Still Here (4 page)

Regina started either sniffling or snickering, as she always did at the end of this story.

“What's Tazepam?” Bob asked.

“Russian tranquilizer,” Sergey explained.

“Can you get it here?”

“I don't know. It's kind of like Xanax but deadlier.”

“So how many do you need to off yourself?” Bob asked.

“Still no idea,” Vadik said. “I wish there was an app that helped you commit suicide. Just, you know, help you find the easiest and most rational way to do it.”

“Suicide Buddy?” Sergey asked. They all laughed.

Now, now was the perfect moment to bring up Sergey's idea! Vica thought. But Sergey being Sergey, he wasn't getting it.

Vica reached around Regina's back and prodded Sergey with her fork. He didn't budge. She prodded him harder. He glared at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking: that she was a coldhearted bitch to try to pitch their idea right after the suicide story. But she didn't care what he thought.

“Bob,” she said.

Bob raised his eyes to her. His eyes were now the same color as his face. Red. Forget about their encounter in the kitchen, he looked as if he'd have trouble remembering who she was. She hoped he wasn't past lucidity.

“Bob!”

“Yeah?”

“Speaking of death…”

“Yeah?”

“Sergey has the most amazing idea for an app.”

They all stared at her as if she were drunk. She was tipsy, but she didn't care. She didn't care about being subtle either. She would just pitch the idea head-on. And she would pitch it right to Bob.

“This new app, Bob. It would allow you to fight death.”

Bob stretched and screwed up his face while making an honest effort to understand. “To fight death?” he asked.

Sergey cleared his throat. They all turned to look at him.

“Well, not exactly, of course, but it would allow you to keep your online presence after you die,” Sergey said, “to remain immortal in a virtual reality. You see, the idea that inspired me comes from a nineteenth-century Russian philosopher, Nikolai Fyodorov.”

No, not Fyodorov! Vica thought. But then she looked around and saw that Bob was listening with great interest.

“Fyodorov's main idea was the resurrection of the fathers. He thought that it was the duty of every son to resurrect his father.”

“Huh,” Bob said. “My shrink thinks just the opposite. ‘Bury your father' is what he tells me. Bury your father, free yourself of his grip, or you'll never become your own man.”

“Well, not so in Fyodorov's opinion. He thought that the problem with modern man was that he had lost connection to his ancestors. Fyodorov thought that mortality was conquerable, and it was also necessary to conquer, because mortality was the source of all the evil among men. I mean, why be good if you're going to die anyway? Fyodorov argued that the struggle against mortality should become the common cause for all humans, regardless of their ethnicity or social status. Science was advancing in such a fast and powerful way that it would soon be possible to make human life infinite and to revive the dead. Fyodorov thought that eventually we could collect and synthesize the molecular material of the dead. He actually predicted cloning.”

Sergey was gaining confidence as he spoke. He had such an impressive voice—slightly scratchy, but deep and commanding. Vica had forgotten how much she had always loved his voice. Even his English had improved. He still had a strong accent, but it was the accent of a confident man.

“What year was this?” Bob asked.

“The 1880s,” Sergey said.

“That's pretty amazing,” Bob said.

“But Fyodorov thought that the genetic or physical restoration of a person wasn't enough. It was also necessary to give the revived person his old personality. Fyodorov explored the theory of ‘radial images' that may contain the personalities of the people and survive after death, but he had a very vague idea of how to preserve or extract those images.”

“ ‘Radial images'?” Bob asked.

“I think he meant the soul,” Vadik said.

“Yes, the soul,” Sergey said. “The soul that is supposed to be immortal by definition, but it's really not. Because where does it go after we die?”

“Right,” Bob said.

Vica saw that his eyes were beginning to glaze over and that he was looking for a bottle of wine. She peered at Sergey, trying to communicate: “Get off Fyodorov!” He wasn't looking at her.

“And that was Fyodorov's problem. How do you go about preserving something if you don't know how to find it?”

“Right,” Bob said again.

“But now we know where to find it.”

“We do?”

