The Cosmopolitans (35 page)

“Huh.” Jean picked up a book to show she was busy, but
unfortunately, the book was the biography of Betty Grable she’d
been reading at lunch. She covered Betty’s legs with her palm.

“Are you proud?” Stalina said. Her fist was clenched, surely
she wasn’t about to — but no, there was something in it, a tissue or
something.

“I beg your pardon?”

Stalina leaned into her, so that they were practically nose-to-
nose, Bugs Bunny and, who was that ugly man with the big nose?
Him, that was who Stalina resembled. “How’s Milla? And Izzy?”
Jean said.

“Mee-la! You should say her name Mee-la! All these years I
never correct!”

Jean backed up — fine, yes, showing weakness — and braced
herself on her desk. “Look, they got married very young. When a
couple has a baby, their relationship changes. I can’t tell you how
many —”

“I give you young, fresh, beautiful girl, bloom in innocence.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure they were sleeping together before the
wedding,” Jean said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m
no prude —”

“Now is like old
baba
. What your son the big prince do to my
Milla?” Stalina opened her fist and took out a beautifully detailed
lace handkerchief, with which she wiped her eyes. Was it from
Provence? Jean wanted to ask.

Stalina said, “You’re bitch,” pronouncing the word like
beach
.
It was laughable. The door slammed: who was this woman, a
teenager?

Jean sank into her desk chair, which was new and stiff, and did
not give. Should she have chosen the calfskin upholstery? (It had
seemed cruel at the time; she’d remembered that she and Malcolm
never ate veal.) She punched the arm. Where had Helice been?

“Someday, he’ll come along, the man I love,” Jean sang under
her breath. It was comforting to hear her own voice, not so age-
ravaged yet.

Milla

Jean’s secretary called to say that Jean would be in Stamford
that afternoon. To say, not to ask. Milla wondered whether she was
in trouble for those phone calls to Malcolm. She’d almost stopped
making them, but she wasn’t about to cease and desist entirely. If
Malcolm didn’t want to be called, he should have been a better
husband. That was what she would say to Jean.

She wasn’t going to put on any makeup, not for Jean. She wasn’t
going change Izzy into an unstained shirt, either. Three minutes
before Jean was due to arrive, she did both, and then tried to read,
but couldn’t help scanning the window for the Mercedes.

Forty minutes later, a different kind of car, dark green, pulled
in the driveway. “It’s a Renault,” Jean said from the driver’s seat,
strapping her high heels back on, “Isn’t it sporty? Or maybe it’s too
young for me.”

Izzy hugged her skinny calf as she stepped out of the car. Jean
ran her fingers through his hair and dug into a paper bag. “Doesn’t
this look delicious?” She presented him with a jar of mashed peas in
a brand Milla didn’t recognize.

“He’s a little old —” Milla said, as Izzy grabbed the jar and
rolled on the grass with it.

“It’s by special appointment to the Queen.” Jean tried to crouch
down, but her narrow skirt prevented her. “Oh, well, it’s only us.”
She hiked it up to the bottom of the control top of her pantyhose,
and balanced with one hand on the grass. “There’s something for
you, too, Milla.”

“Great.” What would it be this time — an umbrella emblazoned
with the logo of a cosmetics company (Hanukkah)? The free
digital camera that came with the purchase of Malcolm’s computer
(birthday)?
Last Tango in Paris
(anniversary)? What came free with
ostentatious baby food?

Jean held up a velvet box. As Milla bent to take it, Jean looked
at her hand and said, “Oh — you’re not —”

Turning away slightly, Milla opened the box. Inside was a
necklace with a small green stone, cut into a multi-sided sphere.

“Emeralds are the right month, right? Or no?”

“Thank you,” Milla said. Her voice sounded as if it came from
a cardboard tube.

“Oh, well. I still have the receipt.” Izzy tore fistfuls of grass and
rained them over himself. Was this necklace a ransom for Malcolm?
Would this be the last time she saw Jean? “Are there ticks?” Jean
said, “Should we go inside? Do you have money?”

