Cheers, JC says.
(Even before I finished my first Guinness, I decided I would call him “JC” forthwith. “Josh” sounded too Jewish and innocuous. Josh could not even pull the trigger. JC, easily.)
I have to say, JC says; your English is remarkable, though something is weird about it, and I cannot put my finger on it. What is it?
That’s the easy part.
I relax, I really melt. Rudy’s is everything I ever wanted in a bar: it’s dark, a heady aroma of stale beer, a juke box with Sittin on the Dock of the Bay. The dive is so familiar from hundreds of movies I’m not surprised to find a guy in a crumpled suit and a tie askew at the end of the bar, silently massaging his Scotch glass, every one of thousand wrinkles in his face oozing frustration. At the other side of the bar he is properly complemented by a blowsy blonde who gives JC the eye, as the one with a suit and a tie.
There is this movie theater in Moscow called Illusion, I told JC – not a bad name for a theater, huh? – that played prewar Hollywood movies. Even without translation, every Wednesday morning. I was there religiously, sitting in the dark amongst old ladies, mouthing the lines after Bogie and Coop and Cagney. I saw Casablanca ten times, Maltese Falcon eight, Roaring Twenties seven… But I am better now, I hastened to add; the accent is going away, isn’t it?
It certainly is, JC nodded generously. So what’s —
Let me show you a little trick, I said.
It’s all about who gets to lead, right?
Write a number. Here’s a napkin. You want a pen? I’ve got one.
I come prepared. It’s only a Paper Mate, with an additional advantage of having a long body, which I make even longer with a hidden piece of plastic. Anyway, anything more expensive would look out of place at Rudy’s.
Mm, how many digits?
His voice is oozing polite patience smothered with boredom. Not a drop of a suspense. A lesser man would give up. But I plod on.
Doesn’t matter. Don’t show me.
JC uses his left hand for cover, but I can see the top of the pen moving, and I can tell the number’s 44. It’s like taking candy from a baby. Still, I have to use the standard routine.
OK, ready? Your number is one digit…two. Check. The first digit is five, lower? Four? Check. Four it is. The second digit is five, is it higher? No – lower. Four? Check. Forty-four it is.
I take a bow, deafened by applause.
Interesting, JC admits. Unfortunately, I don’t know any booking agents, but I’m sure if you open Yellow Pages —
Good, good, I tell myself. Resistance is good. That which does not kill you, etc. I am getting more fierce; now the challenge is to control myself, not to let it rip, not just yet…
The blonde is studying us with growing attention. There’s nothing to read there – her world is already pretty blurry.
Cameralightsaction:
“Hi, whats your name I’m Philip call me Phil you know it’s against the law to sit in a bar with an empty glass can i be so bold as to offer you to replenish it what is your pleasure?”
The blonde is mildly confused by this verbal onslaught. Actually, in her condition a Hi would be just as confusing. “I’m Edith,” she extends her hand in a manner that is halfway between a handkiss or a handshake.
I go for a handhold, or, rather, fingerhold, ever so light, which confuses her further.
She does, however, brings herself to utter, “But you can call me Edie.”
Mostly she just glances at me and then at JC and back at me. One is dressed casually and has a bit of an accent though I doubt she can tell; the other has prep school written all over him – I forgot to ask him, is that what they call a club tie? I only read about stuff like that. Anyway, JC looks more promising.
“Jonathan,” JC nods with all the affability he can summon.
“So what are you drinking?” I insist.
Finally, she gets her both wits together and stammers: “Cou-vu-ser.”
“And so Courvoisier it is.” I signal to the bartender.
“On the rocks,” she adds hurriedly.
The bartender, a fortyish aloof Mick, is the best: she might as well have asked for a Bud. While JC and I are doing our damndest to suppress snobbish smiles. We are already allies. Chalk one up for the cause.
I hold a respectable pause, faking grave decision-making. “What the hell, make it a double, the lady sure knows her poison! You see, Edith–”
To me, smiling comes naturally. Funny: only in the US, I discovered I was a natural smiler. In Russia, casual smiling is frowned upon as a sign of being not serious and therefore undeserving of trust.
“–Jon and I, we’re conducting a sociological study for Columbia, we’re looking for a few candidates could you just answer a few questions for me we’re not ruling out a modest remuneration?”
“Well.” For some reason she guffaws. “I don’t see why not. Long as you keep it decent.” A double guffaw.
”Let me rephrase my request, Edith. You don’t have to say anything. I‘ll do all the talking. I’ve just taken a special pill developed by Jonathan in a secret government lab and it allows me to read your mind. I repeat, if you meet our criteria, if your mind is readable, you‘ll be admitted to a real study with a really generous remuneration.” I cut myself off before wisecracking, To keep you in Cou-vou-ser for a few days.
Now. Where do we go. I’m at a loss, a bit: generally I have a clear-cut objective, I am all about compulsories, I don’t freestyle. But I can’t expect someone as skeptical as JC to lend me a hand here. He’d rather have me jump and sink without a trace and leave him to linger in his wretchedness. He doesn’t deserve me, he really doesn’t.
So where do I go with Edith? Private life – this will be like a quick cut, painful and short and then we all go back to our merry ways.
“Just a few questions about yourself, Edith. You’re forty…forty.” Check.
“Just a minute, fella.” A grin so flirtatious I wish she had farted – that would cut it out. “You don’t ask a lady–”
I raise my hand to shush her. It didn’t quite work, but I’ll just redact her wows as predictable and irrelevant.
“Your parents are… Irish…not quite…well, one is, and the other one is… huh? You don’t know?”
“Well, Mom said–”
“Its okay, whatever Mom said. This is more about you… you’ve been married… twice, three times? Oh my you sure know how to pick ‘em.”
She’s not so drunkenly insouciant anymore; something’s going on with her marital history. JC acts plenty interested, too. Good: he is the jury, after all.
“Kids?” Ooh, how the needle leaps. “From the first one – no, from the second – no, from the third – no again. What, you had a baby in between? No? Then, let’s be logical – before No.1? you must have given it up, right? do you know where it is? no idea at all?”
Watching any woman crying is no fun, and make it double for a drunken one. I won’t even describe her lips or hands or sounds. There’s nothing to read here.
I turn to face JC. He feels sorry for her and he virtually can’t stand me. Not that I’m filled with love myself. You made me do it, mister.
“No more questions for now, I assume,” I tell him as I leave her a twenty on the bar and murmur an apology and leave. I need a big breather. Alone. And I don’t suppose that right now you like me very much, either.
from chapter five:
“What’s your rush, Leonid? Will you settle for a ‘CIA Asset‘ T-shirt? I believe we have it in black-on-black and grey-on-grey. You are what, L?”
“Can you find out if they got baseball hats, too?”
go to Five