—
There was barely enough room for the four of them plus herself in the old Buick steered by a short man the others called “Kotik.” He was the leader of this ragtag delegation and wore a serious face, either from the strain of driving or from the importance of his position. Florence had to squeeze in the back, between the pickled Fyodor Zimin and the broad-shouldered Sokolov, who’d come wearing a large straw hat that Florence guessed belonged to “the missus” who rented them a bungalow in Tremont. On his head the hat looked just shy of absurd, like a silk shirt on Paul Bunyan. Catching her looking, Sergey narrowed his eyes into a sly smile of familiarity, mistaking her surprise for admiration. And because it was Sergey that she’d taken speculative notice of that afternoon, Florence felt herself flush with the effort of avoiding bumping his knee with her own and instead pressed closer to Fyodor, who smelled like the back side of a brewery.
They left the car outside the fairgrounds and picked their way through the maze of battered trucks and trailers leading to the entrance. Only a handful of towns from Cuyahoga County were participating in the events this drought-stricken year. Nevertheless, Florence saw housewives setting out their rhubarb pies and jams and the air resounded with the murderous screeches of boys practicing their hog hollering. A welcome coolness was starting to settle over the field, the cow-plop smell of livestock giving way to a spicy evening scent of clove. The deference and friendly attentions of the foreigners were giving her a pleasurable awareness of herself—her height, the crisp, fitted feel of her cotton dress, the wild hair she’d pinned up at her temples. She’d been afraid the Russians would find the fair hokey, but even the unsmiling Kotik was getting a good laugh out of watching the sawing contest and tractor pulls.
Only when she’d led them to the miniature rodeo at the far edge of the grounds did she realize there were only two men in her company instead of four. “Where are the others?!” she said in a panic.
“Don’t be afraid,” Sergey said behind her. “They are exploring.”
“We need to find them.”
“Why? They will find us,” said Fyodor.
Sergey removed his straw hat and wiped the sweat off his low brow. His face might have looked dull-witted were his dark eyes not so alert. It struck Florence as a face that could belong to a criminal or to a poet, and she couldn’t look at it openly for more than a few seconds without feeling self-conscious. Beside him, the towheaded Fyodor sat down on an overturned crate and withdrew some furry tobacco. Absently rolling his cigarette, he watched some teenaged cowhands in the field. “Cowboys—like in film!” he remarked. “This is real America.”
“Hardly,” Florence said, unable to stop herself. “More like a dog-and-pony show.”
“A dog and what…?”
“A circus,” she said.
“I do not like the American circus,” Sergey spoke. “They take us to Barnum & Bailey. There is no”—he rubbed his fingers, as if the friction might generate a word—“art.”
“I’m sure it isn’t as fine as your circus,” said Florence. “You do have a longer tradition.”
“I am not talking of acrobatics. Why you Americans want to see aborted fetuses?”
For the first time she let herself stare at him. “Pardon me?”
“Cripple girl with tiny head the size of apple dancing like she is at a birthday party.”
“Oh—you mean the pinheads in the sideshow!”
“This entertains people? Black man in cage scratching himself like a monkey? He is not come from Africa.”
“Good God, those exhibits are just awful. Is that what they showed you? Well, that’s Ohio for you.”
“You are not from Ohio.”
“No. I’m from New York.”
“New York—whah!” Sergey said, showing an appropriate amount of awe. “They take us around New York City when we came off the ship—first three days. Whah! The trains always making noise on top of your head. They look like they are rolling on buildings.”
“What else did you see in New York?”
Sergey consulted with Fyodor. “Aquarium? Rockefeller Center.”
“Radio City Music Hall,” Fyodor chimed in.
They might have gone down the entire list of attractions if she hadn’t interceded. “The usual tourist trumpery.” There was a silence, during which she worried that she’d come across as unbecomingly cynical.
“You don’t like New York?” said Sergey finally.
“I didn’t say that. It’s a grand city but they showed you the kid stuff. They might have shown you Greenwich Village. They might have taken you to the piers.”
“Cleveland: it is not New York.” The bored aplomb with which Sergey uttered this snooty bon mot forced her to laugh. He raised his prominent brows in clownish surprise.
“Well—that’s true,” she said. “It’s just that…you sounded like someone from New York just now.”
He evidently found the laugh an encouraging sign, for his next question was: “You have young man in New York?”
“I don’t have a ‘young man.’?”
“Old man?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did you run away to Cleveland?”
She looked dumbstruck at him. “I didn’t run away. I took a job. Same as you.” But he didn’t seem altogether convinced. “For a crust of bread,” she said, and to make sure he understood, she switched to Russian. “Zarabotat’ na kuska khleba.”
This amused Sergey. “Na kusok khleba,” he corrected, and patted her on the head.
Fyodor eyed her more suspiciously. “How you know Russian?”
“My father’s mother was from Litva. She lived for Russian novels. She used to read to me from Evgeniy Onegin when I was sick in bed.”
Fyodor looked at her inquisitively. She tried to think of something to convince him she wasn’t spying on them. “I also took a class at the university. I understand better than I speak. I would like to improve.”
Fyodor tossed what was left of his cigarette into the dry dirt and got up from his crate. He seemed convinced enough to say, in Russian, “We better watch it with this one,” with a wink at Sergey.
Sergey turned to Florence. “Very well. You talk to us in your language, and we’ll talk to you in ours. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll switch to French.”
—