The Doll Before the Last One

(From "The Doll Before the Last One")

 

I’ve traveled to many places in the world, but I’ve never been to Russia. I’ve no particular aversion to that nation’s cuisine, its weather, or the natives. And I don’t agree with those who say that life’s too short to learn the language, even if you were born there.  Linguistically, I see it as no different in complexity than Polish, Mandarin, or Arabic. The reason I’ve never been – and probably never will – is that I don’t like their dolls. I mean those brightly painted little barrel-shaped dolls that all fit inside each other. The ones they call Matryoshka.

 

I know they’re popular in other countries, and that I'm as likely to come across one in the Bronx as I am on Park Avenue. But the thought of seeing them everywhere, if I ever went to Russia, makes me break out in a cold sweat.

 

From my apartment balcony I can look down and enjoy the non-Russian buzz of New York mid-October morning life at 7.15 a.m. Right now, the sun’s a mere moonlight glow, still determined to force some heat through an obstructive grey sky. From eighty-four feet up, I watch pedestrians pounding the streets, paper bags and latte cups in hand. Most will be getting ready to rejoin the business traffic either by cab, by subway; or in most cases, they'll continue on foot. Every so often, there’s a staccato concerto of car horns to keep any slackers in time with the beat. In a few minutes, I'll be down there with them, grabbing my own slice of commuter life. But before that, I move to the bathroom, where I splash some warm water over my face to open the pores before shaving.

 

I try to look at my own face as little as possible, so I shave without looking in the mirror.