The newly independent Sevo Republic, run under the democratic and Israel-friendly auspices of the State Committee for the Restoration of Order and Democracy (SCROD), is a small but attractive nation-state on the sh.o.r.es of the beautiful Caspian Sea. The history of Sevo-Jewish friendship runs as deep as the waters of the Caspian. Both are educated, entrepreneurial, and maligned people fighting with their much larger oxlike neighbors for their share of love, recognition, and adequate living s.p.a.ce. In 1943, as. .h.i.tler's Operation Barbarossa thundered toward the peaceful oil reserves of the Caspian, the Sevo populace began a voluntary campaign to transport the native Jewish population out of the Republic and toward safety in Stalin's Siberia. Today the country remains easily the most Jew-tolerant place on earth outside of Brookline, Ma.s.sachusetts. This philo-Semitism, combined with an exotic location, the chance to enjoy the hospitality of a righteous people (finally an entire nation of tzadikim tzadikim), and the opportunities of a temperate, beach-filled landscape most reminiscent of Cancun, Mexico (only cheaper, much cheaper), creates the perfect environment for an education-based initiative that is a world apart from the hackneyed death marches of Auschwitz-Birkenau and Yad Vashem.

Methodology A Striking Architectural Design Some of the world's most remarkable recent architecture has been built in commemoration of the Holocaust, but much of it is too abstract and cerebral to inspire immediate Continuity in the loins of a frigid Jewish woman in her thirties. The Inst.i.tute for Caspian Holocaust Studies will take the shape of a giant broken matzoh, in reference to the tragedy that befell our people and as a reminder of the Pa.s.sover meal, which, among all the traumas of a Jewish upbringing, consistently rates as the "least scarring" (cf. Greenblatt, Roger, "Why on This Night of All Nights Do I Take Only One One Milligram of Lorazepam?," Milligram of Lorazepam?," Annals of Modern Jewry, Annals of Modern Jewry, Indiana University Press). The main exhibition s.p.a.ce of the broken matzoh will lead to a t.i.tanium-clad lamb shank (hint: Frank Gehry) symbolizing both the forearm of the Almighty and our own newly found brute strength. Indiana University Press). The main exhibition s.p.a.ce of the broken matzoh will lead to a t.i.tanium-clad lamb shank (hint: Frank Gehry) symbolizing both the forearm of the Almighty and our own newly found brute strength.

The New Tribalism Ident.i.ty politics are a great boon to our quest for Continuity. Ident.i.ty is born almost exclusively out of a nation's travails. For us-a prosperous, unmolested people safely nuzzled in the arms of the world's last superpower (as of this writing, anyway)-this means Holocaust, Holocaust, Holocaust. The twin halves of broken matzoh will be infused with the spirit of the New Tribalism that is captivating young people across the Western world as an angry response to global h.o.m.ogenization. The first half will show the past travails of the Jewish people (a parallel series of walk-in closets will do the same for the Sevo), and the second half will show how easily we forget how much they hate us (ditto, Sevo). To be a bit reductive: first half, unp.r.o.nounceable-Kristallnacht, Kindertransport, Krakow ghetto, Chernowitz, Wadowice, Drohobycz; second half, guilt-inducing-towering videos of Jewish college boys at fraternity mixers. .h.i.tting up demure Korean girls, while pretty suburban Jewish maideleh maideleh fetishize their urbanized African American counterparts at a Smith Barney softball game. Subtext: fetishize their urbanized African American counterparts at a Smith Barney softball game. Subtext: six million died and you're twirling around a bar stool with some six million died and you're twirling around a bar stool with some hazzar hazzar?

Holocaust for Kidz Studies have shown that it's never too early to frighten a child with images of skeletal remains and naked women being chased by dogs across the Polish snow. Holocaust for Kidz will deliver a carefully tailored miasma of fear, rage, impotence, and guilt in children as young as ten. Through the magic of Animatronics, Claymation, and Jura.s.sic technology, the inane ramblings of underqualified American Hebrew day school teachers on the subject of the Holocaust will be condensed into a concise forty-minute bloodbath. Young partic.i.p.ants will leave feeling alienated and profoundly depressed, feelings that will be partly redeemed and partly thwarted by the ice-cream truck awaiting them at the end of the exhibit.

