traffic. “Look, look at them.” Grigory Petrovich pointed at the people crossing the street in front of them. “They don’t know how to enjoy life, how to live. Look, not one of them feels the music.”
“Turn it down a bit,” replied Ivan Denisovich, worried that they were disturbing the peace. “Stop scaring people. Not everyone likes the Gypsies.”
“You used to. What, now it’s too Russian for you?”
“Russian? You’re some Russian yourself.” Ivan Denisovich was hurt. “You couldn’t get a job because you were a Jew, and here you’re suddenly a Russian, dancing Cossatski.
“Okay, okay. Sorry. You’re boiling over today. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Mind your own business, that’s what.”
Grigory Petrovich didn’t respond, and instead belted out at the top of his lungs, together with the Gypsies,
Ivan Denisovich loved the Gypsies. He didn’t know what had come over him. A rebellion to joy. He couldn’t explain it. He just didn’t have a taste for anything. Grigory was his best friend, now and always. Their relationship was rare and lucky for immigrants. They had lived across the street from each other back in Moscow, gone to school together, and later, when he came back from Kazakhstan, it was Grigory who helped him find a job. Even their wives’ mutual animosity couldn’t ruin their friendship. Recently, however, as Ivan Denisovich reflected on his past, he wondered if he would have been here in California had Grigory remained in Moscow, and secretly blamed his friend for ending up at the Pacific shores.
“Stop at Trader Joe’s. Sofia asked me to buy a few things,” mumbled Ivan Denisovich.
“And it’ll all sit there in the sun while we’re fishing? We’ll stop on the way back. I have sandwiches in the cooler. Mortadella and Swiss on white. Your favorite. I made them myself, didn’t want Valentina to know our plans. We’re traveling incognito.”
His constant playfulness irritated Ivan Denisovich. A grown man joking all the time. What’s so funny? Two idiots traveled all the way around the world to escape from home, almost returning on the other side, stopping short, it seemed, only because of the ocean. Just like in the old revolutionary song,
They parked at the mall as usual. Grigory Petrovich rigged his little cooler, a bucket, and two folding chairs to the luggage wheels, and handed Ivan Denisovich the two fishing rods and umbrellas.
“Don’t let me forget to stamp the parking ticket at the mall on the way back.”
“Give it to me. I’ll do it now. Everything has to be
It was much cooler in Santa Monica, and the wind hadn’t lost its winter prickle. Their usual spot was taken by two teenagers with Chinese tattoos and pierced lips. Ivan Denisovich and Grigory Petrovich walked further, toward the end of the pier, and, disappointed, squeezed into a small space between the enormous fat lady with wild gray hair, a permanent fixture at the pier, and two chain-smoking hobos, fishing for dinner. At least no one would complain when Grigory smoked, but fish could not be expected at this proximity to the competition.
They set up the chairs. Ivan Denisovich’s umbrella kept dragging his bargain Sav-On chair with every gust of wind, no matter how he positioned it.
“Sit down, I’ll fix it when I’m done,” said Grigory Petrovich, untying the fishing rods.
“As if I don’t know how. Look at this wind. We’ll catch pneumonia here, thanks to your stupid plans,” mumbled Ivan Denisovich.
His friend ignored him, adjusting his Lakers cap that was clipped to the back of his shirt.
Ivan Denisovich ripped the umbrella off his chair. Why would he need it anyway? People know too much here. Cancer? Crap. Too much information leads to panic. He was old enough to die of natural causes before skin cancer would catch up with him.
He sat down in his chair, enjoying the view. The sun heated up his face, but it was still a winter sun, caressing, not brutal. He took off his hat and let the sun tickle his bald spot. Funny, even now with nothing left to live for, it was hard to let go of all this: the expanse of the ocean, the hazy sprawl of the beach, the seagulls, the annoying rumble of the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. It was good to be alive. No, he was not ready. He got up and covered his head, protecting it from the sun.
“Here, put some on.” He handed a tube of Coppertone to Grigory, who was already casting his rod on the water below, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. “You should quit that crap, especially with your heart!”
“Hand me a beer. And stop being my wife.”
“Where is it? I just put the cooler right here.” Ivan Denisovich searched behind the chairs. The cooler had vanished, and so had the two hobos. He peered at the crowd and spotted the two emaciated figures in dirty clothes escaping down the pier.
“Grisha, look!”
Grigory Petrovich pulled on his glasses and immediately dashed after the hobos.
People stared at him and made way, probably thinking another nut had been prematurely released from a psychiatric hospital. The hobos were younger and faster. The cooler was the only thing slowing them down, because it had no handle. They opened it on the run, each grabbing a can of Coors and a foil-wrapped sandwich, and threw the cooler on the ground. The ice spilled onto the asphalt with a loud crashing sound that made everyone turn.
“Beer, my beer!” Grigory yelled in English, but too late. He slowed down and grabbed his chest.
The crowd disapproved generally, of both the hobos and this gibbering old fool. Ivan Denisovich watched, afraid to leave the rest of their stuff behind.
“Grish, come on,
Grigory Petrovich coughed, holding his chest, then made a sign to his friend to wait. People stopped gawking and went back to minding their own business. A woman in a flowing florid dress picked up the cooler and the bottle of water that had rolled out, and together with her toddler carried them over to Grigory.
Nodding at them, Grigory searched in his pockets with one hand, and revealed an old melted Tootsie Roll. He handed it to the mesmerized boy, who automatically stretched out his hand, but the mother deftly snatched it and smiled at Grigory.
“The hell with you,” he sighed, and walked back to Ivan Denisovich.
“Grish, you all right?”
“I’m dandy,” replied Grigory, pale and still panting.
“Sit down.” Ivan Denisovich pushed forward the chair, which immediately tipped over.
“A-ha-ha-ha!” exploded Grigory, and went into another coughing fit.
Ivan Denisovich handed him the recaptured bottle of water.
“The hell with it all.” Grigory picked up the chair. “It’s just too bad about the beer. The beer was a nice touch.”
Ivan Denisovich patted him on the back. “Let’s go, Vanya,” he said. “Let’s go to Plummer Park and play chess.”
Ivan Denisovich lived near Plummer Park in West Hollywood, and he often came here to listen to the mellifluous simmer of Russian speech and the sound of dominoes slammed against the table boards. He would close his eyes and imagine he was in Russia, especially when jasmine was in bloom.
But the park was changing. Young mothers brought children here after the city had built a jungle gym. The yuppies in the area came to play tennis at the city courts, disrupting the old-country rhythms of the park with their loud laughter and dull thuds of the ball. The commanding and confusing sound of English had already subjugated the fading sounds of Russian, as adolescents, none of them Russian, mind you, gathered to watch the endless chess games that Russian retirees played on the picnic tables. They could still teach a thing or two to this underwear-flashing generation.
Grigory Petrovich and Ivan Denisovich bought lunch at the Russian market on the way back from the beach. They sat on benches across from each other at the unusually empty end of a picnic table and opened the white paper packages. The aroma of dark rye, spicy Russian mustard, and fresh Mortadella were enough to convince them that the seven dollars they had squandered was well worth it. Grigory Petrovich bit into the crunchy half-
