hump throbbed with hope but also with the caveat that life could produce only disappointment. I burped quietly into my hand and prepared to wipe away the tear that would be forthcoming whether the news was good or bad. “And?” I whispered. “What did he say?”
“No go,” Alyosha-Bob mumbled. “They won’t let in the child of a murderer. The dead Oklahoman was politically connected, too. They love Oklahomans in the new administration. They want to make an example of you.”
The tear did not fall. But the anger found its way into my nostrils, from which it came out as a low, sonorous whistle. I picked up the fresh vodka bottle and threw it against a wall. It shattered in a brilliant show of light and clarity. The Mountain Eagle’s clientele fell silent, a dozen shaved heads glistening with midsummer sweat, the richer men looking toward their bodyguards with raised eyebrows, the bodyguards looking toward their fists. The Georgian restaurant manager peeked out from his office, took note of who I was, bowed respectfully in my direction, and motioned for the waitress to bring me another bottle.
“Easy, Snack,” Alyosha-Bob said.
“If you want to do something useful, throw a bottle at the Americans,” Ruslan the Enforcer said. “But make sure to light it first. Let them all burn to death. See if I care!”
“America I want,” I said, uncapping the new bottle and, in contravention of all drinking etiquette, pouring it right down my throat. “New York. Rouenna. Take her from behind. Empire State Building. Korean grocery. Salad bar. Laundromat.” I managed to stand up. The table spun around me in a fantasia of colors and textures—mutton parts hoisted on spits, egg yolks dripping into cheese pies, stews gurgling with sunflower oil and blood. How could a late-afternoon meal turn so violent? Who were these cretinous people around me? Everywhere I looked, I saw failure and despondency. “They want an example to make?” I said. “I
am
the example. I am the best example for a good, loving, honest person. And I’m going to show them now!” I started staggering toward Mamudov and my Land Rover.
“Don’t go!” Alyosha-Bob shouted after me. “Misha! You’re not capable of action!”
“Am I not a man?” I shouted Beloved Papa’s popular refrain. And to my driver, Mamudov, I said: “Take me to the American consulate.”
The generals in charge of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service have surely seen it all. Migrant Mexicans chased by coyotes across the Rio Grande. Pitch-black Africans sealed into shipping containers so that they can sneak into the country, sell sunglasses by Battery Park, and then send food back to their children in Togo. Rafts full of dehydrated, starving, partially naked Hispanics washing up on the beaches of Miami to beg for asylum (I’ve always wondered why they don’t bring along an adequate supply of bottled water and snacks for such a long journey). But have they ever seen a rich and educated person impale himself upon the flagpole bearing the Stars and Stripes? Have they ever seen a person whose wallet contains the U.S. dollar equivalent of a dozen American dreams prostrate himself before them for a chance to see the Brooklyn Promenade once more? Have they ever met a cultured European who would choose the American berserk over the Belgian truffle? Forget the Mexicans and Africans and such. In a sense, my American story is the most compelling of all. It is the ultimate compliment to a nation known more for its belly than for its brain.
As we drove up Furshtatskaya Street, Mamudov told me he would disgorge me at the consulate’s entrance and drive around the corner (civilian cars are not allowed to idle near the Americans’ sacred space). “You don’t look well, excellency,” Mamudov said to me. “Why not take a little nap back home? We’ll pick up an Asian girl from the brothel and some Ativan from the American clinic. Just as you fancy.”
“To
“No go,” Alyosha-Bob mumbled. “They won’t let in the child of a murderer. The dead Oklahoman was politically connected, too. They love Oklahomans in the new administration. They want to make an example of you.”
The tear did not fall. But the anger found its way into my nostrils, from which it came out as a low, sonorous whistle. I picked up the fresh vodka bottle and threw it against a wall. It shattered in a brilliant show of light and clarity. The Mountain Eagle’s clientele fell silent, a dozen shaved heads glistening with midsummer sweat, the richer men looking toward their bodyguards with raised eyebrows, the bodyguards looking toward their fists. The Georgian restaurant manager peeked out from his office, took note of who I was, bowed respectfully in my direction, and motioned for the waitress to bring me another bottle.
“Easy, Snack,” Alyosha-Bob said.
“If you want to do something useful, throw a bottle at the Americans,” Ruslan the Enforcer said. “But make sure to light it first. Let them all burn to death. See if I care!”
“America I want,” I said, uncapping the new bottle and, in contravention of all drinking etiquette, pouring it right down my throat. “New York. Rouenna. Take her from behind. Empire State Building. Korean grocery. Salad bar. Laundromat.” I managed to stand up. The table spun around me in a fantasia of colors and textures—mutton parts hoisted on spits, egg yolks dripping into cheese pies, stews gurgling with sunflower oil and blood. How could a late-afternoon meal turn so violent? Who were these cretinous people around me? Everywhere I looked, I saw failure and despondency. “They want an example to make?” I said. “I
am
the example. I am the best example for a good, loving, honest person. And I’m going to show them now!” I started staggering toward Mamudov and my Land Rover.
“Don’t go!” Alyosha-Bob shouted after me. “Misha! You’re not capable of action!”
“Am I not a man?” I shouted Beloved Papa’s popular refrain. And to my driver, Mamudov, I said: “Take me to the American consulate.”
The generals in charge of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service have surely seen it all. Migrant Mexicans chased by coyotes across the Rio Grande. Pitch-black Africans sealed into shipping containers so that they can sneak into the country, sell sunglasses by Battery Park, and then send food back to their children in Togo. Rafts full of dehydrated, starving, partially naked Hispanics washing up on the beaches of Miami to beg for asylum (I’ve always wondered why they don’t bring along an adequate supply of bottled water and snacks for such a long journey). But have they ever seen a rich and educated person impale himself upon the flagpole bearing the Stars and Stripes? Have they ever seen a person whose wallet contains the U.S. dollar equivalent of a dozen American dreams prostrate himself before them for a chance to see the Brooklyn Promenade once more? Have they ever met a cultured European who would choose the American berserk over the Belgian truffle? Forget the Mexicans and Africans and such. In a sense, my American story is the most compelling of all. It is the ultimate compliment to a nation known more for its belly than for its brain.
As we drove up Furshtatskaya Street, Mamudov told me he would disgorge me at the consulate’s entrance and drive around the corner (civilian cars are not allowed to idle near the Americans’ sacred space). “You don’t look well, excellency,” Mamudov said to me. “Why not take a little nap back home? We’ll pick up an Asian girl from the brothel and some Ativan from the American clinic. Just as you fancy.”
“To
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