“What?” Milla tried to draw Izzy towards her, but he was staring
like Narcissus at the colors reflected in Jean’s shiny pantyhose.

“Malcolm can’t be sending you much.”

They thought she was some pathetic immigrant, trying to get her
hands — her
paws
— on their money.

Jean said, “You don’t need to hide it from me. I’m a family
lawyer, it’s like being a doctor. Are you getting an apartment? You’re
not planning to live here forever?”

“I’ll let you two play.” Izzy and Jean stared as Milla went into
the house, but they didn’t notice her looking out the living room
window, past the burning azaleas that always bloomed before her
birthday. Jean led Izzy by the hand around the small perimeter of the
lawn. They pointed at cars — two true Americans. Jean looked more
natural with Izzy than Milla ever had.

Stalina

Lev said he’d gone by the apartment where Katya and Roman
were staying, but no one had answered the door. When would he try
again? Stalina said.

He didn’t know, what was Stalina expecting him to do? He and
Katya had barely seen each other over the past few years. He had a
headache.

Fine. Stalina hung up. What use was Lev to his family, or to
himself? “
Unkind,
” the handkerchief said. Stalina frowned into the
backyard, where Osip was trying to teach Izzy to box, or perhaps
only to hop. She’d gotten Katya off drugs, hadn’t she? “
And then
lost her to the seductions of a cavalier
,” the handkerchief said. She’d
gotten Milla out of bed, mostly.

A few hours later, she called Lev back and said, “
When you
talked about Perm in your lectures, you were happy, handsome and
normal, yes?
Now, you don’t talk about Perm, and you can’t even
go outside to get your hair cut. Meals on Wheels, like an invalid.
Shameful, no?”
Had she gone too far? “
Isn’t it better to be happy,
and handsome, and eat in restaurants?
”
She fiddled with her gypsy
figurine. How free and brave the gypsy looked. “
I have helped my
girls with ‘
talking-it-out
,’ and now I will help you, and we will
celebrate at Salvatore’s
.” Salvatore’s was an Italian and lobster
restaurant on the north side of town, where Lev had once spoken on
behalf of Ethiopian Jewry.

“
I still have that headache
.”

“
You know why you have headaches? I think I know. You talk
about a bad smell.
”

“No, I don’t.”

She didn’t let his switch to English distract her. “
Does it smell
like the Isolator? That’s what I am thinking. Lev. We could publish
your memoirs.
Talking-it-out
.
” Was he still there? She gave him her
best insight: “
Lev: you are putting yourself in the Isolator now. Now,
your apartment is equal to your Isolator. Hello, hello? I criticize so
you will improve
.”

“I’ve already left the Party.” He meant she sounded like someone
at an expulsion hearing. He hung up.

Ignoring the handkerchief’s intimations of danger in “
bohemian,
tubercular downtown
,” she drove to Augustine Manor. To forestall
its further haranguing, she tucked five dollars under the head of
a man sleeping outside the convenience store before entering the
lobby.

No answer. A man in a wheelchair tapped on the glass of the
residents’ lounge. “Miss Patrice?” he said.

Stalina shook her head. Still no answer. She would just keep
ringing. She would not let this insult stand.

Katya’s name wasn’t listed on any of the buzzers. “
The eye sees,
but the tooth cannot reach
,” said the handkerchief and even though
she knew it would find a way to follow, she threw it behind her as
she closed the lobby door.

Yana

Hi, hi,

Yes, a lot of bombs went off, but only two people died, so the chances of anything happening to me or Pratik are minuscule. In the U.S., about 114 people die in car accidents every day, so.

Awakened Muslim Masses is only targeting Bangladeshis who’ve converted to other religions, Communists, Jatra dance fans, and certain lawyers. So we’re fine.

What many people abroad don’t realize is, the
Awakened people are inept. Their bombs don’t explode,
or if they do explode, they injure a lot more people than
they kill. 500 bombs and 2 deaths. Pratik says hi.

Yana

Milla

“
Eh, devka
,” Milla’s mother said, handing her the tray and
squeezing her shoulder-padded frame onto the side of the bed.