by Adam Pelzman
Then there’s a boy and a girl, a pair of burrowing parrots from Argentina, Cyanoliseus patagonus they’re called, and they’re green with patches of gray and a little turquoise blue near the tail feathers, and what I love about them, what I really love about them, is that they’re monogamous and that’s how they’re wired, how their genetics work. Chica and Chico, I named them too, Girl and Boy, and they stick to themselves. They’ve got their own branch where they sit and clean each other and watch the other birds. And the other birds know they better stay away or else Chico, who’s real protective of Chica, will raise his feathers, flap them in a scary way and squawk so loud that I can hear him from my bedroom.
When I’m ten, Pepe gives me Chico and Chica for my birthday. He says I’m giving you these birds, but it’s not like a normal gift, where you hold it in your hands and you put it on your shelf or a cage in your room and you can do with it what you want. It’s a different sort of gift, he says, and they’ll stay right here, not in a cage but right here in their home. And he points to their branch in the mango tree. They won’t belong to you or to me but to each other. And I ask, so how’s that a gift? If I don’t get to keep them? Pepe smiles, the type of smile that a wise old man gives a little girl who doesn’t know much—and he removes his black hat and underneath is a thick clump of shiny gray hair, almost white, and he wipes his face with his hand, shields his eyes from the strong Florida sun. And he says not only is it a gift, but it’s the best type of gift.
Pepe takes a carrot from his pocket and breaks it in half, hands me both pieces and nods in the direction of Chico and Chica. Slow, he says, and I do just that, holding the carrots in both hands and moving careful toward the branch. Chica is closer to me, and as I get near her, Chico moves behind her, slides across the branch and positions himself between me and her, real chivalrous. I hold out the carrots and the two birds move away together along the branch, sliding their claws real quick. Pepe places his hand on my arm, says hold right there. So I stand with my arms out and the carrots just a few inches from the birds. Chica looks at Chico, and Chico looks me in the eyes, takes a couple of steps toward me and opens his beak. He sticks his tongue out, which is plump and cracked and looks like a piece of old leather that’s been out in the sun for days.
Just when I think he’s gonna take the carrot, the two of them shimmy a few inches away so they’re at the end of the branch with nowhere to go. I’m so nervous ’cause Chico and Chica are mine now. Pepe just gave them to me—even though they need to be free and I understand that—but I love them and I’m afraid they’ll reject me. I turn and look at Pepe, and his hat is on his head now and he pulls the brim down and makes a motion with his hands. Go, girl, go.
Chico gives a little squeak and takes a couple of steps back in my direction, but this time Chica doesn’t follow. He opens his beak wide, sticks out his leathery tongue and I place the carrot on it. His beak snaps shut like a mean turtle and he nods, turns to Chica. She opens her beak and looks up to the sun and seems to enjoy the warmth. Slow and careful, Chico places the carrot in Chica’s mouth and she clasps it tight and looks straight ahead. Chico turns back to me and opens his beak. I place the other carrot on his tongue, and the two birds crunch away, strong and fast, and in no more than a few seconds the carrots are all gone.
I turn to Pepe, excited and feeling real connected to the birds, to my birds, and so happy that they ate my carrots and hoping that they trust me now. Pepe lifts the brim of his hat so he can see me better, so I can get a better look at his face. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me the way a grandfather looks at his granddaughter when he wants to say something important. And then he says you see that? He looks over at the birds then back to me. Remember, lovely Perlita, remember what you just saw. And I shrug ’cause I know I just saw something sweet but I don’t know exactly what Pepe means.
Pepe gives a little playful pinch on my shoulder and he says remember, Perlita, when you get older, you look for a man like that, someone who protects you, who feeds you first, who won’t take a bite of anything, won’t take a single piece of food or clothing or firewood until you’ve had enough first. Firewood? I ask, ’cause why would I need firewood in Miami, and besides, we have an electric heater that we plug into the wall if it ever gets chilly. Yes, firewood, Old Pepe says, firewood. You promise me, Perlita? Yes, I say.
