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Written and Illustrated
By Imelda Wei Ding Lo
(Instagram/Twitter: @fortunusgames)
Previously Published in
The Victoria Literary Festival
“Son, the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.”
― David Wong,
Only after his bowler hat fell off his head did I realize what kind of man he was.
On the surface, Ardalion Ivanovich Mayakov was just another one of my husband’s colleagues at the Bowery Labour Union. The proud owner of the anarchist bookstore, Ardalion Books and Gifts, Ardalion (“Please, Mrs. Abramov,” he had said, “Call me Ardalion — none of that Mister nonsense! We are all comrades-in-arms in our fight against crony capitalism!”) described himself as “a provocateur, a lover of life, and above all, a staunch materialist.”
Glib and charming in his own dark, provocative manner, Ardalion was also — as I gleaned from neighbourhood rumours — quite the Lothario.
“What can I say?” I had overheard him saying one morning to my husband, Lev, at a labour union meeting. “I love life, Mr. Abramov. I love being alive — I love enjoying all that life has to offer. Persistence, Mr. Abramov — that’s all seduction really is. It’s an art, just like protesting and handing out anarchist pamphlets.”
I was first introduced to him through Lev, who has long been involved at the Bowery Labour Union. A trim man in his late forties with slicked-back honey-brown hair and piercing hazel eyes, Ardalion was well known at the union for his anarchist leanings. A fellow immigrant from Russia, he hailed from the northern city of Moscow, where he had “learned from the best” — I suppose he was referring to the anarchist groups that were springing up like wildfire all over the Russian Empire from the 1880s to the 1900s.
One thing led to another, and soon, I found myself ensnared by the interest he showed in me. Truth be told, ever since my son, Sam, got accepted into law school, and Lev began spending nearly all of his waking hours at work or at the labour union, I had sunken into a depressed state I would’ve never imagined myself in. I felt overlooked, worthless, unattractive, and unappreciated, despite and perhaps, in spite of all the hard work I put into my newspaper articles and into soliciting clients for our family business, “Abramov Printing House.”
But now, this strange man had suddenly popped into my life. There was an element of seduction to his words, which touched me in a way I didn’t know I could be touched. He said a lot of wonderful, flattering things about me — things my dour, stone-faced husband would never say.
He told me I was beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, which — at least for a while — soothed the fears I have long held about myself, the life I led, and the relationship I had with Sam and Lev.
“Oh, Raisa,” he had later crooned in Russian in a private conversation between the two of us. “Tell me more about your youth in Odessa. I have always wanted to go to that lovely southern city by the sea, but alas, I never had the chance while I was still in Russia.”
We were in a private room in a speakeasy — a place I would’ve never even thought of entering into just a few weeks prior to meeting Ardalion. Before Ardalion, I had been, as my son put it, the “epitome of the overprotective, conservative parent,” suspicious of any and all people who didn’t fit into the mould of what Lev and I had come to define as “acceptable.”
Alcohol? Out of the question, particularly after Prohibition.
Someone who cursed too much? Or, after Sam turned eight, cursed at all? No, never talk to that person again.
Someone who enjoyed going to the Lower East Side Fighting Club to learn self-defence? No, don’t talk to that person, Sam — he might be violent!
Talking to Ardalion — and thinking long and hard about what my son had previously said to me — made me realize that I had been too hard-headed and close-minded about these kinds of things before.
Why? All because of fear.
“Raya, [1] I can see that you’re driven primarily by fear,” Ardalion had pointed out to me that evening at the speakeasy. “Why? Why are you so...afraid?” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“I am?”
“Yes, you are. You’re afraid of losing business, you’re afraid that your son will drop out of law school, you’re afraid that your son won’t be able to support himself even if he does graduate, you’re afraid your husband has become a different person —”
I flinched at the last sentence. “What do you mean?” My voice was suddenly hoarse.
“Well, Raya, I think you’re afraid that your husband has, let’s say, changed since he came to America, am I correct?”
“Everyone changes. I have changed. You yourself have undoubtedly changed since coming to America, have you not?” I felt blood rise to my cheeks. Something about this question wasn’t right. Why was he asking something so personal? Sure, we had talked about more personal topics before, but not like this.
“Of course. But you are not happy with how he is, I believe. I can see it written all over your face. I may not have known you for very long, but I noticed that you are not a happy woman by any definition.”
“And what is that to you…?”
“You’re right — what is it to me?” Ardalion smiled and leaned back in his chair. Propping his face on his hand, he gazed hypnotically into my eyes and continued, “I’m just a down-to-earth working-class guy who likes to criticize and problematize the oppressive power structures that exist here in the so-called Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. But Raya — I care. You’re one of the few women whom I’ve come to care about. You’re an intelligent, beautiful, and generous woman. I’ve yet to meet anyone quite like you on the Lower East Side. To see someone like you driven to such a state because of fear — it is truly a tragedy.”
“You’re exaggerating.” I frowned. “I’m not as fearful as you say I am.”
“Really?” His hand edged closer to mine on the coffee table. “Really, Raya? Then why does your son, who is now twenty-one years old, not ten years old, often complain about the curfew that you and his father have imposed on him?”
I felt the hackles on the back of my neck rise. “The curfew is to protect him. Just last week, a young man was shot to death on his way back from night classes! We just don’t want — “
“Ah, but the chances of that happening are quite slim, are they not? Why not give an energetic young man like your son more freedom to live the life he’s always wanted to live…?”