“We do. It's in your online presence. Your e-mail. Your Twitter. Your Facebook. Your Instagram or whatever. That's where people now share their innermost feelings and thoughts, whatever they find funny or memorable or simply worthy in any way. Our online presence is where the essence of a person is nowadays.”

“Right!” Bob said. The phrase
online presence
seemed to revive him a little.

“And that's where my app comes in.”

Sergey listed the basics of Virtual Grave. “I created a linguistic algorithm that would allow you to preserve and re-create a virtual voice of a deceased person from all of the texts he had created online while he was alive. It's not that hard to run the entire flow of somebody's speech through a program and come up with semantic and syntactic patterns as well as the behavorial patterns determined by people's online personalities. Suppose your loved one suddenly died. You would be able to connect Virtual Grave to her social media accounts, run the app, and re-create her voice. Then you would be able to ask her questions. No, the answers aren't expected to be meaningful—this is not spiritualism. But we don't need meaningful advice from dead people anyway. It's the contact that matters, the illusion that they are still present somewhere, watching over us, if only virtually.”

All those words Vica had heard so many times in the recent weeks now sounded different. More poetic, more powerful.

Vica imagined Eric trying to get that moment of contact with her or Sergey and felt a lump in her throat. She had to make an effort to fight back tears. Even Vadik seemed moved. It was only Regina who couldn't help but snicker. That bitch, Vica thought.

A loud sniffle came as if from under the coffee table.

“Sejun!” Vadik said. “I thought you'd left.”

The iPad screen had long gone black, and Vica had completely forgotten about her.

“Sejun,” Vadik said and tapped on the screen.

A glowing pixelated shape of Sejun's face emerged from the darkness. Her eyes were moist as if she was about to cry.

“That is beautiful, guys. That is a beautiful, beautiful app,” Sejun said.

Bob's was the only expression that was hard to read. He sat there staring at Sergey as if frozen. Then he rose from the couch, walked up to Sergey, and punched him on the shoulder.

“I love the way you think, man! Love it. Love it. Love it. It makes me sick that the whole tech business is in the hands of those young kids. What do they know about life? What do they care about death? What can they possibly create if they don't know and don't care? It's only natural that they come up with dumb toys.”

Bob plopped back onto the couch that bent obediently to his shape. “Oh, how I love it…” He moaned again.

Vica reclined in her seat and closed her eyes. It was done. Bob was hooked. She could hear her heart thumping in drunken excitement. The image of their bright, bright future branched out in her mind and kept growing, past those omakase meals, five-star resorts in the Italian Alps, VIP beaches in the Caribbean, and their own Tribeca loft, and finally to a really good graduate school and her newfound happiness and amazing sex with the wonderful, talented, magnificent Sergey.

“I'm concerned about one thing though,” Bob said.

Vica opened her eyes and stared at Bob. His intoxication seemed to have subsided. His expression was sharp, even severe.

“I do like your idea, man,” Bob said. “I fucking love it! But it won't take. Not in the North American market at least. You see, Americans deal with mortality either by enforcing their Christian beliefs or by ignoring it. We don't like to think about death. We prefer to think about more uplifting things, like prolonging life or making it better. That's the way it is. Sorry, man.” He sighed and reached under the table for another bottle.

“Vadik, tell your friend not to be upset,” Sejun said from the darkness of the screen.

“He'll live,” Vadik said.

Was that it? Did Bob mean it was over? Vica thought. Over? Just like that? No, it couldn't be over!

“No!” she screamed. “Our app is not about death! It's about immortality, not death. Immortality. Sergey, tell Bob about immortality. Immortality is uplifting. Sergey, tell this to Bob! Tell Bob! Tell him!”

She jerked her foot and kicked Regina's wineglass on the floor. The wine spilled all over Vadik's newly waxed floor. They all threw their napkins over the puddle, and Vadik stomped on the pile of napkins with his foot as if trying to extinguish a fire. They all seemed to be avoiding looking at her. Sergey too. Especially Sergey.

“Sergey!” she screamed.

“You know what app would be really cool?” he said without looking at anybody in particular. “An app where you could press a button and turn somebody's volume down. Like you do with the TV, only with a real live person. Imagine a dinner party and everybody's talking, but there is this one person that you just wish would shut up. So you point your device at that person—you can do it under the table discreetly—and lower her volume. Everybody else can hear her fine, and you can hear everybody else but her. Now wouldn't that be a dream?”

