we get our own apartment, but I hear about them daily. They have been petitioning my father to leave my mother and find a woman of, let’s say, a more flea market disposition. The more my mother cries in the living room over all those permed aunties telling Papa to leave her, the more I cry in the bathroom. Twenty-two years later, a more recently arrived relative, a middle-aged man who is also the kindest of their lot, will throw my first novel on the floor and spit on it, perhaps out of ideological considerations. When I think of my relatives, I think of this kind of emotional village excess. To throw the book on the floor, fine. To spit on it, sure. But to do both? This is not a Bollywood movie.
The apartment is off busy Union Turnpike, close to the juncture where it noisily confronts the Grand Central Parkway and Van Wyck Expressway and across from the Kew Motor Inn, a 1960s slab that we are too Fresh off the Boat to recognize as “the most famous and exotic couples-friendly motel in Queens.” The Egyptian Room, yours for only forty-nine dollars an hour, looks oddly like the mirrored, lacquered, Cleopatra-friendly rooms of our relatives. All one has to do is take off the leather jacket, pay the hooker, and you’re home.
Our apartment gives out onto a pleasant courtyard with a dozen oaks that are home to a handful of squirrels. I try to present these fat, bushy-tailed creatures with curvaceous peanuts, a true American marvel, just a press of middle finger and thumb and they spill out their crunchy treasure. The squirrels stare directly into my eyes, their hungry cheeks quivering, and when I lean down to throw them my treat, they are almost within reach, the fearless urban rodents. I identify a family of three of them, a perfect counterpart to my own immediate family: One seems anxious, one unhappy, and one too young to know the difference. I call them Laika, Belka, and Strelka, after the three dog cosmonauts launched into space in the 1950s and ’60s. I know I shouldn’t think along Soviet lines anymore, but Belka, the second dog’s name, means “squirrel” in Russian, so what am I supposed to do?
The first momentous thing that happens to me in Kew Gardens, Queens, is that I fall in love with cereal boxes. We are too poor to afford toys at this point, but we do have to eat. Cereal is food, sort of. It tastes grainy, easy and light, with a hint of false fruitiness. It tastes the way America feels. I’m obsessed with the fact that many cereal boxes come with prizes inside, which seems to me an unprecedented miracle. Something for nothing. My favorite comes in a box of cereal called Honeycomb, a box featuring a healthy freckled white kid—I begin to accept him as an important role model—on a bike flying through the sky. (Many years later I learn he’s probably “popping a wheelie.”) What you get inside each box of Honeycomb are small license plates to be tied to the rear of your bicycle. The license plates are much smaller than the real thing, but they have a nice metallic heft to them. I keep getting MICHIGAN, a very simple plate, white letters on a black base. I trace the word with my finger. I speak it aloud, getting most of the sounds wrong. MEESHUGAN.
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br /> When I have a thick stack of plates, I hold them in my hand and spread them out like playing cards. I casually throw them on the dingy mattress my parents have hauled out of a nearby trash heap—then scoop them up and press them to my chest for no reason. I hide them under my pillow, then ferret them out like a demented post-Soviet dog. Each plate is terribly unique. Some states present themselves as “America’s Dairyland”; others wish to “Live Free or Die.” What I need now, in a very serious way, is to get an actual bike.
In America the distance between wanting something and having it delivered to your living room is not terribly great. I want a bike, so some rich American neighbor (they’re all unspeakably rich) gives me a bike. A rusted red monstrosity with the spokes coming dangerously undone, but there it is. I tie a license plate to the bicycle, and I spend most of my day wondering which plate to use next, citrus-sunny FLORIDA or snowy VERMONT. This is what America is about: choice.
I don’t have much choice in pals, but there’s a one-eyed girl in our building complex whom I have sort of befriended. She’s tiny and scrappy, and poor just like us. We’re suspicious of each other at first, but I’m an immigrant and she has one eye, so we’re even. The girl rides around on a half-broken bike just like mine, and she keeps falling and scraping herself (rumor is that’s how she lost her eye) and bawling whenever her palms get bloodied, her blond head raised up to the sky. One day she sees me riding my banged-up bicycle with the Honeycomb license plate clanging behind me, and she screams, “MICHIGAN! MICHIGAN!” And I ride ahead, smiling and tooting my bike horn, proud of the English letters that are attached somewhere below my ass. Michigan! Michigan! with its bluish-black license plate the color of my friend’s remaining eye. Michigan, with its delicious American name. How lucky one must be to live there.
Little Failure Page 10