The Wild Child Part 10

"Make me proud," she said.

I woke up with puddles of drool flowing down both cheeks. I was still on the floor of our Hyatt penthouse, my arms spread out as if I were Jesus at the end of his life. "I flipped you over on your back," Alyosha-Bob said. "You were gagging."

Apparently it was morning the next day, our wood-and-marble suite flooded with light as if we were living inside a golden humidor. Timofey was in my bedroom, sorting out my vintage Puma tracksuits and my collection of anxiety medication. Alyosha-Bob had already unpacked his own things on top of a dresser in a careful American manner, underwear folded into quarters, T-s.h.i.+rts neatly squared. "You've got a message from Zartarian, the hotel manager," he said. "This is the guy Captain Belugin told you to look up."

Dear The Respectable Misha Vainberg, We are dripping with delight now that you have choosen to stay with us at Park Hyatt Svani City. Your father was big lover for us. Now he is dead, our s.h.i.+p has run aground. Kindly visit the lobby when you are convenient and ask for Your Faithful Servant, Larry Sarkisovich Zartarian.

I read the note aloud to Alyosha-Bob, imitating the hotel manager's no doubt thick accent with a hint of childish cruelty. "When am I going to become a Belgian, already?" I asked.

"Go talk to Zartarian," Alyosha-Bob said, waving me out the door.

As I stepped into the corridor, I was waylaid by a tall, tanned beauty with electric lips, a clingy camisole reaching down to her hot pants. "Golly Burton, Golly Burton!" she said. "You Golly Burton?" She poked at me with an audacious finger. Her face was as powdered as an American doughnut.

"Eh?" I said.

"Golly Burton? KBR? Thirty percent discount for you." She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her wet forehead. "Ooofa, I have such hot temperature for Golly Burton. Thirty percent discount. You so aroused, mister. You bust a nut right now, maybe."

"I don't understand this 'Golly Burton,' " I said in Russian. "Do you mean Halliburton? Thirty percent discount for Halliburton?"

The woman spat on the floor. "You're a Russian?" she hissed. "Fat, dirty Russian! Don't touch me! Disgusting Russian!" She stomped away on her impossible high heels.

"That's racism, miss!" I yelled after her. "Come back and apologize, you stupid black-a.s.s..."

In my golden, gla.s.sed-in elevator, I fell like Icarus from my lofty penthouse to the busy hotel lobby, where the local merchants promptly sold me a Gillette Mach3 razor, a bottle of Turkish Efes beer, and a box of Korean condoms. Upon hearing the name Misha Vainberg, reception steered me to Larry Zartarian's office. Zartarian sprinted from behind his desk and gave one of my big, squishy hands a sweaty workout with both of his. "Now our humble hotel has a guest worthy of the name Hyatt," he said in accented but presentable Russian.

The Armenian (as I deduced from his last name) manager reminded me of my old college friend Vladimir Girshkin. Girshkin was a fellow Russian Jew who emigrated to the States at age twelve and became perhaps the least remarkable Russian emigre at Accidental College, a quiet foil for that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jerry Shteynfarb. Like Girshkin, Zartarian was a short, unattractive man with a sporty, receding hairline compensated for by an outrageously thick goatee. Given all his nervous pleasantness, one got the sense that his endlessly aggrieved mother lived beneath his desk, s.h.i.+ning his shoes and tying the laces into double knots. These kinds of lost, overeducated mama's boys were perpetually stumbling down a corridor with two distant exits, one marked HESITANT INTELLECTUAL HESITANT INTELLECTUAL and the other and the other SHYSTER SHYSTER. The last time I read about Vladimir Girshkin in the Accidental College alumni magazine, he was running a pyramid scheme somewhere in Eastern Europe. Managing the Park Hyatt Svani City was probably not a dissimilar calling.

"Sit, Mr. Vainberg, sit." The Armenian pushed me into a sumptuous leather container. "Is there enough room for you in there? Should my girl fetch you an ottoman?"

