The Russian Debutante’s Handbook by Gary Shteyngart

Author:Gary Shteyngart [Shteyngart, Gary]
Format: epub
ISBN: 0-7865-4177-6
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2010-10-31T20:04:39+00:00

THE JOY. VLADIMIR lay on his stomach in his little blond-wood boudoir, meditating on this fabled venue and his chance to impress the crowd with his own verse, to stamp his artistry onto the mass of wealthy English speakers, potential investors all, and to begin (finally!) Phase Two of the master plan.

Phase One had gone off without a hitch. He had introduced himself, nay, insinuated himself into this unpolished mass of Westerners on the cultural make. But now he had to clinch the deal. To prove to the likes of the dog-breeder Plank and the rugby runt Marcus, that he was not just a businessman out to buy some bohemian friends with a lit mag and a thousand free drinks. And if he could pull off a reading at the Joy, well then . . .On to Phase Three! The actual “take the donkeys for a ride” phase. (Hey, maybe he could even steal Alexandra from Marcus, somewhere around Phase Two-and-a-Half, say.)

In the meantime, PravaInvest stocks—engraved with all the flourishes and pomp of karate green-belt certificates for suburban tykes—had just been printed and were ready for sale at only U.S.$960 a pop. Discerning investors everywhere, take note.

And so, to work. He took out his notebook filled unimpressively with notes from Cohen’s tutelage and turned to the “Mother in Chinatown” poem that he had started that fateful day at Eudora Welty’s.

He read the first few lines of the Mother poem to himself. A small string of pearls from her birth land . . . Ludicrous, yes. But definitely of the moment.

On the other hand, what if . . . ? What if Cohen and the whole Crowd saw right through him? What if they were baiting Vladimir to the Joy only to expose the international-magnate-talent-scout-poet-laureate-publisher for the shameless operator he really was? Vladimir sniffed the air around him, worried he was giving off a fraudulent odor. Sniff-sniff . . . Nothing but the smell of wet dust and the dizzying tang of an electrical fire next door. Furthermore, what if Cohen took umbrage at being upstaged at the reading? What if he united his minions—Marcus, Plank, that other emaciated guy, whatever his name was—and outflanked Vladimir for good? Whom could Vladimir summon on his own behalf? True, Alexandra might defend him, that nutty dear. Plus Alexandra had complete discretion over Marcus and was thoroughly worshipped by Maxine and that other blonde, the one who always wore hip-waders and carried a Chinese parasol . . . But that would only split the Crowd in half. What was he going to do with just half a Crowd?

If only someone competent could advise him.

If only Mother were here.

Vladimir sighed. There was no getting around it. He missed her. This was the first time that mother and son were separated by five thousand miles and the loss was palpable. For better or worse, Mother had run Vladimir like her own five-and-a-half-foot fief up to this point. Now that Vladimir had abandoned her, he was entirely on his own.

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