The "Think It Can't Happen Again?" Annex Yeah, you think so? Well, think again, friend. This daring conceptual s.p.a.ce will feature dozens of French Arab youths throwing rocks at pa.s.sing museumgoers, threatening, "Six million more," while pa.s.sive French intellectuals stand by in the shadows, smoking and drinking, smoking and drinking. For safety reasons, the "rocks" will be made of 100 percent recyclable paper, and the French Arab youths will be caged.

The t.i.tanium-Clad Lamb Shank We end the museum on a high note, celebrating the achievements of cutting-edge American Jews through life-affirming exhibits such as "David Copperfield: The Myth and the Magic" and "Onward and Sideward: The Death of Literature and the Birth of the Sitcom." A room or two can be devoted to Israeli cultural achievements. Or not.

The Tent of Consent This is where it all comes together, where Continuity gets its capital C. Upon entering the Tent of Consent and submitting a blood sample and credit check, Jews of reproductive age (thirty-four to fifty-one) will show Hitler and his goons just where they can stick their Final Solution. Here the word "no" is not an option. Here there is no diaphragm. Note: Tent should be rugged and green to denote summertime reproduction. No circus tents! This is serious business.

And Now a Word from Our Sponsor...

As an opportunity to reach out to the true h.e.l.lmouth of American political power, evangelical Christians will be given their own (much smaller) tent from which they can proselytize to reproductive Jews emerging all sweaty and wobbly from the Tent of Consent. We estimate only 1 to 2 percent of our most expendable stock will actually fall for this crude goyishe goyishe siren song. A small price to pay, and our lobbyists will thank us. siren song. A small price to pay, and our lobbyists will thank us.

Outcomes-First Year of Operation 1) Two hundred thousand Jews will sow an additional one hundred thousand Jews on the sh.o.r.es of the Caspian Sea.

2) Two to four thousand lackl.u.s.ter Jews will become born-again Mormons (or whatever the h.e.l.l) and will stop pulling the rest of us down.

3) Twenty thousand Jewish children will learn that it's somehow their fault.

36.

Comidas Criollas.

As I sent out my Holocaust proposal to the members of the new SCROD listserv, I was shocked to discover an electronic message from parked in my mailbox.

Dear Misha, Whats up Pa? House it going where you at?

I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now but I dont know who else to turn too. Proffessor Shteynfarb left me. He won a scolarship in South Of France and he just up and left in the middle of the semester. I sent him an email but he never wrote back and then I call his publisher and this really obnoxous b.i.t.c.h told me that their not doing the Anthology of Immigrant Writing any more either.

I think I may be Pregnant from Proffessor Shteynfarb. I'm pretty sure I am because I vomited up. But whats worse is how hard I worked on that essay about how they set our building on fire in morrisania and now no one will read it or care about how I felt growing up. I thought I was Differrent and had a Special Story to tell but I guess I'm not and I dont. Honest that hurts me more than even the fire and the Pregnancy because for a second there I had Hope my life would be differrent.

Your probably saying ha ha, I told you so. Dont denie it! But I know you always had Hope for things too. And I know I was one of your Hopes and I let you down. Your probably already seeing somebody new by now so it looks like I'll get my Pay Back.

Anyway I dont know what to do about the baby and I guess I should have it because its a Sin otherwise. I wish you were here Misha. I wish none of this had ever happened. If you still love me even just a little bit please tell me because it would mean a lot right now. have it because its a Sin otherwise. I wish you were here Misha. I wish none of this had ever happened. If you still love me even just a little bit please tell me because it would mean a lot right now.

Hugs & Kisses, Rouenna P.S. I know your safe because you get through everything okay. Your smarter than you think.

P.S.S. I got the last tuition check, thank you. I am going to study extra hard now to become an amazing admin a.s.sistant.

P.S.S.S. I'm gonna do laundry in a minute and I aint wearing nothing!