Pepe picks a feather off my shoulder, a little puff of white like a cotton ball, not the kind of feather that’s long and thin and full of colors. He holds it to the sky and says here, Perlita, make a wish. And I close my eyes and turn my face to the sky. I can feel my cheeks roasting in the sun, and I make a wish, the same wish I always make, even to this day. And then I open my eyes and the feather’s on his palm. I blow real hard and it bounces across his hand like a tumbleweed, then catches a breeze and floats high, high up over the mango tree where Chico and Chica sit, and they watch it fly too, their heads swinging together like they share one brain, then up over the fence and out east, over the bay and toward the ocean.
I turn to Pepe. Want to know my wish? I ask. Pepe shields his eyes from the sun and watches the feather drift until we can’t see it anymore. And then he smiles and shakes his head and says no, Perlita, no. That’s for you, just you. And your god.
SCARCITY. NEED. KNOWLEDGE.
In the corner table of a popular restaurant that Frankmann operated, Julian sat with Kira and the old Jew. Kira ordered a feast for the table—fish stew, roasted duck, boiled potatoes, carrots, borscht, broiled venison, hot bread drizzled with butter, and a cola for the boy. Julian was mesmerized by the bustle of the restaurant: the streaks of white-coated waiters, the naval officers dining in their dress uniforms, the Party bureaucrats, the merchants, the variety and amount of food, the deference with which Frankmann and, by extension, Julian and Kira were treated.
“So,” Frankmann started, as Julian devoured a piece of delicious bread, “you need two things.” He turned to Kira. “Take notes, please.” Kira removed from her bag a legal pad and a pen. “You need two things, Julian, and we can work on both of them simultaneously. First, we need a plan to get you to the States.” Julian nodded in agreement, as this was consistent with his mother’s wishes. “And then you need to develop skills. It’s a hornet’s nest over there, you know. And your mother wouldn’t want you fending for yourself without the right tools. Now, the good news is you’ve got strong genes, believe it or not. You have your mother’s good looks. And crafty as hell, she was. And let’s hope you have your father’s best traits.”
Julian placed the bread on the plate before him. “My father? What were my father’s best traits?”
Frankmann bellowed, “Your father? I saw him only once, when he came into town with three tigers—the biggest, most beautiful pelts I had ever seen. He’d taken them down in just one week, and word had already spread throughout our town, our entire region, that a hunter had done something remarkable. And because he was one of our own, you can imagine the pride. Hundreds lined the street into town, waiting to get a glimpse of the tigers and the man who had hunted them. It was all so dramatic, like you see in an opera, a German opera. Your father standing tall with two rifles strapped to his back, a knife on his belt, a bloody shoulder, working the reins of the troika, three horses up front, trotting shoulder to shoulder, the three of them working together, their hooves in perfect harmony and dancing proud like those Lipizzaner stallions. And in the back of the troika, in the carriage, were these colossal cats, brown and white and a brilliant orange.” Frankmann lifted a glass of wine to his lips and drank, not for pleasure, but to lubricate his throat. “Those were tough times around here, still are. The corruption, the poverty, the bureaucrats. The bureaucrats! So cowardly and pathetic, every one of them. And what they did to God . . .” Frankmann paused. He studied the boy’s face. “But when your father rode into town, Julian, that was a moment that gave everyone hope, a little inspiration that they could still strive, that they could do
something otherworldly.”
Julian watched as Frankmann placed the wineglass back down on the table. He cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Frankmann, what were my father’s best traits?”
Frankmann looked at Julian pityingly. “I just told you, boy. I just told you.” Kira reached over and stroked Julian’s hair. “Kira, please, don’t baby him. We have work to do.” She withdrew her hand and straightened the pad in front of her. “Kira, I want you to go visit Dmitriev at the Family Service Bureau. He’s as corrupt as they come, so no calls or letters. Take two thousand out of the safe and put it in a bag for him. Make sure no one is around when you hand it to him and tell him I need adoption and transport papers for an orphan.” Frankmann eyed Kira as she took detailed notes. “Burn those when you’re finished,” he said.
