Needless to say, she grew up with the parents Senderovsky could only dream of, the kind that did not watch the state television of their adopted land with its screaming chyrons and grim blond hosts and unimaginative, murderous lies. Masha loved her parents, loved the language of her parents, and wanted Natasha to know the “gift” of her country’s culture. But Senderovsky, despite his Petrogradsky affectations, was still the man from Elektrosila. He knew that he had been born in a sick country, a country now intent on spreading its disease to others through the social media channels and under the cover of night—its true gift of the moment. He knew that no matter Masha’s intentions, Nat, the wild Harbin child living under their roof, would have no room for fermented kvass and red caviar and butter sandwiches and the poetics of Joseph Brodsky and bungalows such as this one.
And he knew now that the pilot script would never get done. And a check in Los Angeles would never get written. And months later, a year at most, the Sasha Senderovsky Bungalow Colony would close its doors, much like the scores of Russian bungalow colonies across the river, much like the one where he had met his beloved during Masha’s first year in this country, fresh off the blue line of the Leningrad metro, her auburn hair still tied back as if by a white school uniform bant.
What could he do? How could he please the Actor? How could he keep his strange dream alive?
On the porch, they had been talking loudly about his films, his girlfriend of the moment and girlfriends past, the radiance of his eyes, the cut of his suits, his presence at the award shows （Masha even knew which Italian firm had supplied his shoes for the last one）， and then they had quieted abruptly as he climbed the steps to the porch, his Russian Sancho Panza at his side. “Hi,” the Actor said, and waved his hand as if from a departing Queen Mary.
Introductions were made. Time started to move slower for everyone but Nat. Having sensed a change in mood, the importance of the new guest, she scrambled off her mother’s lap and started to run around the porch screaming, “She said she nearly peed in her pants! She said she nearly peed in her pants!”
“You have such a cute kid,” the Actor said to Karen and Ed.
“Oh, snap!” Dee said.
The porch was hushed. Nat had stopped running. “No, these are my parents,” she said, pointing out her non-Asian mother and father. “They’re called Sasha and Masha.”
“D’oh,” the Actor said. He planted his face deep into his palm so loudly it must have hurt. Everyone laughed. “Please don’t report me,” he said.
Vinod mimed typing into his phone: “Updating feed…now!”
“Anyway,” he said to Masha, “you have a lovely son.”
“Actually,” Masha began, but Sasha moved over and put his arms over her shoulders.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Most of us are old friends here, but through your body of work we feel like we already know you. And even if you are not ready to be our friend, we will be yours.”
The Actor nodded: that sounded accurate enough. He placed himself at the end of one of the tables, with Dee at one side and Ed farther along. He was offered a glass of red by Vinod, but he said he did not partake. “Drinking messes up my sleep.” His presence, on the other hand, made everyone else drink with nervous abandon. Ed fiddled with the handsome red radio until it began spouting sophisticated Ethiopian jazz. The mood was tense and heroic at once.
Sheep started bleating from one property over. “I’m not a nature boy,” the Actor said, “but shouldn’t they be asleep?”
“We’ve woken them up with our loud music,” Nat shouted.
“And maybe your shouting,” Masha said.
“Did you know they’re Border Leicester sheep?” Nat said to the Actor, coming much closer than was allowed. He didn’t flinch, but her mother ran over and pulled her back. “Their wool is merino like my birthday bracelet”—she held the bracelet up for the Actor to inspect—“but it’s longer and broad-crimped, so it’s usually spun into yarn.”
“You’re such a smart kid,” Karen said to her. “You should have heard her singing Korean pop songs to the sheep earlier.”
“I love BTS!” Nat shouted. The Actor assumed that was the name of a band, and also that maybe the boy was not entirely a boy, at least not yet. “I’m part of the BTS ARMY. That stands for Adorable Representative MC for Youth.”
“Maybe she can play us something later on the piano,” Masha said. “She’s learning the Suzuki Method.”