I don't usually feel revulsion (everything in my world is kind of revolting in its own way), but Rouenna's message brought me to the brink. A lifetime on the streets of the Bronx, and after all that pain and horses.h.i.t, she gets pregnant by Jerry f.u.c.king Shteynfarb. Who the h.e.l.l had s.e.x with a Russian writer without using a condom? What was she thinking? But in the end I couldn't help myself: I felt sorry for her. For the sad goateed presence in her belly, yes, but mostly for the beaten-down tone, the way she had been stripped of everything vital in just under two months. What could I tell her? Was it still my duty to comfort her? I responded with two messages. First:

Rouenna, I think it's time to stop calling Jerry "Professor Shteynfarb."

And then:

You should go see a doctor first thing in the morning, and if you are pregnant then you should get an abortion as soon as possible. I don't care what your abuela abuela Maria says, you are not ready to have a child without a father. Maria says, you are not ready to have a child without a father.

I looked out the window of my office. It was raining for the first time in days. With the loathsome sun finally extinguished, the city appeared nearly as glamorous as Hong Kong, its shortish row of skysc.r.a.pers rising above an anthill of government buildings, its port studded with idled cargo containers. Only the oil fields filling the bay, their singular ghostly luminosity, reminded me of my location.

But I wasn't there.

I was on that stretch of East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx, our stretch, our stretch, which starts from the El Batey Restaurant near Marmion Avenue and then swelters down to the Blimpie franchise on Hughes, where, back in '98, Rouenna's favorite cousin was busted by the cops for some complicated, non-sandwich-related offense. which starts from the El Batey Restaurant near Marmion Avenue and then swelters down to the Blimpie franchise on Hughes, where, back in '98, Rouenna's favorite cousin was busted by the cops for some complicated, non-sandwich-related offense.

East Tremont Avenue, solid purveyor of attainable dreams, where stores will sell you todo para todo para 99 99 y menos, y menos, 79 gets you a whole chicken at Fine Fare, and $79 will land you a flowery upright mattress with a "five-year warrenty"; where a 325-pound Russian man with a hot 79 gets you a whole chicken at Fine Fare, and $79 will land you a flowery upright mattress with a "five-year warrenty"; where a 325-pound Russian man with a hot mamita mamita on his arm is respected and accepted by all; where dudes wheeling by on bicycles and young mothers languidly window-shopping at She-She Juniors & Ladies will subject me to the same breathless local query: "Yo, Misha, on his arm is respected and accepted by all; where dudes wheeling by on bicycles and young mothers languidly window-shopping at She-She Juniors & Ladies will subject me to the same breathless local query: "Yo, Misha, que ongo, a-ai? que ongo, a-ai?"

At El Batey Restaurant, specializing in comidas criollas, comidas criollas, the phallic jukebox is playing a phallic song, and everyone has their attention fixed on each other's a.s.ses, and Rouenna is gossiping with some friend about which of the waitresses is pregnant and whose boyfrien' has just been sent upstate for ten years, but all I can see in front of me is a plate of glistening limes, a little red p.r.i.c.k of Tabasco sauce, and a bottle of Presidente beer, the top of which comes perfectly wrapped in a sweaty napkin-the small pleasures of a beleaguered world. And I'm waiting, waiting, waiting for the metal pot filled with the phallic jukebox is playing a phallic song, and everyone has their attention fixed on each other's a.s.ses, and Rouenna is gossiping with some friend about which of the waitresses is pregnant and whose boyfrien' has just been sent upstate for ten years, but all I can see in front of me is a plate of glistening limes, a little red p.r.i.c.k of Tabasco sauce, and a bottle of Presidente beer, the top of which comes perfectly wrapped in a sweaty napkin-the small pleasures of a beleaguered world. And I'm waiting, waiting, waiting for the metal pot filled with asopao de camarones, asopao de camarones, or "soupy shrimps," as the menu calls them, waiting to surrender to or "soupy shrimps," as the menu calls them, waiting to surrender to ajillo, ajillo, for there is more garlic in the pot than water or rice or shrimp even. And soon I am filled with cold Presidente, hot Tabasco, and the ba.s.so profundo reverberations of garlic in my for there is more garlic in the pot than water or rice or shrimp even. And soon I am filled with cold Presidente, hot Tabasco, and the ba.s.so profundo reverberations of garlic in my estomago. estomago. I rise from my chair, grab the gossiping Rouenna, and carry her to the impromptu dance floor in back, beneath the television set perpetually tuned to the exploits of the local baseball team, the I rise from my chair, grab the gossiping Rouenna, and carry her to the impromptu dance floor in back, beneath the television set perpetually tuned to the exploits of the local baseball team, the Jankees. Jankees. We try to dance, the slowest dance in history, but mostly we just stand there and stare at each other, making little animal noises, the purrs of set-upon cats, the steady whine of ba.s.set hounds, which the jukebox all but drowns out with its thick salsa beats. And we kiss. Garlic and sweat and pure love, we kiss. We try to dance, the slowest dance in history, but mostly we just stand there and stare at each other, making little animal noises, the purrs of set-upon cats, the steady whine of ba.s.set hounds, which the jukebox all but drowns out with its thick salsa beats. And we kiss. Garlic and sweat and pure love, we kiss.

