Hot Little Hands

by Abigail Ulman

  “It’s not fair.” I started to cry.

  “Here.” My mother pushed a bowl across the table toward me.

  “And don’t tell me that thing about life not being fair.”

  “Well, it’s true,” my father said.

  “Maybe it is,” I said. “But it’s more fair for adults than it is for kids. At least you get to decide what you can do.”

  “Eat something,” my mother said.

  “What’s the point? If I can’t go to America, I’d rather starve and die.”

  —

  My birthday party becomes my farewell party. All my friends attend but instead of giving me birthday gifts, like stickers or candies, they give me going-away presents. My first best friend Lara arrives first with a mauve satiny eye mask to wear on the airplane while I sleep. Manya, a girl from my class who my mother always makes me invite to my parties, gets me a Pokémon watch with the price sticker still on it. It cost eighty-five rubles. It stops working two minutes after I take it out of the packet and put it on my wrist. I don’t care; I haven’t liked Pokémon since fifth grade. Anastasya comes without a present. She’s saving her money for America, so she can buy Rollerblades there. My second best friend Raya brings me a diary with a glittery airplane on the cover, a silver pencil attached by a ribbon, and a lock with two little keys dangling from it.

  “You have to tell us everything when you get back,” she says. “This will help you keep a record.”

  “Give the other key to Orlando Bloom when you meet him.” My first best friend Lara winks at me.

  “He’s English,” Raya tells her.

  “They all live there,” Lara says.

  The boys come late and stand all together by the television. The girls are squeezed onto the sofa or sitting on the floor in front of it. My mother comes out of the kitchen with the radio and puts it on the side table.

  “Mingle,” she whispers on her way out of the room.

  “Why don’t they?” I whisper back.

  “I’m yours,” Polina Gagarina sings from the speakers.

  I get up and go over to the boys. There are five of them, all leaning back against the wall.

  “Happy birthday,” Anatoly mumbles.

  “Yeah,” says Vlad. He runs a hand back over his wet-gelled hair, then he looks down at his fingers (now all sticky and gross) and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. I smile at Igor and Slava, and go over to Dimitri.

  “You look pretty,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say, twirling the Pokémon watch around my wrist. “Um, so do you.” The other boys laugh. I roll my eyes and go back to the sofa.

  “Who’s that?” Anastasya asks.

  I shrug a shoulder. “Some guy from school.”

  “He has a crush on her.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Yeah, but Kira’s saving herself until she gets to America and meets Johnny Depp,” my first best friend Lara says.

  “He’s French,” my second best friend Raya says.

  “They all live there.”

  Ten minutes later my parents bring out a birthday pie, with SAFE TRAVELS carved into the crust. My grandmother, the maker of the pie, doesn’t come out of our bedroom for the entire party.

  —

  Coach Zhukov and Xenia had come to see my parents when I was at school one day. They told them I was the best gymnast in the group, and a performance at the conference would raise my profile in the world of international gymnastics. They told them about the people who would be in San Diego watching me perform—world-class coaches, the president of USA Gymnastics, and senior American gymnasts like Shannon Miller and Carly Patterson. As for us being alone in a foreign country, Xenia promised she would be there at all times. She would accompany us girls everywhere and stay in the same hotel room.

  They gave my parents the name and details of a government official who could get me a passport quickly. They said they needn’t worry about the cost of the trip. The conference would pay for the basics and, if they wanted to give me spending money, Coach Zhukov could refund them the rest of the term’s tuition. My parents signed the permission slips and in-case-of-emergencies, and Coach Zhukov wrote them a check. That’s how they paid for the digital camera, with a memory card inside it that can hold two hundred photos.

