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an-architect-of-words · 8 months

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I WISH BORIS HAD BEEN THE ANTAGONIST OF THE GOLDFINCH

Okay Boris Pavlikovsky take based on people requesting it from this post where I said I’m like 90% sure my take on him is 🔥, meaning I could tell immediately he’d be popular as hell and yet he’s the subject of my biggest critique of the novel.

The short:

I’m extremely mixed on Boris and was for most of the book, especially at the end. His usage within the story just was an odd roller coaster. Now, I think I’d summarize it this way— I wish Boris had just been treated as an incredibly nuanced antagonist. I get that Donna Tartt books don’t fully deal in hero-villain terms but let me explain!! He would have been very heartbreaking, compelling, and unique as an actual antagonist.

The long:

I want to like Boris a lot because of his positive qualities. His dialogue is so charmingly good (I was so impressed by Tartt’s writing of someone who is speaking a second/third language and may write a whole post on that). Boris is also characterized by gratitude and loyalty to the people who’ve done right by him such as Theo, the folks from his backstory such as Judy and the Muslim preachers, and his guys— Cherry, Shirley, Gyuri. He recognizes kindness and responds to it in a way that is just so likable. He even cries when he thinks of his betrayal of Theo and says that he can’t stand what he did, knowing that Theo was only ever generous and good to him. Finally, Boris was a good foil to Theo, optimism vs dread. Boris’s optimism and love did save Theo at points, and it provides a very believable basis for their friendship.

But my problem is that Boris’s flaws were a little TOO big to have been so under-commented on. His vices crossed from palatable things to things that you really can’t take lightly, at least as lightly as I think this story did at the end. To summarize some things: 1) Boris beat his girlfriend (and casually assumed Theo had beaten Pippa) and is of the opinion that this is sad but necessary since sometimes “women deserve it.” 2) He is a serial cheater who rarely visits his wife and his own babies but has a girlfriend in Antwerp and is implied to buy escorts/prostitutes fairly regularly, which is further unconscionable since the reason he hurt Kotku was that she was potentially cheating on him! 3) Boris has ruined and ended countless lives. Anyone who runs a cartel has. But he was also introducing the kids at his school to drugs since they were too nervous to deal with adults. And maybe it’s because I know someone who died by a heroin overdose, but I just saw Boris as a indirect murderer throughout the book. He is against direct, cold-blooded murder, sure. But there comes a point where you have to take the domino-effect implications of your own actions seriously. It’s not even just the cartel. It’s minor things that show he doesn’t care about indirectly ending lives. He lost his license from drunk driving, then gave Gyuri cocaine WHILE GYURI WAS DRIVING. So, well, blatant lack of concern towards the lives of everyone else on the road. 4) while he did help Theo in ways, he really ruined him in other ways. The drugs and alcohol. But also getting him accustomed to thievery and sexual activity at a young age (I was pretty disturbed by Boris’s attraction to certain women because they were over the legal age and his way of romanticizing these relationships to Theo. I get this isn’t exactly uncommon talk among teen boys, at a level. But it reached icky too-far points in context. Then we see Theo get in this kind of relationship later, with Julie).

To summarize this: I was thinking that Boris shows that a person can be a good friend without being good for his friend. If that makes sense?

Boris loved Theo, saved his life, spent years planning how to make things up to him— but he was also emblematic of a very bad era of Theo’s. Now, I can love deeply flawed characters. Heck, I loved everyone in The Secret History. But the thing is, I think characters who reach this level of flawed are only fully likable when I can approach them knowing they were indeed wholly lambasted by the text itself. It’s a comfortable place from which to feel empathy.

For Boris… that didn’t come through well to me. It started to at points, for sure. Theo definitely comments on Boris’s flaws. And I think there’s a really dirty sort of filter on the events of the story where Boris is concerned. But to be honest, it wasn’t enough for what this guy was doing. I was most disappointed when Theo started to really get at him in the hotel room, only for the scene to shift into a moment that lifts Boris up. I liked the idea of Theo breaking away from the attitude of his father and of Boris. But then *bam* Goldfinch. Now Boris is all right again. The problem is— while making good from the bad is a great lesson and I agree that even our low points have meaning in a divine scheme— that doesn’t mean our bad actions were good, actually. It’s just that goodness was able to work with what we did. But our wrongs are wrong. Boris returning the painting shows some redemption and that Theo’s woes and miserable life story did have meaning. But Boris’s cheating, drug dealing, thievery, and violence are still evil mistakes. Not good because they worked out.

This return-of-The-Goldfinch moment is further muddied by the fact that Boris had something to gain financially by returning the finch. Now he’s loaded with cash, and that was a motivating factor in the return. I guess the lesson is that good pays and in a much better way than evil. And Boris did learn this. He was so fixated on how to get what he wanted sneakily, by beating the system, that he didn’t consider that he could come out on top by doing good. The lesson may be that good is not without opportunity itself. Still, the moment does swerve from fully critiquing Boris’s wrongs, and he’s never really treated fairly for them in my opinion.

So back to my point. I wish Boris had been just treated as the antagonist of this novel. I think that this would have been an awesome direction and could have happened while keeping his personality in-tact. All the pieces were there but the trigger never pulled.

