'What we had,' Nicky says, 'is what those Bolshevik bastards will never have: a legitimate culture. We had God, we had literature, we had music, we had art. We had an immutable past, Jack, that could not change and did not change with the tides of political purges and the shifting sands of doctrine. What makes a Jew is the Jewish past. So they excluded us. Excluded us from what?'
Well, not the army.
Nicky gets drafted. Greetings, Jewboy, here's hoping you get smacked.
So if you think it's fun being Jewish in Leningrad, try being a Russian Jew in Afghanistan. They hate you twice. They can't figure out if they hate you more for being a Russian or for being a Jew. It's like hatred squared or cubed or something.
Nicky doesn't help matters.
'I was stupid,' Nicky says. 'I wore a Star of David on a chain around my neck. For what? So in case I'm captured they can torture me twice as long? But when you're young…'
Nicky survives his tour in mullah-land.
Comes home to what?
The same old crap.
So what he wants is out.
'Glasnost comes,' Nicky says, 'and the bastards try to curry favor by opening the gates to release people they don't want in the first place.'
The hypocrisy is stunning to Nicky but all right with him. While the gate is open he's determined to walk through it. Mother wants to go to Israel but Nicky…
'Well, I have seen my war,' Nicky says. 'I've seen enough of people being blown up. And Israel, well, to be frank…'
Young Nicky has other ideas. Young Nicky has heard of the land of dreams, the land of golden sands and golden hair. The land where a young man with no money and no background and little formal education — but energy, smarts, and determination — can still make a splash. Young Nicky wants to go to California.
They have some family here. Some cousins who made the escape and live in L.A. and are doing all right. They give Nicky a gig driving town cars on the airport run. A couple of years of this, Nicky buys his own car. Then two, then three. Then a used-car lot, then a parts wholesale business. Then he goes in with several partners and buys an old apartment building. Fixes it up and sells it. Buys another. Then another. Now he has a fleet of cars, two used-car lots, and his parts business.
Leverages them to buy an apartment complex in Newport Beach. Converts them to condos and makes a killing. Leaves his money on the table, so to speak, and buys another. Pretty soon he's in the crazy '80s real estate market. Sometimes buying commercial property and selling it on the same day. Gets into development, buying raw land and developing town houses, condos, country clubs.
Orange County is booming and Nicky with it.
'The only problem with Americans?' Nicky says. 'You don't appreciate what you have here. Every time I hear an American running this country down I laugh.'
He's booming and blooming, enough to get into a sideline which is his true love.
Art.
Paintings, sculpture, fine furniture.
Especially fine furniture.
'It is, to use a hackneyed phrase, the craftsmanship,' Nicky says. 'In those days they cared about quality. About the quality of the wood, the quality of the workmanship. Attention to the smallest detail. Devotion to the aesthetic of the whole. They built furniture to be useful, to be beautiful, and to last. They didn't just throw it together, destined for the trash heap or the yard sale.
'And there is something about wood, isn't there? Do you know what I mean? For the sacrifice of a beautiful tree something beautiful should be created. To see those fine grains of mahogany and walnut shaped into something exquisite and lasting. And something that you use every day — a chair, a cabinet, a bed — you have a relationship with the wood, with the woodworker, with the designer. You become part of the continuum of history. Can you understand that, Jack?'
'Yes.'
He really can. It's why he spends half his free time sanding old wooden longboards in his garage.
'So when I made my fortune,' Nicky says, 'I indulged my passion. I bought Georgian furniture. Some I sold, some I traded, most I kept to fill my home. To create a space around me that fed my soul. That's my story, Jack: Russian Jew turned California cabbie turned English gentleman. Only, as they say, in America. Only in California.'
'Why only in California?'
'Come on, you know.' Nicky laughs. 'It is truly the land of dreams. That's why people come here. They say it's the weather, but it's really the atmosphere, if you will. In California you are unhooked from time and place. You can untie yourself from the bonds of history, nationality, culture. You can free yourself from what you are to become what you want to be. Whatever you want to be. No one will stop you, scorn you, criticize you — because everyone else is doing the same thing. Everyone breathing the same ether but from our own individual clouds. Endlessly floating, shifting, and changing shape. Sometimes two clouds drift together, then apart, and then together again. Your own life is what you want it to be. Like a cloud, it is what you imagine.'
Nicky stops and then laughs at himself.
'So,' he says, 'if a Russian Jew wants the sunshine and the freedom and the ocean and the beaches and to be an English country gentleman all at the same time, in California he simply loads his house full of expensive furniture and creates his own reality… So much of it gone now. Gone in the fire.'
Not to mention your wife, Jack thinks.
Which, in fact, you don't mention.
But the fire, Jack says. Not to be offensive, but please tell me where you were the night of the fire.
Now that we're, you know, chatting.
21
Here, Nicky tells him like it's simplicity itself.
I was here.
And he shrugs, like fate is an inexplicable thing.
'And thank God,' Mother says, 'the children were here.'
'When did you pick the children up?' Jack asks.
'About three o'clock,' Nicky says.
'Was that the usual arrangement?'
'There was no usual arrangement, strictly speaking,' Nicky says. 'Sometime middle to late afternoon.'
'And were you here from three o'clock on?'
'No,' Nicky says. 'I believe we went out to dinner around 6 or 6:30.'
'Where?'
'How is that relevant?'
Jack shrugs. 'I don't know at this point what's relevant and what isn't.'
'We went to the Harbor House. The kids like that you can have breakfast all day. They had pancakes.' He adds, 'I'm sorry, I don't recall what I had.'
With just a whiff of sarcasm.
'What time did you get home?'
'Eight-thirty.'
'It was closer to 8:45,' Mother says.
'Eight forty-five, then,' Nicky says.
'Big pancakes,' says Jack.
'They are, in fact,' Nicky says. 'You should try them.'
