Princess Of Passyunk Part 19

It was Svetlana who broke the companionable silence. "You have something you want to tell me."

"I do?"

"Well, I think you don't want to tell me so much as you feel like you should. I think you tried to tell me last sabes. When we went to Pa.s.syunk Square?"

"Oh... You mean about the butcher shop?"

"And about the butcher."

"Uh...well...I've been cleaning his windows is all. For the last month or so."

She nodded. "I wondered when you'd tell me."

"You knew?"

She smiled and tilted her head from side to side.

"How?"

"Dos hartz hot mir gezogt," she said. "My heart told me."

"I asked him about you. Did it tell you that too?"

Her brow furrowed. "Why Ganny? Why did you have to ask him about me?"

"I wanted to know that you weren't-"

"A ghost? That again?"

"An angel, maybe."

"So are you sure?"

"Well, I got a little ferklempt when your Da said he didn't have a daughter..."

She winced.

"But then he asked how you were. Did you seem okay, healthy-that sort of thing. I...I think he misses you."

"So, how is he-Mr. Joe?"

"He's okay, I guess. He was a little upset about you being in a Catholic church. He said, 'G.o.d forbid.'"

Her jaw set, and in her sea-green eyes a squall brewed, and Ganady added quickly: "But he said at least it wasn't a Protestant church."

Her mood turned with a swiftness that stole Ganny's breath, and she laughed. Impulsively, he reached out and grasped her hand.

"Maybe you should go see him. Maybe you should ask him to forgive you for whatever it was he thinks you did. Maybe you should-you know-patch things up. Maybe he'll take you back."

She shook her head, solemn again. "It's not that simple, Ganny. It isn't just a matter of forgiveness for something I've done. It's a matter of forgiveness for something I won't do. Something I can't do. Especially not now."

"He said something about me telling you to come home and do your duty to your family. What did he mean by that?"

She hesitated to answer him, and in that moment of hesitation, G.o.d intervened in the form of Rebecca Puzdrovsky calling her son to the evening meal.

"Ganaaady! Diiiinner!"

He glanced at the door. "Do you want to meet my family?" He asked.

When she didn't answer, he glanced back to find her gone. The world tilted strangely and Ganny sat bolt upright, barely catching the clarinet before it slid from his lap.

"Did you hear me, Ganady? Dinner's ready!"

He gripped the woodwind's sleek, black barrel. "I need to put my clarinet away, Mama," he called, and hurried to do just that.

oOo Summer had somehow slipped away and a new school year crept ever closer, darkening the mellow afternoons. The thought of school made Sat.u.r.days and Sundays special again. Ganady found he savored even his window-was.h.i.+ng duties, for it wasn't an unpleasant thing to have one's hands in cool soapy water on a warm day and Izzy would always reward him with an ice cream or a soda in addition to his payment of two dollars.

He was surprised when Joe Gusalev, whose windows he always did first, one Sat.u.r.day gave him several pounds of fine chicken to take home to his Mama.

"You still see that Svetlana?" Joe asked him as he wrapped the chicken in brown butcher paper. He never called her 'my daughter,' or 'Lana,' but always and only 'that Svetlana.'

"Yeah. Now and then."

"Yeah?" Joe peered at him oddly from behind the meat counter. "How does she look?"

"She looks really nice. She's very pretty."

"Nothing odd about her?"

Ganny stared at the package of meat now sitting atop the counter. "Uh...what do you mean-odd?"

Now Joe stared at the chicken too, so their eyes did not quite meet. "I don't know. Just...you know, the way she dresses or talks or the things she says."

"She says...wise things. Sometimes she says funny things. She knows an awful lot about baseball. I suppose that's odd. For a girl, I mean."

"Huh," Joe said. "So what sort of things do you do? Together."

Ganady lifted the package down from the counter and Joe's eyes skittered away to the front window where his name was spelled out backwards. The letters threw shadows on the black and green tile floor.

"We go to baseball games sometimes. She listens to me play the clarinet."