An antagonist is merely someone stopping a protagonist from getting what he wants or what is good for him. An antagonist doesn’t have to be fully villain-y. It can be a rival sports team, for example. I think Boris would have made a great, very nuanced antagonist with sympathetic intentions. It would have been fun to see him fight so hard for Theo’s good that he doesn’t see that he’s preventing Theo’s redemption. Again, a lot of this IS already in the text, but I wish it all had followed through. I wish that Boris as an antagonist who only wants what’s best for the protagonist was his eventual and clearly stated characterization. It would have been compelling, to me, if the end had been Theo against Boris on the grounds that they both are so certain what’s best for Theo’s life. Boris would not want to be in this position, but is sure he has to be. Honestly?! HE HAS STRONG REASONS FOR THINKING THIS. He watched Theo try to kill himself many times. Imagine how traumatizing that would be, how much you wouldn’t trust your friend because you’re so afraid of losing him.

For a bit, I thought the reason Boris didn’t want to return the Goldfinch had to do with him viewing it as the thing that would fix Theo and mend their relationship. I thought maybe his connection to the thing was that he considered it a panacea like, if it were back in Theo’s hands, they could return to boyhood. I thought maybe he didn’t want to let go of the painting because it represented his own redemption and a happier side of Theo; he’s convinced that if it’s given to the authorities, he’s lost the fight and Theo won’t ever find happiness again. I think the in-book reason for Boris not wanting to return the painting was literally just fear of the cops. But it would have been interesting if he just didn’t have faith that Theo would be okay if it was released.

The end even covers the idea that our hearts are not always something to be trusted. Sometimes the things that you do out of love aren’t good. I do believe Boris got Theo on drugs partially because of love (but also wanting company in his own lifestyle). He didn’t want to see Theo suffering; he felt upset when Theo was sick or in pain. So his answer was to give him ecstasy or vodka or weed or coke so that his friend would relax and smile again. But obviously this isn’t right. It’s very wrong. And is it just me or did the book treat this as an oddly benevolent act? (In fact, it also just seems “generous” when Boris said he was just giving drugs away at school because he liked being liked— but that’s FURTHER basis for a sort of well-meaning antagonist. He’s generous but in awful ways at times. I wish this were commented on as such, as evil born from a good yet disordered heart, rather than just “Boris is generous.”)

I also thought for sure that Boris would have a come-to-Jesus moment where he’s like “maybe this is all wrong,” only for him to be advised against this feeling by Myriam who has a plan for how he can get what he wants for himself and Theo, quick and dirty. Was I the only one who felt Myriam seemed efficient in a Devil-like way? The text really puts demon/snake symbolism on her, and Boris trusts her so much and this isn’t expanded upon. It should have been used!

Bottom line is that some things done in this book are serious. Really serious, not character quirks and they felt a little too casually handled when it came to Boris. The book does seem to go “yes he’s a mess” here and there. But not in a way that rises to the proper level, in my opinion. I do get that he shows there’s good to be found in bad people, and that fate can use broken human beings! But I kind of wish I wasn’t left with a feeling of the book going, “lol Boris, that beautiful scoundrel” when the man in question was a woman-beating, cheating, drug lord.

Like I said, I’m mixed. But I think I’d have loved him if he was just, up front, the affectionate antagonist of the whole novel. I think he would have made a great overarchingly dark figure, whose motivations stem from how close he’s come to losing Theo. That would have better married his positive qualities with his negative ones. It would have combined what we know of him as a selfish, often violent figure with his good intentions. I just want him to be depicted for what he is and let his vices lead up to an actual boiling point— while letting him keep his kind aspects too.

#though I get Boris wasn’t responsible for EVERYTHING #also theo has his own responsibilities to take #still the story was too kind to Borya #I want to write a fanfic where he’s actually like this #donna tartt #boris pavlikovsky #the goldfinch

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manlethotline · 5 years

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I was going to write a quick analysis of what smoking in The Goldfinch means but like always I got very carried away and I think I found basically every time smoking gets mentioned in the book. For the sake of my non tgf followers I’m putting this under a readmore, but here is an essay length examination of the thematic importance of cigarettes. In The Goldfinch. And in general.

A cigarette is one of the more thematically loaded props a character can have. For years smoking and was used as shorthand to mean lower class, then turned into a symbol of decadence and vice as smoking became more common. An air of bohemian intellectualism- intelligence with a touch of depravity- is not complete without a cigarette in hand. For a while cigarettes were code for homosexuality, eventually loosening to general sexual promiscuity and eventually loosening even more to show a character was ‘cool’ with a touch of moral ambiguity. And cigarettes will never shake free of the looming shadow of Freudian psychology- a cigar is never just a cigar, and neither is a cigarette.

Anyway, you could go on about cigarette symbolism for days, but we’re here, as per usual, to talk about The Goldfinch. Because Theo smokes- we learn that on page one- too many cigarettes in his Amsterdam hotel room. Now Theo isn’t exactly cool- though he is morally ambiguous, but more importantly later in the book we see who got him started smoking. And as with all of Theo’s vices besides Pippa, it’s Boris.

Are cigarettes cool? Oscar Wilde once said that a cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Oscar Wilde was also sent to prison on indecency and sodomy charges- a sentence that eventually killed him. Cigarettes were a key fashion statement in Dadaism, Decadence, and Bohemia. Yet while smoking was adored by the ‘artistic crowd’ most upper class society folks wouldn’t be caught dead with cigarette in hand. A pipe perhaps, but not a cigarette. After all, cigarettes were first made by those who couldn’t afford tobacco picking up discarded cigar butts and retooling them thinner- easier to move with- a history still reflected in the name. A working class activity. In the late 1800s cigarettes were thought to cause insanity, among other forms of ‘degeneracy’- yet still people smoked. The allure was too much to deny. And by the advent of the silver screen smoking was accepted. Cigarettes are cool.

