The Other Joseph (13 page)

He was looking in the icebox now. Three blocks from the apartment, down closer to the beach, was a Safeway supermarket I'd hit up already. I had a few beers in the icebox, a few groceries, and he took out two Budweisers. “Is okay?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He twisted both bottles open and walked across the room to hand one over. I was still on the couch; he was standing in front of me.

“Vovochka is in the classroom. His teacher, she is at the chalkboard.” He pointed at me as he paced and then at himself. I was one of the students. He was the teacher. Sam was sitting on his haunches, watching with his head tilted.

“The teacher, she draws on the board.” Viktor turned and traced something in the air with his finger, then spun back around and began talking like a woman. “What is this I have drawn, Roy?”

“A heart?”

He gulped at his Budweiser, then set the bottle on the table. “It is an apple. I have drawn an apple for the class.” He pivoted and made as if he was erasing the chalkboard. Apparently even in Russia you are required to sit there dumb-faced until the third-act punch line comes. Again Viktor drew in the air, and again he looked to me. “And what have I drawn now?”

“Don't know. A pineapple?”

“No. It is a pear.” He stage-whispered to Sam. “Our Roy is not so very smart, is he?”

Then quit, I was thinking, but he spun and drew once more. He called on a child sitting to my right.

“Vovochka?” he chirped. “What is it that
you
see? I will give you a hint. The monkeys, they eat them.”

Viktor hurried over and sat beside me on the couch. He was Vovochka now. “Teacher,” he said. “Why would you draw such a thing? Monkeys do not eat dicks!”

At last the end had come—but no, instead Viktor stood, waving his hands like a frazzled teacher. “Vovochka! I am getting the principal!” He ran out the apartment, slamming the door. So a
fourth
act, I reckoned.

Sam whined. “Don't fret,” I said. “He's coming back.”

I took a sip of my beer as we waited for the joke to continue.
In a moment the door opened, and Viktor walked in from the garage. He glared at the couch. “What have you done this time, Vovochka?” He asked this in a serious voice, a man's voice. The school principal. He turned and looked behind him at the phantom chalkboard. “Shame on you! Last week you broke a window and yesterday you started a fight.” He pounded at the wall with his fist. “And today—today you have drawn a dick on the board!”

Viktor came closer, leaning over until his face was right in mine, then poked at one of the snaps on my shirt. “Laugh,” he said, as himself now. “It was a banana, you see?”

“I do see. Funny.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Because nothing was like it appeared.”

I
‘D BEEN ABOVE THE MARVEL COURT DEAD END SINCE
ten o'clock Saturday morning, watching for Joni, but also flipping through my copy of
Salted Waters.
What I was doing was crazy, no story of Russian romance would save me, but I knew of no other way. I thought of another teenage girl's house, of Eliza Sprague's parents screaming at me while she cried on the couch.

Then, two hours in, I looked up from a poem describing a famous ghost ship and saw a magazine-in-hand someone standing on the small balcony carved into the wall of the yellow stucco. Not Nancy. A lanky girl wearing red sweatpants and an electric blue sweatshirt with
I ♥ NY
on the front. She settled into a cushioned chair, then slid her socked feet between the wooden slats of the balcony's low railing. I was maybe forty yards away and level with her, yet she didn't appear to have noticed me. Long brown hair hid her face, but this had to be Joni. I'd found her.
I ♥ NY
. White letters, a red heart. This girl had probably been to Manhattan—me, Disney World was the farthest I'd traveled before this trip. My earliest memory of Tommy blossomed in my mind. I'm cheering mechanical pirates, my brother beside me, egging me on.

Even though Joni was far away and ill defined, out of reach,
she felt like more than a fact confirmed. She was a maiden in a tower. Nancy's tower. For the next half hour I watched her, unable to sneak away, afraid if I even scratched my nose she would detect movement on that hillside. Then the door to the balcony opened, and ice-blond Nancy summoned her daughter inside. Joni closed her magazine, stood, and went into the house, but I sat there, fingers crossed she might come down to Marvel Court. That she would be alone, off to run some errand, and I would have the courage to approach her. She'd glance my way—and calmly, gently, I would tell her who I was.

JONI NEVER REAPPEARED
, but she wasn't just a name now. Things were moving forward, and I was excited but anxious. Too anxious. Before very long the apartment seemed like a cage. I had a little time until my dinner with Marina at Viktor's, and though I was tempted to stand
her
up to soothe my pride, I grabbed a tennis ball and took Sam to run around so he'd be good for the night.

Sam and I walked Forty-Sixth Avenue's blanched and lonely corridor, our shadows lengthening with the falling sun, and waited for a break in the traffic on Fulton before crossing over to the emerald tree line of Golden Gate Park. West for a block, then—and at the corner of Forty-Seventh Avenue I considered the killing acre. A woman had died there, but there was no way to tell.

