March 28, 1995
Tuesday
11:20 a.m.
The monumental Adel Veniaminovna turned out to be a burn surgeon with a command of English and an international driver’s license.
In Los Angeles, a realtor met us — he was renting out a designer villa with an ocean view. I was shaking with anticipation at passport control. The moment I laid eyes on a Cadillac convertible, I lost my head. Dreams do come true!
Yeah, right. Adel Veniaminovna ordered the leather top raised. Sunlight was contraindicated for Roman Viktorovich’s condition!
Settled on the back seat, I set about scanning the surroundings, long since studied from VHS tapes. The route was familiar: from LAX to a bungalow on Ocean View Drive, Malibu. I had no idea what a «bungalow» actually was, but my English was good! «A drive with an ocean view» sounded cool, like something out of a movie!
The dream came true!!!
Alas...
It didn’t come true.
On arriving at my future residence, I sank into gloom. I categorically disliked the single-story gray shack. It huddled against a gray hill in a gray settlement on the outskirts. Miles from the ocean! And the ocean wasn’t even visible from the windows — only from the corner of the miserable little plot: a clearing framed by bushes, a puddle with a little bridge, and gravel overgrown with grass. Plenty of puddles, boulders and rocks sitting in them, imitating a stern northern landscape... under the palm trees.
Inside the shack, the same Nordic gloom: a bedroom, a dining area, a utility room. I’d imagined fashionable American living differently. A pile of movies had given me the idea: the Yankees live in two-story houses with an endless swimming pool, palm trees swaying, blondes languishing beneath them. Here there was nothing but a three-by-five pool.
And that was the sum total of my American life.
Adel went off to rent an SUV, to drive me to the hospital. I was left alone in the house.
Nothing to do, so I went over the place a second time with a meticulous inspection.