So Boris smokes. His room in Vegas reeks of Marlboros (gee Borya, why is your brand of choice the one most heavily marketed to rugged masculine sexuality), and that first afternoon Theo turns down the cigarette Boris offers him- though he does take him up on the beer. So far this fits with Theo’s first impression of Boris as a homeless looking kid passing cigarettes back and forth, slotting Boris more in the morally grey badass zone of cigarette smoking. Safe, familiar.

But this changes quickly- it is specifically pointed out that Boris lost his virginity to someone he’d bummed a cigarette off- a story he tells Theo while blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. There’s a clear connection now between sexuality- specifically Boris’ sexuality- and cigarettes. And not just sexuality, but vulnerability, Boris is smoking specifically as he admits that he doesn’t think she liked it very much, something a so-called Marlboro Man would be reticent to admit. There’s also an obvious Freudian allegory here about phallic objects, but we’ll come back to that.

The next time we hear about Boris’ smoking, it is when he and Theo are lying in bed together listening to Mr. Pavlikovsky have sex with or otherwise terrorize two sex workers. As if that wasn’t loaded with sexuality and vulnerability on its own, Boris has Theo light the cigarette for him, and they pass it back and forth as they listen to whatever is going on down the hall. So somewhere between learning about Boris’ sexual history and becoming comfortable enough to share a bed with him, Theo has taken up smoking- though he’s obviously not completely comfortable with it since he mentions it makes him feel light-headed and sick. And now we get to talk about sharing a cigarette!

So passing a cigarette back and forth, or lighting it for someone else has been used as a shorthand for intimacy and sexual tension basically as long as cigarettes have existed. Back when the Hays code was in effect film-makers used cigarette sharing as a way to imply two characters having sex- especially same sex pairs who couldn’t even embrace on camera. Along with sharing a drink (something else Boris and Theo do often) it’s an indirect kiss. They lean in, breath hot on each other’s faces, and do a favor for each other with just a thinnest shroud of plausible heterosexual deniability.

Huh. I promise we will get to phallic imagery eventually.

There are more scenes of cigarette sharing between the two in Vegas- after the night it’s implied they first have sex they share one, and there are a few other instances we don’t have time to touch on one at a time. Suffice to say they’re intimate now.

But to say that cigarettes are sex is reductive. When it’s Boris smoking, yes, it is sexually loaded, but Boris is not the only character who smokes. Xandra and Larry smoke too. And it’s not just that they smoke, but more specifically that they provide the cigarettes for Boris and Theo. The night after the pool they aren’t smoking just anything, they’re smoking Larry’s Viceroys. Boris steals Mr. Pavlikovsky’s lighter for Theo. Their intimacy, their vulnerability, is stolen from beneath the noses of their fathers- it’s a secret, a transgression, something that they are getting away with rather than just doing. Xandra actually calls Theo out for stealing her cigarettes. It’s one of the few actually positive interactions between the two- after she promises to bring him and Boris some food for Thanksgiving, practically setting them up a date. “Fine. I’ll hook you guys up. Just stay out of my cigarettes. I don’t care if you smoke.” In fact it’s maybe the only time anyone besides the two of them acknowledges and accepts their relationship- implying she knows exactly what is going on between them. For all the awfulness of Theo’s house it is something of a safe haven, especially for Boris, they aren’t taken care of, but they’re left alone, and the freedom of isolation is what allows them to find each other. And cigarettes are not merely sexual intimacy, but emotional intimacy, and perhaps just a shred of domesticity, something that hints at a promise of a different life- the kind their father’s would never condone- together somewhere.

The beginning of the end of their Vegas safe haven is foreshadowed with smoking as well. After Boris and Theo share a joint (not technically a cigarette but functionally the same act) Larry comes in, and not only remarks on the smell “you reek a bit Theo” and that Boris is definitely involved “where are you boys getting this stuff?” but he goes so far as to take what's left of the joint out of the ashtray and pocket it. Not only does he intrude on Theo’s private moment, he takes it away. Metaphorically, he has stolen the safety of his home from his son- and when next he appears he hits Theo and forces him to ask for money- the final deconsecration of the Vegas sanctum. But the damage is done as soon as he takes the butt out of the ashtray- Theo is no longer safe.

This has been a lot of talk about cigarettes as they relate to sex- but as with Theo returning to New York, we have to pry ourselves from Boris’ embrace eventually and talk about other characters.

Hobie smokes as well. When Theo first meets him he lights a cigarette, and when he catches Theo staring says “Don’t tell me you want one too.” Theo also specifically mentions Hobie smoking while cooking, one of the first times after his mother’s death that he feels safe, accepted once again. So again cigarettes are an expression of vulnerability, not sexuality but rather a loving, compassionate vulnerability. Theo and Hobie find each other after experiencing profound loss, and for Theo those days of healing, of first learning to put his hands to good use in the workshop, are entangled with the smell of Hobie’s cigarettes. Cigarettes as safety, cigarettes as sanctuary. Cigarettes as metaphor for emotional vulnerability, a way to feel close. Common ground.