“Of course,” replied Kira, having become a master at destroying potentially incriminating documents.
The waiter arrived and covered the table with food. Frankmann and Kira barely looked at their plates, so immersed were they in the execution of the plan. Frankmann’s ability to focus on the task at hand to the exclusion of all else had, he believed, been one of the primary contributors to his success. Julian stared at the food before him and wondered what to do—start eating or wait until the adults began. Out of caution, he chose the latter.
Frankmann continued. “I will call a couple I know in America, outside New York somewhere. I made them rich in the sixties and kept the husband out of jail in the seventies. And I always told them that one day I would collect my debt. Well, today’s their lucky day, Julian, because you’re going to be adopted by an old Petersburg couple. A husband and wife, Americans now with a fancy car and a house and cupboards stocked to the ceilings with food. They are good people, sneaky rascals of course, and they’ll protect you, educate you, feed and clothe you until you turn eighteen. How old are you now?”
“Ten.”
“Okay, so then you’ll have eight years with these people. And then, well, who knows . . .”
“Okay,” Julian muttered, trying to hold back his tears, “eight years.” Despite the years spent without his parents and the resulting acceleration of his childhood, the thought of his future and permanent emancipation terrified him.
“When will Julian be traveling?” Kira asked.
Frankmann drove a fork into his venison and cut off a large piece. “It’s impossible to be kosher in Siberia, you know. In the big cities, it’s easier. But out here?”
Puzzled, Julian and Kira stared at the old man, who dropped the meat into his mouth and chewed with great force.
“Sir?” Kira asked. “The travel plans?”
As Frankmann swallowed the chunk of meat, a rivulet of russet grease slid into his beard and mixed with the white bristles. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “You a fast learner?” he asked the boy.
“The fastest, sir,” Julian responded, straightening his posture in the chair.
“And competitive?”
His confidence rising, Julian nodded and expanded his chest. “Just like my father, sir.”
Frankmann cut another piece of meat and observed the boy. He had spent a long career sizing up people and had, through both success and occasional failure, developed a keen instinct that allowed him to quickly determine the strengths and weaknesses of a human being. He considered Julian’s parents, the boy’s ability to survive great tragedy, the knock on the office door, the assertiveness with which Julian demanded to be heard. “Two months, Kira. That’s all the time I will need with this boy.”
“To do what?” Julian asked as he lifted his knife and fork and prepared to cut a piece of duck.
“To teach you how to be rich.”
Julian smiled wearily and placed his utensils back on the table. “When do we start, sir?”
“We start now.” Frankmann took the pad and pen from Kira and handed them to Julian. With a linen napkin, Frankmann wiped the grease from his beard. “You see that waiter over there, the young man with the glasses? With the feminine features?”
“Yes,” said Julian, unsure what it meant for a man to have feminine features.
“Well, he came into town last week from the west, arrived by train, and he’s got a valise full of old books. Art books, history, old Russian literature, he had something by Lermontov, beautiful atlases, that sort of thing. He even had a few volumes in English, including a first edition of Ulysses, fourth printing. It was pretty clear from looking at the books, in perfect condition with plastic covers on them, that whoever used to own these was a serious collector. So the man pulls into town with the books and asks around, trying to find out who might be interested in buying the lot. Well, given I’m the only man in town with any real money, he ends up in my office. It turns out he’s a painter, an artist, and he came here to paint the sea and to capture the light for which we’re famous.”
Kira and Julian look surprised. “I know,” Frankmann continued, “why anyone would want to live here is beyond me, but that’s a romantic for you. Anyway, the young man wants to paint here for a few months, then go to Moscow with his work and join the Academy of Arts, which they say is the finest institution of its kind. So, this painter is broke, and the only asset he owns is these books that he inherited from an uncle, and he doesn’t know much at all about book collecting. So when he comes to me, I’ve got scarcity, need and knowledge in my favor.”
