The SS Brezhnev was a cigarette boat--long, thin, and sleek, a veritable Francesca of the seas--bobbing playfully between two gargantuan yachts, both under the blue flag of Hong Kong, both looking bloated and unwieldy in comparison to their neighbor.

"Ahoy," Mr. Rybakov cried in English, waving his captain's hat.

Vladimir clambered onto the boat and hugged the happy Rybakov. He noticed that both he and his host were wearing vintage trousers, plaid shirts, and shiny ties. Throw in the guyabera and janitor pants, and the two of them could start their own clothing line.

"Welcome aboard, friend," Rybakov said. "A pleasant day for a sail, no? The air is clear, the water placid. And here I have prepared a parcel with your reimbursement and a complimentary sailing cap."

"Thank you, Admiral. Why, it fits just perfectly." Now the look was complete.

"I've had Brezhnev's likeness imprinted on the back. And allow me to introduce you to Vladko, my maritime Serb and first mate. Vladko! Come meet Vladimir Girshkin."

A hatch opened, and from the lower deck there emerged a preternaturally tall, round-chested, pink-eyed, near-naked young man, as substantial as anything Serbian myth ever produced. He blinked repeatedly and covered his eyes. Behind him, a large striped cat (or maybe a small tiger) roamed a devastated landscape of crushed tomato-soup cans, empty gas canisters, deflated soccer balls, and all kinds of time-worn Balkan paraphernalia: coats-of-arms, tricolors, blown-up photographs of fatigue-clad men with guns standing solemnly around makeshift graves.

"Ah, I believe we share practically the same name," Vladimir told Vladko.

"Ne, ne," the Serb protested, his expression still that of a man emerging from a bomb shelter. "I am Vladko." Perhaps his Russian was limited.

"And this," said Rybakov, pointing to a miniature fan mounted on the dashboard, "is the Fan's little niece, Fanya."

"I have had the pleasure of meeting your esteemed uncle," Vladimir started to say.

"But she's too young to talk!" Rybakov laughed. "Oh, you romantic cad." He turned to the Serb: "Vladko, hey there! First mate on the bridge! Start the engines! Away we go!"

With a postindustrial hum like that of a desktop computer powering up, the Brezhnev's engines were engaged. Vladko expertly navigated her past the hefty sloops of the marina, setting course around the southern tip of Manhattan Isle. A boat ride! Vladimir thought with childish glee. It was one of the million things he'd never done. Oh, the stench of the open sea!

"What did you see in Washington?" Mr. Rybakov shouted over the gnashing wind and roiling waters, both easily separated by the Brezhnev's aerodynamic prow.

"Your case remains highly contentious," Vladimir cheerfully lied. Yes, the key was to remain cheerful. Big smile. They were playing Ducking Reality, a delightful little game expressly designed for Russian emigres. Why, Vladimir's own grandmother was a national champion. "I have met with several members of the House Judiciary Committee . . ."

"So, I take it, you visited the president at his White House."

"It was closed," Vladimir said. And why was it closed? Easy enough. "The air-conditioning broke."

"And they couldn't turn on a few fans?" Rybakov shook his head and his fist in protest to the White House staff. "All these Americans are pigs. Air-conditioning. Hypermalls. Trash, these people. I ought to write another letter to the Times on the theme of 'Where Is This Country Going?' Except as a citizen I would have more clout."

"Any day now," Vladimir reassured him. It was good to keep these things open-ended.

"And did you see the president's developing young daughter? That delightful creature!"

"I caught a glimpse of her at the Kennedy Center. She's coming along nicely." Now, this wasn't even lying anymore. This was storytelling for invalids. This was social work. This was outreach to the elderly.