I grunted approval and looked around. The manager's office was dominated by an oil portrait of a dapper white-haired gentleman handing an oddly shaped cake to what looked like his porky, mustached son. Both men were smiling slyly at the viewer, as if inviting the beholder to share in their cake. Two Orthodox crosses loomed in the background, their footrests tilted in different directions, the Kellogg, Brown & Root logo floating between them in a blurry supernatural haze. I had to moo in bewilderment.

"The old guy's the local dictator," Larry Zartarian explained. "His name is Georgi Kanuk. He's giving Absurdistan to his son Debil for his upcoming thirtieth birthday. KBR completes the trinity. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Halliburton."

"So the cake represents the country," I said. The misshapen torte was indeed studded with candles shaped like miniature oil derricks. To judge from the evidence presented, the Absurdsvani Republic resembled a fierce bird dipping its tail into the Caspian Sea. "What does it all mean?" I asked.

"Georgi Kanuk, the dictator, is about to croak," Larry Zartarian informed me. "They're gearing the people up for a family dynasty. Kanuk and his son Debil are of the Svani persuasion, so the Sevo aren't too happy with that."

"Enlighten me," I said. "The Sevo are the ones who have Christ's footrest going in the wrong direction, right?"

"Sevo, Svani, they're all identical half-witted ignoramuses," the manager said, switching to perfect American English. "These people aren't called the Cretins of the Caucasus for nothing."

"Aren't you going to ask me who I am by nationality?"

"It is clear to both of us who we are," Zartarian said, bowing his muscular nose toward my equally prominent proboscis.

I offered Zartarian my Turkish beer, but he politely refused, tapping at his watch to indicate that a Western man did not imbibe in the daytime. "How did you perfect your English?" I asked him.

"I got lucky," the manager said. "I was born in California. Grew up in Glendale."

"So you're an American!" I said. "An Armenian-American. And a Valley boy, too. How blessed your life must be. But how did you end up here here?"

Zartarian sighed and put his head in his hands. "I went to the Cornell School of Hotel Administration," he said. "It was the only Ivy League school I could get into. My mother forced me to go. I just wanted to work in film, like everyone else."

Zartarian's tale was interrupted by the sound of breaking china outside his window, accompanied by female yelps in some local language. "Ugh, I hate the hospitality industry," he said. "The work never stops, and all the Hyatt guests are major a.s.sholes, present company excepted. They freaking pigeonholed me because my parents were from this part of the world and I took Russian in school. They made me the youngest Hyatt manager in the world. Tell me, why did all this history have to happen to me?"

"I commiserate with you entirely," I said, popping open the Turkish beer to water my dry, filthy mouth. "I, too, am cursed by my upbringing. But at least your mother must be proud."

"Proud?" Zartarian ma.s.saged his bare temples. "She lives in the suite below mine. She won't let me out of her sight. I'm a nervous wreck."

I recommended psychoa.n.a.lysis to the hotel manager, but we both agreed Absurdistan was not the best place to find a good Lacanian. "I really miss L.A.," Zartarian said. "I got a drop-top Z4 Beamer in the garage downstairs, but where the h.e.l.l am I going to drive it? Into the Caspian?"

I remembered a piece of unsettled business that was bothering me, an insult against my person. "Larry, why won't the hookers in your hotel sleep with Russians?"

"They've got an unofficial service provider's contract with KBR, Misha. There's so much business on that end, my girls all got big heads now. 'No more dirty Russians,' they tell me. 'No Chinese, no Indians. Golly Burton or we go home to our villages.' "

"Doesn't Hyatt HQ mind the prost.i.tution? The wh.o.r.es are chilling right by the penthouse suites."

"My hands are tied," Larry Zartarian said. "Look at what I'm up against. An ancient trading culture. Halliburton. It's cultural relativism, Misha. It's Chinatown."

"I'm just a little offended, is all," I said. "I like to think of the Hyatt as a multicultural s.p.a.ce. And then some wh.o.r.e calls me a dirty Russian. Where's the respect?"