They all started to laugh. Not at the same time though. Vadik was the first with his series of chuckles. Then Bob with his hoarse hooting. Then Regina joined in, but with her it was not one hundred percent clear if she was laughing or crying. But Sejun was definitely laughing and her laugh was the happiest. “I'm sorry,” she kept saying, “it's just so funny. Too funny. I want that app.”

Vica hated their laughter right away; she recognized it as disgusting, but it took her a moment to realize that they were all looking at her and laughing at her.

She turned away from them, stepped over the bunched-up napkins, and walked toward Vadik's bedroom.

“No, no, don't,” she heard Sergey say, “she'll be fine. She just needs to be alone for a minute.”

Do I? she wondered, stepping onto the terrace. Do I need to be alone?

The air had become significantly cooler. Vica was holding on to the last remnants of her drunkenness to keep herself warmer and less sad. She was lost. They all were. So thoroughly lost. Why couldn't anybody think of an app for that? To help one find one's way in life? She didn't care about immortality. Fuck immortality! What she cared about was this short meager life that they had to live. Why couldn't they think of an app to make it easier?

Vica looked out at the roofs of other buildings. They boasted tangled wires and broken tarps. Some had water towers, perched on clumsy legs. Others had chimneys clustered together yet bending away from one another like dysfunctional families. Yes, exactly like dysfunctional families. It was the sight of the chimneys that made her cry.

Before Sejun there was Rachel II, and before Rachel II there was the sane Sofia, and before the sane Sofia there was Catherine Jenkins, and before Catherine Jenkins there was Tania. Vadik had met all of them through Hello, Love!

Tania had used the face of Saga Norén as her profile picture. Saga Norén was a Swedish detective with Asperger's from the Danish series
Broen.
Vadik didn't really like Tania, but he loved
Broen
and
Broen
's quirky heroine, so every time he saw Tania, he imagined that he was really seeing Saga Norén.

Millie, Fosca, Teresa, the insane Sofia. He had met them on another dating site Match4U because the vastly superior Hello, Love! hadn't been available yet. Match4U made it very difficult to read the insanity level of a person based on his or her profile. The insane Sofia had turned out to be a freelance doll-maker. She made tiny scary dolls with eyelashes and fingernails and silky pubic hair. Who would've thought that three-inch dolls with pubic hair were even possible? “Touch it, Vadik!” Sofia would insist. “Stroke it. See how soft it is?”

Or take DJ Toma, for example, who Vadik had also met on Match4U. DJ Toma said that she used to own the largest PR firm in all of western Siberia but had to flee Russia because of political persecution. When Vadik met her, she was working as a cleaning lady during the day and deejaying in an East Village club at night. In her spare time she was trying to set up a business selling ancient Siberian potions. In the four months that Toma lived in Vadik's apartment in the Bronx, she managed to fill the entire fridge with different potions in labeled jars. The labels read:
DIVINE INSPIRATION, GRACE, LOVE, HEALTHY HEART, STOMACH PROBLEMS,
and
A LOT OF MONEY.
Sergey had been particularly interested in the last two. He kept asking Vadik if they worked. “I guess they do,” Vadik said. “I guess they do.” One day, while Vadik was at work, Toma poured most of her potions down the toilet, packed her things (and a few of Vadik's things), and left. She wrote Vadik a note in which she said that she was going to Peru to find out if San Pedro was all that different from LSD. She'd bought a package trip that included a week of San Pedro tastings at the house of a real shaman. Vadik hadn't heard from her since. There was a rumor that she had overdosed and died. But there was also another rumor that she had become the shaman's manager and helped him expand his client base.

There was Barbara, the New Age–y masseuse. Before Barbara (but actually during) there was Abby. Then Barbara found out about Abby and Abby found out about Barbara, and Vadik was alone again.