Rybakov rubbed his hands together and winked at Vladimir. Then he sighed and fingered the insignia on his cap. He wiped the water spray off his sunglasses. Leaning against the bow of his speedboat in his sunglasses and cap, this was as close as Mr. Rybakov had ever come to looking like a New World person--rich, American, in control. Vladimir was reminded of his own adolescent daydreams: young Vladimir, the simple-minded son of a local factory owner, running triumphantly down the field of his Hebrew school's opulent Recreation Centrum, the eyes of the local Benetton-clad maidens following intently the brown oblong ball encased in his burly arms as he scored the "home goal" or "home run" or whatever it was he had to score. All in all, Vladimir's American dreams formed a curious arc. During adolescence he dreamed of acceptance. In his brief days at college he dreamed of love. After college, he dreamed of a rather improbable dialectic of both love and acceptance. And now, with love and acceptance finally in the bag, he dreamed of money. What fresh tortures would await him next?

"Maybe next time you're in Washington," Mr. Rybakov was saying, "you could introduce me to the first daughter. We could go out for ice cream. A young lady like her could be very interested in my tales of the sea."

Vladimir nodded his assent as the half-moon of southern Manhattan rapidly receded behind them. The skyscrapers, chief among them the World Trade Center towers, appeared as if they were rising directly out of the water (an almost Venetian effect), or as if they were perched on an offering platter.

"There she is!" Rybakov shouted to Vladko. They were fast approaching a cargo ship anchored midharbor, her hull rusted pink, her prow stenciled with the Cyrillic legend: Sovetskaya Vlast', or Soviet Might. The vessel flew under the somber red-and-black flag of Armenia, which, as Vladimir remembered from his abbreviated Leningrad schooling, was a land-locked country. "Aha," Vladimir said, his tone full of simulated good nature. "An Armenian flag on a ship. Now here's a curious sight."

Once the Brezhnev drew alongside the stern of the Vlast', a rope was thrown overboard by an unseen Armenian sailor and speedily tethered to the Brezhnev by the indispensable Vladko. A metallic boat--no, a very uncomplicated raft, like the cover of a shoebox--was soon lowered as well. "I see the Armenians are expecting us," Vladimir said. He suddenly thought of Francesca, of her proximity . . . Why, at this very moment, across the bay and only two kilometers uptown, she was returning from school to the Ruoccos' bright little aerie, dropping her satchel by the bread-maker, washing the heat off her face in the cat's bathroom with its oddly comforting smells. Yes, she was making Vladimir into a human being, an indigenous citizen of this world.

"What Armenians?" Rybakov said. "These are Georgians."

"Georgians," Vladimir said. It was better not to ask questions. But a note of fear sounded in the back of his head, that cramped space where his money dreams were also headquartered. Fear and money. They went well together.

Once the Georgians' lifeboat was aligned with the Brezhnev, Vladko rushed over to help Rybakov aboard, but the sporty septuagenarian used his crutches to catapult himself inside. "Look at me!" he cheered. "I can still whack the both of you youngsters!"

"Which gun do I bring?" Vladko mumbled, saddened by his own irrelevance.

Gun? Vladimir's Fear-Money gland coiled around his brain and squeezed gently. "We'll be searched," Rybakov said. "So you might as well bring something impossible to conceal, then turn it in immediately to show compliance. The Kalashnikov, say."

Vladko disappeared below deck.

"Ensign!" the Fan Man said to Vladimir. "Hurry up. The television program about the comical black midget starts promptly at eight o'clock Eastern Standard Time. I cannot miss it."

"You go on," Vladimir said, pretending to play with Fanya, the little fan, as if he couldn't be bothered with Mr. Rybakov's little errands. "I will await your return."

"Oho, what is this?" Rybakov said. "Your presence is both requested and required. We're doing all this for you, you know. You don't want to disappoint the Georgians."

"Yes, clearly not," Vladimir said. "But you must see my concerns. I am from Russia originally, this is true, but I am also from Scarsdale . . . From Westchester . . ." This seemed to eloquently sum up his concerns.

"And?"

