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Art’s expression warms a degree. “I appreciate my fans. Please thank her for supporting the arts when you next see her.”
Vladlen burps. “She’ll kick herself that she didn’t come here.” He slams the vodka bottle in front of Art, then fishes out a magic marker from his pocket. “Could you sign this?”
Art’s smile is as confused as I am. “Sign a vodka bottle?”
Vladlen starts to nod, but it must make his head spin because he grabs on to the edge of our table. “It would be so great if you did. She’ll keep it prominently in her living room and show it to everyone.”
Art grabs the marker and the bottle. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Dazdraperma,” Vladlen says and hiccups once more.
Art chuckles.
Vladlen looks at him with a stony expression.
Art’s eyes widen. “You’re serious?” Turning to me, he explains, “It’s a rare name. Short for ‘Da Zdravstvuyet Pervoye Maya,’ which means ‘Long Live May Day’—a.k.a. the international Workers Day.’”
Vladlen shrugs. “Grandparents were Commies. Mom was under their influence when she named me.”
I look at Art questioningly, and he explains, “Vladlen is a portmanteau.”
Vladlen looks offended. “What did you call me?”
“A portmanteau means a word made up of parts of other words,” Art says. “In your case, Vladimir and Lenin.”
Vladlen’s expression clears. “It could have been worse.” He hiccups. “I once met a Pofistal.”
I look from Art to Vladlen and back.
Art rolls his eyes. “Translated, ‘Josef Stalin, defeater of fascism.’”
At least it’s not a name honoring Saddam Hussein, Charles Manson, and Cruella de Vil at the same time.
“So.” Vladlen shifts from foot to foot and nearly falls. “Can you sign it?”
Art uncaps the pen and writes something in Russian. Whatever it is, Vladlen looks on the verge of tearing up after he reads it. “Mommy will be so happy,” he says. “As a small token of my thanks, will the two of you drink with me?”
Before anyone can answer, Vladlen says, “May we be healthy,” and takes a big swig from the bottle.
Art whispers, “To refuse would be an insult.”
Skunk.
Vladlen hands me the vodka.
Straight from the bottle? Another first today.
I carefully lift it to my mouth.
Gia would probably die if she saw this breach of hygiene protocols. Then again, doesn’t alcohol kill all the germs?
With my peripheral vision, I see Art take a picture with his phone.
I go for it.
Oops. A lot more vodka goes down my throat than I intended.
My choices are to swallow or spit it out at my husband-to-be, so I go for the civilized option.
