Russian Debutante's Handbook by Gary Shteyngart Read Free Book Online

TODAY I FOUND a new nickname for your father,” Mother announced. “I’m calling him Stalin.”
    “Ha,” Vladimir’s father said, as he stuffed a flaming weenie into a bun for Grandma. “My wife warms my heart like a second sun.”
    “Stalin had very nice whiskers,” Grandma encouraged her boy. “Now, let’s drink, everybody! To Vladimir, our bright American future!”
    Plastic cups were raised. “To our American future!”
    “To our American future!” Mother toasted. “Well, I had a long talk with Vladimir this week, and I think he’s sounding more mature.”
    “Is that true?” asked Dr. Girshkin of his son. “You told her you would become a lawyer?”
    “Don’t peg him, Iosef Vissarionovich,” said Mother, using Stalin’s patronymic. “There are a million mature things Vladimir can become.”
    “Computer,” Grandma grunted. She considered computer programmers as men and women of immense power. The Social Security people were always checking their computer whenever Grandma braved a call to their offices, and they had the power to ruin her life!
    “There you go,” said Mother. “Grandma is crazy, but wise in her own way. I still say, though, you should be a lawyer. You were such a convincing little liar at the debating society, even with that horrific accent of yours. And I know it’s no longer polite to talk about such things, but I must say the money is tremendous.”
    “I hear Eastern Europe is where you make the money these days,” Vladimir said with a knowledgeable air. “This friend of mine, his son owns an import-export business in Prava. A Russian fellow by the name of Groundhog . . .”
    “Groundhog?” Mother shouted. “Did you hear that, Boris? Our son is cavorting with some Russian Groundhog. Vladimir, I expressly forbid you to associate with any Groundhogs from this day forward.”
    “But he’s a businessman,” Vladimir said. “His father, Rybakov, lives in a penthouse. Perhaps he can get a job for me! Why, I thought you’d be pleased.”
    “We all know what kind of businessman calls himself Groundhog,” Mother said. “Where is he from? Odessa? An import-export business! A penthouse! If you want to be in real business, Vladimir, you have to listen to your mother. I’ll help you get a management consulting job at McKinsey or Arthur Andersen. Then, if you’re a good boy, I’ll even pay for your MBA. Yes, that’s the strategy we should pursue!”
    “Prava,” Dr. Girshkin mused, brushing stray drops of Coca-Cola from his whiskers. “Isn’t that the Paris of the 90s?”
    “Are you encouraging him, Stalin?” Mother threw down her hot dog like a gauntlet. “You want him to join the criminal element? Maybe he can be a consultant to your medical practice . . . Help you defraud our poor government. Why should we have only one crook in the family?”
    “Medicare fraud is not really a crime,” Dr. Girshkin said,clasping his hands in a professional manner. “What’s more, my love, all my new patients are paying for your goddamn dacha in Sag Harbor. See, Volodya,” he turned to his son, “there’s a whole wave of Jewish Uzbeks on the way from Tashkent and Bukhara. Such sweet people. So new to Medicare. But it’s just too much work for me. Last week I put in forty hours.”
    “Too much work!” Mother shouted. “Don’t you ever say that in front of Vladimir. That’s where his cult of sloth originates, you know. That’s why he’s keeping company with some Groundhog in his penthouse. He has hardly any role models in this family. I’m the only one who truly works in this house. You just slip your claims into the mailbox. Grandma—you’re a pensioner.”
    Grandma took this to be her cue. “I think he’s getting married to a shiksa, ” she said waving an accusative index finger at Vladimir.
    “You’re being crazy again, Mother,” said Dr. Girshkin. “He’s dating Challah. Little Challatchka.”
    “When do we get to meet Challatchka?” asked