I'm a little drunk as Rouenna helps me back to her place on 173rd Street and Vyse, past the senior-citizen troublemaker in the Chicago Bulls wife-beater who always threatens to kill Mister Softee, the rather innocuous mobile ice-cream vendor, and past the Jehovah's Witnesses Hall, now being reverently approached by women with tinfoil-covered platters of pigeon peas and rice. There's a wedding on, and Rouenna winks at me, meaning When, already?, When, already?, and she smiles at me with just the hint of gentle mockery that I've always appreciated, that in and of itself manages to reduce me a little, manages to cut out the shrimp and rice and boil me down to my essential desires-a girl, a city, a libertine but tender way of life. and she smiles at me with just the hint of gentle mockery that I've always appreciated, that in and of itself manages to reduce me a little, manages to cut out the shrimp and rice and boil me down to my essential desires-a girl, a city, a libertine but tender way of life.

I thought I was Differrent and had a Special Story to tell but I guess I'm not and I dont.

Oh, my poor sweet baby.

37.

The End.

I found myself at a party at Nana's house. With drugs, no less. A cauldron of black infinity smelling like the back of a public bus. This was lanza, lanza, the local drug that had inspired Saint Sevo the Liberator to his visions of Sevo brotherhood and Svani annihilation, the trip that launched a thousand trips, mostly to the grave. the local drug that had inspired Saint Sevo the Liberator to his visions of Sevo brotherhood and Svani annihilation, the trip that launched a thousand trips, mostly to the grave.

We were in Nana's bedroom, sitting around the cauldron, which was perched atop a hot pot, waiting for the miniature shrubs to boil over so that we could all breathe in the fumes. When a thin mist appeared, I started inhaling with gusto. I was trying to forget the electronic message I had just received from Alyosha-Bob, telling me to stay the h.e.l.l away from the Nanabragov family and to get out of Absurdistan now. now. A disaster was imminent, according to him. I decided not to worry myself too much. One of the teenage True Footrest Posses had just plundered the Emporio Armani. How much worse could things get? A disaster was imminent, according to him. I decided not to worry myself too much. One of the teenage True Footrest Posses had just plundered the Emporio Armani. How much worse could things get?

Nana had invited her best friend, Sissey, who had recently watched us make love, and Anna, the mediocre Russian blonde who worked at the American Express office. The girls were in a brilliant mood. They were doing their best Gorbigrad accents, pretending they were hookers trying to pick up KBR workers at the Hyatt's Beluga Bar. "Golly Burton! Golly Burton!" they hooted. "You buy me c.o.ke! You have lucky lady back home? I better. I wear thong-g-g. Thon Thong-g-g. I wear thon I wear thong-g-g. Up my a.s.s I have thon Up my a.s.s I have thong-g-g."

I tried to imitate a swashbuckling American oilman. "Up your a.s.s?" I said. "I know somethin' else I can put up there!"

