Three Calls

Cornell University, Early February, 1995

The line keeps ringing and ringing. She almost never picks up; it's a frigid Thursday night, so she's probably at the lab like always. Still, it doesn't hurt to try her dorm number, and he wants to hear the sound of her voice much more than he wants to work on his portfolio revisions.

On the sixth ring, she finally answers, sounding out of breath. "Hello?" she says.

He hesitates for a split second, tongue-tied as he sometimes is just thinking about her, though she's not even here in the room. "Hey. Glad I caught you. Is, um, this an okay time?"

"Who is this?" she asks, though he suspects she knows the answer. Either that, or she was expecting a call from some other guy with a deep voice.

"Oh. It's me. Vasya. Were you working out or something?"

"No. Just got back from the lab." He'd been right. "I have to give in and get one of those beepers. You know?"

He does know; Kolya has one and is constantly checking it. "What were you working on over there?"

"The usual. My doctoral project, grading a few papers…" Mei sounds like she's ticking off on her fingers. "Wishing I were back home, for sure. What about you?

This is perhaps the part of her he appreciates most. No matter what they talk about, the weather or who has the best espresso or a possible world-ending biological catastrophe scenario, Mei has a way of making anything sound fascinating. Or maybe that's what happens when you get a crush on someone…they suddenly turn into the most interesting person you've ever met. "The same, I guess." He shrugged, cradling the receiver between jaw and shoulder. Trying to comfortably stretch out his tall frame onto the narrow bed, and failing miserably, he adds, "Are you going home any time soon?"

He hopes Me doesn't think he's asking her out on a real date, though right now Vasya would cut off his right arm to spend a whole day in the city…or anywhere…with Mei for company. She just laughs. "Don't I wish, big fella. I'm gonna be stuck here at least another few weeks. Plus my car's still in the shop. I'm telling you, if you think you've got it bad now, wait till you get to grad school."

Vasya eyes the unopened letter from his department advisor on his drafting table. That decision still looms, and he's in no hurry to make it. "That's what Kolya always says," he sighs, changing the subject. "Of course, he still finds time to go to all these parties…"

"Let me stop you right there," says Mei, amusement in her voice, "because Kolya is fucking crazy, he loves coke way too much, and besides, he's not you."

He chuckles despite himself. "I'm glad to hear that," he agrees, hoping he doesn't sound stupid.

"Hey, I like Kolya well enough. But like I said before, it's kinda refreshing to meet somebody who doesn't talk about himself all the time."

Vasya feels the sudden rush of color to his cheeks, and he's relieved she isn't around to see it. "I don't feel like I'm that interesting," he admits honestly. It's one of the reasons he secretly won't admit he appreciates Kolya; the coyote is as flashy as Vasya is predictable and steady. Maybe if I were more like him I could finally ask her on that real date.

"I think you're interesting. If I didn't, I wouldn't be talking to you."

Fair enough. He twirls the cord of the old landline phone around his index finger. "I'm surprised you don't have guys lined up at your door, you know, wanting to date you," he says, firstly because it's true, and also because he hopes she might respond to his more indirect style. "You're pretty interesting yourself. You're smart, funny, and you know where all the good coffeehouses are." He deliberately avoids complimenting her appearance.

He can almost hear the shrug in her voice. "It's…kinda complicated. Like I said, that's just not my thing right now."

Whether she means she's simply too busy, or uninterested, he's not sure…but "not right now" doesn't mean "forever." Even he knows that. "I hear you."

"What I'd like to know is why you don't have a girlfriend, big fella. Don't tell me you play for the other team?"

He's not quite sure what Mei means by this last, but the first part stings a little. "I, um, guess I haven't found the right girl yet," he says, and there is a grain of truth to this, even if it's only because he turns into a warm puddle whenever a girl he likes is around. The memory of a lovely older girl he once bumped into in high school flits through his mind.

"You will. Trust me, I've seen the way some of these girls look at you."

"You have?" This is news to him, unless she's talking about the groups of serial gigglers around campus. "Where?"

"Let's see. The coffee shop, the other coffee shop, in front of the quad…you're telling me that you really haven't noticed?"

