The Cosmopolitans Read Online Free

mannequin in the mall ever wore suspenders.
    “ Tell us, ” Stalina said, putting a playful hand over Leonid’s mouth. His face looked especially large compared to the hand. Milla couldn’t believe that her mother was willingly touching his lips.
    “ I’m not bragging, ” Mrs. Chaikin said, and Stalina vigorously shook her head. “ It’s just very interesting, because Arkady and I, we never even knew things like this existed. Show them, Lenka. ”
    Leonid removed Stalina’s hand. “Come on, Ma.”
    “You are come on,” Mrs. Chaikin said.
    “ Batyushka, my lord, ” Stalina said. “ Millatchka, look. ”
    Milla lowered her eyes to the object in Leonid’s hand: a gold money clip. They were all so gauche . How could her mother, who had taught her that word, betray her own standards so completely? She wished she could tell Malcolm how awful they all were, but she would never have that chance again.
    “It’s just more convenient than a wallet,” Leonid said. “When I went to Japan, they —”
    Stalina said, “No apologies, Leonchik. You saw something perfect, and you grabbed.” She rolled this last sentence in Milla’s direction as if it were a tank.
     
     
     
     
    Roman
     
    Roman’s mother wasn’t always a narcomanka , but she was always a hairdresser, which was bad enough, a girl from a good Jewish family. To their credit, all their relatives had made dire predictions about his mother for years, which mitigated Roman’s surprise when, at age eight, he had returned from a field trip to the Institute of Metal Testing to find his mother asleep on the couch, shiny-skinned, a needle sticking out of her arm like a helpful arrow in a diagram.
    A few years ago, his mother had found Love! with a man who sold underwear on the street and claimed a Mafia connection. That was what she’d been looking for all along, didn’t Roman understand? He’d get there soon enough himself.
    The more this new love beat her, the more heroin she needed, and the more heroin he provided, the more he beat her. One night, Roman jumped on the man’s back, and his mother took out one of the kitchen knives. Its ultimate destination was to be Roman. He finally agreed to go stay with his aunt and uncle in America.
    Now, Roman sat alone in the Molochniks’ den, watching the same program he had watched in Russia: beautiful American teenagers lit another beach bonfire. During the commercials, he re- drew X’s on the backs of his hands. Someone had left half a beer on the coffee table. He reminded himself he was straight-edge now.
    A girl came in, darkening the room with her black-hole hair.
    “You can change,” he said, holding out the remote control. She must be one of the Molochnik daughters. His aunt had told him they were intelligentniye girls, so he’d thought they would be ugly. This girl changed the channel to one on which some boys were flopping their hair around and breaking mirrors. The music was all right, a little soft for him. He preferred hip-hop and rap.
    “MTV?” he said.
    “MTV sucks.” With jerky little motions, she sat on the floor. She was a scrawny mosquito, but sexy, but probably a druggie, but a rich Americanka , so she’d be okay. Not that drugs were okay for anyone, he let the X’s remind him.
    “You go to high?” That was wrong, he could tell from her expression. He couldn’t grind away at English any more. “ Do you go to university? ”
    “ In school ,” she said, in a laughably heavy American accent.
    “ Do you like this band? ” Now the main boy was drawing a piece of mirrored glass across his throat, but no blood came out.
    “They’re a little soft , ” she said.
    “ I think the same! ” He told himself to calm down and furrowed his brow, which people said made him look older. “But seriously, they are — posers.”
    She turned and smiled, only on one side of her mouth, a little suspicious. Her teeth were fine. If she only used a few drugs, it was okay, he’d teach her the