Etgar Keret in Moscow

I met Genevieve and Igor at the International Book Fair in Moscow. Genevieve had a charming French accent and a million-dollar smile. Igor had a million dollars. And a bodyguard with a scar on his cheek who made sure no one took Igor’s million away from him. They invited me to dinner at their home, and I accepted readily. Igor picked me up at the hotel in his silver BMW. When he saw me stealing glances at his scarred bodyguard, who was sitting in the passenger seat, he told me in broken English that Valda was much more than a bodyguard. He was a soul mate. Igor had hired him because, even though Valda had killed more than twenty people with his bare hands, he still burst into tears every time someone read him a poem by Pushkin.
__Genevieve made us a fantastic dinner, and we finished off two bottles of red wine during the meal. Not being a very big drinker, I was already swaying slightly after the aperitif, and after the meal, I was completely smashed. We adjourned to the living room, and Igor suggested we have some Calvados. I tried to refuse politely, but Igor explained that this was something special Genevieve’s brother makes himself. “He puts much love into this bottle,” Igor explained, “and we want to share some of that love with you.” With love you don’t argue. So I drank the Calvados, and gave Igor a thank-you belch.
__That, it turns out, was a mistake, because Igor immediately pulled a new bottle out of his liquor cabinet, saying it was “stronger than pure alcohol and better-tasting than Coke.” Igor’s father makes it for him from fermented potatoes in a secret process that is passed down from generation to generation, and Igor shared it only with artists and intellectuals. I hesitated for a second, and Genevieve whispered to me that Igor would be very hurt if I didn’t drink some, and that I had nothing to be afraid of, because even though the liquor really was stronger than pure alcohol, the chances of going blind from drinking it were close to nil. Encouraged, I knocked back a small glass of potato alcohol, but not before I toasted Igor’s skilled father, wishing him a long and productive life.
__“Good, huh?” Igor gave me a toothy smile.
__“Excellent,” I said.
__At that point, for some unclear reason, I’d already lost all feeling in my left arm. Genevieve said a few words in Russian to Igor, and I thought it was a warning about the very realistic possibility that their visiting artist was going to vomit all over their crocodile-skin couch any second now. But it turned out that Genevieve was talking about something else altogether.
__“How gross I am,” Igor apologized, “here we are drinking to my father and my beautiful wife’s family, and only your family, the family of our respected author, we are not toasting.”
__“That’s okay,” I mumbled through a half-closed mouth. My bottom lip, it seemed, was also half numb. “They won’t be insulted.”
__“Is not okay.” Igor punched the arm of his chair furiously. “I behave like barbarian, I apologize.”
__“Apology accepted,” I smiled, “it’s nothing.”
__“I did not even ask from where your family comes,” Igor said.
__“From Poland,” I replied. “No problem, really.”
__“Poland?” Igor said happily, “such amazing coincidence.” He sent Genevieve to another room, and she came back with three glasses of vodka. “Just one week ago, I buy wonderful bottle Polish vodka without even guessing I would have chance to toast your parents with it.”
__“I’d rather not,” I said through clenched teeth.
__“Why?” Igor said seriously, “you wish for your parent’s death? They abuse you when you are child?”
__“No,” I said, “not at all.”
__“Good,” Igor said happily, “so we do not insult them, we drink to them.”
__I didn’t insult my parents, and the vodka rewarded me with terrible dizziness, and the voices of Igor and Genevieve began to sound a bit distant too, although still clear and sharp. In coarse Russian, Igor reprimanded Genevieve for something, and she apologized in graceful French.
__“Such mistake,” Igor moaned, “my wife is tiny bit drunk and pour us Russian vodka, not Polish. I knew right away, from taste. Such disgrace. Such disrespect to brilliant writer from Israel.”
__“My parents are a little Russian too,” I tried. “The border between the two countries changed lots of times, and my father’s family found itself under Russian rule more than once…”
__“Let us not talk nonsense,” Igor interrupted me, “and we will not embarrass our Genevieve any more. She feels bad enough already. Here,” he thrust a new glass into my hand, “this is real Polish vodka. We drink it and that is that.”

I regained consciousness in the plane back to Tel Aviv. The flight attendant said that a nice man with a huge scar on his face had brought me to the airport and explained to the El Al security people that I was a Jewish writer who suffered from epilepsy. At first, they were a little suspicious, but when he told them how much he liked Israel and then disassembled and reassembled their Uzi in less than twenty seconds, the tension subsided.
__“Can I bring you a drink with your meal?” the flight attendant asked with a charming smile.
__"No thank you, but a barf bag would be nice."

 

Translated by Sondra Silverston. Etgar Keret is the author of, most recently, The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God: And Other Stories. (click to purchase). He lives in Israel.

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