"No, guess I haven't."

Mei laughs. "I guess it's true then what Kolya said about you. That you're a, what's that word, bee-chenka? Something like that?"

"Bychiye'nka," he offers, using the diminutive word. This is also news to him. The word isn't an insult as such…he's called Kolya by his coyote nickname enough…but Kolya has never used that particular sobriquet in his presence. "I can think of a lot worse."

"What does that mean?"

"A little bull, or an ox."

"Oh, I get it now." If Mei had been there, a cartoon light bulb might have gone off above her head. "Like Ferdinand."

"Who?"

"The bull in that kids' book my dad used to read to me. You know, the one who'd rather smell the flowers than fight. He wasn't like the other bulls. Not that you're weird or anything, big fella, but you are kinda different."

He frowns. Sure, are were things he still doesn't understand about American culture, but he's never really thought of himself that way. He plays sports, works out, all the things "regular American guys" seem to do. He's even been with Kolya to the coyote's favorite strip club a handful of times. "I guess," he finally says, not wanting to argue with and perhaps offend her. After all,Mei isn't like most of the American girls he'd met, so it can't be all bad.

"Listen, big fella, I'm glad you called, but I still have to finish grading these papers." Mei sounds apologetic. "You want to grab some espresso at Dolce Delight tomorrow after class?"

Vasya doesn't need to be asked twice; he'd have gladly gone anywhere with her. "Sure. Dress warm, okay? It's supposed to be cold." He's experienced much colder growing up, of course, but Mei never seems to wear anything other than jeans, her favorite jacket, and Doc Martens. Maybe she's like Kolya. He never seems to get cold either.

She laughs. "Thanks for looking out for me. I'll see you then, all right?"

"Yeah. Can't wait."

As the line goes dead, Vasya wonders why he still hadn't gotten around to asking her on a proper date yet; they've been talking for almost a month and she is constantly in his thoughts. No matter what she says about not wanting a relationship, or not even being particularly interested in romance, he's still determined to gather up his courage. Before he can start pounding out a strategy, however, the phone rings again as soon as he's replaced it on the cradle. "Hello?" he says, heart pounding, thinking Mei must have forgotten to tell him something important, like I can't stop thinking about you either.

"I'm glad to know my son is still alive," comes the sardonic voice of his father. "You were supposed to call over an hour ago."

Vasya glances at the clock on his drafting table; it's a little past nine. "Pop. Sorry. I, um, lost track of time," he says, and this is indeed the truth. "How's Ma doing?"

Alexei lets out a sigh. "At home ever since you went back. She has good days and bad. For the time being she is well, and she even goes to market day now and then. But on the very cold days."

His father has always been that way; stoic, emotionless, with the ability to make even the most emotional of news sound like a technical report. In other words, Russian through and through "Is she awake? Can I talk to her?" says Vasya.

"I'll get her. She is finishing the dishes now."

A terrible long silence passes. Vasya tries to measure any subtext in his father's voice. Is he angry, or merely disappointed? It has always been so hard for him to figure out what anyone left unsaid, let alone his own father. Sometimes grim silence is worse than an actual tongue-lashing. Before he can think on it any further, he hears his mother's soft voice. "I was hoping you'd call earlier, Vasya," she says, and he can imagine her waggling her index finger at him. "You know all the best programs are on Thursday nights."

"Ma, I'm really sorry." He has no idea what programs those might be; other than the occasional hockey game, he's had little time to watch television ever since coming to Cornell. "How are you feeling?"

Natalya grunts. "Your papa likes to be a mother hen with me. I'm just fine. I have my ups and my downs, like anyone else. As long as I am cooking and keeping house, and I have my programs to watch, I will carry on, khoroshiy moy."

A lump rises in his throat. "I'll come back for a weekend soon. Take you out for a nice dinner, get away from the house for a change. Go to one of the museums, maybe? You always loved those."

"Perhaps." He imagins the sad resignation in her blue eyes, the same ones she's passed on to him. "When will you come home?"