"And I'm worried about . . . Well, Georgians, Kalashnikovs, violence. Stalin was a Georgian, you know."

"What a pizdyuk you are," Rybakov huffed, alluding to the kind of man who is somehow vagina-like in nature. "The Georgians take time out of their busy schedule to pay tribute to you, they've sailed around the world with duty-free gifts, and you cower like a milksop. Get in here!

"And I won't have you badmouthing Stalin either," he added.

THE TWO SEAMEN were the largest Georgians Vladimir had ever seen, each about two hundred pounds (the Vlast' must have carried some incredible rations), and each with the gloomy oblong face and fertile black moustache common to the men of Caucasus.

"Vladimir Girshkin, these are Daushvili and Pushka, both associates of my son, the Groundhog."

"Hurrah!" the two men said. But quietly.

The swarthier of the two, the one named Pushka, which, Vladimir assumed, was a nickname, for it meant "cannon" in Russian, said in a collegial tone: "And now we will go inside for the zakuski. You will have to give us your weapon, blondie."

Vladko bowed and surrendered his immense Kalashnikov, the first weapon Vladimir had ever seen; the Georgians bowed back, and Vladko bowed yet again--a merger between two Japanese banks was now seemingly complete. They walked along the starboard of the Vlast', Vladimir eyeing the Statue of Liberty across the harbor, wondering if any crime could be committed directly in her sight. The color she was painted, Soviet-cafeteria green, did not inspire confidence. Francesca, meanwhile, was likely hunting through the Arts section of the paper, rolling a cigarette over the coffee table, and planning a triumphant evening out for the two of them.

"Watch your little head, friend," Daushvili said. They ducked into a humble room, unexposed pipework serving as roof, the walls decorated with pages of German automobile magazines and the occasional poster of Soviet pop diva Alla Pugacheva parading her strawberry bouffant at the EuroVision Song Contest, crooning her summertime hit "A Million Scarlet Roses." The Georgians were seated around a long foldout table covered in zakuski. From afar, Vladimir could already spot the glossy blackness of cheap caviar flanked by plates of rusty herring. He was hoping for skewers of Georgian shashlik, preferably lamb, but there was no grill in sight.

The head of the group was not a captain or any kind of sailor. He was, as might be expected, dressed in sunglasses and Versace, as were the two associates to his right and left. All three had classic Indo-European faces: high, sloping foreheads; thin, albeit curved, noses; hazy traces of facial hair around the upper lip. The rest of the coterie was far coarser in appearance--bigger men with bushier mustaches, dressed in track suits. Half looked like Stalin, the other half like Beria. Several of them even wore sailor caps, although the crest of whatever navy they had once belonged to had long been removed.

"I am Valentin Melashvili," the leader announced to Vladimir in a rumbling Bolshoi-grade bass. "The crew of the Sovetskaya Vlast' express their admiration for you, Vladimir Borisovich. We have just heard of your rampage through Washington on Mr. Rybakov's behalf. And, of course, we all follow the exploits of your enchanting mother, Yelena Petrovna, in the New Russian Word and the Kommersant Bizness Daily. Sit, sit . . . No, no, not there. At the head of the table, of course. And who is this gentleman?"

The Serb waved awkwardly, his hair an incongruous yellow mop in a sea of black curls. "Vladko, go outside," Rybakov instructed. "We are with friends now. Go!"

First they disarm the Serb, then they throw him out altogether. "Death!" Vladimir's Fear-Money gland was shouting. "Death is the very opposite of money."

"Well, to begin with," Melashvili said, "a toast to the Groundhog, our friend, our benefactor, our great mountain eagle circling the steppes . . . Za evo zdarovye!"

"Za evo zdarovye!" Vladimir cheered as he plucked a shot glass off the table. Now what the hell was he cheering about? Get a hold of yourself, Volodya.

"Za evo zdarovye!" Rybakov shouted.

"Za evo zdarovye," the other Georgians said simply.