"Listen, Misha, we're becoming friends. Do you mind if I ask you something personal? Why did you sleep with Lyuba Vainberg? Everyone knows you're a sophisticate and a melancholic. But popping popping Boris Vainberg's wife? Why'd you do it?" Boris Vainberg's wife? Why'd you do it?"

"How do you know about that?" I shouted, grabbing an Ativan bottle out of my f.a.n.n.y pack. "Christ almighty!"

"Everyone knows everything about you, Misha," Zartarian said. "Your father was legendary here. He sold the eight-hundred-kilogram screw to KBR, remember?"

I uncapped the Ativan and let two pills roll down my throat, chasing them with the Efes beer. "This really isn't my year," I muttered. "I hope the whole world goes to h.e.l.l, to be honest."

Larry reached over and stroked my hand below the elbow. "Your luck's about to change," he said. "I spoke to Captain Belugin. We'll get you your Belgian citizens.h.i.+p today. Maybe Rouenna will move with you to Brussels if you treat her right. Take her writing seriously, for G.o.d's sake. You know how we Americans are about self-expression."

"Good point," I said.

"Go down to the Beluga Bar," Zartarian said. "Your friend Alyosha-Bob will be dining with Josh Weiner from the American emba.s.sy."

"That name sounds familiar," I said.

"In a few minutes, this little native guy is going to show up. We call him Sakha the Democrat. He works for some local human rights agency. Buy him a turkey burger with fries, and he'll take you to meet Jean-Michel Lefevre of the Belgian consulate. Just follow him out of the hotel after lunch, and I guarantee you you'll be a Belgian by sundown."

I shook Larry Zartarian's hand. "You're a nice man," I said. "I won't forget your kindness."

"Please drop me an e-mail when you're in Brussels," Zartarian said. He swept his hands around the perimeter of his office with its bleeping computer monitors and stacks of yellowing official doc.u.ments, each likely an Absurdi request for a handout.

"You have no idea how f.u.c.king miserable I am," he said.

16.

Gimme Freedom!

The poolside Beluga Bar was sweltering. Hyatt boys had been conscripted to throw ice cubes into the pool, and gigantic portable fans had been brought in to tickle our sweaty bodies with rotating gusts of salvation. On one side of the pool, the hotel's male and balding guests were gorging themselves on plates of sturgeon and freshly grilled hamburgers. On the other side of the pool, the Hyatt's hookers had arranged themselves on green chaise longues and were fanning each other with abandoned copies of the Financial Times, Financial Times, occasionally ululating the name of their favorite American company, Golly Burton, to the oilmen dining across the pool. The oil workers, many of whom sported thick Scottish accents, shouted back incomprehensible British terms of endearment. Even with my perfect knowledge of English, I could not understand why a woman might be flattered to be called a "bird." occasionally ululating the name of their favorite American company, Golly Burton, to the oilmen dining across the pool. The oil workers, many of whom sported thick Scottish accents, shouted back incomprehensible British terms of endearment. Even with my perfect knowledge of English, I could not understand why a woman might be flattered to be called a "bird."

Alyosha-Bob was sitting next to a young man in khakis and a striped polo s.h.i.+rt who was minding a large Hyatt menu with skeptical eyes, his finger running down the price column. He had a familiar-looking cold sore that reminded me for some reason of an ice age crevice that snagged across the arboretum of Accidental College. As I approached the table, I tried to remember his name but kept coming up short. There is a cla.s.s of Americans, a cheap pansy upper cla.s.s, whose members are utterly indistinguishable to me. "Josh?" I said. "Josh Weiner?"

Weiner looked up to my encroaching shadow. "Snack Daddy?" he said. "Holy s.h.i.+t! Bob just told me you were down here. What's the word, Big Bird?"

"Cla.s.s of '94, right?" I said. "You had the six-foot bong on College Street. What was your house called again?"

"Ghetto Fabulous House," Weiner said. We gave each other an urban smack of the palm, knocked our fists together, and shot an imaginary finger gun at each other.

