nationalities, had learned the Ukrainian kazachok , the Georgian lezginka, the all-Soviet chechetka . Sometimes, to emphasize a point, he would break into one, just because. On the paltry square of the Kabul dance floor, Slava twitched in mental approximation. Arianna swayed and pumped with exasperating grace.
“Why is it called Kabul?” he pretended to want to know, the noise level requiring another visit to her neck.
“I don’t know!” she shouted back. “Rocking the casbah or whatever? I don’t know!”
“Casbah is Moroccan, I think,” he said, drawing closer again.
“You should be a fact-checker, Slava,” she yelled. “Don’t worry about it! Dance, drink. You have things to forget!”
“How can I, with you reminding me,” he said.
“Oh, I know I have no influence on that brain.” She tapped his head with a fingertip. “I can’t feel in that fingertip. Sliced it off with a mandoline once.”
He pressed the fingertip like a button. She let him get away with it. “Take nothing on faith,” she confirmed.
Onstage, the Little Darlings whined about playgrounds and beer, Arianna’s face flashing in and out of view in the hopping red light. Eventually, he persuaded her to sit down. She breathed heavily, like a figure skater just off the ice. There was a spray of freckles around her eyes.
“Show me how you pick up a girl in a bar,” she said.
He grunted in objection.
“Are you celibate, Slava?” she said. “Please tell me you never join for anything at work because you’re otherwise engaged chasing tail.”
“That’s it exactly,” he said.
“Give me the rundown,” she said.
Rundown: Slava walked into his first American classroom with an old man’s part in his hair, a striped velour sweater, and the papery smell of the Ivory (cheapest, at seventy-nine cents for four bars) of which the Gelmans availed themselves. Thirty pairs of American eyes assessed this new flotsam and resumed spitballs and notes. Slava could not distract himself from himself as easily. It was not until the following year that he was able to ask for the attention of Diana Gencarelli, whose father owned a bakery in Bay Ridge, which Slava once patronized in the hopes of spotting Diana covered in flour. He would help her dust it off and then they would hold hands as they walked past the Arab groceries. Alas, Diana was not there. Diana was not there even when she was in front of him at PS 247. The rundown ran downhill.
In succeeding years, Slava Gelman was not without attention from the opposite sex. He did not look like most of the people in South Brooklyn. (He imagined that leaving the neighborhood accelerated physical alteration, as if the elements functioned differently in Manhattan.) There was nothing he could do about his height—he was from the stunted plains—but he had finagled from God olivish skin that saved him from being identified as an Eastern European barbarian rather than a sun-dappled Turk or even a Spaniard, black eyes completing the Mediterranean picture. His hand bore a long scar from a bottle shard he had dragged across its pillowy skin at six years old; the stubbled line of his jawbone bore a readiness to greet all interruptions with impatience. All the same, next to Arianna, agitating in her beautiful clothes, he felt like a smudge. He stripped off his jacket. Oh for two. It was too hot, anyway.
Vodka sluiced down the rusty pipe of his throat. The events of the preceding forty-eight hours coursed in the opposite direction. All of it ran together, clotted, settled, drained, ran off. He felt a little deranged. He scratched at his jaw, then leaped up and removed himself to the next table. He relished Arianna’s puzzled expression. She listened to him give an imaginary date directionsto the bathroom. Then he leaned over. “I have sixty seconds,” he said. “She’s a lovely girl— lovely . But we aren’t right for each other. It’s an almost thing. You’ve had those—nobody’s fault. And
“Why is it called Kabul?” he pretended to want to know, the noise level requiring another visit to her neck.
“I don’t know!” she shouted back. “Rocking the casbah or whatever? I don’t know!”
“Casbah is Moroccan, I think,” he said, drawing closer again.
“You should be a fact-checker, Slava,” she yelled. “Don’t worry about it! Dance, drink. You have things to forget!”
“How can I, with you reminding me,” he said.
“Oh, I know I have no influence on that brain.” She tapped his head with a fingertip. “I can’t feel in that fingertip. Sliced it off with a mandoline once.”
He pressed the fingertip like a button. She let him get away with it. “Take nothing on faith,” she confirmed.
Onstage, the Little Darlings whined about playgrounds and beer, Arianna’s face flashing in and out of view in the hopping red light. Eventually, he persuaded her to sit down. She breathed heavily, like a figure skater just off the ice. There was a spray of freckles around her eyes.
“Show me how you pick up a girl in a bar,” she said.
He grunted in objection.
“Are you celibate, Slava?” she said. “Please tell me you never join for anything at work because you’re otherwise engaged chasing tail.”
“That’s it exactly,” he said.
“Give me the rundown,” she said.
Rundown: Slava walked into his first American classroom with an old man’s part in his hair, a striped velour sweater, and the papery smell of the Ivory (cheapest, at seventy-nine cents for four bars) of which the Gelmans availed themselves. Thirty pairs of American eyes assessed this new flotsam and resumed spitballs and notes. Slava could not distract himself from himself as easily. It was not until the following year that he was able to ask for the attention of Diana Gencarelli, whose father owned a bakery in Bay Ridge, which Slava once patronized in the hopes of spotting Diana covered in flour. He would help her dust it off and then they would hold hands as they walked past the Arab groceries. Alas, Diana was not there. Diana was not there even when she was in front of him at PS 247. The rundown ran downhill.
In succeeding years, Slava Gelman was not without attention from the opposite sex. He did not look like most of the people in South Brooklyn. (He imagined that leaving the neighborhood accelerated physical alteration, as if the elements functioned differently in Manhattan.) There was nothing he could do about his height—he was from the stunted plains—but he had finagled from God olivish skin that saved him from being identified as an Eastern European barbarian rather than a sun-dappled Turk or even a Spaniard, black eyes completing the Mediterranean picture. His hand bore a long scar from a bottle shard he had dragged across its pillowy skin at six years old; the stubbled line of his jawbone bore a readiness to greet all interruptions with impatience. All the same, next to Arianna, agitating in her beautiful clothes, he felt like a smudge. He stripped off his jacket. Oh for two. It was too hot, anyway.
Vodka sluiced down the rusty pipe of his throat. The events of the preceding forty-eight hours coursed in the opposite direction. All of it ran together, clotted, settled, drained, ran off. He felt a little deranged. He scratched at his jaw, then leaped up and removed himself to the next table. He relished Arianna’s puzzled expression. She listened to him give an imaginary date directionsto the bathroom. Then he leaned over. “I have sixty seconds,” he said. “She’s a lovely girl— lovely . But we aren’t right for each other. It’s an almost thing. You’ve had those—nobody’s fault. And
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