Our Country Friends(4)
“Well, at least she’ll be young. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two. How’s your kid, by the way?”
“Flourishing,” Senderovsky said.
They skidded into a town that wasn’t. The selection at Rudolph’s Market, its sole business, contained goods that neither Ed (born Seoul, 1975) nor his host (Leningrad, 1972) had enjoyed in their early non-American years, candy that tasted like violets, bread that was so enriched you could use it for insulation. Alongside these outrageously marked-up nostalgic items were international ones even dearer, which Ed carelessly piled into a basket. There were fresh whole sardines that could be grilled before the meats, dirigible-shaped Greek olives from ancient islands, cheeses so filled with aromatic herbs they inspired (on Senderovsky’s part) memories that had never happened, ingredients for a simple vitello tonnato that somehow came to over eighty dollars, excluding the veal. “I think we have enough,” Senderovsky said with alarm. “I don’t want anything to spoil.”
They were standing in a long line of second-home owners. When the shocking amount due appeared on a touch screen, they both looked away, until the old woman behind the counter coughed, informatively, into her gloved fist. Senderovsky sighed and reached for his card.
Soon, they were raising gravel up the long driveway. It was only 2:00 p.m., but the workers had already left, along with their powerful trucks stenciled with old local names. “I’m sorry about all these dead branches,” Senderovsky said. “I’ve been trying to get them cleaned up.”
“What branches?” Ed was looking absently at his new home, at the bungalows rising up behind the main house like a half circle of orbiting moons. The sky was the color of an old-fashioned projector screen pulled down to the edges of the distant hills, splotched here and there by the hand of an inky boy.
Meanwhile, in her office, Masha had lifted up a heavy beaded curtain. She saw Ed clambering out of her husband’s car with the languor that came so easily for him. Naturally, he had not sat in the back, like she had asked. She made a snort she instantly recognized as her grandmother’s, a labor camp survivor. Well, there it is, her grandmother would say. The first of the children was here. More children for Masha to take care of, in addition to the one watching Asian boy-band videos upstairs, mouth open, eyes bleary, pacified. Soon the property would be filled with them, grown children without children. All of her friends were married, unlike her husband’s (and none was crazy enough to visit someone else’s house at a time like this). Masha shut off her screen, thought about changing out of her kaftan for Ed, but then went into the driveway exactly as she was.
Ed was walking with the leather Gladstone creaking behind him. Masha had partly grown up in New Jersey and had seen powerful men carry golf bags in a similar way. “How was the train up?” she shouted, her tone a little too needy, she thought.
“Charming,” Ed said. “I got a seat with river views.” He knew he had to get some preliminaries out of the way: “Thank you so much for hosting me during this time. It’s much appreciated.” He forced himself to take an exaggerated breath of damp air. “Mmm,” he said. “Just what the surgeon general ordered. You both look wonderful. Sasha’s really lost some weight.”
The weight comment, he quickly realized, could be misinterpreted by Masha, who was beautiful but now reminded him of a noblewoman’s portrait he had seen last year at the Tretyakov Gallery. The kaftan certainly didn’t help. The two men walked silently up the cedar steps of the vast covered porch, which was connected to the main house and overlooked the bungalows, the centerpiece of the property and also its jewel, a screened-in world within a world.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to be a little doctorly,” Masha said, “if that’s even a word.”
“Not at all,” Ed said. Not at all he didn’t mind, or “doctorly” was not at all a word? Masha had to think about it, which maybe was the point.
“I’ve made some rules,” she said. “Since you’ve taken the train up, maybe you could change into fresh clothes before you sit down anywhere. But before that I’d like to wipe down some of the surfaces, which the workers touched in your bungalow. There’s a lot we still don’t know about this virus.”
“Safety first.”
She did not like his tone. Senderovsky stood beside them in a hunched-over position. He had had to serve as diplomat between two feuding parents for many decades. “Also in public areas like the porch and the dining room,” Masha continued, “I’m going to try to space everyone out and also to give everyone a designated seat. I’m sorry if I sound like a killjoy.”
“There’s no right or wrong here,” Ed said. “We all have to be ourselves during this crisis.”
Actually, there was a right and a wrong here. Ed reminded her of her husband’s parents. Talking with them was like dealing with a smiling adversary who kept a handful of poisoned toothpicks in his pocket. Every time you let your guard down, there would be a sharp prick at your haunches.
“Here’s another question I have to ask. And this is really a compliment, because you’re always going somewhere. Can you tell me where you’ve traveled since, let’s say, December of last year?”
“Since December? Hmmm.” Ed looked up at the stucco-clad main house, a neutral gray like the sky. People of a certain class, immigrants in particular, did not like to rock the boat. A second-floor landing and an adjoining window were yellow-lit at an odd angle, like a Mondrian painting—the top quadrant being the daughter’s room, most likely. Ed had forgotten her name.