Meet The Parents-Late December, 1995: Brighton Beach, Brooklyn
"I'm glad you decided to dress up. My father might not have let you in otherwise."
It was the first time he'd seen Kolya looking like anything other than a wannabe rapper: tonight he'd traded his favorite red tracksuit, gold chains, and knit cap for a well-cut grey pinstriped suit and patent leather shoes. Where he'd gotten them, along with everything else he seemed to obtain by magic, was a mystery to Vasya. At least the coyote looked presentable. He'd even put gel in his spiky hair. His gold teeth remained; there was simply no hiding them. He was as clean-cut and presentable as he was ever going to be. Even his shoes had been freshly shined.
"Your papa sounds like a fun guy," Kolya said, reaching up out of habit to tug at a gold chain which wasn't there. "Remind me again why I'm doing this on a Friday when I could be at the club for wet t-shirt night?"
Vasya stopped, fixing his friend with an icy stare. "Because it's polite, and because my father already thinks you're some kind of criminal, or worse, someone I made up. I'm going to show him you're not, you know? That I've actually made friends at school."
"You made a friend, Vasya. You're not exactly Mr. Outgoing yourself. If it weren't for me you'd still be reading in the back of the library, gathering dust with everything else in there."
"One friend is better than none."
They kept walking. Vasya shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, trying not to let his consternation show. Among his other habits, Kolya had a knack for pointing out the painful truth. It was perfectly obvious to everyone, even Vasya himself, that he had, despite his efforts to the contrary, turned out much like his own father: quiet, contemplative, stubborn. The solitary mad genius with few friends. Maybe it was the universe's sense of humor that his best, and only, friend was socially fearless, wildly funny, and often inappropriate. Vasya only hoped he could hold the coyote in check for one evening, as the stakes were higher than usual.
Papa is going to see right through him if I'm not careful. I'm already on thin ice.
"So what can I talk about tonight?" Kolya broke the silence; he could never stay quiet for long.
"Hmm." Vasya had already gone over a laundry list of topics to avoid: the unsanctioned extracurricular activities back at Cornell, their late-night rat-hunting excursions here in the city, any of Kolya's "business ventures," or the "ladies" whose company he so enjoyed. "School. If there's one thing Papa appreciates, it's academics."
"You're speaking to a future doctor, my friend. Maybe a Nobel prize recipient."
Vasya doubted that, unless the committee decided to add a category for hedonism. He added, "Don't mention anything about the Motherland. We still have extended family back home, some of them in the contaminated zones, and it's a sore spot. And please, remember to use the right name. If you use our old name he's going to lose it." At his father's insistence, they'd shortened 'Fetrovski' to 'Fet' not long after their arrival in New York. Vasya had never asked quite why; Alexei had claimed it was easier to say and spell for Americans. It still seemed strange on his lips, but the more he used it, the more Vasya liked the more American-sounding shorter form.
"No 'Vaseline Fetish' tonight, eh?" Kolya flashed an evil grin.
"That's not funny, Kolya." He remembered all the times his football teammates had teased him with the nickname. One vodka-soaked night he'd made the mistake of telling Kolya about the humiliation, and now he'd never hear the end of it. "Call me by my given name, and definitely use their patronymics. My parents, my father in particular, they're big on that." His father's opinion always held veto power even if to his mother, he would always be her Vasyenka.
Kolya nodded solemnly. "As you wish, Vasiliy."
The name took him back to the drab apartment blocks and statues of Stalin that still permeated life in the Motherland even after the Party's collapse. Vasiliy belonged back there, living a bleak, dead-end existence in a shoebox apartment. Here, Vasya had limitless possibilities before him. Vasya was uniquely American in a way his father and mother never could be. He was just like the row houses that lined their street: nothing fancy, but serviceable and well-built, and always ready for a new challenge. He'd grown fond of his family home, even if he were always banging his head on low ceilings and doorways these days.
Brighton First Street was as unimaginatively named as the houses themselves. "Here we are," Vasya announced, pointing to number 77. "Home, sweet home." Next to some of the fancy places Kolya had taken him these last few months, it was positively modest. Even some of the dorms at Cornell were bigger than his tiny bedroom.
"A great man who keeps his humble roots. I like that." Kolya grinned.
"I'm serious, Kolya. My parents are still conscious about class, even if you're not."
"Which is why I brought a gift." Kolya produced the elegantly wrapped bottle of premium vodka. "Who could say no to this?"
"You don't know my papa." Grimacing, Vasya rang the bell.
After a moment, the door opened. A tall, stern-faced man, already greying, stood in the doorway. Without any preamble, he scowled at his son. "You're late, Vasiliy. Where have you been?"
"Sorry, Papa. I'd like you to meet my friend, Nikolay Grigorevich."
Kolya carefully stepped over the threshold before offering a firm handshake. "It's an honor, Alexei Sergeyevich," he said with more dignity than usual, smoothly offering up the bottle of vodka with his empty hand. "Your son has told me much about you."
"Indeed. You're here now, and dinner is almost ready," said Alexei without a hint of warmth. Taking note of the label, he placed the vodka on a side table. "Natalya, come meet our guest."
A petite woman in an old-fashioned velveteen dress appeared at his side; her gentle smile was a striking contrast to his stern expression. She'd passed her striking blue eyes on to her son. "We're so glad to meet any friend of Vasya's. We thought he hadn't made any friends at school," she said, shaking hands with Kolya.