"Clarinet, huh? You any good?"

Ganny shrugged. "I don't know. My mom and grandmother think so. Lana thinks so."

"What kind of music you play?"

"Klezmer."

"No kidding. I'd never have thought it of a kid your age. Thought klezmer was for old folks."

Ganny shrugged again. "I better go," he said. "I should get this chicken home before I go to Izzy's."

He turned toward the door to find that another shadow lay across the floor, spanning the tiles between the door and the meat cases. It belonged to a tall, blond young man of perhaps nineteen or twenty who was built like a superhero with immensely wide shoulders and narrow hips. The youth had pale gray eyes that swept over Ganady and dismissed him before moving to Joe Gusalev.

"Hey, Mr. Joe," he said in a voice that was low and thick with the Motherland.

"Hey, to you as well, Boris. How is your father?"

"He is well enough. How is Mrs. Gusalev?"

The butcher smiled. "She is well. And as always, a solace to me in my disappointment."

Ganny glanced between the two, sensing some subtext, or at least a shared history. Boris's next words confirmed it.

"And your daughter?" he asked in the same heavy tone.

Gusalev gave Ganady a swift look before answering. "I'm told she's well."

Boris seemed to perk up a bit at this news, or at least Ganny imagined that he did. His heart beat just a bit faster now. Here was another person who knew Svetlana Gusalev.

"I haven't seen her, myself, you understand," added Joe Gusalev, giving Ganady another 'look.' "She hasn't seen fit to speak to me."

Blond Boris caught the glance the butcher pa.s.sed to Ganny and turned the full attention of his pale eyes upon the younger boy.

On cue, Joe Gusalev said, "This is Ganady Puzdrovsky. He cleans my windows every Sat.u.r.day, plays klezmer on his clarinet, and likes baseball. In fact, it was his baseball that broke our front window last spring-you remember? Ganady, this is Boris Bzikov. He's the son of an old friend. Maybe you've heard of him-Yuli Bzikov?"

Ganady's expression must have communicated a negative, for Joseph Gusalev looked bemused and said, "The Bagel King?"

"Oh," said Ganady, sensing it was politic to be impressed. "Oh, sure." And did that make this Boris Bzikov the Bagel Prince? The words almost made it to his lips, which shocked him. He fought down a desperate desire to laugh.

"I gotta go," he said, waving the package. "Chicken."

He all but ran from the store and did not stop running or laughing until he was almost to Ninth Street. At Ninth Street, he recalled the way Boris, Prince of Bagels, and Joseph King of Sausage had discussed Svetlana so blandly, as if it were something they did every week. 'h.e.l.lo, how's everything? And, oh yes, what about that no good daughter of yours?'

oOo Ganady's mother took him to buy school clothes the week before school was to start-crisp, new black trousers, fresh white s.h.i.+rts, blue blazers. Ganady didn't understand why he couldn't wear to school the same chinos and jackets he wore after school and on weekends, but these were the rules he lived by.

He understood rules. Baba Irina had the kashris and the mitzvot, he had catechism and Lent and school uniforms.

On Sat.u.r.day of that week, the last Sat.u.r.day before the school year began, Ganny went to one of the last Phillies games of the season with Mr. Ouspensky. He hadn't seen Yevgeny for over a week-his best friend seemed intent on spending every last free moment with Nadia, even though they would share nearly half their cla.s.ses in the coming year.

Ganny pondered this as he sat up in the stands next to Mr. O, ruminatively chewing a handful of peanuts. He wished Yevgeny were here. Then wished, even more strongly, that Svetlana were here.

He glanced over at his elderly companion. "Mr. O, when Izzy said that you said you'd met Svetlana, you meant I'd mentioned her to you, right? He just misunderstood."

The old man gave him a sideways glance. "What, misunderstood? I said I'd met her. Beautiful girl! Wonderful girl! How should even an altetshker like me forget a girl like that?"

"Well, what did you mean-you met her?"

"Sheesh, Ganny. You don't remember? I thought us old folks were supposed to be forgetful. It was a night game. Giants and Phillies."