Vasya feels a sudden visceral need to be there for her, to embrace her and assure her it will be all right, then remembers he's half a day's drive away with no car. "As soon as I can, Ma. I promise." He makes a mental note to ask Kolya for a ride back to the city on one of the coming weekends.

"I hope they are feeding you enough there. I always worry, you know, these American cafeterias do not know how to cook properly."

He has to laugh at that. Ever since he can remember, his mother has been downright obsessed with his eating habits, even now that he's the size of a professional football player. "I'm not getting your pieroschki, that's for sure. But it's all right," he says, thinking of the bland lasagna and limp salad he ate earlier that night.

"My program is coming back on. Good night, Vasya, and remember that I love you. I think your father wants to say something to you, so I will put him back on…"

Alexei speaks again after a brief pause. "I received a call from Dr. Mendelssohn yesterday. He says you have not yet answered his letter. When were you planning to?"

Internally, Vasya groans. The envelope is still there on his desk, unopened, as if accusing him. "I'll get to it, Pop. I've been, you know, kind of busy," he explains, not bothering to mention that most of his time this week was spent trailing either Kolya or Mei around campus.

"This is not a joke, Vasiliy." Alexei's voice is stern. "This could mean the difference between a bright future and no future at all for you, and you are intelligent enough to know that."

It's a lecture he's heard a dozen times over the years. "I don't want to talk about it right now," he says, keeping his voice low and level, not wanting to hear his father drone on about the Motherland and the value of a good education. "Can it wait until I come back in a week or two?"

"You will call Dr. Mendelssohn first thing in the morning. This is not open for discussion. You were given a great opportunity, and I will not see you squander it."

"Is this about Kolya?" Vasya isn't sure where the question comes from, but there it is, out in the open. "You've been acting strange ever since I brought him to dinner that night. Do you have some kind of problem? He's my friend, and…"

"Vasiliy, he is not your friend," Alexei interrupts, and now he is not so much stern as weary. "There are plenty of boys just like him right here in Little Odessa, every one of them a vor. Wolves. Predators. It would be best for you to stay away."

There's some truth in his words; Brighton Beach has become flooded with the flashy, nouveau riche exiles from their homeland in recent years. It's the unofficial headquarters for their own mafiya. Vasya knows what many of them get up to; he also knows to steer clear whenever possible. "Kolya's just a regular guy. Give him a chance. I know he's a little rough around the edges. He's getting his doctorate here, Pop," he says, as if this explains everything, when the truth is that he still has no idea what Kolya gets up to during the day, how he affords his gold chains and Adidas shoes, or where he manages to get dynamite in the middle of Brooklyn.

He can't be a vor…can he?

"Listen to someone who knows these things, Vasiliy." All the fight is gone from Alexei's voice and he sounds like what he is: an aging, bitter man from an aging, bitter homeland. "Stay away from that boy. And call your advisor in the morning. I don't want my only son wasting his life." Perhaps he means to add 'like I wasted mine,' but doesn't.

And just like that, he hangs up, without so much as a "goodbye." His pop has never been the sentimental type, even for a Russian.

Vasya sits there, still clenching the telephone. Outside his window, snow is falling gently. When he replaces the receiver again, his father's words echo over and over, an accusation moreso than a piece of advice. Is he wasting his life in spending time with Kolya? With the rats? He looks from the letter to the Christmas present Kolya got for him last year: a preserved rat skeleton in a glass case.

One will bring you joy and the other, sorrow, he thinks, a piece of some poem from his homeland suddenly remembered. He sighs and reaches for the letter.

The phone rings again, and he's so startled he knocks his coffee mug full of pens and pencils to the floor, where it cracks. Swearing under his breath, Vasya bends to pick it up, only to have his elbow collide with the edge of the drafting table. Another torrent of profanity exits his lips before he answers on the fifth ring. "What?" he snaps.

It's not his father, or even Mei, but a faraway-sounding voice with a good deal of background noise that he nonetheless knows well. "I thought you'd be at the library, o great scholar," Kolya says.

"Where are you calling from?"

"I'm right outside. You want to come and let me in? I've got some new ideas, and you're going to love them…"