"Remember how the freshmen used to rub your belly for good luck before midterms?" Weiner said. "Mind if I give it a rub now, Snack?"

Actually I remembered this belly-rubbing ceremony all too well. The humiliations of so many little white hands casually stroking my love pouch in the dining hall. How I begged all those Noahs and Joshes and Johnnys to stop. "I'd prefer it if you didn't," I said. "My a.n.a.lyst says it reinforces certain behavioral patterns. Child-rearing issues and such. It makes me feel violated."

"Uh-huh," Weiner said. "Hey, Snack, I was just asking Bob if you guys still keep in touch with Jerry Shteynfarb. I'm totally into that Russian Arriviste's Hand Job. Russian Arriviste's Hand Job. It's so funny. And full of pathos, too. Just how I like it. Homeboy made good!" It's so funny. And full of pathos, too. Just how I like it. Homeboy made good!"

Mention of my compet.i.tor, together with the belly rubbing, dispelled my generous mood. "I hear you're with the State Department, State Department," I spat at Weiner. The young diplomat's chair practically slipped out from beneath his slender East Coast frame. The foreign service was not an acceptable career choice at Accidental College, where a surprising number of graduates went on to raise organic asparagus along the Oregonian coast. Even during his college years, Weiner had exhibited unhealthy tendencies, such as writing the sports column for the Accidental Herald, Accidental Herald, the school newspaper, the kind of job only a clueless and entirely ambitious immigrant would take. the school newspaper, the kind of job only a clueless and entirely ambitious immigrant would take.

"Hey, easy, dog." Weiner laughed, scratching at his thinning cowlick. "If you think I sold out, like, check out my paycheck. s.h.i.+t."

I continued looking at him with my meanest, bluest eyes.

"So, let's talk politics, dog," Alyosha-Bob said, changing the subject. "Word on the Absurdi street is that the Sevo are gonna go apes.h.i.+t if Georgi Kanuk's idiot son takes over. What's the official U.S. position on this one?"

"We're not really sure," Josh Weiner admitted as he pillaged a bowl of complimentary smoked almonds. "We've got a little problem. See, none of our staff actually speak any of the local languages. I mean, there's one guy who sort sort of speaks Russian, but he's still trying to learn the future tense. You dogs are both from this part of the world. Do you know what's gonna happen after Georgi Kanuk dies? More democracy? Less?" of speaks Russian, but he's still trying to learn the future tense. You dogs are both from this part of the world. Do you know what's gonna happen after Georgi Kanuk dies? More democracy? Less?"

"Whenever there's any kind of upheaval in this country, the pistols come out," Alyosha-Bob said. "Think of the Ottoman rebellion of 1756 or the Persian succession of 1550."

"Oh, I can't think that far back," Josh Weiner said. "That was then, and this is now. We're in a global economy. It's in no one's interests to rock the boat. Look at the stats, homeboys. The Absurdi GNP went up by nine percent last year. The Figa-6 Chevron/BP oil fields are coming online in mid-September. That's, like, a hundred and eighty thousand barrels a day! And it's not just oil. The service sector's booming, too. Did you see the new Tuscan Steak and Bean Company on the Boulevard of National Unity? Did you try the ribollita ribollita soup and the soup and the crostini misti crostini misti? This place has serious primary and reinvestment capital, dogs."

"What about this Sevo-Svani thing?" I asked. "Larry Zartarian said-"

"Oh, to h.e.l.l with Christ's footrest. These people are pragmatists. 'f.u.c.k you, pay me,' that's their att.i.tude. And speaking of pragmatism, here comes my democratic friend."

A small, hook-nosed man was running our way. For a second I thought I was looking at an exact copy of my dead papa in his lackl.u.s.ter pre-oligarch days. Intelligent brown eyes, pet-goat beard, miniature yellow teeth. He was probably a poor ex-Soviet academic in his forties, married to a wife who suffered from a heart murmur, the father of two brilliant, inquisitive children with flat feet. "Gentlemen, meet Sakha the Democrat," Josh Weiner said. "He edits the glossy journal Gimme Freedom! Gimme Freedom! It's one of our little projects here." It's one of our little projects here."