The girls exploded with mirth. They lifted their legs in the air like dying bugs and convulsed rhythmically. As they were all lying on the same bed, opposite the one that supported me, I could see their their young a.s.ses, all in jeans, forming a tight row: in this pantheon, Nana's was the biggest, spilling over and beyond the Miss Sixty label, then came that of her dark-haired friend Sissey, with a pa.s.sable half-moon, then the pert, tiny cantaloupe of the Russian's behind. "Fat Uncle on the bed," Sissey shouted to me. "Fat Uncle on the bed! Come on over and visit us, Fat Uncle!" young a.s.ses, all in jeans, forming a tight row: in this pantheon, Nana's was the biggest, spilling over and beyond the Miss Sixty label, then came that of her dark-haired friend Sissey, with a pa.s.sable half-moon, then the pert, tiny cantaloupe of the Russian's behind. "Fat Uncle on the bed," Sissey shouted to me. "Fat Uncle on the bed! Come on over and visit us, Fat Uncle!"

I rolled right over and into their waiting arms, and they grasped me the way young girls tackle a puppy. "Fat Uncle loves you," I croaked, and we all started giggling. I eased into the ma.s.s around me; there were b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a piece of earlobe, not Nana's. We breathed in and out together. The b.r.e.a.s.t.s were warm and the earlobe needed sucking. It struck me: we were high.

The idyll was interrupted by a knocking. I looked up. Faik the manservant had pressed his ugly mug to the windowpane. "Oh, go give him some money," Nana said.

It was a terrible imposition, and yet I could hardly care less. Doing one thing was as good as doing another. I decided to put on my legs, but they were already attached, rather roundly, to my thighs. Now it was time for my feet. There they were! "There's a lucky break," I said. "I have two feets and two leggies." The girls started giggling once more, their laughter dissipating into breathy French sentences that I could not understand.

Man, was I high.

Outside, Faik was perched on a unicycle. A tuba was attached to the handlebars in place of a horn, and his sailor's cut had given way to a spotted leopard's scalp. In fact, he may have been a leopard-man of sorts, Faik. Who knows with the Moslems-they really are different from us. "I saw you and Nana and Sissey and the Russian girl, and you were all touching each other," he said.

"Oh, G.o.d," I said, "you're right. We were were touching each other. Ears and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was so loving and tender. I wish the rest of this f.u.c.king country were more like that. Those girls are just so great. You're so great, Faik. Yes, you are. A great, touching each other. Ears and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was so loving and tender. I wish the rest of this f.u.c.king country were more like that. Those girls are just so great. You're so great, Faik. Yes, you are. A great, great great leopard." leopard."

"I want three hundred dollars," Faik said.

"See, that's great, too," I said, ladling out the money. "Other people would have asked for four hundred."

"Are you drunk?" Faik asked. "Did you and the girls smoke lanza lanza? Then I want another hundred dollars."

"That's absolutely fair," I said in English. "I can do business with a leopard-man like you."

I noticed, in a kind of roundabout way, that I was losing verticality. "Are you following me?" Faik said. I looked around. I had apparently walked him down the stairs and into the inner courtyard.

"Oh," I said. There was a palm tree and a plane tree in the courtyard. Which tree would win in a race? I wished I were an environmentalist. "Hey, Faik," I shouted, but he was quickly pedaling away on his unicycle. "Where are the girls? I want to go back to the girls. Where are you going, you leopard? Take me with you!"

"Wow," I said to myself. "This is turning into one Sergeant Pepper's kind of day." I whistled a few bars of "Lovely Rita." Maybe I was back in the States already, but this time armed with a journalist's visa. Now I just needed to write everything down and file my story before the deadline. "I wonder where the grown-ups are, anyway?" I said to the palm tree. "You can talk to me. I won't use your real name."

The palm tree wasn't talking. Probably protecting the plane tree. "I want girls," I said, and with the fair s.e.x in mind, I started knocking on the heavy wooden doors around the courtyard. No one answered. I walked into one of the rooms and saw a dying middle-aged woman spread out over a golden duvet. It was my mother. "Oh, poor girl," I said. "Poor girl." I couldn't believe I was calling my mother a girl, but there it was, the feeling that she was younger than me and in need of my help. I cradled her face, trying to make out the familiar features, but her entire head was covered by a giant tube sock, two blue stripes around where her mouth should have been. "Good," I said. "You got the American socks. The search is over." My mother put her cool white fingers between my neck folds and made a quizzical sound through the tube sock. "Last eighteen years?" I said. "Many things happened. First, communism died. Then Papa got rich. We went to the Alps. I got circ.u.mcised something bad. Then they put Papa into the ground. A pretty Jewess brought gardenias. Then I ended up here." The alabaster hand wiped my mouth and skirted the edges of my lonely nose. A gust of sock air emerged out of my mother's neck and formed a series of inverted Cyrillic letters, like when Americans try to learn Russian. "What?" I said. "Sure, I've got a girl, but she's nothing like you, Mommy. I mean, it's like you always said: you get what you pay for."