"So, here's a question for you, Vladimir," the charming Melashvili said. "I know you've been to university, so you might know the answer to this one. Question: Who on the Lord's earth can match the hospitality and generosity of the Georgian people?"

Obviously a trick question. "No one," Vladimir started to say, but Melashvili interrupted him. "The Groundhog!" he cried. "And to prove it, the Groundhog sends you fifty cartons of Dunhill cigarettes. Pushka, fetch the smokes! Look here. Five hundred packs. Ten thousand cigarettes. Sealed in cellophane to maximize freshness."

Dunhills. Vladimir could easily unload them for two dollars a pack. He could set up a little stand on Broadway. He could call out to the jaded masses in his best immigrant accent, "Dunhill! Dunhill! Top 100 percent number one brand! I give special price! Only just for you!" He could make an even thousand dollars, which, added to the five hundred Mr. Rybakov had given him, would net him $1,500.00 for the day. Now, if he subtracted that amount from the $32,280 he needed for Francesca to love him forever, that would leave him . . . Let's see, eight minus zero is eight, then carry the one . . . Ah, math was tricky business. Vladimir never had the patience. "Thank you, Mr. Melashvili, sir," he said, "but, honestly, I do not deserve such favor. Who am I? I am only this young fellow."

Melashvili reached over to ruffle Vladimir's hair, soft and pliable from the application of Frannie's Aboriginal Sunrise shampoo. "What gentle manners," the Georgian said. "Truly, you are a child of St. Petersburg. Please take the Dunhills. Enjoy the European quality in good health. Now, may I ask another question? What do our Golden Youth wear on their wrists these days?"

Vladimir was stumped. "It's a difficult question. Perhaps--"

"Personally," Melashvili said, "I think nothing will do but this genuine Rolex watch. Recently acquired from Singapore. Completely legal. The control number has been removed from the back."

Even better. At least fifteen hundred dollars from some fence on Orchard Street. Together with his previous loot, an even three thousand. "I will accept the Rolex with a heavy heart," Vladimir said, "for how will I ever repay your kindness?" Hey, not bad! he thought. He was getting the hang of this. He executed a little bow, the kind of bow they all seemed to favor--Georgian, Russian, and Serb alike.

He had to admit it was a pleasure dealing with these people. They seemed so much more polite and cultured than the work-obsessed Americans who crowded Vladimir's city. Sure, they likely committed all sorts of unfortunate violence in their off-hours, but then again, look how articuate this Melashvili was! He probably dropped in on Vladimir's uncle Lev whenever he was in Petersburg and they went, together with their wives, to the Hermitage and maybe for some jazz afterward. Bravo! Yes, Vladimir was ready to listen and learn from these people. Maybe he could even introduce them to Fran. He did his little bow again. How can I repay your kindness? Indeed.

Melashvili bristled: "No, not our kindness at all," he said. "We are merely travelers of the seas. The Groundhog! The Groundhog is to be thanked. Isn't that so, Aleksander?"

"Yes," Mr. Rybakov said. "Let us all thank my little Hog."

The Georgians whispered their thank yous, but this was hardly enough for Mr. Rybakov. "Let's go around the room," he shouted. "The way they do on that fat schwartze's talk show. Let's talk about what we like most about working for the Groundhog." Rybakov thrust an imaginary microphone at Pushka. "Pushka, you say what?"

"Huh?"

"Pushka!"

"Well," Pushka said. "I guess I'll say that I like working for the Groundhog."

"No, but what specifically," the Fan Man said. " 'I like the Groundhog, because . . .' "

"I like the Groundhog because . . ." The ensuing two minutes were silent enough for Vladimir to hear the masculine beating of his new Rolex. "I like him because . . .Because he is merciful," Pushka finally said to everyone's relief.

"Good. Now state an example."