Hobie is obviously gay coded, he lives with another man, raises a child with him, cooks-he would fit right into the gallery of what gay characters looked like before gay characters could be explicit- and cigarettes are just another detail of that. In some ways it’s another common ground between him and Theo- an uncomfortable conversation about men they have loved and lost that they skirt carefully around, yet to have a straightforward conversation about what exactly they felt for the men they shared their lives with, the men they lit cigarettes for and mourned bitterly. Theo turning down Hobie’s offer of a cigarette in some ways exemplifies the opportunity missed by the both of them struggling to discuss their true feelings with one another. Perhaps someday they can sit down for a smoke and finally talk about everything.

Neither Pippa or Kitsey smoke. It’s another thing that makes Theo’s relationship with Boris seems so much more intimate than his relationship with either of them- even though has sex with Kitsey they still have each other at arms length, not sharing with each other, not even having this shared experience of vulnerability with each other. In fact, Kitsey dislikes it when he smokes in her bedroom, slamming the door shut on one of the few ways that Theo actually can express himself, one of the few islands that occasionally crests over his waves of repression. When he learns of her infidelities he grinds out a cigarette butt on her dresser- a passive aggressive note- he may say he’s fine but everything is not well, and all his rages and aches are compressed into a streak of ash on a Limoges box. Doubt she’ll have anything to say about it. Beyond that note of anger, there is barely any mention at all of Theo smoking in his adulthood- you could almost be fooled into thinking he was quitting.

Yet as soon as Boris reappears, so do cigarettes. Just before he confesses to stealing the painting- one of the most honest scenes in the book- as he talks about how he was trying to have fun and be happy. [Theo] wanted to be dead. and moments before broaching their relationship as teenagers, Boris is toying with a cigarette. Not smoking it, not quite going that far, Theo isn’t ready yet, but reminding him that it’s there, that rekindling that sort of relationship is an option that he is more than willing to choose. At the engagement party he appears with unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers- another promise he has yet to keep, a hint to Theo at what might come next, come along and find out, the only thing that’s made sense all night. When he does eventually smoke a cigarette it is in Amsterdam, when he finally has Theo back in his good graces, ready to make the next move.

Also in Amsterdam, in their most triumphant moment, just having retrieved the painting and as Boris demands Theo ride alone with him, he lights a cigarette. And now we can finally talk about phallic imagery, because as Boris puts this cigarette to his lips, he tells Theo that now we can go and get you a real blowjob. It’s almost comical.

So anyway, cigarettes look like dicks. Only a little bit off topic, let’s talk about Edward Bernays. He was an ad executive back in the 20s, and the campaign he was most well known for was for Lucky Strike Cigarettes. You see, most women at the time didn’t smoke, it was considered unladylike. But Eddy knew that he was missing out on half the market, and decided what is considered one of the first great PR campaigns, series of ads with the slogan ‘Torches of Freedom’ that took advantage of the first wave feminist movement and branded cigarettes as symbols of rebellious independence, glamour, seduction and sexual allure. It was insanely successful, and where many of our pop culture views on cigarette use stem from (along with the decadence art movement in the late 1800s).

But Bernays was more than just a lucky guy- he was actually working off of the ideas of his more well known uncle, a real piece of shit named Sigmund Freud. And based off of Freud’s theories of subconscious desire, Bernays put two and two and realized that cigarettes are an obvious symbol for a penis- same as a gun or a paintbrush or maybe even a tiny sausage balanced precariously on a toothpick that your best friend has developed an odd taste for. Bernays dove head first into the Id, because he was marketing to women, and it was safe for him to acknowledge that cigarettes are incredibly sexually suggestive without upsetting the delicate heterosexual identity of the smoking American male. And the Marlboro Man, resplendent in his denim and cowboy hat, continued to be one of the most successful ad campaigns in history. But cigarettes, unlike guns, don't penetrate others- they are delicately placed between your lips, held daintily as you suck and blow and taste the slightest hint of the Vodka aftertaste he left behind before he passed it onto you. It’s intensely homoerotic- the man in the Marlboro ad puts a penis to his lips, adjusts his Stetson with a wink- don’t worry I’m straight. Just like all the other cowboys. Queer scholar Dennis Altman once put forward that because same-sex comradeship was particularly important in American life, there was a particular revulsion for anything that exposed the sexual nature of such relationships.

And my word, doesn’t that sum up Boris and Theo just perfectly. An insistence that when Boris’s bloody lips met Theo’s raw knuckles they became blood brother’s, nothing more. An assertion that it happens at that age sometimes, whatever, unfortunate mistake. But in that moment, as Boris lets the cigarette touch the tip of his tongue, flicks a calloused thumb roughly over the edge of the lighter- so similar to the one he stole from his father and gave to Theo all those years ago- and lets his mouth smile around the promise of a real blow job- for a moment things are exposed, if only just in that secret Vegas language only the two of them know. Rubbing his knuckles on my sleeve. He insists on getting Theo alone- well and truly alone, come let’s get back to your hotel and then, well... who knows what he had planned. What both of them were hoping for. But he is smoking, he is making promises he intends to keep, inviting Theo back into that private little world of shared cigarettes that Larry tore them out of long ago.

And when they are interrupted by Martin and his goon squad, Boris- cigarette in mouth- stood frozen. He has been caught with his hairpins down- interrupted in a moment of intimacy that was just beginning. It is the same as Larry pocketing that joint- sorry boys, smoke break’s over. In the fight he spits his cigarette in Frits’ face, defiant. Weaponizing what he feels for Theo- risking death to reclaim what is rightfully his because he WORKED FOR IT GODAMMIT.

Neither Boris nor Theo light a cigarette for the rest of the book.

Of course, we don’t know what exactly happens in Antwerp.

