The Cosmopolitans (13 page)

Even though Hebrew school had made an atheist out of Milla
(what kind of God would teach near-illiterate Jamie Heisenberg to
make up a rhyming, four-part chant about Milla’s resemblance to
a boll weevil?), she now asked God for a sign. If her long-dead
grandfather were to emerge from a diorama and tell her to stop
imagining Julie’s underpants, then she would have to obey.

Instead, in came her mother, saying, “The show is on road.”
Yana had gotten Stalina into a business suit, with jewelry, rather than
the horrible orange dress she’d bought before. The handkerchief her
mother always carried around was neatly folded in the jacket’s front
pocket, and not (as Stalina had previously modeled it) tucked into
the cleavage of the terrible dress.

“Where’s Baba Byata?” Milla said.

“Oh, yes, my mother has problem taking the train I tell her,”
Stalina said in jocularly irritated tones, more in the direction of Jean
than of Milla.

As some Strauss cousins entered the room, Yana started. “I have
to call the chuppah guy again and…” Scrabbling through her dirty
college backpack, she exited with a hasty “Good luck,” not looking
at Milla.

Julie clamped down on Milla’s right eyelash and said, “Maybe
you introduce me someone?”

“To more Strausses?” Milla said, as three more Strauss cousins
chattered past. But she already understood.

“I want normal American man, like your Malcolm.”

“Sure!” Milla said. This enthusiastic response cost her four
eyelashes. That was good. That helped her understand what it was
like to rip something out. She could still see, couldn’t she? That
would be life without Julie.

“The only thing Polish have, is kiss your hand. No money, and
they cheat.” Julie went on: American men were homosexuals, and
some of them failed to stand for old ladies on the bus, but they were
still better than Poles.

“Now I finish,” Julie said. She held the mirror to Milla’s face.
This being a formal occasion, she had painted two lakes of purple
glitter where Milla’s cheekbones should have been.

“You made me look really fun. Now, you should get out of here.
Go have some fun!” Milla playfully pushed Julie, whose arms were
cool and delicately muscled. It was difficult to stop pushing, and
Julie almost tumbled over.

Julie stood, squinted. “I put enough powder so nothing come
off.”

“I know!”

Julie walked away, listing to one side with the weight of her
silver suitcase, stockings twisted, fingers glittering purple.

“Dawa can fix you,” Jean said, when Julie was out the door.
Dawa thanked Jean for her faith. Dawa said that real makeup artists
listened to their clients, and fit their soul-talent into the vessels
their patrons provided, and that Milla should take him about fifteen
minutes.

Jean went outside to get photographed. Dawa told Milla to take
a seat in one of the high chairs. Milla couldn’t: she was efficiently
removing Julie’s hideous purple mascara, by crying.

Stalina asked Dawa, whom she called Da-Da, to give them a
moment, sat on the bench beside Milla and kicked off her shoes.
“
Nu?
”

Milla reached up to wipe her tears. Her hand came back streaked
with purple. “
I don’t know
,” she said, feeling herself convulse, “
If
maybe I…
”

“
If maybe you…
” Her mother leaned forward. Usually, she
resembled the Red Queen in
Alice in Wonderland
. Now, her face
powdered pink and white, she looked more like the White Rabbit,
like someone who understood complications.

“
Maybe — I love someone else. And that other person — I love
— more than Malcolm.
”

Her mother handed Milla her handkerchief. “
Nu? You think if
Petya Townshend wanted me, I’d have married your father?
”

Milla closed her eyes so that she could see Julie again.

The door opened — Julie? — No, Baba Byata. “
Mam —”
Stalina said.

“
What’s this? Who stepped on my little frog? Who?
” Milla’s
head was in her grandmother’s green silk bosom before Stalina
could finish her word.

“
Mama, you can stay if you’re willing to be helpful. Are you
willing to be helpful?
” Stalina said.

“
Of course, I’ll help my Millatchka
.”

“
We have only about eight minutes
.
Our problem: Milla is
nervous
.”

“
Of course, she’s nervous
.” Baba Byata kissed Milla’s hand.
What would it feel like if Julie kissed her hand? Milla was a
pervert. She didn’t deserve Malcolm or her grandmother’s bosom,
and raised her head, still crying.

Baba Byata said, “
Millatchka, don’t you think I was nervous,
when I married your grandfather? This isn’t the time for
bourgeois proprieties, and I must confess that we had already
practiced sex —”

Stalina raised a hand. “
Once more we roll around on the
greatcoat in the woods? Now? Really?
” Her expression changed,
and she threw her handkerchief on the floor and skewered it on a
heel. “
I will not give subtle hints!
” She paused and shook her head.
“
You know how I got married? His previous friend showed up and
saw I was pregnant. She said to me, such hamstvo, what a little pig
she was, ‘Six months ago, I was just like you, and Osip left me
.
’
”

“
Linatchka, you never told me this
,” Byata said.

“
What good would it have done to tell you
?” Stalina turned
to Milla. “
Your father’s different now, he would never do that. But
then, I cried, just like you, except I was already wearing my dress.
It wrinkled.”

“
Oh, golubchik, little swallow, I would have fixed your dress,
”
Byata said, reaching a hand out to Stalina.

“
I spoke to myself very strongly. ‘Stalina, he chose you. The
other one had an abortion. You’ll have his children
.’” Switching to
English, she added, “He was quite the champion of sperm.”

Byata said, “
I’m not allowed to mention physical love, but you
can use this charming language on lyagushinka’s wedding day?
”

“
Do you want her to have a wedding day
?
That’s it, Mama.
That’s what the world is. That’s how people get married
.”

Milla had somehow stopped crying. “
You think I should?
”

“
Horseradish is no sweeter than radish. Here we’ve organized a
marriage to Malcolm. This other one — he won’t marry you, da
?”

“
Da
.”

Her mother stood up, patted Milla on the shoulder, then lunged
forward and kissed her on the cheek. “
I left lipstick, tell Dawa
.” She
pushed Byata towards the door, paused. “
Or we could be romantic,
like the girls in Lermontov. We could get on one of those dinosaurs
in the next room and chase him down, that boy you love
.”

“It’s okay,” Milla said. Her mother didn’t really mean it.

Stalina

Stalina stood at the chuppah, watching Milla take those last
three steps which proved she was getting married of her own free
will. She was glad she’d read that Jewish wedding guide — it was
calming to know all the procedures. As the cantor sang the last lines
of her song, Osip muttered, “
I should help with the chuppah.
”

“
You — not moving,
” Stalina said.

“
You trust that Johann?
” He gestured with his chin to Malcolm’s
best man, a bearded Tartar in a yellow velvet suit.

The rabbi said, “I am overjoyed to be marrying this young
couple, whose Hebrew names are Moses and Malka.” Stalina tried
to look pious, even as she thought: Moses and
Malka
? Like a peasant
baba? Why not Miriam?

Osip was looking up at the chuppah, suspicion in his eyes,
probably wishing he’d gone into the garage and built one himself,
and forgetting he was no good at such projects. Malcolm was smiling
at everyone like he was about to free them from serfdom.

The handkerchief said,
“If Milla grows consumptive, will it be
Malcolm who empties her bloody cups, carries her in his arms to the
sunlit veranda?
”

Osip grabbed the pole above Johan’s hand, saying, “You will
excuse.”