The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

All three or none

Two weeks later the phone rang, giving us all a start. We hadn’t heard anything from Israel for a long time, and the ringtone signaled an international call. Sulfia whisked the phone to her ear.

As the voice in the phone quacked away, telltale redness spread across Sulfia’s face. She listened with a furrowed brow; she didn’t understanding anything and the red blotches spread as she strained to try. I took the phone from her hand.

It was Dieter, though I barely recognized him. First of all, he was talking very fast and squeaky. Second, it wasn’t clear what language he was using.

Then suddenly I understood a word, one single word, but at least it was an important one: “invitation.”

“Invitation, yes,” I said. “For three: Rosalinda, Sulfia, Aminat.”

The phone went deathly quiet.

“All three or none,” I relayed to the suddenly mute Dieter.

After I had hung up, I turned to Sulfia, who was pressing the palms of her hands against her heated cheeks.

“You see?” I said. “He invited us to Germany.”

Sulfia’s eyes got really big.

“When?”

“Soon,” I said, though I wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful.

We had a long road ahead of us, and the prospect felt like a gallstone.

In order to stoke Dieter’s fire I needed a nice photo of Aminat. I rang the doorbell of a neighbor I’d heard made his living selling photos of women. I had to ring for a long time. He had on only underwear when he opened the door.

“Whatcha want?” he asked looking me over with his open eye. The other was still closed.

“Photos,” I said.

He led me into the foyer and disappeared behind one of the many doors. I looked around. The walls were white, presumably. But they were covered floor to ceiling — practically wallpapered — with black-and-white shots of naked women.

“Did you take these all yourself?” I asked when he reemerged.

He had an open container of milk in his hand and a white trickle was running down his chin. I looked at him and gulped. I would like to have asked him where he was able to get the milk.

When he told me what he charged for photos, I asked him to quit joking — this was a serious matter.

“Then do it yourself,” said the neighbor.

I slammed the door as I walked out.

I could do almost anything. Except take photographs. I didn’t even own a camera. I had a vague memory of how years before Kalganow would hole up in the bathroom with a red light and dunk photo paper in little tubs and the contours of faces would slowly take shape on the paper. But I didn’t trust Kalganow to take a nice photo.

I went to a photo studio on the corner and studied the pictures in the window. All the men looked like mass murderers and all the children seemed to have their eyes crossed. And Aminat wasn’t even photogenic.

Back home I opened my wardrobe. I owned two fur coats, an old one and a newer one that one of my admirers had given me, back when I still had some. I tried the coat on one last time. I hadn’t worn it recently. Hold-ups took place in broad daylight these days; only someone with a death wish would dare to wear something of such value on the street.

I stroked the fur. It was cool and feathery, and caressed my hands, which were cracked and rough from doing lots of dishes. I folded the fur coat and pushed it into a black duffel bag.

The whole way to the consignment shop my heart beat nervously. I put great effort into trying to look scruffy so no robber would think I had such a treasure hidden in my bag. When I arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. The saleswoman refused to take me and my coat into the back room, so I spread it out in the shop itself and said I’d like to have my money immediately rather than wait until someone bought the fur to get my share. It was obvious that the coat wouldn’t be hanging in the shop for long anyway.

The saleswoman looked at my magnificent piece with a look of slight disgust. I wasn’t going to be fooled by that. I waited as the woman felt the fur with her fingers, turned it over, and pulled on individual hairs. She was still scowling skeptically, and then she said a sum that was half of what I had figured the worst-case scenario might be.

“No,” I said. I knew these lazy tricks. “Either you ask your manager or I’ll take it to another shop.”

The saleswoman shrugged her shoulders, disappeared into the back, and returned with another woman who looked exactly the same, right down to her hairdo. The second woman didn’t even look at me. She immediately started to poke at the fur with her thumb and forefinger. I had the feeling she might hurt my fur. This second woman said an even lower number.

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “Your co-worker. . ”

The look from her cool, nearly colorless eyes silenced me. I suddenly understood: every word was going to cost me five rubles.

“You can have it,” I said, watching as she carried my coat into the back and returned with a pile of tattered banknotes. My life had just become one prized possession poorer.