Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [91]
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-pickled cucumbers, available only at the Russian market that, for some reason, disguised itself under the enigmatic and misleading name, The European Deli. Life was good again.
“Set them up, Vanya. I’m gonna kick your butt, as they say in America.” His teeth crunched against the taut flesh of the pickle, its subtle saltiness a perfect match for the robust flavor of the sandwich.
“Black Sea and the sacred Baikal,” Grigory blasted, following his opening gambit.
Ivan Denisovich wiped his forehead and neck with a handkerchief. The weather made it hard to concentrate. He was convinced that hot weather was responsible for the collapse of many ancient civilizations. Who could think in the heat?
Grigory unwrapped the dry salted fish from the market, and, holding it by the tail, hit it against the edge of the picnic table to soften it up.
“You’re distracting me.”
“Tugodum, lighten up, you old goat. We’re not playing for money,” laughed Grigory, peeling the skin off the fish.
“Don’t you dare touch the chess pieces with those fishy fingers. It’ll make me vomit.”
“There you are again, just like Valentina. Nudge, nudge, whine, whine.”
Ivan Denisovich, nauseous from the sight of the fish, and yet feeling suddenly at home, inhaled as if it were the aroma of lilacs in spring and moved his knight to the middle of the board in what he thought was a very elegant combination. Yet as soon as he let go of the piece, he realized his mistake. How could he not have noticed that he was exposing his king? How could he be so stupid? He felt embarrassed. If Grigory didn’t see it, he would convert to Catholicism and start believing in miracles. Why was he playing chess instead of shopping for Sofia Arkadievna?
“Nuuh, Denisich, watch out! It’s over, pal.”
Grigory Petrovich grabbed his Queen, leaned back in a slow swoon, as if ready for a backstroke, and suddenly plunked back off the bench, flat on the ground. The children continued to run and giggle by the jungle gym, the chess and domino players were absorbed in their own games. Ivan Denisovich thought it was some kind of a joke again. He peeked under the table, but his friend remained on the ground, clutching the Queen in this stiff fist. Ivan Denisovich carefully slipped off the bench and stared at the lifeless body by his feet.
“Pomogite! Somebody, help! Call an ambulance!” he screamed, and dropped on his knees in front of Grigory. “Grisha, Grish! Come on! Cut it out! Look, I’m right here! Don’t go! The ambulance is coming! Grisha! Somebody, help!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, shaking Grigory Petrovich, lifting his head off the dusty ground.
The children’s laughter from the playground merged with the sharp siren of the approaching ambulance. Mothers clutched their babies as if death was contagious. A few men stopped their game of chess and surrounded the prostrate body.
Two exhausted paramedics, a man and a young woman, jumped out of the vehicle and checked Grigory Petrovich’s pulse.