  —

  I take pictures of everything. I take one of Licorice up on his hind legs at the windowsill, trying to swat a moth with his paw. I take one of my father smiling at the kitchen table, my mother beside him, lighting a cigarette. I take one of the upstairs neighbor with her baby in the stairwell, its mouth wide open in a scream. I take some self-portraits: one of my feet on the kitchen floor, wearing one red sock, one navy one; one of myself in the mirror, balancing on my left leg with my right one straight out in a half split; one of the inside of my mouth, the back teeth crowded together like schoolkids on the trolleybus. I take one of my grandmother sitting on the edge of her bed in the morning, halfway through a yawn.

  “Look, Baba.” I turn the camera around and show her the picture on the screen.

  “Great,” she says. “It’s not bad enough that I have to get old and ugly, now I have to watch it happen on a little television.”

  “It’s not a television, it’s a camera.”

  “Well, watch that you don’t get it stolen in America. Those cities are full of thugs and thieves.”

  “That’s just New York,” I tell her. “I’m going to California.”

  —

  The day before I leave is a Sunday but practice has been canceled until we get back. My mum helps me pack my bag in the morning: clothes in the main section, shoes in the front pocket, my ticket and brand-new passport in a secret zippered compartment inside.

  After lunch, Dimitri calls and asks if I have time to see him. We arrange to meet at Café VIP downtown. I take the bus there, looking out the window at the apartment buildings rising up beside every street, a light shining behind almost every curtain. I wonder if people in San Diego ever have to turn on their lights in the middle of the day. I imagine big houses with all their windows and doors open, letting the sunshine and warm breeze come in and tickle the legs of the people who live there, who will all be wearing shorts or mini skirts and have bare sandy feet.

  When I get to the café, Dimitri is waiting outside, wearing a leather jacket that’s too long for him. Inside, he buys us each a mug of hot cocoa. We sit at a table next to the front window and talk about America. He says his cousin went there once and told him that the candies are made with sugar-free sugar. And all the women have bodies like the girls on Baywatch. And if you look a black guy directly in the eyes he’ll kill you.

  “He’s in jail now, though,” he says. “Here in Vladivostok. He killed his landlady and her boyfriend.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I say.

  “Yeah, him and some Chechens were selling guns out of his flat and when his landlady found out, she reported them to the police. He went to prison for four years and when he got out, he hunted her down.”

  “And shot her?” I ask.

  “No, I think he did it with a knife. He’s back inside now. You can have my marshmallow if you like.”

  Later, when we leave the café, a wind has started up and the street is empty. I blow warm air into my gloves, then hold my hands over my ears.

  “So.” Dimitri buttons his jacket up to the collar. “Do you think you want to be my girlfriend?” He sniffs and spits into the gutter.

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching his saliva freeze up on the ice. “I might meet someone in America.”

  “You’re only going for a week,” he says.

  “I know. But it can happen quickly. Ever heard of—” I try to find the English expression. “Love at first sight?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I have.” He takes a step toward me and puts his hand on my cheek. The kiss is just as I’d pictured it in bed every morning for weeks: our mouths slightly opened, his tongue skimm
ing my upper lip, my lower lip, then finding the tip of my tongue before he pulls away. He takes his hand back and stares into my face for a minute. “Let me know when you get back, Kira,” he says. Then he turns and leaves.

  He’s half a block away when I realize I didn’t get a photo of him. “Hey, Dimitri?” I call. “Dimitri!” The wind snatches my voice away, and he doesn’t hear me. I get my camera out and take a photo of his back, walking away from me on the icy street. It won’t help me conjure up his face when I’m in America, but it’s better than nothing at all.

  —

  That night, I can’t sleep and neither can my grandmother. I listen to her bed ticking under her as she turns over. Finally I ask, “Baba, can I get into bed with you for a while?”

  “Come on, then,” she says.

  I cross the room and snuggle against her back. I wonder if she misses my grandfather, but instead I ask, “Will you miss me?”

  “You and your acrobatics all over the flat. How could I miss that? We’ll have some peace around here for a while.”

  I don’t say anything and she sighs.

  “I remember when your grandfather and I left Kurilsk for Vladivostok. I was pregnant with your father and I didn’t know when I’d see my parents or my brothers and sisters again. Leaving behind an old place for a new one is like dying. Traveling is like a little death.”