But, perhaps rather than meaning that that is a promise that remains unfulfilled, maybe they have moved beyond them. They don’t need a Freudian stand-in anymore, because they can actually talk to one another. Boris spat out his cigarette, showed without a crutch that he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for Theo, and Theo sees a half-smoked cigarette in a puddle of blood and answers Boris’ question with a bullet in another man’s brain. A thresh-hold is crossed, and when they reunite things are changed. They can admit their importance to each other and perhaps, in Antwerp, though Theo draws the curtains on the scene quickly, perhaps things are not nearly so symbolic as before.

So cigarettes are communication, vulnerability, understanding and intimacy? To smoke is to love, to feel fully and hope for a better world? Sadly, no. Because smoking kills. And so far this analysis has had a massive hole in it in the very conspicuous shape of a dead mother. Or at least the shape of a box of ashes and porny newspaper ads abandoned somewhere in Central Park.

It’s much rarer to see smoking on film nowadays. Partially this is a reflection of real life- smoking rates have been on the decrease since the 50s, and since most public places now can smoking, you have to go out of your way to see a character lighting a cigarette. Much of this, though, comes from external forces. Cigarette advertising has been banned on TV for decades, and since the 90s there have been stricter and stricter rules on how smoking can be portrayed in media. Smoking cannot be shown at all. Smoking can only be shown if the character eventually faces consequences in the form of bad health and social rejection. Smoking can only be shown if the character smoking is portrayed as irredeemable, undeniably the villain, and perpetrates other unforgivable acts.

The reason Theo and Audrey were at the museum the day of the bombing is because Theo got suspended. And though he fears it was for breaking into houses, he is pretty sure it was because he got caught smoking. Or rather, standing around with Tom Cable while he smoked. Had Theo never faffed around with cigarettes in the first place, his mother might still be alive.

Which he feels all the more guilty for because Audrey hated smoking. Lung cancer killed both her parents- banished her to an aunt’s house the same way her own death sent her son languish in Las Vegas. Generational orphaning, all because of smoking. No wonder Theo turns down Hobie and Boris’ offers at first- it is one of the ways he betrays his mother. His first cigarette kills her, and each one after that pushes him further and further away from the version of himself he thinks she would be proud of. When he shares that cigarette in Boris’s bed- surrounded by smoke and spilled beer and the smell people get when nobody cares about them- he dreams about her. What are you doing here? Go home! Right now! He has let her down in the most fundamental way he can- letting himself indulge in a vice he knows she wouldn’t forgive him for. Another way he has let himself become like his father, just as he prayed never would be.

And yet Theo smokes. He melts into Hobie’s cooking, into the sharp curve of Boris’ smile, into the forbidden pleasures of street corners and friendly faces lurking in doorways. Each drag buries his mother deeper, hacking at his leg to free himself from the trap of loss, of what he will never be able to become. Sorrow inseparable from joy. Theo burns and is lungs fill with museum ash and chlorine and to clear his throat he lights a cigarette.

And another cigarette

Or, as they call them in Europe sometimes, fags.

#the goldfinch #Theo decker #tgf #tgf analysis #literary analysis #smoking tw #boris palikovsky #boreo

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boreothegoldfinch · 3 years

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chapter 10 paragraph v

Almost three hours later I was still sitting in a red vinyl booth in the Polack bar, flashing Christmas lights, annoying mix of punk rock and Christmas polka music honking away on the jukebox, fed up from waiting and wondering if he was going to show or not, if maybe I should just go home. I didn’t even have his information—it had all happened so fast. In the past I’d Googled Boris for the hell of it—never a whisper—but then I’d never envisioned Boris as having any kind of a life that might be traceable online. He might have been anywhere, doing anything: mopping a hospital floor, carrying a gun in some foreign jungle, picking up cigarette butts off the street. It was getting toward the end of Happy Hour, a few students and artist types trickling in among the pot-bellied old Polish guys and grizzled, fifty-ish punks. I’d just finished my third vodka; they poured them big, it was foolish to order another one; I knew I should get something to eat but I wasn’t hungry and my mood was turning bleaker and darker by the moment. To think that he’d blown me off after so many years was incredibly depressing. If I had to be philosophical, at least I’d been diverted from my dope mission: hadn’t OD’d, wasn’t vomiting in some garbage can, hadn’t been ripped off or run in for trying to buy from an undercover cop— “Potter.” There he was, sliding in across from me, slinging the hair from his face in a gesture that brought the past ringing back. “I was just about to leave.” “Sorry.” Same dirty, charming smile. “Had something to do. Didn’t Myriam explain?” “No she didn’t.” “Well. Is not like I work in accounting office. Look,” he said, leaning forward, palms on the table, “don’t be mad! Was not expecting to run into you! I came as quick as I could! Ran, practically!” He reached across with cupped hand and slapped me gently on the cheek. “My God! Such a long time it is! Glad to see you! You’re not glad to see me too?” He’d grown up to be good-looking. Even at his gawkiest and most pinched he’d always had a likable shrewdness about him, lively eyes and a quick intelligence, but he’d lost that half-starved rawness and everything else had come together the right way. His skin was weather-beaten but his clothes fell well, his features were sharp and nervy, cavalry hero by way of concert pianist; and his tiny gray snaggleteeth—I saw—had been replaced by a standard-issue row of all-American whites. He saw me looking, flicked a showy incisor with his thumbnail. “New snaps.” “I noticed.” “Dentist in Sweden did it,” said Boris, signalling for a waiter. “Cost a fucking fortune. My wife kept after me—Borya, your mouth, disgraceful! I said no way am I doing this, but was the best money I ever spent.” “When’d you get married?” “Eh?” “You could have brought her if you wanted.” He looked startled. “What, you mean Myriam? No, no—” reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, punching around on his telephone, “Myriam’s not my wife! This—” he handed me the phone—“this is my wife. What are you drinking?” he said, before turning to address the waiter in Polish. The photo on the iPhone was of a snow-topped chalet and, out in front, a beautiful blonde on skis. At her side, also on skis, were a pair of bundled-up little blond kids of indeterminate sex. It didn’t look so much like a snapshot as an ad for some healthful Swiss product like yogurt or Bircher muesli.

