“What’s that Russian saying about incompetent people trying to pass the blame?”
Senderovsky laughed. “？‘A bad dancer is bothered by his balls.’？”
“Mmmm.”
“Would you mind if we get some groceries? All I have is the meat and booze.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Ed said, and Senderovsky immediately thought of a fitting epitaph for his friend: HERE LIES EDWARD SUNGJOON KIM, HE WAS IN NO HURRY. He accelerated the car farther north along a tight state road that allowed for a view of the purple mountains across the river, each given a sophomoric American name. Peekamoose was his daughter’s favorite. Meanwhile, as Senderovsky pattered on about the weather, the political news, speculation about the virus, the merits of sweet sausage versus hot Italian, Ed espied a great frontal system of boredom on the horizon, of endless upper-middle-class chatter, badly made country Negronis, cigarettes snuck. What could he do? His friend had begged him to come up, and the now-muted city would be more depressing still.
“So who else is coming?” Ed asked. “Besides the Exalted One.” He was referring to the famous actor who was coming up for a few days to work on a screenplay with Senderovsky, the source of his friend’s anxiety. “Karen, you said.”
“Vinod, too.”
“Haven’t seen him in ages. Is he still in love with Karen?”
“He lost a lung to cancer a few years ago. Then he lost his job at City College.”
“That’s a lot of loss.”
“Masha wanted him to come up, because his immune system might be compromised.”
“I wish I was tragic enough for your wife to like me.”
“Keep working on it.”
“Who else?”
“An old student of mine. She published an essay collection last year. The Grand Book of Self-Compromise and Surrender. It made a splash.”
“Well, at least she’ll be young. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two. How’s your kid, by the way?”
“Flourishing,” Senderovsky said.
They skidded into a town that wasn’t. The selection at Rudolph’s Market, its sole business, contained goods that neither Ed （born Seoul, 1975） nor his host （Leningrad, 1972） had enjoyed in their early non-American years, candy that tasted like violets, bread that was so enriched you could use it for insulation. Alongside these outrageously marked-up nostalgic items were international ones even dearer, which Ed carelessly piled into a basket. There were fresh whole sardines that could be grilled before the meats, dirigible-shaped Greek olives from ancient islands, cheeses so filled with aromatic herbs they inspired （on Senderovsky’s part） memories that had never happened, ingredients for a simple vitello tonnato that somehow came to over eighty dollars, excluding the veal. “I think we have enough,” Senderovsky said with alarm. “I don’t want anything to spoil.”
They were standing in a long line of second-home owners. When the shocking amount due appeared on a touch screen, they both looked away, until the old woman behind the counter coughed, informatively, into her gloved fist. Senderovsky sighed and reached for his card.
Soon, they were raising gravel up the long driveway. It was only 2:00 p.m., but the workers had already left, along with their powerful trucks stenciled with old local names. “I’m sorry about all these dead branches,” Senderovsky said. “I’ve been trying to get them cleaned up.”
“What branches?” Ed was looking absently at his new home, at the bungalows rising up behind the main house like a half circle of orbiting moons. The sky was the color of an old-fashioned projector screen pulled down to the edges of the distant hills, splotched here and there by the hand of an inky boy.
Meanwhile, in her office, Masha had lifted up a heavy beaded curtain. She saw Ed clambering out of her husband’s car with the languor that came so easily for him. Naturally, he had not sat in the back, like she had asked. She made a snort she instantly recognized as her grandmother’s, a labor camp survivor. Well, there it is, her grandmother would say. The first of the children was here. More children for Masha to take care of, in addition to the one watching Asian boy-band videos upstairs, mouth open, eyes bleary, pacified. Soon the property would be filled with them, grown children without children. All of her friends were married, unlike her husband’s （and none was crazy enough to visit someone else’s house at a time like this）。 Masha shut off her screen, thought about changing out of her kaftan for Ed, but then went into the driveway exactly as she was.