"And Svetlana was there?"

Mr. O rolled his eyes. "Come now, Ganady-you remember: the game was tied in the ninth; Lefty O'Doul hit a homer and won it for the Phillies."

Ganny nearly choked on his peanuts. "But that was a dream game!"

Mr. Ouspensky chuckled. "It was a great game, wasn't it?"

"I mean: I dreamed that game, Mr. Ouspensky. The way I dream Svetlana. It wasn't real."

Mr. O gave him a long, direct look, and a hush seemed to fall over the entire ballpark. The hucksters' cries and crowd noise dimmed as if G.o.d had suddenly turned down the volume on the day. The air became so dense, Ganny could barely breathe.

Then the old man laughed and shook his head. "Ganny, Ganny, you're such a card-that's what they say, yes? You're such a card?" He went back to his popcorn, still chuckling. "Not real... Such a thing to say!"

Ganny exhaled as the sounds of the park came rus.h.i.+ng back at full volume. He didn't raise the subject again, but tried to concentrate on the game. It was hard, but he finally managed to enjoy the balmy afternoon and the sounds and sights and smells of the stadium.

That was, until the end of the seventh inning when he looked down at the mitt on his left hand. There, in the s.h.i.+ny, well-worn pocket, was The c.o.c.kroach. As he watched it, it crawled to the edge of the thumb and waved its antennae at him.

He spent the remainder of the inning aware that the creature was there, and terrified that a pop foul would come hurtling in his direction. What if he forgot himself and tried to catch it?

At the top of the eighth, he carefully removed the glove and tucked it beneath his seat.

The c.o.c.kroach was still in the pocket of his glove when he pulled it forth again. He put it on with great care and kept the pocket gently closed until he'd bid goodbye to Mr. Ouspensky outside his brownstone and began his trek home. Only then did he open the glove and peek in.

The c.o.c.kroach was gone.

Ganady wasn't certain whether he should be relieved or panicked. He took the glove off and shook it. Nothing fell off or out.

After a moment of deliberation, he tucked the glove under his arm and began his walk toward home. It was the same c.o.c.kroach-no doubt about that. It must have been on his mitt when he took it from the chest of drawers-he simply hadn't checked carefully enough. But where was it now?

He began to walk faster; two blocks later he was running. He arrived home winded and sweating and ran straight up to his room. He checked the glove one more time before tossing it to the bed, then attacked the top of his dresser, removing everything on it, one item at a time.

The c.o.c.kroach was nowhere in sight.

He put everything back more slowly than he had removed it. Perhaps the insect was gone for good and he'd never see it again. Did that mean he would never see her again?

It was a ludicrous thought, he told himself. The two things weren't related-couldn't be related. It was merely coincidence. Merely coincidence that he had brought The c.o.c.kroach back from Joe Gusalev's butcher shop only to dream of a Svetlana Gusalev. Merely coincidence that whenever he dreamed of Svetlana, The c.o.c.kroach was there.

Giving up on that fruitless line of thought, Ganady replaced his belongings, then practiced his clarinet for an hour before going down to help his mother by setting the dinner table. This evening he set seven places, for Antonia Guercino was dining with the Puzdrovskys.

During the meal he bore patiently with the sheep's eyes his brother and Antonia made at each other, and shared secret looks with his father-who seemed to find it all rather amusing-and his sister Marija, who rolled her eyes every time the young couple so much as glanced at each other.

He tried to imagine Svetlana sitting here at table with them, chatting with his grandmother, impressing his father with her knowledge of baseball, winning an ardent admirer in Marija, who would study the way she spoke, and sat, and wore her hair. He found he could imagine it-just.

He went back up to his room right from the dinner table, for Nick and Annie volunteered their services in the kitchen. Da retired to the parlor with the Sat.u.r.day paper while Baba Irina went out to sit on the stoop with Marija and a plate of cookies.

He checked his dresser again, but there was still no sign of The c.o.c.kroach.