“Yes,” Ed said. “My friend Wei got a bungalow at the Mauna Kea. Call me a bungalow hopper.”
“Wei Li?” Senderovsky asked.
“Wei Ko. He’s in biotech. I guess this is his moment to shine.”
“And then you came back to the city,” Masha said.
“Well, actually, no. My brother bought a vineyard in Hungary.” Senderovsky remembered the Austrian Riesling and assorted alcohol still rattling around in his trunk, and prayed nothing had broken during his many trips, especially the eighteen-year-old bottle he had bought for Ed and the Actor to share. “I was over by Lake Balaton,” Ed continued. “Did your families ever go there back in the day? Soviet vacations? The wine was plonk, but I ate a great veal liver soaked in butter and paprika, would love to know how they made it. And then London.”
“Any reason for London?” Masha asked. Sasha thought that she sounded like a Heathrow immigration officer inspecting a visitor from a developing country.
“No, it was just—London,” Ed said.
“Last question, I promise. Any trips to China or Northern Italy?”
“Nope,” Ed said. He set down his Gladstone bag with a thud of frustration. “Wait, actually, I transferred through Linate once.”
“That’s Milan,” Sasha said.
Both men noted the way Masha looked at her husband just then. But it wasn’t her husband’s suggestion that she wasn’t worldly that irked her. They force me to be someone I’m not, Masha thought. They mistake my caring for authoritarianism, and then I have no choice but to become Stalin in an apron. But what option do I have if I’m to keep these cretins from getting sick?
“It was a very brief transfer,” Ed said of his time in Northern Italy. “I’m sure I don’t have it.” When Ed Kim became nervous during conversation, he cupped his right hand behind his right ear, as if trying to make a conch shell out of it. It was a nervous tic everyone noticed, and he himself was well aware of, but he couldn’t stop his ear cupping during times of social anxiety.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Masha said. “I really hate to go through all this. It’s because of Natasha.” Right, that was the daughter’s name. Sasha, Masha, Natasha. They didn’t even try, these Russians. “You can’t be too careful,” she added. “Any special requests for dinner?”
“Don’t even think about it,” Ed said. “I’m going to cook tonight. You just rest up. I’ve heard parents have it extra hard these days. And I’m sure Sasha’s no help at all.”
“We bought some amazing things,” Senderovsky said. “We know how much you love fresh sardines.” Masha smiled. Even if it wasn’t true that they had thought of her, the lie was nice. She would settle for the lie. Ed thought he had caught a glimpse of her youth when she smiled. The new plushness of her chin reminded him of a Greek girl he had fallen in love with, almost a decade ago to the day, one of the last times he had ever loved somebody, had allowed forgotten parts of himself, the underside of his ankles, his eyelashes, to tingle for no reason. Senderovsky placed both hands in the fertile valley between his breasts and his throat, happy that his friend and his wife were getting along. There was complete stillness now, except for the sound of an overexcited tree frog and the handyman loudly clipping the hedges by the covered pool, as if protesting his lot.
A pebbled path ran between the bungalows, in a way that Senderovsky had hoped would create the feel of a tidy European village, the kind that would have never welcomed his ancestors. The bungalows formed a crescent around the main house, some overlooking a classical meadow, others a minor forest overrun by noisy animals. They were cozy in winter, as all small dwellings should be, and utilitarian in summer, but they lacked the visual flair of smoking chimneys or sliding porch doors. The luxuries were supposed to be communal: the fine food and even-finer conversation. There had been a dearth of laughter and clever ideas in Senderovsky’s early homelife, and even though nowadays he went out to restaurants and the occasional literary party in the city, nothing pleased him more than being the ringleader of his country menagerie. Not to mention the stealth surprise of walking across acres of private Senderovsky land on a continent that had signed his adoption papers.
Alone, Ed unpacked his bag, laptop （he remembered now that there was no reception in the bungalow）， chargers, fresh packets of balled-up Korean underwear presented by his mother’s maid, polo shirts, a linen jacket （would he really have to stay into summer?）， two ties, and a pocket square. He sat down on the soft, comfortable, Art Deco–adjacent bed and had what must have been a panic attack, his breaths coming in quick short bursts as if he was sucking air out of a balloon at gunpoint.