Karen opened the box a smidge and narrowed her eyes. “Oh,” she said.
“Can I see?”
“It’s just a bunch of papers.”
Nat had leaned over and peeked in before Karen could close the box. “What does ‘Hotel Solitaire’ mean?” she asked. “Is that like when my mommy lights her Shabbat candles by herself?”
“No, honey, it’s just the name of a book. I don’t know what it’s about.”
“？‘By Vinod Mehta,’？” Nat had read off the cover sheet. “Does he sell a lot of books like Daddy used to?”
“I think this is a different kind of book. A private one.”
Karen was the archivist of the trio of friends, as Vinod had mentioned the previous night, but this particular shard of memory had long slid out of her grasp. She remembered a damp dark bar in the Ukrainian part of town, her hand on Vinod’s. He was crying, wasn’t he? He never cried, even after she would present him with her latest boyfriend, usually a tall Irish guy on an H-1B visa. She remembered feeling her corduroy shorts sticking to a filthy seat, she heard herself telling him something in the bar’s perpetual gloaming: “Fuck him. What does he know? He should send it to his agent to get an honest opinion.”
Her memory hiccuped. Vinod’s likeness was saying something to her out of the shadows of the bar, but it was hard to decipher. The place was mostly staffed by a pretty grad student in a tank top who always looked aggrieved, but treated Vinod, also a graduate student at the time, with collegial good humor. Karen tried to approximate the dialogue. “Let me read it, Vin.” “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Because it’s the biggest defeat of my life.” “Sasha can be a dick about other people’s work.” “Are you kidding me? He blurbs every goddamn book they send him.” “He can also be a bit of a weasel.” “He’s just trying to save me the embarrassment.” “It’s not like my career is going gangbusters.” “This isn’t a career. I thought I had something.” “Maybe you’re just not a writer.” “I don’t want to be a ‘writer.’ That’s the last thing I want. I thought I had just one book in me that could mean something to someone. To a young person maybe.” “You are a young person.” “I’m thirty-one!” “I bet it just needs work. Let’s sit down, the three of us, and talk this through.” And on and on, her own heart breaking alongside his. At their lowest moments, they always overcame their parents’ programming, always offered each other more than they had ever been given.
“So Daddy wanted Steve to read Vinod’s book?”
Karen looked at the child, visualized the gears of her sweet mind turning.
“You know what,” Karen said, “I think he wanted to keep this a secret, maybe as a surprise. And we should keep it a secret, too.”
“Can we read Vinod’s book?”
“I’m going to read it first, just to make sure there’s nothing naughty in it. And then maybe I’ll read some parts to you.”
“I’m already at reading level Y,” Nat said. “That’s two grades ahead of where I should be.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Nat’s interest in the mysterious box satisfied, she played with the edge of her skirt, rolling it up and down. “What is it, honey?” Karen asked.
“Aunt Karen.”
“Hm?”
“Do you know Korean?”
“Just a teensy bit. But not like your mom and dad can speak Russian. They’re native speakers, especially your mom.”
“Can I tell you a secret? But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“We’ve already got a few secrets going,” Karen said, pointing to the Teva box. “This bungalow can be our secret clubhouse.” She thought immediately of having her assistant send in “secret clubhouse” decorations, whatever in hell those might be.
“I don’t really want to learn Russian,” Nat said. “I mean I can speak it pretty well already. Probably on level Y. But I really want to learn Korean. I want to go to Korea and meet Jin, RM—that stands for Rap Monster—Jungkook, Suga, Jimin, J-Hope, and V. Do you watch their videos?”
“Sure,” Karen lied.
“Really! Who’s your favorite?”
“They’re all so cute. Who do you like the most?”
“Jin?”
“Me too,” Karen said.