Who else was there? Jesse, his headhunter. Dana, the woman who worked in the next cubicle at Morgan Stanley—he'd sworn off dating his coworkers after Dana. Vica. Yep, his former girlfriend now his best friend's wife, Vica. That was the one encounter he was trying very hard to forget. Nothing had happened, he'd managed to stop himself at the very last moment, but he still squirmed with shame for months afterward. He felt awful guilt toward Sergey—he could only hope that Sergey would never know—but he also felt revulsion because the encounter with Vica had made him regress into his Russian past. He had come here to start his life anew, not to rehash his old romances.

Before Vica there was Sue, a waitress at Mom's Diner in Avenel, New Jersey. Before Sue there was Angie, another waitress at Mom's. Sue had a faded tattoo of a kitten on her shoulder. Vadik couldn't remember a single detail about Angie.

“I'm sick of this mess,” Vadik confessed to Regina right after his breakup with Abby. Via Skype, because Regina was still in Russia back then.

“Of course you are,” Regina said, “dating is exhausting. You know what is the most exhausting for me?”

“What?”

“Getting my hopes up. It's as if I needed enormous physical strength to get them up, like a weight lifter or something.”

Vadik's friendship with Regina started out awkwardly, when Vica left him for Sergey—then Regina's boyfriend. A few days after the breakup, Regina asked him to come and pick up some of the things Sergey had left at her apartment. Vadik wondered if she was interested in him. He wasn't really attracted to her—she had this weird stale smell that he found off-putting—but he was definitely curious. But when he got to her apartment, Regina was so shaky and sad that trying to have sex with her seemed obnoxious. They got to talking instead. Neither of them would say anything bad about Vica or Sergey—that would have been tacky, but they couldn't resist talking about Fyodorov, Sergey's obsession, and confessing to each other how much they hated his philosophy. Gradually they had become each other's confidants/therapists/dating mentors. After Vadik left Russia, they would talk on Skype two to three times a week.

“I need to be tied down. I can't go on like this!” Vadik said to Regina via the screen.

“Just pick a girl and marry her,” Regina said. She was about to get married to Bob and was feeling very enthusiastic about marriage.

Vadik was dating Rachel II then, a social worker studying for her master's. When Rachel II was a young girl, she'd had a passionate relationship with horses. She kept the photograph of her pet horse, Billie, on her desk.

Rachel II and Vadik broke up because she walked in on him making fun of Billie to Regina. At first Vadik denied it. He was speaking in Russian, so why would Rachel even think that? But wasn't he holding up the picture of Billie and laughing? Rachel asked. And wasn't that ugly Russian woman on the screen hooting in response? Vadik had to admit his fault.

The sad thing was that Regina actually thought that Rachel II was the best fit for Vadik. She was the most grounded of the lot.

Vica disagreed. Vica thought that the sane Sofia was the best fit. She said that it was a good thing that Sofia was quite a bit older than Vadik, because that would make her more forgiving. The sane Sofia taught comparative literature at SUNY New Paltz. She had a club membership to swim the lap lane in Lake Minnewaska, situated about ten miles away from campus. Sofia listed that membership as one of the six things she couldn't live without on her Hello, Love! profile. She kept urging Vadik to get a membership too. “There is a rope right in the middle of the lake,” Vadik told Sergey, “and they're just swimming along the rope, back and forth, back and forth, like convicts.” Vadik and Sofia broke up because Vadik refused to see the beauty of lap swimming in a natural body of water.

Sergey's top choice for Vadik was Sejun. He couldn't believe you could meet a girl like that through online dating. Vadik met up with Vica, Sergey, and Regina soon after his latest housewarming party, and since the subject of the failure of Sergey's pitch was too painful, they were discussing Sejun. Sergey said that Sejun was remarkably pretty for such a smart girl. Vica said that first of all that was an incredibly sexist remark and that she didn't find Sejun all that pretty. Regina started to laugh.

“Oh, yes, she is very pretty,” Sergey said. “The problem is that she is way out of Vadik's league.”

“Why is she out of his league?” Vica asked. “He makes quite a bit of money, doesn't he?”

“Right,” Sergey said.

“Hey, guys,” Vadik said. “I'm sitting right here!”

But they continued to argue, not paying any attention to Vadik, as if his own opinion didn't matter.

