Blind Date (12 page)

“We've found a marvelous house for you,” the real estate agent announced cheerfully. “Right next to Khrushchev's daughter!”

“Khrushchev's daughter?” Levanter asked. “Who?” He thought for an instant. “You must mean Stalin's daughter.”

“Khrushchev's daughter, Stalin's daughter, what's the difference?” The man shrugged.

Levanter was overwhelmed by the extraordinary quirk of fate. He knew that Svetlana Alliluyeva had come to America and that she lived in Princeton. But he had never imagined how it would feel to be near her. Apprehensive, he agreed to rent the house.

Weeks later, when some American friends actually invited Levanter to meet Svetlana Alliluyeva, he still found it difficult to accept the knowledge that she was the daughter of Stalin. He studied her surreptitiously, silently repeating to himself that this woman was indeed Stalin's daughter. The thought of her proximity to Stalin paralyzed him. Even though he knew he was responding irrationally, he could not bring himself to speak Russian.

From the start, Levanter addressed her in English, apologizing for being out of practice with the language of his parents. In the months that followed, they met several times. Their conversation ranged from events in recent European history and the Soviet Union's role in shaping the world today to a letter from one of the many readers of her books. But the two of them never exchanged a word in Russian. Her name alone, even over the telephone, was enough to call up visions of his Moscow past, and for him she became a direct link to the awesome power that Joseph Stalin had wielded. Levanter had to remind himself again and again that he was a lecturer in Princeton now, not a student in Moscow, and that he was talking with a woman who was just another neighbor and only happened to be the daughter of Stalin.

Later, in Paris, Levanter told Romarkin about his acquaintanceship with Svetlana Alliluyeva, and his friend was overwhelmed.

“Can you imagine?” he thundered at Levanter. “Can you imagine meeting her in Moscow when her father was still alive? Suppose in the late forties you had come to one of those university social events. You noticed an average-looking woman. And when you asked, ‘Who is that woman?' you were told, ‘That is Svetlana, the daughter of Joseph Stalin!' Can you imagine how great your astonishment would have been then?”

Levanter showed him a few photographs of Svetlana Alliluyeva. Picking up the snapshots reverently, as if he were handling fragile and irreplaceable heirlooms, Romarkin carefully spread them out on the café table and studied each one. “It can't be,” he whispered. “The daughter of Stalin an American. It can't be.” He shook his head. “If within a quarter of a century you or I can go through life under Stalin and then go halfway around the world and meet his daughter as an ordinary next-door neighbor, well, I guess that means anything can happen.”

Levanter could no more part with his language than he could forget about his cultural heritage, as he was often reminded.

One of his European professors, who had just immigrated and knew very little English, asked him to dinner at his apartment. When Levanter arrived, he found the professor in the kitchen. The air was filled with the pungent scent of spices, herbs, and freshly cooked meat. The professor, impressed with the variety of American foodstuffs, was surrounded by fresh vegetables and an assortment of open jars and bottles. He told Levanter he was preparing a special Ruthenian beef goulash.

As they chatted in Russian, Levanter noticed several empty cans, each with a picture of a dog's head on the label. He edged over to the counter and looked more closely. The cans, clearly marked
DOG FOOD
, seemed to have just been opened.

“Where is the dog?” Levanter asked.

“What dog?” The professor was stirring the goulash, inhaling the aroma.

“Don't you have a dog here?”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the professor. “Animals are a nuisance. What gave you that idea?”

“Americans love dogs. I thought you had gotten yourself one.”

“I will never be that much an American!”

Nonchalantly, Levanter looked around the kitchen. “What meat do you use for such a succulent goulash?” he asked guardedly.

His host beamed. “Beef, my friend, only canned beef,” he said, gesturing with his chin at the cans.

“Canned beef? Fascinating! But why canned?” asked Levanter.

“Better quality. Tastier and tenderer.”

“Why this particular brand?” asked Levanter, pointing to the empty cans.