The archery range was a large grass field bordered on three sides by a dense jumble of bushes. There was a sign forbidding dogs, but since it was late I didn't expect to be harassed. I soldiered on, scanning the field for cats, skunks, archers, dead people—then I was about to unclip Sam's leash when something made me stop. One of those sixth-sense feelings. I turned and saw an extremely tall man in dark clothes and a wide-brimmed hat. He was standing
within an ivied knot of rhododendrons, an arm held up away from his side, a hefty bird perched on his gloved fist. A falcon or maybe a hawk. Here was Viktor's
sokolnik,
I realized.

In the dim light I couldn't see much of the falconer, but he was definitely watching me. I assumed there were statutes and ordinances and commandments against any form of hunting in the park—but I had Sam on the archery range, so I suppose that made both of us scofflaws. I gave a chopping half wave, but the falconer didn't wave back. Instead he emerged from the rhododendrons and moved away at a quick pace, heading for the street.

Sinister fucker. And the tallest man I'd ever seen in the flesh. Looking at him felt like walking under a ladder. I threw the ball for Sam, lit a cigarette, and watched him do his thing. When he returned I had him make a few more retrieves, then snapped him back to the leash. The sun had set, and it was mostly dark. On the way out of the park we passed alongside a white sedan stopped by the killing acre. The car looked plain enough to be an unmarked police cruiser, but there was just an old guy sitting behind the wheel. He smiled and began flashing the interior dome light, trying to draw me closer. I saw a smiling pervert, then nothing, a smiling pervert, then nothing. I shook my head at him and kept on.

I SHOWERED
, then wiped at the mirror with a towel. Shaggy, squinting me. My hair was at least two months uncut, and I shaved for the first time in almost a week. In these moments when I'm cleaning myself up—mowing shaving cream and clipping at nails, spitting flossed threads of blood and gargling mouthwash—I often pretend like I'm carving. Like when I'm done chipping away I'll see some of the boy I was, or even Tommy, hiding under that adult decay. But not now, not ever. So I just did the best I could for Marina, and once I was through I combed my bangs out of my
eyes, the wings behind my ears, put on a nicer pair of jeans and a collared shirt.

After his comedy act on Friday Viktor had drunk two more of my Budweisers and talked mainly about Viktor. He was a homeowner, and since I doubted homes came cheap in that city, clearly he was doing something right. His four limos were parked throughout the tumbleweed neighborhood, rotating with the schedules of the street sweepers, and before dawn every morning he drove a master-of-the-universe stockbroker to a building downtown in the Mercedes. Then, after the markets had closed in New York, he headed back to fetch the man. As for those limos, Viktor hardly ever drove them himself. “I have people,” he'd said. “But not for Mr. Dworkin. He is a decamillionaire.”

Viktor's house was painted an adobe color, and there was a sunken garage I suspected contained the Mercedes. Off to the side, a series of steps led up to the front door—but I was a few minutes early, so I lingered awhile on the sidewalk. And I was still standing there when I saw Marina turn the corner. She was wearing a puffy pink coat, the hood trimmed with synthetic gray fur I think was meant to resemble a wolf tail. I waited for her at the bottom of the steps. Those black boots again, but I still had three or four inches on her.

“Hey,” I said. “I'm Roy.”

Her short hair was brushed straight back, and up close I could see the copper strands were chocolate at the roots. “I am Maria,” she said. “I am sorry for yesterday.” Viktor had told me she was thirty, but I was questioning whether she might be a few years older than that. There were tight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her teeth had a yellowish tint.

“That's all right. Viktor—”

“The parents, they know nothing.” Marina pressed her hands against her face, and I thought she might scream. “And baby is little Satan.”

I laughed, but she didn't. Her accent was very thick, her voice even more emotionless and indifferent than Viktor's had once seemed to me, and though behind her heavy makeup she wasn't quite the same woman I'd seen from across a pond, she sounded like a world-weary femme fatale, a somber Bond girl.

“Must be rough,” I said.

“Rough?”

“Hard. No fun. Difficult.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “
Da.
It is very.”

The front door opened, and I saw Viktor's moon face grinning at us from the top of the steps. He was in his work clothes. Black pants and a black tie. A white shirt like mine, but with the sleeves rolled up on his bulky forearms. He called down. “Come,” he said. “Come, come.”

The pink coat stopped right at the curve of Marina's waist, and her snug white Levi's looked stitched to her wide hips. She started up the steps in a sway, the block heels of her boots slapping one-two, one-two against the concrete, and before she made the threshold Viktor kissed her swiftly on the cheek, then crushed my hand. “The new carpet,” he said. “No shoes. No smoking, even.”

Marina was already removing her boots. She'd been there before, I guess, or maybe that was just the Russian way. I shucked my Red Wings and was allowed inside too.

The house was warm and smelled like a good restaurant. I saw a white-walled living room with a black leather couch, two identical easy chairs (black), and a coffee table (also black). On one wall was an enormous flat-screen TV and—resting on the snow-white carpet beneath it—a stereo, a DVD player, and a digital-cable box. On the opposite wall was a cross-shaped mirror large enough to nail a Celtic to.

