“I’m meeting Mina at three at the hairdresser,” a woman wearing a gray sable coat said in Russian to another woman in mink.
“The meringue cake at M&I is fresh today. Do you want me to pick you up some?”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I would love some for tea. My mother-in-law is coming over, and the meringue cake is her favorite.”
“Sweetening her up again?” the woman in mink asked.
“Josip and I are going on the cruise we won at the raffle. I want her to mind the dogs while we’re gone.”
“Meringue cake will do it?”
“That and if we promise to take her on the next cruise.”
They turned the corner. I watched as their coats disappeared into a fruit stand, and I headed for the boardwalk. Even a block away the damp salt smell of the sea hung in the air. The wood of the boardwalk was wet from a morning rain. I sat on a bench against a newly whitewashed wall and stared at the ocean. An old woman wearing a paisley headscarf was throwing bread over a railing, feeding seagulls on the beach. The birds were going in circles overhead. A young mother pushing a baby carriage stopped to wipe mustard off her child’s hands and face. The sun was warm and lovely, and the seagulls threw shadows like airplanes flying in formation over the boardwalk. Two painters were whitewashing the walls along the sides of the boardwalk. They stopped to take a break when their partner returned with a tray of hot dogs and french fries. I could smell the food on the wind. The child with the mustard on his face started crying. His mother lit a cigarette and pushed the stroller closer to the beach and the seagulls. The birds screeched in harmony with the baby. There was much commotion as the birds rose, flapping fiercely and surrounding the old woman. She dumped the remaining crumbs in her bag over the railing, sat back, and fixed her scarf, which had come undone. The child started laughing, and the mother put out her cigarette and continued to walk down the boardwalk. The birds made a spiral into the air and dove for the bread. Brighton Beach was feeling very agreeable.
A dog came running up the boardwalk as the painters started to whitewash the next wall. The owner held out a large bone to the dog, who promptly grabbed it and put it securely between his front paws. He chewed ravenously right in front of me. His owner, who was wearing a blue and red jogging outfit and had a little bit of a limp, came over to retrieve his dog.
“Come on, Pepe, I haven’t finished my run,” he said.
The dog ignored him. This was one of the largest dogs I had ever seen. He had long legs with bulging joints. His back had black splotches on his otherwise white coat. He had haunches the size of a pony and did not sit his behind fully on the slats of the boardwalk. A large but delicate beast.
“I had a dog named Pepe. He was much smaller than yours,” I said.
The man was dark like Mr. Suri and had a gold ring in his nose.
“He’s a Great Dane, and he loves to run on the beach.”
“Mine liked to run along the river.”
“The Hudson?” he asked.
“No, the Neva, at home.”
“The Neva?” he asked.
“It’s in Russia, St. Petersburg.”
“So many people from Russia live here. Did your Pepe like to chase his shadow on the beach like this one?” he said, laughing.
“Dogs are so easily fooled,” I said.
“They may be small-brained, but they are forever loyal,” he added.
“Loyalty, yes, it’s their nature,” I said.
The whole time we spoke, the man jogged in place.
“Good day, ma’am, we must be on our way. Come along, Pepe,” he said as he tipped his cap with an N and a Y embroidered on it and ran down the boardwalk in the direction of a giant Ferris wheel and an Eiffel Tower–looking structure. Pepe loped behind with the bone dangling from his jaws. The sun was bright and harsh shining off the panting dog’s white coat.
On the beach, broken glass and plastic bags had settled down into the hardened winter sand mixed with snow and the occasional clamshell. A man with hair down to his shoulders was flying a kite with very little success. The seagulls were still crying and fighting over whatever bread was left. The bird sounds and squeals from children were picked up by the wind, stretched and muffled by the dull sound of the waves. Beach sounds were the same in Russia. The Baltic and the Atlantic must merge at some point, even here at Brighton Beach.
Russians were easy to spot, even from a distance. The head shawls, the way they leaned back and forth when they spoke to each other. Babushkas listening to babushkas.
The man’s kite was finally flying, and the wind was making his hair flutter around his head. He was running backwards to keep the kite in the air. He was headed straight for the boulders of a breakwater. I didn’t think he could see where he was going.
“Excuse me, sir!” I yelled. “Watch out! You are going to hit the…”
Too late. He was down and the kite was in the surf. He was getting up. He brushed himself off. He looked embarrassed even though he did not know that anyone saw him take the fall. He probably never heard my warning. No witnesses, no embarrassment, only a kite floating on the ocean’s waves, and no need for me to impose myself on everyone I encountered. Move on, Stalina, you have more important business to attend to.
The boardwalk stretched up and down the beach, curved with the shape of the coastline. As I walked closer to the Ferris wheel, I could also see an amusement park rising up behind the boardwalk. One hot dog seller was open. All the other stands had metal gates pulled down. They advertised clams on the half shell, cotton candy, and popcorn. There was a roller coaster! I would have taken a ride in honor of my room design, but it appeared to be closed for the season. The clouds at the horizon were moving along with me. The Ferris wheel was in sight. There was a howling sound coming from somewhere in the amusement park. As I got closer to the source, I could hear that it was coming from a tower. A tower that was a ride that took people up and up to see everything around Brighton and out to sea. The wind was whipping inside of it, making a very mournful sound. There was an observation deck around the tower that slid up and down like a ring on a finger.
That deck moving up and down made me think how my mother would obsessively slide her wedding ring up and down her finger after my father was taken away. She had become very thin and would remove it to wash the dishes so as not lose it down the drain. Her fingers once were chubby and the ring was held tight by the soft bulge of flesh that used to form below her knuckle. The very day that Stalin died, Olga gave me a black ribbon for my hair.
“It’s for mourning because you are his namesake, Stalina,” Olga said as we stood in front of the mirror and she styled my hair with the ribbon.
After Olga left I took off the ribbon, and as my mother washed dishes, I strung her ring on the ribbon and tied it around her neck. That’s where she wore it from then on. There were people crying in the streets for days after Stalin died. My mother was very quiet, there were no tears, but when she washed the dishes, she let the water run over the rationed legal limit.
The tower continued its song of lament as I walked back to Brighton Beach Avenue. I passed a market that sold handmade brooms just like ones the street cleaners in Russia used to keep the avenues spotless. I had not seen one since I left.