“I was in the supermarket, and when I saw the picture of the smiling dog, just like in the old country, I knew it was the choicest American canned beef!” The professor nudged him with his elbow. “Don't you remember our ‘Smiling Dog' brand beef? You've been away too long.”

As they sat down to eat, the professor breathed in the scent of the goulash, an expression of bliss on his face. During the meal, he praised the high quality and tenderness of American meat, assuring Levanter that it was superior even to the “Smiling Dog” beef he remembered so fondly. Levanter said he was not hungry that evening and accepted only one small helping.

Another European immigrant, a respected poet, invited Levanter to a reception at his home following the wedding of his son, a graduate student at Yale. The bride, a Yale coed, was from an old banking family, and the guest list of two hundred was composed predominantly of “natives,” as the poet called them — the New England relatives and friends of the bride's family.

During the reception many of the guests admired an antique, cast-iron, muzzle-loading mortar cannon, about the size of an office desk, mounted on a platform in the center of the living room. At one point, the poet urged the guests to gather more closely around the cannon and, in a voice heavy with emotion that exaggerated his accent, explained that the cannon had been built for his ancestors in the second half of the seventeenth century, for only one purpose: to be fired in celebration of every wedding in the family. The last time it had been used was when the poet himself was married, just before the start of World War II, and the cannon was the sole family
heirloom that had been salvaged after the war. He and his wife had recently arranged to have it shipped to them from Europe. And now, he said, to celebrate the marriage of his son the old cannon was to be fired again, for the first time on American soil. As the curious guests formed a circle around the cannon, the poet assured them that he had loaded it with a blank charge. He then grouped his wife, the bride and groom, and the bride's parents behind the cannon. The wedding photographer readied his camera.

A single spotlight shone on the cannon's shiny muzzle, angled upward, over the guests' heads! The band played the national anthem, then the anthem of the poet's homeland. The poet and his wife embraced, weeping. Many of the guests were moved by the pomp and the outburst of feelings, but most fidgeted, waiting for the finale, eager to get back to partying. The band stopped. With a shaking hand, the poet lit the long wooden match. He stretched his other arm around the newlyweds. Everyone was silent as the flame touched the fuse.

There was a sudden flash. A powerful blast shook the room, the cannon jumped, and dense smoke billowed from its barrel.

From the other side of the room, a woman shrieked, “My God, I'm hit!” Everyone turned calmly in the direction of the voice, apparently assuming that it was all part of the Slavic ritual. Near the wall, a white-haired matron stumbled, then fell to the floor. She was covered with blood and her gown was ripped open, revealing strips of skin hanging from her thighs. The guests, now in an uproar, gathered around her. She fainted.

Leaning over the victim, Levanter realized that her wounds must be superficial, as they were caused only by the wads of cotton and shredded denim that the poet had used as a blank charge.

But the poet panicked at the sight of the blood. He rushed to the phone to call for an ambulance. Levanter followed, explaining to him that, as a firearm was involved, he had to call the police. His fingers trembling, the poet dialed the police emergency number.

The police operator answered quickly and asked for his name and address.

So nervous that he mispronounced the words, the poet finally
managed to spell it all out in a quavering voice. Then the operator asked him what had happened.

He stammered. “A woman shot.”

Levanter heard the operator ask, “Shot by whom?”

“By a cannon,” said the poet, barely audible.

“By what?” the operator asked.

“A cannon,” repeated the poet.

“Please spell that,” said the operator, evidently uncertain that he had understood.

“C-a-n-n-o-n.”

“Cannon?” the operator repeated.

“A cannon,” said the poet.

“How many others injured or killed?” asked the operator matter-of-factly.

“One woman wounded.” The poet moaned.

“Property damage?”

“None.” He sighed.

“What kind of cannon?”

“One of a kind. An antique.”

“Is this a museum?” asked the police operator.

“A private home.”

“A cannon in a private home?”

“Yes. A family cannon,” the poet whimpered.

“Who fired the cannon?” asked the operator.

“I fired it,” said the poet, lowering his voice.

“Your profession?”

“Poet.”

“Poet? But what do you really do?”

“I write poetry.”