Pushka pulled at his moustache and turned to Melashvili who nodded in encouragement. "An example. State an example. Let me think. Well, I'll give you an example. Back in eighty-nine my brother set up a little black-market currency exchange by the Arbat in Moscow, knowing full well that the Groundhog had already claimed that territory as his own . . ."

"Oh, no!" several voices said. "God help him!"

"Right, you're expecting the worst," said Pushka, his tone getting stronger as he reached the moral of the story. "But the Groundhog didn't kill him. He could have, but all he did was take his wife. Which was fine, because everyone took his wife. She was that kind of a wife. And so--"

"And so he taught him a lesson without resorting to violence," Melashvili filled in quickly. "You've proved your point: The Groundhog is merciful."

"Yes," the Georgians muttered. "The Groundhog is merciful."

"Very good!" Mr. Rybakov said. "That was a good example and well told. Bravo, Pushka. Now let's continue going around the table. Daushvili, you say what?"

"I'll say . . ." The big man looked Vladimir over, curling a mangy eyebrow until it reminded Vladimir of a sea horse resting on its side, something he had once seen in an aquarium or perhaps only in a dream.

"I like the Groundhog because . . ." Rybakov prompted him.

"I like the Groundhog because . . . Because he holds no prejudice against the southern nationalities," Daushvili said. "Sure, sometimes he'll call me a Georgian black-ass, but only when he needs to put me in my place or when he's in one of his lighter moods. As for persons of the Hebrew race, like our esteemed guest Vladimir Borisovich here, I'd say the Groundhog is positively awed by them. 'Three Yids,' he's always saying. 'All you need is three Yids to rule the world . . .' "

"Which brings us to the most important point about the Groundhog," Melashvili interrupted. "The Groundhog is a modern businessman. If the marketplace doesn't tolerate prejudice, why should the Groundhog? He needs the best and brightest on his side no matter what shade their ass. And if Vladimir can tame America's immigration police and get Mr. Rybakov his citizenship, well, who can tell how far the Groundhog will take him . . . Or where eventually he will land."

"Yes," Vladimir said, toying with the clasp of his sparkling Rolex. "Who can tell." He realized that this was one of the first things he had said during the entire interview, or get-to-know-you session, or whatever this was. The others must have noticed this as well, for they looked at Vladimir expectantly. But what more could he say? He had been delighted just to listen to them.

Vladimir finally broke the silence. "Is there any butter?" he asked. "I like a little butter on my caviar sandwich. That's how my mother, the esteemed Yelena Petrovna, used to make it for me when I was just a boy."

A fresh stick of butter was produced. Melashvili gently unwrapped it himself. Several crewmembers helped Vladimir spread it on black bread.

Soon they would toast Mother's health.

13. THE SEARCH.

FOR MONEY.

IN WESTCHESTER.

DR. GIRSHKIN COUNTED off eight hundred dollars in fresh twenties, wetting his fingertips between each and every bill. "It's better that you come to me with your sad money troubles," he said to Vladimir, "than get some damn credit card . . ."

His fingers shaking with money-lust, Vladimir counted his father's gift. He whispered the mounting dollar amounts in Russian, the language of longing, of homeland and Mother, his money-counting language: "Vosem'desyat dollarov . . . Sto dollarov . . . Sto dvadtsat' dollarov . . ." Dr. Girshkin, too, whispered along, so that to Western ears father and son might have been caught in the act of solemn prayer.

Afterward, Vladimir was charmed by how his father neatly arranged a backyard table with napkins and cutlery, as if he was a guru past his prime, receiving one of the few visitors who still bothered to ascend his mountaintop. His father removed a recent Polaroid from the fridge door showing a smiling Dr. Girshkin holding a tremendous glossy-black flounder with the hook still embedded in one fatty lip, and placed it on Vladimir's plate by means of introduction. The fish itself broiled away in the kitchen.

"Now, tell me about this new woman," said his father, taking off his pants, which he did whenever his wife was off the premises. "She's better than Challatchka?"