Petropolis by Anya Ulinich

Author:Anya Ulinich
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Munch on your oyster,

Eat your foie gras

Your last day is near,

Bourgeois.

Sasha imagined blurting the words into Mr. Tarakan’s face. Would he take them personally? For a brief moment, she pictured the Tarakans gone, and the Tudor portion of the Waterfall House chopped up into a hundred little rooms. What a splendid, sprawling communal apartment it would make, with all those bathrooms! The tenants could fashion coats out of boar skins, burn the sculptures in fireplaces, litter the yard with broken bottles and twisted bicycle frames. The beige couch could easily sleep four children; the claw-foot tub could sleep a man. The contemporary part could be made into the House of Culture or a day care. A rock band would sing “Eighth Grade Girlfriend” in the Oriental room, their amplified voices but a faint echo in the Russian room, where tiny cots would line the walls. Scabby-kneed girls would pour milk for feral kittens into Mrs. Tarakan’s rustic cereal bowls, and the little capitalist saltshaker would be liberated, put to good use, salting fried fish and boiled potatoes.

“I can’t read that, Mr. Tarakan,” Sasha fibbed. “It’s Old Russian.”

“Oh, well, maybe I can ask someone at the museum.” Mr. Tarakan sounded disappointed. He smelled like chlorine, and his arm was growing heavy on Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha stood up straighter and waited for him to take it off.

After he left, Sasha picked up her duster and headed toward the gothic archway that separated the contemporary wing from a dark alcove in the older structure.

Inside, there was a wide-screen TV with the sound off. On TV a skinny white lady ran around the stage with a microphone, while several fat black ladies sat in chairs. Some were crying. Looking for a cleaning opportunity, Sasha walked toward the TV until her hip hit something hard in the dark.

“Careful, will you!”

“Oy!” Sasha caught her breath. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? Watching TV.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, what?” Sasha felt happy to finally be useful.

“Find the remote, will you?”

Sasha groped around in purple darkness, then switched on one of the lamps, but the remote was gone.

“Shit,” sighed Jake.

“You want me to ask somebody?”

“Nah, forget it. When José reappears, he’ll find it.”

“Who’s José?”

“My personal care attendant. He’s sick today.”

Sasha realized this was her chance do something productive in the Tarakan household.

“So, you need any help, then?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” said Jake, fixing his eyes on the TV again.

Sasha looked at his pale face in the glow of the screen. He had a thin nose and heavy-lidded dark eyes. There was a scar on his neck, under the Adam’s apple. Sasha imagined his body unfurled from its permanent seizure. He would be taller than Jason. He must be the little brother, Mrs. Tarakan’s last child.

“Can I ask you a favor, too?” said Sasha.

Jake’s eyes darted briefly to her face.

“I’m starving to death.” She noticed the alarm in his eyes and corrected herself. “Not literally. I’m just hungry. Can I have some food?”

“Come with me,” said Jake, wheeling in reverse, out of the room, the alarmed look still on his face.

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