“Ambulance is on the way,” announced the operator.

Only when he was with Romarkin did Levanter feel that the language and heritage of his past were not out of place in his new life. Their reminiscences seemed to justify the break both of them had had to make with the very past that held them together.

Whenever Levanter was in Paris, the two old friends spent countless hours talking. One evening when the café they were in was about to close, Levanter and Romarkin went next door to a small nightclub, where business was just beginning. Only a few tables were occupied, and a handful of solitary drinkers lounged at the bar. The waiters hurried around officiously, checking and adjusting the cloths and settings. A couple of prostitutes strolled back and forth between the cloakroom and the tiny lobby, keeping an eye on the entrance. Four musicians, presumably unwilling to start playing for so few customers, clustered around the piano, listlessly tuning their instruments, while the maître d' fiddled with the spotlights.

Levanter asked for a quiet table, and he and Romarkin were led to the remotest corner of the room, diagonally across from the bar.

As soon as the waiter brought the champagne that was the price of admission, Levanter and Romarkin settled back comfortably.

“Tell me, Lev,” said Romarkin, “have you found that people are good in the West? Are they better than where you and I came from?”

The club was beginning to fill up; a boisterous party took the five front tables. The band started to play, and two couples got up to dance.

“I have found people to be good everywhere,” Levanter answered. “They turn bad only when they fall for little bits of power tossed to them by the state or by a political party, by a union or a company, or a wealthy mate. They forget that their power is nothing more than a temporary camouflage of mortality.”

One of the prostitutes, who had been eyeing Levanter and Romarkin from the moment they arrived, came over to their table. She sat down, tucking in her blouse to accentuate her breasts, and smiled at Romarkin.

He smiled back, and the waiter immediately brought her a glass
and filled it with their champagne. The woman raised her glass to both men and quickly drained it.

Levanter ignored her and leaned toward Romarkin to continue their conversation in Russian. The woman listened for a few minutes, then interrupted them.

“You speak a beautiful language. What is it?” she asked in French.

“It's Eskimo,” Levanter replied. He turned back to Romarkin, hoping she understood that her services were of no interest to them.

She laughed. “Eskimo? Come on, don't be silly. What are you?”

Levanter made himself look angry. “I resent your laughter and attitude, Mademoiselle,” he said. “We are Eskimo, and we are proud of it.”

The woman continued to giggle. “But, Monsieur, Eskimos look like this,” she said, pulling back the skin on her temples and squinting. “Like frozen Chinese! But you —” She stopped, as if to search her memory. “You two could be Italian or perhaps Greek. But not Eskimo.”

“Mademoiselle,” Levanter said harshly, “we Eskimos are a proud race, and we are no more ‘frozen Chinese' than the French are ‘marinated Italians' or the Swedes ‘mummified Germans.'” In a final attempt to send her away without insulting her, Levanter spoke to her in a confidential tone. “You see, my friend here and I are in Paris to secure your government's aid in our revolutionary struggle to free ourselves from American and Canadian colonialism. We have just met with your Minister of Foreign Affairs.” She was no longer laughing. “So now, Mademoiselle, we must go back to discussing our business undisturbed.”

The woman flushed. “Please forgive me, Monsieur,” she pleaded. “I'm ignorant about Eskimos because I don't have much education. But I'm not against Eskimos or anybody. In my line of work I can't afford to be prejudiced.” She stood up and, without even straightening her skirt, quickly slipped away.

A little while later, a resounding drum roll interrupted them
again. The proprietor of the club hurried onto the stage. He had opened his doors at the end of World War II, he announced, and since then his club had welcomed many distinguished and exotic guests. But tonight was truly special. For the first time ever, he said, he had the privilege of welcoming two real Eskimos, distinguished representatives of their esteemed nation. He spread his arms and solemnly bowed toward Levanter and Romarkin. The spotlight was turned from the stage onto their table. Everyone — the loners at the bar, the prostitutes and the waiters, the handholding couples at the tables — turned to see the two Eskimos and started to applaud fervently. The band struck up the “Marseillaise.”