Just then, the painter approached the table with a pitcher of water. In deference to him, Frankmann stopped the story until the young man filled the glasses and moved on to the next table. “Remember these three words, boy. Write them down. Scarcity. Need. Knowledge.” As Julian wrote down the words, Frankmann lifted a bottle of wine from the table. “This,” he said, “is a 1975 Château Lafite Rothschild. You can buy it from a fine vintner in Moscow for three hundred rubles. In Paris, it might cost the equivalent of two hundred, but in francs, of course.” Julian scribbled more notes on the pad. Wine. 300. 200. 1975. “So, Julian, what would you say is the value of this wine?”
The boy looked first at Kira and then at the bottle of wine. He reached for the bottle and rotated it one complete revolution, reading the yellowed label with the elegant French cursive. “I think the value would be two to three hundred. Is that right?”
“Yes, boy, that would be the price, the range of prices, for this bottle in Paris or Moscow. I agree. But that is not the universal value of the wine.” Julian appeared confused. “What if I were to tell you, Julian, that this particular bottle was not being offered for sale in Moscow or Paris, but rather hours from the city, in the countryside, near a dacha owned by a rich industrialist?”
Julian wrote on the pad: Moscow, Paris, dacha. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“In the countryside, hours from the city, there are no stores that sell such a fine wine. It is not so easily available. So the wealthy owner of the dacha does not have the benefit of an alternative supply if he is not happy with the price. In Paris, he can walk into a liquor shop, and if the wine is too expensive, he walks to the next shop and buys it there for a better price. So, in the countryside, in the Russian countryside where there is only one vintner, and this vintner holds in his inventory a very small number of wines, what might be the impact on the price of the wine? Higher or lower?”
“Higher, sir,” Julian said. “The wine would be more expensive.”
Frankmann smiled. “And would that be an example of price impacted by scarcity or by need?”
“Scarcity, sir.”
“Good, boy. Now let’s alter the facts.” Julian straightened the pad and held the pen an inch above the paper. So focused was he on Frankmann’s lesson that he did not eat his food. Frankmann continued. “We agree that the wealthy dacha owner from the countryside wants this bottle of wine. He’s hours from the city and has no other way to get it, so he pays more. Maybe instead of three hundred, he pays four hundred. That we agree on.
Now, let’s make another assumption. Let’s assume that not only is this rich landowner a wine aficionado who is willing to pay a few extra rubles for a fine wine, but let’s assume that in addition to being wealthy and many hours removed from the city, let’s assume that he is also an alcoholic. Let’s assume that this rich man is addicted to wine.”
Julian winced at the reference to addiction. He stopped writing and looked up to the old man. “An alcoholic?” he asked.
“Yes, an alcoholic. And what that means is his need for this bottle of wine . . .” Frankmann tapped the bottle before him for effect. “His need for this particular bottle of wine is greater than the need of the average rich dacha owner. Our buyer has to have his alcohol. He can’t go a night without drinking or he starts to shake, and he gets nasty and kicks his dog.”
Julian looked at Frankmann, turned to Kira, and then returned to the old Jew. “Why would he kick his dog, sir?”
Kira was alarmed. “Mr. Frankmann didn’t mean that, did he?” she said, eyeing the old man.
Frankmann recognized that his words had frightened the boy, that he had offended Kira’s sense of propriety. “I misspoke, boy. He would never kick the dog. He loves the dog. But if he simply cannot go one single night without a bottle of wine, what’s he willing to do, boy? What’s he willing to do to get that wine?”
“He’s willing to pay even more,” Julian responded.
“Precisely!” Frankmann roared and slapped his hand on the table. Then he carved a piece of venison and dropped it into his mouth with great satisfaction. The old Jew raised his wineglass and took a luxurious gulp. He lifted the linen napkin from his lap, snapped it in the air, and wiped his lips. “And why is he willing to pay even more?”