Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [89]
“I was just saying.”
Grigory’s brown Oldsmobile had no air-conditioning. They kept the windows open, letting the breeze play with their messy wisps of gray hair. The oppressively hot day was unusual for January, but this year the whole winter was scorching, as if it were June. Sofia Arkadievna called it “earthquake weather.”
“Hooh, my heart goes crazy in this heat,” said Grigory Petrovich, patting his chest. He was wearing an old purple T-shirt with the yellow Lakers insignia, dark blue Adidas exercise pants, and sandals over striped socks. Round beads of sweat formed on his forehead and nose, and he wiped them off with a large crumpled handkerchief. “Live it up, Vanya. Eh, live it up! Vanya, Vanya, Vanya! What are we doing in Southern California anyway, my friend?”
Grigory pushed a cassette into the player and Gypsy music burst out the windows into the Fairfax midday 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. Tphew,” he spit in anger.
“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, “Eh, once, and once more, and many, many, many more …”
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, “… and at the Pacific Ocean, did they finish their trek.” Now what?
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 on the way back.” Ivan Denisovich hated the sound of his grouchy voice, but couldn’t stop.
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