Vasya felt a flush of color rising in his cheeks. "Mama, I have plenty of friends," he muttered, suddenly quite interested in studying his shoes.
She wagged a finger at him. "You need more friends, Vasya. Always such a loner! There was that nice girl from Minsk you worked with at Coney Island, the one who always gave you rides? She could be your friend. And the one who lived next block, I think she was just as shy as you and never said a word…"
The flush deepened. "Mama, could we not talk about that now? Nikolay is my friend, and he's here for dinner, and I've been bragging on your cooking to him…"
Kolya interrupted. "It smells divine, Natalya Borisovna. Lamb pieroschki, if my nose is correct?" He produced the wrapped pair of pink roses he'd brought for her from inside his jacket; they'd wilted a bit.
She positively beamed at him, flashing a wink at her son as she took the flowers. "Please, call me Natasha. And so polite of you. It's my specialty, old family recipe. If you'll come this way, you can try them for yourself…"
Vasya was glad for the distraction; his father's instant disapproval of Kolya had not escaped his notice. As Kolya and Natasha chatted eagerly away about their favorite dishes from home, Alexei fixed him with one of his trademark glares. "You say you met this man at school, Vasiliy? May I ask where?"
The two students had mutually agreed not to tell the true version-a profane late-night chance encounter in the common room involving far too much vodka-and instead settled upon something far tamer. "The library. Overheard him and knew he was a countryman right away. He's a doctoral candidate, behavioral psychology. He even knows Dr. Lyubov from Kyiv Polytechnic," he added, knowing how much his father appreciated name-dropping. It felt less like introducing a friend and more like a nervous job interview.
Alexei inscrutably regarded his only son. "He is at Cornell, so clearly intelligent enough." It was as if he were talking to someone not even in the room. "And that suit of his is not off the rack, so he must have connections. New money, perhaps." If there was one class his father heartily despised, it was the hordes of nouveau-riche Russians, many of whom now lived in New York, who'd struck it big in the chaotic years following the end of communist rule.
The flush was creeping back into his cheeks, and Vasya tried to change the subject. "At least give him a chance, Pop. He's a nice guy. Should we go and join them?"
"I suppose we should. Dinner is probably cold by now," his father said, reminding him once again that he'd been late.
Kolya and his mother were still gabbing away in the tiny combination dining room/kitchen as she moved dishes from the stovetop to the table. "Your mama was telling me I should eat more, Vasy…Vasiliy." He grinned. "Said I'm too skinny."
"You are skinny." Natasha set a heaping plate of steaming pieroschki in front of him. "Eat as much as you like."
"I'm sure it won't be a problem. This looks magnificent."
Vasya tried not to smile; Kolya broke out the superlatives when he was trying to lay on the charm, and his mother was clearly charmed. His father, though, was having none of that. Sternly, he took his seat at the head of the table, casting a wary eye on their dinner guest. "Vasiliy, won't you pour the wine?" he said.
As he did so, it occurred to him that this was the first time he'd brought someone over for dinner in…how long? He'd only had a handful of girlfriends at Cornell, none lasting more than a few weeks. Even the nice neighbor girl from Minsk, whom he'd actually liked, had never been a dinner guest. Having Kolya here seemed strange…and at the same time, perfectly normal. He could make friends, and even, maybe, the right girl in the future with Kolya's help…
"Goodness, Vasya, that's enough," his mother said, breaking the spell. He'd nearly spilled wine onto her hand-embroidered tablecloth. "Now, why don't you give us a toast, Kolya?"
Kolya held up his full glass. "To our gracious hosts, and to the lovely Natalya Borisovna for this mouthwatering feast, and to my friendship with Vasiliy Alexeyevich, and…"
Alexei cleared his throat. "To those who appreciate brevity," he said under his breath.
"That does it, I suppose," Kolya said, "so let's eat!"
Every time he came home, Vasya was reminded of how mediocre the food at school was by comparison. His mother's cooking was plain but hearty: a tureen of borscht, enough pieroschki to feed a small army, golubtsy, cabbage salad, freshly baked brown bread. After waiting his turn, Kolya heaped his plate and soup bowl high with the offerings. It made him almost feel guilty for the mediocre pizza they'd shared the previous evening. Vasya himself took plenty of everything; he'd spent most of the day outside looking for rats, and nothing worked up an appetite faster than a chilly December day.
"So, Nikolay, Vasiliy tells me you are a graduate student," said Alexei, sipping wine and regarding their guest the way a lion might a wounded gazelle. "What are your career aspirations?"
Vasya nearly choked on his mouthful of pieroschki. He knew it would come up, and somehow they'd neglected to come up with a cover story.
"Oh. I hope to become a businessman. In fact, I am a businessman of sorts at the moment," Kolya said suavely. "Like Donald Trump."
"Business." Alexei didn't seem convinced. "Is that what they call it now?"
"'Lyosha, be kind. He is still young," Natasha said from across the table. "What sort of business?"
Vasya tilted his head. It was the one subject Kolya never talked about: where his money or premium vodka came from, how he seemed to "know people" or be able to get into clubs on demand. He was just as curious as his parents; he only hoped Kolya's answer wouldn't be something outrageous.