My mother snorted her a.s.sent. I tried to cradle her head in my hands, remembering how, as a five-year-old, I used to braid her hair while she napped, trying to make her look like a little girl whom I could cuddle and kiss with impunity. I noticed that her smells had changed, that there was a l.u.s.tier, dirtier aroma about her: the scent of an unclean kitchen. And it wasn't a tube sock over her face, but rather an onion skin, beneath which an alien face hissed and contorted. She started speaking in a coa.r.s.e Southern tongue. A thin ribbon of hate flitted through my heart. Why didn't you protect me from him? Why didn't you protect me from him? The frying pan! Nothing made sense. The frying pan! Nothing made sense. Why did you feed me so much? Why did you feed me so much? Bowls of condensed milk for breakfast, midnight snacks of raw pig fat spread over black bread, cold veal and mayonnaise salads in the hot afternoons, poppy seed cakes crowned with clotted cream, rounds of cervelat smoked sausage and cheese squares atop slices of b.u.t.ter as thick as my thumbs. Bowls of condensed milk for breakfast, midnight snacks of raw pig fat spread over black bread, cold veal and mayonnaise salads in the hot afternoons, poppy seed cakes crowned with clotted cream, rounds of cervelat smoked sausage and cheese squares atop slices of b.u.t.ter as thick as my thumbs. Why did you let me get so fat, Mommy? So that he wouldn't roll around with me anymore? So that he would stop loving me? I was all alone after you died. Why did you let me get so fat, Mommy? So that he wouldn't roll around with me anymore? So that he would stop loving me? I was all alone after you died.

Saddened, I left the mysterious Mother Room. The sun burned me like an ant under a telescope. Tired of stalking the premises, I let the house do the walking-it pivoted around me, dozens of empty, sunlit rooms flashing past, until I was standing by the front gate, nudging it open with two disembodied hands. I was free!

I walked down the street. The two imbecilic boys a.s.signed to me, Tafa and Rafa, were sitting in my Volvo station wagon soaking up precious air-conditioning. I knocked on one of the windows. "Vy or or ty ty?" I shouted to the boys. "Polite or familiar? Ach, I ought to knock your heads together." To my surprise, my adjutants actually did have hairy brown coconuts on their shoulders. "I ought to buy myself a hovercraft," I opined to them rather loudly. "New technology. Gonna invest in."

The road followed a curvy downward path toward the sea, past the pretty Sevo houses with their carved balconies, their overgrown front gardens rustling with barberry shrubs and creamy milk flowers. I caught sight of a broken rosebush peering out of a chain-link fence and was swiftly dispossessed of all my fundamental worries. "It's like being back in Yalta," I shouted. "With my mamochka mamochka!" The winds of that particular resort town, with their Chekhovian overtones, side-swiped my a.s.s. I hopped and skipped down the road (not really possible, but so it seemed at the time) until I found myself at a kind of border crossing. Armed men in tight sweaters st.i.tched with the word DYNCORP DYNCORP were blocking the path. I imagined what it would be like to try to tear the a.s.sault rifles out of their hands, hundreds of bullets piercing me, were blocking the path. I imagined what it would be like to try to tear the a.s.sault rifles out of their hands, hundreds of bullets piercing me, ouch, ouch, ouch ouch, ouch, ouch a hundred times over. "Watchoo doing?" I asked them. a hundred times over. "Watchoo doing?" I asked them.

"Protecting the neighborhood," they said in these South Africansounding accents. "From the looters. You live here?"

"I'm Nana Nanabragovna's boyfriend."