Ukrainian or a cockroach?"
The busboy stalled in his squirming. It seemed to take a monumental effort, as if his skin was holding back a platoon of snakes and worms. He cleared his throat, said to the two old Russians who sat while he stood, "I come because I think you like to know. Twice already they are there together. One time lunch, now dinner. Hexpensive, I tell you. And always they are talking, talking, talking."
Cherkassky turned his scooped-out doleful face toward his colleague. They were sitting across from each other on leather settees in Markov's living room. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and they were drinking cognac. It might have been Moscow except it was nearly the tropics. Markov waved his snifter casually, indulgently. He even smiled. "They are young," he said. "They like each other. Of course they talk, talk, talk."
Cherkassky frowned, turned back to the busboy. "And all this talking, talking, talking. They talk of love? Of politics? Of business?"
The busboy flicked up his unspeakable sleeves, interlaced his fingers. "Yes," he said.
Cherkassky spanked the arm of the settee. "Which of these, fool?"
The busboy hitched back his skinny butt, executed an appalling shallow bow. "Always I am clearing, running," he explained. "Salad plates. Butter. Cleaning, someone spills. I only hear a little now, a little later." He stood there fidgeting.
Markov raised a fat hand, gestured him over. He reached into the pocket of his brocade smoking jacket produced a hundred dollar bill. He gave it to the busboy, then motioned him away with a gesture like pushing crumbs.
When he was gone, Cherkassky said, "This worries me, Gennady."
Markov swirled his brandy. "Like everything, Ivan." He paused, then claimed an old friend's prerogative to tease. "Still you are the fretting bureaucrat. Straight from Gogol you are."
The thin man didn't smile. "For a newspaper she works. This I do not like."
Markov snorted. "Newspaper? Business propaganda only. Selling restaurants, selling T-shirts, selling shnorkels."
"Ink on pages," Cherkassky insisted. "Is a paper."
"She is not journalist" protested Markov. "Only she sells adwertisements."
Ivan Cherkassky put down his glass, slowly ran a hand over the lumpy hollow of his face. "Gennady," he said. "To you this boy he walks on water. You laugh, you pat his hand, you do not see. But I am telling you, this talking, talking, talking, it is bad."
Markov waved his snifter. Fat in his maturity, goatish in his youth, he was no believer in disciplining appetite, arguing away desire. He said, "He wants to fuck her, Vanya. Can I tell him not to talk?"
Cherkassky stared into the unlikely fireplace, watched yellow flames lick against the bricks. "Yes," he said with certainty. "You can."
Chapter 8
Aaron Katz swung slowly onto A-l A and tried to get his mind around the notion that he was bringing his old and slipping father on a play-date.
A couple of evenings before, Sam had found a cocktail napkin in his pants pocket. Written on the napkin was a name and number, but Sam couldn't quite remember whose they were, or how the piece of paper had gotten in his pants. He'd put the napkin on his nightstand, hoping that it would catch his eye at some receptive moment and everything would click.
And sure enough, he finally remembered Bert—the shiny hair, the ancient dog, the offer of companionship. He said to Aaron, "Can we call him up? D'ya think it would be okay to call him up? Would you bring me for a visit?"
So they were driving now along the beach, toward the Paradiso condo. Palms leaned backward against a fresh east wind. Beachgoers danced over the thin imported sand that hid the native lacerating coral. Enormous freighters looked like bathtub toys as they rode the Gulf Stream, out beyond the reef. Sam and Aaron didn't talk because the only things they thought of were things they didn't want to say.
Aaron was thinking: I wonder if he'll be all right, if he'll get confused and panic. What
The busboy stalled in his squirming. It seemed to take a monumental effort, as if his skin was holding back a platoon of snakes and worms. He cleared his throat, said to the two old Russians who sat while he stood, "I come because I think you like to know. Twice already they are there together. One time lunch, now dinner. Hexpensive, I tell you. And always they are talking, talking, talking."
Cherkassky turned his scooped-out doleful face toward his colleague. They were sitting across from each other on leather settees in Markov's living room. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and they were drinking cognac. It might have been Moscow except it was nearly the tropics. Markov waved his snifter casually, indulgently. He even smiled. "They are young," he said. "They like each other. Of course they talk, talk, talk."
Cherkassky frowned, turned back to the busboy. "And all this talking, talking, talking. They talk of love? Of politics? Of business?"
The busboy flicked up his unspeakable sleeves, interlaced his fingers. "Yes," he said.
Cherkassky spanked the arm of the settee. "Which of these, fool?"
The busboy hitched back his skinny butt, executed an appalling shallow bow. "Always I am clearing, running," he explained. "Salad plates. Butter. Cleaning, someone spills. I only hear a little now, a little later." He stood there fidgeting.
Markov raised a fat hand, gestured him over. He reached into the pocket of his brocade smoking jacket produced a hundred dollar bill. He gave it to the busboy, then motioned him away with a gesture like pushing crumbs.
When he was gone, Cherkassky said, "This worries me, Gennady."
Markov swirled his brandy. "Like everything, Ivan." He paused, then claimed an old friend's prerogative to tease. "Still you are the fretting bureaucrat. Straight from Gogol you are."
The thin man didn't smile. "For a newspaper she works. This I do not like."
Markov snorted. "Newspaper? Business propaganda only. Selling restaurants, selling T-shirts, selling shnorkels."
"Ink on pages," Cherkassky insisted. "Is a paper."
"She is not journalist" protested Markov. "Only she sells adwertisements."
Ivan Cherkassky put down his glass, slowly ran a hand over the lumpy hollow of his face. "Gennady," he said. "To you this boy he walks on water. You laugh, you pat his hand, you do not see. But I am telling you, this talking, talking, talking, it is bad."
Markov waved his snifter. Fat in his maturity, goatish in his youth, he was no believer in disciplining appetite, arguing away desire. He said, "He wants to fuck her, Vanya. Can I tell him not to talk?"
Cherkassky stared into the unlikely fireplace, watched yellow flames lick against the bricks. "Yes," he said with certainty. "You can."
Chapter 8
Aaron Katz swung slowly onto A-l A and tried to get his mind around the notion that he was bringing his old and slipping father on a play-date.
A couple of evenings before, Sam had found a cocktail napkin in his pants pocket. Written on the napkin was a name and number, but Sam couldn't quite remember whose they were, or how the piece of paper had gotten in his pants. He'd put the napkin on his nightstand, hoping that it would catch his eye at some receptive moment and everything would click.
And sure enough, he finally remembered Bert—the shiny hair, the ancient dog, the offer of companionship. He said to Aaron, "Can we call him up? D'ya think it would be okay to call him up? Would you bring me for a visit?"
So they were driving now along the beach, toward the Paradiso condo. Palms leaned backward against a fresh east wind. Beachgoers danced over the thin imported sand that hid the native lacerating coral. Enormous freighters looked like bathtub toys as they rode the Gulf Stream, out beyond the reef. Sam and Aaron didn't talk because the only things they thought of were things they didn't want to say.
Aaron was thinking: I wonder if he'll be all right, if he'll get confused and panic. What
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