  “I’m only going for six days,” I remind her.

  “I know,” she says into the wall. “But when you come back, you’ll be a woman of the world. You’ll have been to a country your parents and grandparents have never been. You’ll be more of a grown-up than a child.”

  I put my arms around her and feel her belly heaving in and out. When I fall asleep I dream that I am lying on a balance beam. I have to curl over on my side and stay very still in order to not fall off. I keep waiting for the judges to disqualify me for going over time, but they don’t say anything.

  —

  All the mothers cry at the airport but none of us four girls does. It’s been almost a month since we found out we’d been chosen, and we are ready to go. I hug my mother, then my father, then my mother wants to hug me again. She tugs on my ear and I don’t complain, because she’s sad and I don’t want to make her sadder.

  “Don’t forget to take care of Licorice,” I say, “and give him treats.”

  “We won’t forget,” my mum promises. “Don’t forget to call us when you get there. Please make sure she calls,” she tells Coach Zhukov.

  “Of course,” he says. “I’ve got all the parents’ details.” I hand him my camera and I stand between my parents as he takes a picture of the three of us. I look at the photo on the screen. My dad has his eyes closed in it, so I delete it. Then he takes a picture of the four of us girls: Vera, Ehma, Anastasya, and me. And then it’s time to go. I hug my parents again and wait for Anastasya to finish saying goodbye to her father, a tall man with a mustache and no wedding ring on. We walk to the door, and turn and wave. Then we head toward security.

  I have never been on an airplane before. I get a window seat, right near the engine, and the stewardess gives me earplugs to wear if it gets too noisy. Anastasya, Ehma, and I are seated in a row of three. Vera and the adults are a few rows behind us. The sun is setting as we take off. Anastasya grabs my left hand and Ehma’s right hand. She sits back and closes her eyes. “I’m crapping my heart out,” she says.

  Anastasya watches Along Came Polly. Ehma and I watch 50 First Dates. The English is too hard for me to follow without subtitles so I listen to the music stations. There are twenty of them. There’s jazz, classical, rock ’n’ roll, opera, and even a European pop station. I listen to that one for a while and then they start to play “Ya Soshla S Uma.” It’s definitely t.A.T.u. singing but the words are in English, and it’s called “All the Things She Said.” I can’t believe it! I turn to tell the others but they’re both asleep, their heads leaning against each other. I listen to the song and go through my beam routine in my head. Handstand into double salto into a one-handed straddle split.

  I fall asleep without realizing it, and wake up hours later with a dry mouth. The airplane is dark now except for a few people’s individual lights on overhead. Anastasya and Ehma are still asleep. They don’t even wake up when I push past them to go to the bathroom.

  On my way to the back of the plane, I have to step over Coach Zhukov’s right foot, which is stretched out into the aisle. When I look up, I see that the three of them—Coach Zhukov, Xenia, and Vera—are all sleeping. I also notice that Coach Zhukov’s hand is resting in his assistant’s lap. I wonder if it’s an accident, or if they’re actually boyfriend–girlfriend and have kept it a secret all along.

  —

  In America there are advertisements in the airport for alcohol, banks, and Hawaii. In America, there are moving walkways in the airport, and everyone I see has a small suitcase on wheels. None of them seems to have checked in bags. They roll their hand luggage to the exit and out into the night.

  We’re all exhausted. We’ve been through airports in Moscow and Anchorage, and we girls are half asleep on our feet. We shuffle after Coach Zhukov and Xenia. The coach holds our passports and tickets, and takes them up to the customs officer when he’s called. The officer looks at our passports, then over at us. He says something to Coach Zhukov and both men laugh.

  “He thought you were all my daughters,” he tells us as we head for the baggage claim area, and we giggle.

  “Papa, where are our bags?” Anastasya says.

  “Yeah, Papa, where do we go next?” I ask.

  “Come along, daughters,” he says. “It’s this way.” We laugh again.