I looked up at him stunned. He glanced away, with a Russianate gesture of old: yeah, well, it is what it is. “Your wife? Seriously?” “Yah,” he said, with a lifted eyebrow. “My kids, too. Twins.” “Fuck.” “Yes,” he said regretfully. “Born when I was very young—too young. It wasn’t a good time—she wanted to keep them—‘Borya, how could you’— what could I say? To be truthful I don’t know them so well. Actually the little one—he is not in the picture—the little one I have not met at all. I think he is only, what? Six weeks old?” “What?” Again I looked at the picture, struggling to reconcile this wholesome Nordic family with Boris. “Are you divorced?” “No no no—” the vodka had arrived, icy carafe and two tiny glasses, he was pouring a shot for each of us—“Astrid and the children are mostly in Stockholm. Sometimes she comes to Aspen to the winter, to ski—she was ski champion, qualified for the Olympics when she was nineteen—” “Oh yeah?” I said, doing my best not to sound incredulous at this. The kids, as was fairly evident upon closer viewing, looked far too blond and bonny to be even vaguely related to Boris. “Yes yes,” said Boris, very earnestly, with a vigorous nod of the head. “She always has to be where there is skiing and—you know me, I hate the fucking snow, ha! Her father very very right-wing—a Nazi basically. I think —no wonder Astrid has depression problems with father like him! What a hateful old shit! But they are very unhappy and miserable people, all of them, these Swedes. One minute laughing and drinking and the next—darkness, not a word. Dziękuję,” he said to the waiter, who had reappeared with a tray of small plates: black bread, potato salad, two kinds of herring, cucumbers in sour cream, stuffed cabbage, and some pickled eggs. “I didn’t know they served food here.” “They don’t,” said Boris, buttering a slice of black bread and sprinkling it with salt. “But am starving. Asked them to bring something from next door.” He clinked his shot glass with mine. “Sto lat!” he said—his old toast. “Sto lat.” The vodka was aromatic and flavored with some bitter herb I couldn’t identify. “So,” I said, helping myself to some food. “Myriam?” “Eh?” I held out open palms in our childhood gesture: please explain. “Ah, Myriam! She works for me! Right-hand man, suppose you’d say. Although, I’ll tell you, she’s better than any man you’ll find. What a woman, my God. Not many like her, I’ll tell you. Worth her weight in gold. Here here,” he said, refilling my glass and sliding it back to me. “Za vstrechu!” lifting his own to me. “To our meeting!” “Isn’t it my turn to toast?” “Yes, it is—” clinking my glass—“but I am hungry and you are waiting too long.” “To our meeting, then.” “To our meeting! And to fortune! For bringing us together again!” As soon as we’d drunk, Boris fell immediately on the food. “And what exactly is it that you do?” I asked him. “This, that.” He still ate with the innocent, gobbling hunger of a child. “Many things. Getting by, you know?” “And where do you live? Stockholm?” I said, when he didn’t answer. He waved an expansive hand. “All over.” “Like—?” “Oh, you know. Europe, Asia, North and South America…” “That covers a lot of territory.” “Well,” he said, mouth full of herring, wiping a glob of sour cream off his chin, “am also small business owner, if you understand me rightly.” “Sorry?” He washed down the herring with a big slug of beer. “You know how it is. My official business so called is housecleaning agency. Workers from Poland, mostly. Nice pun in title of business, too. ‘Polish Cleaning Service.’ Get it?” He bit into a pickled egg. “What’s our motto, can you guess? ‘We clean you out,’ ha!”

I chose to let that one lie. “So you’ve been in the States this whole time?” “Oh no!” He had poured us each a new shot of vodka, was lifting his glass to me. “Travel a lot. I am here maybe six, eight weeks of the year. And the rest of the time—” “Russia?” I said, downing my shot, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not so much. Northern Europe. Sweden, Belgium. Germany sometimes.” “I thought you went back.” “Eh?” “Because—well. I never heard from you.” “Ah.” Boris rubbed his nose sheepishly. “It was a messed up time. Remember your house—that last night?” “Of course.” “Well. I’d never seen so much drugs in my life. Like half an ounce of coka and didn’t sell one stitch of it, not even one quarter gram. Gave a lot away, sure—was very popular at school, ha! Everyone loved me! But most of it— right up my nose. Then—the baggies we found—tablets of all assortments— remember? Those little greens? Some very serious cancer-patient-end-of-life pills—your dad must have been crazy addicted if he was taking that stuff.” “Yeah, I wound up with some of those too.” “Well then, you know! They don’t even make those good green oxys any more! Now they have the junkie-defeat so you can’t shoot them or snort! But your dad? Like—to go from drinking to that? Better a drunk in the street, any old day. First one I did—passed out before I hit my second line, if Kotku hadn’t been there—” he drew a finger across his throat—“pfft.” “Yep,” I said, remembering my own stupid bliss, keeling face-down on my desk upstairs at Hobie’s. “Anyway—” Boris downed his vodka in a gulp and poured us both another—“Xandra was selling it. Not that. That was your dad’s. For his own personal. But the other, she was dealing from where she worked. That couple Stewart and Lisa? Those like super straight real-estate looking people? They were bankrolling her.” I put down my fork. “How do you know that?” “Because she told me! And I guess they got ugly when she came up short, too. Like Mr. Lawyer Face and Miss Daisy Tote Bag all nice and kind at your house… petting her on the head… ‘what can we do’… ‘Poor Xandra…’ ‘we’re so sorry for you’… then their drugs are gone—phew. Different story! I felt really bad when she told me, for what we’d done! Big trouble for her! But, by then—” flicking his nose—“was all up here. Kaput.” “Wait—Xandra told you this?” “Yes. After you left. When I was living over there with her.” “You need to back up a little bit.” Boris sighed. “Well, okay. Is long story. But we have not seen each other in long while, right?” “You lived with Xandra?” “You know—in and out. Four-five months maybe. Before she moved back to Reno. I lost touch with her after that. My dad had gone back to Australia, see, and also Kotku and I were on the rocks—”