“I think I'm still in love with Rachel I,” Vadik said. Regina stopped laughing. And all of them looked away as if he had said something intensely embarrassing.

Vadik met Rachel I on his very first day in the United States.

He arrived in New York on a Saturday morning in the middle of winter. It was snowing pretty hard that day. Vadik woke up as the plane started its descent into JFK. He rushed to open the shade on the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of that famous Manhattan skyline. He couldn't see anything but the murky white mess. It was still thrilling. He could not see the contours of the buildings, but he could sense them right there, right underneath the plane, hidden by the clouds. He felt a familiar surge of excitement, the excitement that had buoyed him for months, ever since he'd gotten that coveted H1-B visa that allowed him to work in the U.S. for three years. He had spent two year in Istanbul and had grown sick of the place. He had celebrated his thirtieth birthday there, but the new decade began in the new country for him. Every now and then he would open his passport and stroke the thin paper of the visa as if it were something alive.

The announcement came through with the usual crackle. The flight attendant said that it was snowing rather hard and that they might not land in JFK after all, that the plane might be rerouted to Philadelphia. No, no, no! Vadik thought. Landing in Philadelphia would certainly ruin his plans. He was starting work on Monday, as a computer programmer in the corporate offices of EarthlyFoods in Avenel, New Jersey. He was to live in Avenel too, in an apartment provided by corporate housing. Sergey was meeting him at JFK. He was supposed to take Vadik to his and Vica's house on Staten Island and then drive him to Avenel on Sunday. But Vadik hoped to ask Sergey to take him straight into the city so that he could spend the entire Saturday exploring. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to walk the streets without direction, just follow his intuition wherever it might lead him. He wanted to walk like that for hours, then find a bohemian-looking bar, where he would spend the rest of the day with a glass of wine and a book, like a true New York intellectual. And he would wear his tweed jacket. Vadik had put the jacket on before boarding the plane, because he hadn't wanted to put it in the suitcase where it might get wrinkled. He had spent a lot of time choosing the book to read in that bar. Something French? Sartre's
Nausea
? Gilles Deleuze's
Cinema I
? And no, this wasn't sickeningly pretentious. Vadik wasn't doing it to make an impression on other people. He did want to be seen as a charismatic tweeded intellectual, but it was more important to him to be seen as such in his own eyes.

Vadik looked out the window again. It seemed like they were suspended in the clouds. Vadik closed his eyes and concentrated on willing the plane to land at JFK. He imagined the hard body of the plane pushing through the sticky mass of clouds, emerging in a clean empty space between sky and ground, and then sliding down in one bold determined move until its wheels touched the runway. The cabin erupted in applause, and for a second Vadik thought that the applause was meant for him.

“Can you take me to the city?” Vadik asked Sergey as soon as they finished hugging.

“To the city? Now?” Sergey asked with a degree of puzzlement that suggested that the city was very far away. That there was some existential impossibility to getting there.

“Now. Yeah,” Vadik said.

“But Vica is waiting with all the food. She'll be disappointed.”

The horror in Sergey's eyes showed how much trouble Vica's disappointment would bring to him.

So they went to Staten Island. Drove on the JFK Expressway followed by the long stretch of Belt Parkway, past the gray jellied mass of the ocean, across the foggy Verrazano Bridge, and finally down the endless Hylan Boulevard with its depressing storefronts. All that while Sergey sang along to his favorite Leonard Cohen CD.

Back at the university Sergey used to be a star. He was really handsome—everybody said that his sharp, taut features made him look like a French movie star; he was the smartest and most talented (professors used to quote him in classes); he played guitar; and he could sing, badly but still. He could have any girl he wanted. Hell, he'd snatched Vica right from under Vadik's nose.

Anyway, Sergey was still handsome. It was his singing that made him look unbearably ugly. The scrunching of his nose whenever he had to draw out a lyric. The furrowing of his forehead whenever he had trouble pronouncing the words. The pained expression on his face during the especially emotional moments. And the singing itself. It wasn't just that Sergey sang out of tune or that he sang with a gooey Russian accent—although that bothered Vadik too. The main problem was that Sergey's voice, which completely drowned out Cohen's baritone, was plaintive and childlike.