  Outside, the first thing I notice is that there are yellow cabs lined up at the curb, just like the ones in the movies. The second thing I notice is the weather. It’s windy and chilly. I worry for a moment that I didn’t bring the right outfits with me. I decide I can wear my leotard under my clothes if I get too cold.

  The conference has sent a driver to pick us up. He’s standing next to a white sedan, holding a sign with Coach Zhukov’s name printed on it. Xenia helps us load our bags into the trunk while the coach speaks to the driver.

  “Xenia and I will follow you in a cab,” Coach Zhukov tells us as we climb in. “He knows where to go for the hotel. See you there in a few minutes, girls.”

  The driver is wearing a blue-and-yellow baseball cap and a leather jacket that reminds me of Dimitri. His skin is the color of Enrique Iglesias’s. (I love Enrique Iglesias.) As we drive away, I tell the other girls, “I saw Coach Zhukov touching Xenia’s leg.”

  “I saw that, too!” says Vera. “They were holding hands.”

  “No way.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The road from the airport to the hotel is a highway. There is a motel and a billboard for a radio station. Anastasya, in the passenger seat, turns to the driver and asks, “Do we travel by the animal zoo?” The rest of us giggle at the sound of her speaking English. The driver glances over and shakes his head. It’s not clear whether he understands her or not. I stare at the people in the cars driving past. I see a blond girl in her twenties driving a jeep car. And a black couple in a station wagon with a baby sleeping in a baby seat in the back.

  We see the San Diego skyline just before we turn off at the exit.

  “Just like on September eleventh,” Ehma says.

  “That was in New York,” Vera tells her.

  “Yeah, but it easily could have happened here,” Ehma says.

  “No, it couldn’t.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Idiot.”

  They’re still arguing about it when the driver pulls over to the curb and stops the car. We’re parked on a wide city street that’s empty except for a few open cigarette shops and bars. The driver gets out and goes around to open the trunk. When we climb out of the car, there’s a man standing on the sidewalk, holding a mobile phone. He is tanned with bleached hair, and he’s wearing jeans and a tight w
hite shirt.

  “Russia?” he says in English, looking right at me.

  “Uh, hello?” I try.

  “You’re all from Russia?” he says.

  We look at one another. “Yes.”

  He goes over to the driver, who places the last of our luggage on the sidewalk and then hands him a big white envelope. The blond man opens it and looks inside. He gives the driver some cash (just like the money they use on TV), and turns to us.

  “Come in,” he says, tilting his head toward the building we’re standing in front of. We all look away, down the block. A couple of cars approach and pass us, but neither one is a taxi.

  “Coach,” I try in English. “We waiting, Mr. Zhukov.”

  “Oh right, he’ll come. He’s on his way,” he says.

  “You are Mr. Colin?” Ehma says.

  “Uh-huh.” He nods. “Yep. Come on in.”

  The hotel room is up four flights of stairs and is less glamorous than I had imagined. It isn’t all that different from our flat in Vladivostok, really—a living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, hallway, and a kitchen. But in this flat, there is no sofa in the living room, just white plastic chairs; no bases under the beds, just mattresses on the floor; no mother, father, or grandmother waiting for us in the kitchen, just a woman wearing glasses and a floral wraparound dress. She smiles at us, and even though I don’t know her, I’m happy to see her.

  “My wife,” Colin says. The woman says hello and puts two paper bags on the table.

  “Take a seat,” she says. “I brought you McDonald’s.”

  We grin at one another as we sit down. Colin’s wife opens the bags and passes around hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and fries. I unwrap my burger, take a bite of it, and keep grinning as I chew. I’ve had McDonald’s before, but never the real McDonald’s, in the country where it was invented.

  While the four of us eat, Colin sits across the table and empties his envelope. Our passports are there, along with our original audition photos and the consent forms our parents signed. He opens each passport, looks at its owner, and then hands it to his wife, who slides it back into the envelope. When he opens Vera’s she giggles and says, “Is me, short hairs.”