Marina was focused on the TV. There were DVD cases stacked atop the coffee table, and the picture had been paused
during some nature video. A killer whale had launched its entire domino body clear of the sea and now hung frozen in midair. The whale matched the white carpet, the black leather. Same with Viktor in his uniform.

“You worked today?” I asked. “On a Saturday?”

Viktor nodded as he loosened his tie. “I had to drive Mr. and Mrs. Dworkin somewhere. I am getting back only now.”

“I was in the park earlier. I saw that falconer guy.”

“The
sokolnik
? He is very tall, no?”

“Yeah. Very.”

“Sokolnik?”
said Marina.

Viktor hollered for his wife, Sonya, and a heavyset woman in a black velvet outfit came out from the kitchen to meet me. She had pillowy skin and pearly hair. I said hello, but Sonya and Viktor and Marina began talking in the mother tongue. I was feeling ignored until Dina the Saluki slunk in from the hallway. She bumped at me, then went searching for Sam. I watched her check all around the living room before she gave up and lay down behind the couch.

I turned to Marina again. Viktor had taken her coat, and underneath she had on a blue top that shimmered when she moved. She'd brought color to that black-and-white room. I looked away, but Sonya had caught me staring. She smiled. “Welcome to our home,” she said.

“Thank you. Whatever you're cooking smells really great.”

“Pelmeni,”
she said.

Viktor was next to Sonya, beaming, and he rubbed his stomach and winked at her as she pulled Marina into the kitchen. He led me from the door, and we lowered ourselves into the overstuffed chairs that flanked either side of the couch. “Put your feet up,” he said. “It is nice.”

I told him I was content, but he wouldn't accept no. Finally I popped the lever and got thrown back horizontal. My legs were
stretched out in front of me, and I felt defenseless, as if he had captured me somehow.

“You see?” he said.

Soon Sonya came with half liters of syrupy Baltika beer and two glasses. She poured a glass for me and a glass for her husband. It was like being tucked into bed, lying there in my gray socks. I thanked her, and she went back into the kitchen. Viktor kicked up his own leg rest, got himself settled, then tapped at the remote control balanced on the arm of his chair. There was a bomb blast as the killer whale came crashing to the sea. My hands bounced, and black beer sloshed in the glass I was holding. I looked around, trying not to spill, and saw small speakers screwed into every corner of the room.

Viktor eased the volume down, but not by much. “A theater system!” he shouted.

Up on the TV the killer whale had paired with another just off some coastline, and an English man was narrating. The man told us these were South American sea lions we saw spread across the beach, that the two orcas were hunting. Four of the sea lions had strayed too far, and the killer whales came surging in on a big wave, their dorsal fins cutting through the water like blades. They caught a sea lion apiece, then swam back out to the deep and began tossing their crippled victims into the air, torturing them.

“And high definition!” Viktor shouted. “It is the finest!”

“Damn,” I said. It was as if those playing whales were about to come out of the wall and land on me.

LATER WE TOOK SEATS
at an actual dinner table in an actual dining room, and that meal was the best I'd had in a long time.
Pelmeni
turned out to be little meat-filled dumplings, and Sonya served them with mashed potatoes and a cucumber salad, sour cream and dill. Marina was quiet at first, but after a second bottle
of red wine was opened she became more sociable. Sonya and Viktor were arguing over something in Russian when she asked me about my finger. I had my left hand in my lap, but she'd either spotted the stump already or Viktor had told her.

“Show me,” she said, interested suddenly.

I hesitated but then set my roughneck hand down on the table. So many cracks and scars and calluses. It would have been an ugly hand even with all five fingers.

Marina leaned closer to look. She was wearing a strong, cotton candy perfume. “You must work very hard,” she said. “I was warehouse girl before America.”

I mentioned I wouldn't be rotating offshore any longer. That in a few months I'd have the money I would need to retire and then some. She didn't seem surprised, so I assumed Viktor had been wise enough to share that part of my essay with her. But
I
was surprised. There's no two ways about it—I was sitting there trying, albeit in a roundabout way, to sell her on the idea of a life with me as a husband.

Marina patted my knee and said I should see myself as lucky. “This is something, but this is also nothing. Do you understand what I am saying?” She had dark, dark eyes. Black, almost. Some Cajun women have eyes that color.

I put my hand back in my lap. “I think so,” I said.

“Then good, then.”

I wondered if that meant she'd decided to marry me—and whether, once told, she would conclude that me being a registered sex offender was something, but also nothing. “You're from Moscow, right?” I asked.

“Yes. I come here six months ago.”

“Only six months?”

“Da.”

“And you've been working for that family the whole time?”

She nodded. “The Colemans.”

“Where in the city are they?”

“Do you know Presidio? Next to Presidio.”