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“Mom, Dad, Vlad knows a great little sushi place nearby,” I say. “What do you think?”
They gladly agree to a walk, and we set out on our journey, with Mom and Dad quizzing us about how we met and how long we’ve been dating.
“We work together,” Vlad replies, unflappable as always. “How about the two of you? How long have you been married?”
The diversion works. Mom launches into the story I wish I’d never heard, and especially not the dozens of times she’s told it in my presence. Apparently, she replied to an ad in the newspaper and posed nude for Dad’s painting, he found her irresistible, and one thing led to another, by which I mean that they covered each other in paint and had wild sex on a giant canvas. The resulting work of art actually hangs in their living room to this day.
If I ever get therapy, I’m sure I’ll bring it up. A lot.
Vlad listens to this inappropriate story as calmly as if she’d told him they’d met on eHarmony.
Then another text from him arrives:
Do you want me to have Ivan buy you a keychain lock for the door?
Is he afraid the next time they’ll barge in, they’ll start making art at my place?
Grinning, I reply in the affirmative.
How about one of those smart video doorbells? I know a brand that’s extra safe, privacy-wise.
As I agree to this too, we reach the restaurant and walk in.
“Konnichiwa,” the restaurant staff yells at us in unison.
Vlad replies in kind, his pronunciation sounding flawless to me.
I catch Mom and Dad exchanging an approving glance.
We get seated, and Mom orders me a sushi deluxe, then gets the same for herself and Dad. Vlad orders his sushi à la carte, naming the pieces by their Japanese names like a pro.
“So, Venus, I heard you sing opera,” Vlad says when the waitress leaves. He pulls out his phone. “Would I be able to find a performance by you online?”
She bobs her head enthusiastically. “Search my name, but ignore all the packs of razors and razor blades that pop up early on in the search.”
Two seconds later, Mom’s mezzo-soprano emanates from Vlad’s phone’s speakers.
“Ah,” Vlad says after barely two beats of music. “The Habanera from Carmen.”
“Marry him,” Mom says in a very loud whisper.
My face matches the red top of the full-sodium soy sauce.
Facing Vlad, Mom asks, “What is that wonderful accent I detect in your speech?”
“Russian,” Vlad says. “Speaking of, have you been in anything by Tchaikovsky? The Queen of Spades is my favorite of his.”
The food comes as they launch into an animated discussion of Russian opera, and one thing becomes clear to me: no matter what happens between us, Mom will never, ever, stop talking about Vlad.
“Wolf, you’re a painter, right?” Vlad asks when Mom’s mouth becomes busy with a piece of fatty tuna.
And just like that, Dad and Vlad are soon dropping names like Repin and Malevich as they talk Russian art.
I eat my sushi and enjoy most of it. However, there are two pieces of something brown I’ve never had before, and they look particularly unappetizing.
“That’s uni,” Vlad says, noticing where my chopsticks are hovering. “It’s sea urchin gonads.”
Of course it is. Still, that’s a better name than what I had in my head: poopy sushi.