"Forgive me for being late, Mr. Weiner," Sakha panted, clutching at a bright orange tie. "I hope you have not already eaten. I am so very hungry."

"We're just about to order," Alyosha-Bob said. "Mr. Sakha, this is my college buddy Misha Vainberg."

"The Jewish people have a long and peaceful history in our land," Sakha said, putting a shaking hand to his heart. "They are our brothers, and whoever is their enemy is our enemy also. When you are in Absurdsvani, my mother will be your mother, my wife your sister, and you will always find water in my well to drink."

"Thank you," I said. "I wish I could reciprocate, but my dear mother's dead, and my girl just ran off with some schmuck."

"That's just the way they speak here," Josh Weiner explained to me. "It doesn't really mean anything." The look I gave him indicated that he was not worthy of sharing the same planet with me.

We summoned the waiter, and I ordered three sturgeon omelets and a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary pitcher. "May I have the chicken cordon bleu on a roll with tomato, pickle, and french fries, Mr. Weiner?" Sakha the Democrat asked. He brought his menu closer to the young diplomat. "It's the deluxe platter...right here...under 'Fresh from the Henhouse.' "

"Just get the chicken cordon bleu on a roll," Weiner said wearily. "They're cutting back our democracy budget. We can't afford deluxe platters anymore."

"I'll pay for your french fries, Mr. Sakha," I said.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Vainberg!" Sakha the Democrat cried. "It's so good to see a young man interested in pluralism."

"How can you do your important work on an empty stomach?" I said to him. I watched Josh Weiner unfurl his lower lip my way, menacing me with his active cold sore.

"And who are you by profession?" Sakha asked me.

"I'm a philanthropist," I said. "I run a charity in Petersburg called Misha's Children. It's my gift to the world."

"You have an open heart," said my new friend. "That is so rare these days."

"Sakha just came back from a democracy forum in New York," Josh Weiner said, "where he bought himself that nice orange tie. We provided airfare and five nights' accommodation in a four-star hotel. I'm a.s.suming he paid for the tie himself. There certainly wasn't a budget line for it."

"It is is a very nice tie," Alyosha-Bob said. "What is it? A Zegna?" a very nice tie," Alyosha-Bob said. "What is it? A Zegna?"

"I bought it in Century 21," Sakha said, nodding happily. "The actual color is called Dark Orange Equestrian. Some say the Svani people were originally horse cultivators. Did you know that our archaeologists found a clay pot in the Grghangxa region, dating to 850 B.C., which shows a local man wrestling a pony? Now I can also claim to be an equestrian with my tie! Of course, I am only joking, gentlemen. Ha ha."

"You are Svani by nationality?" I said.

"I am Sevo," Sakha the Democrat told me. "But it makes no difference. Svani, Sevo, we are the same people. The distinctions are only useful for the ruling cla.s.s..."

"How so, Mr. Sakha?" I asked.

"So that they can better oppress us!" he cried. But instead of elaborating, the democrat spent the next fifteen minutes looking expectantly in the direction of the kitchen. The food finally arrived. After putting half the fries into his briefcase "for my three little girls," Sakha dispatched the chicken cordon bleu faster than I could lay to rest the first of my three sturgeon omelets. The pickle he saved for last, savoring every wet crunch, his eyes likewise moist with pleasure. "The most delicious food in the world," he said. "Like in the American restaurant Arby's. It's not every day one gets to enjoy french-fried potatoes like these."

I looked triumphantly at Josh Weiner. "My pleasure," I said.

"Tell you what, Sakha, old worm, why don't we split the New Yorkstyle cheesecake," Josh Weiner suggested. "And we'll get the pot of coffee for two."

"I got a much better idea," I said. "Sakha, why don't you go to the sundae bar inside and help yourself to all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Just tell them to put it on my tab. Misha Vainberg, penthouse suite."