“That must have been really weird.” “Well—sort of,” he said restlessly. “See—” leaning back, signalling to the waiter again—“I was in pretty bad shape. I’d been up for days. You know how it is when you crash hard off cocaine—terrible. I was alone and really frightened. You know that sickness in your soul—fast breaths, lots of fear, like Death will reach a hand out and take you? Thin—dirty—scared shivering. Like a little half-dead cat! And Christmas too—everyone away! Called a bunch of people, no one picking up—went by this guy Lee’s where I stayed in the pool house sometime but he was gone, door locked. Walking and walking—staggering almost. Cold and frightened! Nobody home! So I went by to Xandra’s. Kotku was not talking to me by then.” “Man, you had some kind of serious balls. I wouldn’t have gone back there for a million dollars.” “I know, it took some onions, but was so lonely and ill. Mouth all gittering. Like—where you want to lie still and to look at a clock and count your heartbeats? except no place to lie still? and you don’t have a clock? Almost in tears! Didn’t know what to do! Didn’t even know was she still there. But lights were on—only lights on the street—came around by the glass door and there she was, in her same Dolphins shirt, in the kitchen making margaritas.” “What’d she do?” “Ha! Wouldn’t let me in, at first! Stood in the door and yelled a long while —cursed me, called me every name! But then I started crying. And when I asked could I stay with her?”—he shrugged—“she said yes.” “What?” I said, reaching for the shot he’d poured me. “You mean like stay stay—?” “I was scared! She let me sleep in her room! With TV turned to Christmas movies!” “Hmn.” I could see he wanted me to press for details, only from his gleeful expression I was not so sure I believed him about the sleeping-in-herroom business, either. “Well, glad that worked out for you, I guess. She say anything about me?” “Well, yes a little.” He chortled. “A lot actually! Because, I mean, don’t be mad, but I blamed some things on you.” “Glad I could help.” “Yes, of course!” He clinked my glass jubilantly. “Many thanks! You’d do the same, I wouldn’t mind. Honest, though, poor Xandra, I think she was glad to see me. To see anyone. I mean—” throwing his shot back—“it was crazy… those bad friends… she was all alone out there. Drinking a lot, afraid to go to work. Something could have happened to her, easy—no neighbors, really creepy. Because Bobo Silver—well, Bobo was actually not so bad guy. ‘The Mensch’? They don’t call him that for nothing! Xandra was scared to death of him but he didn’t go after her for your dad’s debt, not serious anyway. Not at all. And your dad was in for a lot. Probably he realized she was broke—your dad had fucked her over good and proper, too. Might as well be decent about it. Can’t get blood out of a turnip. But those other people, those friends of hers so called, were mean like bankers. You know? ‘You owe me,’ really hard, fucking connected, scary. Worse than him! Not so big sum even, but she was still way short and they were being nasty, all—” (mocking head tilt, aggressive finger point) “ ‘fuck you, we’re not going to wait, you better figure something out,’ like that. Anyway—good I went back when I did because then I was able to help.” “Help how?” “By giving her back the moneys I took.”

“You’d kept it?” “Well, no,” he said reasonably. “Had spent it. But—had something else going, see. Because right after the coke ran out? I had taken the money to Jimmy at the gun shop and bought more. See, I was buying it for me and Amber—just the two of us. Very very beautiful girl, very innocent and special. Very young too, like only fourteen! But just that one night at MGM Grand, we had got so close, just sitting on the bathroom floor all night up at KT’s dad’s suite and talking. Didn’t even kiss! Talk talk talk! I all but wept from it. Really opened up our hearts to each other. And—” hand to his breastbone—“I felt so sad when the day came, like why did it have to be over? Because we could have sat there talking forever to each other! and been so perfect and happy! That’s how close we got to each other, see, in just that one night. Anyway—this is why I went to Jimmy. He had really shitty coke— not half so good as Stewart and Lisa’s. But everyone knew, see—everyone had heard about that weekend at MGM Grand, me with all that blow. So people came to me. Like—dozen people my first day back at school. Throwing their moneys at me. ‘Will you get me some… will you get me some… will you get some for my bro… I have ADD, I need it for my homework.…’ Pretty soon was selling to senior football players and half the basketball team. Lots of girls too… friends of Amber and KT’s… Jordan’s friends too… college students at UNLV! Lost money on the first few batches I sold—didn’t know what to ask, sold fat for low price, wanted everyone to like me, yah yah yah. But once I figured it out—I was rich! Jimmy gave me huge discount, he was making lots of green off it too. I was doing him big favor, see, selling drugs to kids too scared to buy them—scared of people like Jimmy who sold them. KT… Jordan… those girls had a lot of money! Always happy to front me. Coke is not like E—I sold that too, but it was up and down, whole bunch then none for days, for coka I had a lot of regulars and they called two and three times a week. I mean, just KT—” “Wow.” Even after so many years, her name struck a chord. “Yes! To KT!” We raised our glasses and drank. “What a beauty!” Boris slammed his glass down. “I used to get dizzy around her. Just to breathe her same air.”

“Did you sleep with her?” “No… God, I tried… but she gave me a hand job in her little brother’s bedroom one night when she was wasted and in a very nice mood.” “Man, I sure left at the wrong time.” “You sure did. I came in my pants before she even got the zip down. And KT’s allowance—” reaching for my empty shot glass. “Two thousand a month! That is what she got for clothes only! Only KT already has so many clothes it is like, why does she need to buy more? Anyway by Christmas for me it was like in the movies where they have the ching-ching and the dollar signs. Phone never stopped ringing. Everybody’s best friend! Girls I never saw before, kissing me, giving me gold jewelry off their own necks! I was doing all the drugs I could do, drugs every day, every night, lines as long as my hand, and still money everywhere. I was like the Scarface of our school! One guy gave me a motorcycle—another guy, a used car. I would go to pick my clothes from off the floor—hundreds of dollars falling out from the pockets—no idea where it came from.” “This is a lot of information, really fast.” “Well, tell me about it! This is my usual learning process. They say experience is good teacher, and normally is true, but I am lucky this experience did not kill me. Now and then… when I have some beers sometimes… I’ll maybe hit a line or two? But mostly I do not like it any more. Burned myself out good. If you had met me maybe five years ago? I was all like—” sucking in his cheeks—“so. But—” the waiter had reappeared with more herring and beer—“enough about all that. You—” he looked me up and down—“what? Doing very nicely for yourself, I’d say?” “All right, I guess.” “Ha!” He leaned back with his arm along the back of the booth. “Funny old world, right? Antiques trade? The old poofter? He got you in to it?” “That’s right.” “Big racket, I heard.” “That’s right.” He eyed me up and down. “You happy?” he said. “Not very.” “Listen, then! I have great idea! Come work for me!” I burst out laughing. “No, not kidding! No no,” he said, shushing me imperiously as I tried to talk over him, pouring me a new shot, sliding the glass across the table to me, “what is he giving you? Serious. I will give you two times.” “No, I like my job—” over-pronouncing the words, was I as wrecked as I sounded?—“I like what I do.” “Yes?” He lifted his glass to me. “Then why aren’t you happy?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “And why not?” I waved my hand dismissively. “Because—” I’d lost track quite how many shots I’d had. “Just because.” “If not job then—which is it?” He had thrown back his own shot, tossing his head grandly, and started in on the new plate of herring. “Money problems? Girl?” “Neither.” “Girl then,” he said triumphantly. “I knew it.” “Listen—” I drained the rest of my vodka, slapped the table—what a genius I was, I couldn’t stop smiling, I’d had the best idea in years!—“enough of this. Come on—let’s go! I’ve got a big big surprise for you.” “Go?” said Boris, visibly bristling. “Go where?” “Come with me. You’ll see.” “I want to stay here.” “Boris—” He sat back. “Let it go, Potter,” he said, putting his hands up. “Just relax.” “Boris!” I looked at the bar crowd, as if expecting mass outrage, and then back at him. “I’m sick of sitting here! I’ve been here for hours.” “But—” He was annoyed. “I cleared this whole night for you! I had stuff to do! You’re leaving?” “Yes! And you’re coming with me. Because—” I threw my arms out —“you have to see the surprise!” “Surprise?” He threw down his balled-up napkin. “What surprise?” “You’ll find out.” What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten how to have fun? “Now come on, let’s get out of here.” “Why? Now?” “Just because!” The bar room was a dark roar; I’d never felt so sure of myself in my life, so pleased at my own cleverness. “Come on. Drink up!” “Do we really have to do this?” “You’ll be glad. Promise. Come on!” I said, reaching over and shaking his shoulder amicably as I thought. “I mean, no shit, this is a surprise you can’t believe how good.”

He leaned back with folded arms and regarded me suspiciously. “I think you are angry with me.” “Boris, what the fuck.” I was so drunk I stumbled, standing up, and had to catch myself on the table. “Don’t argue. Let’s just go.” “I think it is a mistake to go somewhere with you.” “Oh?” I looked at him with one half closed eye. “You coming, or not?” Boris looked at me coolly. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and said: “You won’t tell me where we’re going.” “No.” “You won’t mind if my driver takes us then?” “Your driver?” “Sure. He is waiting like two-three blocks away.” “Fuck.” I looked away and laughed. “You have a driver?” “You don’t mind if we go with him, then?” “Why would I?” I said, after a brief pause. Drunk as I was, his manner had brought me up short: he was looking at me with a peculiar, calculating, uninflected quality I had never seen before. Boris tossed back the rest of his vodka and then stood up. “Very well,” he said, twirling an unlit cigarette loosely in his fingertips. “Let’s get this nonsense over with, then.”

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