“Maybe I am fearful,” I conceded, “but that’s just my way of showing love and concern for my son.”
“A way of showing love and affection that’s based on fear? Sounds like what you’ve told me about your husband.”
“Keep your nose out of my marital life, please.”
“I apologize,” Ardalion looked down, apparently embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. I-I’m just concerned, Raya, since I think you should face your fears head on and that you should come to terms with the negative emotions that you have about your current life.”
“Fair enough,” I gave him a hard smile. “It’s true that I have been feeling rather down these last couple of months.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Why?” I sighed and turned my gaze away from him. Focusing my gaze instead on the Art Nouveau paintings behind him, I continued, “Sam always says he wants to drop out of law school. He says he feels ‘called’ to be an actor, not a lawyer, and well, every time he mentions this to my husband, he and my husband start screaming and yelling at each other.”
I shuddered, thinking of the disagreement that had taken place between the two of them just two days ago.
“It’s not a pleasant thing to witness, and these disagreements are happening more and more often as Sam becomes increasingly convinced that it’s his fate to be an actor.” I rolled my eyes. “My son can be a very foolish boy. He doesn’t realize just how cruel and terrible the world actually is…and how hard it is to make ends meet.”
Taking my hand in his rough, leathery ones, Ardalion said, “I understand, Raya. I too will have to deal with these fears once my boy, Mitya, grows up. He’s only twelve now, but he’s already becoming quite the talker, though not as much as your Sam.”
"If there is something Sam is good at, it’s talking. The boy can talk for hours at an end. Even when you think you have nothing in common with him, he’ll somehow manage to find a common topic and yammer on about it for the next ten or so hours,” I smiled briefly, remembering how Sam had managed to make conversation with the unexpressive and taciturn undertaker, Mr. Haldersen.
“That’s why Lev thought Sam should become a lawyer. You know, lawyers do a lot of talking and arguing, which of which come very naturally to him.”
“But,” I continued, sighing again, “what Lev decides for Sam isn’t always what Sam wants. Come to think of it, the two rarely agree with each other on anything. Sam’s stubborn, but Lev is perhaps even more staggeringly so. He’s hard to get through at times. So uncommunicative. So hellbent on what he thinks is right. So...cold.”
Ardalion’s eyes widened slightly. “He is cold, I agree. From what I see of him at the meetings, anyways. I mean, I don’t know him that well. But it seems to be the case that he is cold. Even our colleagues think he is. Judgmental, too.”
“He wasn’t always like this,” I murmured, lost in my own memories of our youth spent in Odessa. Once upon a time, we had been a handsome, energetic couple.
Now?
We were just another boring, schlubby, middle-aged couple trying our darndest to make sure our son will have the perfect, middle-class American lifestyle we had always wanted for ourselves but have had yet to achieve.”
“He wasn’t always so cold and so judgmental. You’re right, Ardasha [2] — he has changed. The man I fell in love with all those years ago in Odessa no longer exists. He’s been replaced by this stern patriarch who always has to have his way. He’s never bothered to listen to me, particularly not after Sam started high school. After that, it was just ‘Sam must go to law school! He must!’ He doesn’t even care about what really makes Sam happy. Honestly, it would be nice if Sam had the chance to pursue acting. Most people never find something that makes them so happy, but at the very least, even if he can’t make a living from acting, at least Sam has been able to find something he truly enjoys doing!”
I paused, exhausted by my sudden emotional outburst. Ardalion leaned closer to me and we locked eyes. For a split second, I felt dizzy. Was it the alcohol I had just consumed? Or was it —
“Raya.” His hand tightened around mine as his face drew closer to mine and suddenly, I felt his lips graze mine. Feeling a surge of panic, I suddenly shrieked and pushed him away. As his bowler hat flew to the floor, I realized with a stab of regret just who — and what — he was.
Just another stinking Lothario, always on the prowl for bored, defenceless women to seduce. What a demon this man was — a bona fide Mephistopheles, exuding class, empathy and social conscience. All of this superficial charm, however, was just a means to an end.
What a fool I was to tell him so much about myself. He was planning this all along!
With my heart still thumping loudly, I scowled at him, “What was that? Excuse me, Ardalion — or should I say, Mr. Mayakov — what was that?!”
He held his hands up and flashed an apologetic, wolfish grin. “I see that I have peeved you.”
“Peeved is an understatement,” I growled. “Get away from me. I don’t want to see you ever again, Mayakov. Preying on me when I was at my weakest! All because I have some insecurities about my family life…!”
You don’t love your husband. You admitted it yourself.”
“Be quiet. Don’t put words into my mouth, you pathetic gaslighter. I’m going home. I-I’m telling my husband about this.”
“Go ahead,” Ardalion sneered, “Tell him about it. Let’s see what goody-two-shoes Lev will do.”
I never did see that slimeball of an anarchist bookseller again — but from what my Levka [3] has told me, Ardalion is still the same to this very day.
Some people never change.
Footnotes:
[1] = An affectionate diminutive form of “Raisa” in Russian.
[2] = An affectionate diminutive of “Ardalion” in Russian.
[3] = An affectionate dimiuntive of "Lev" in Russian.
About The Author:
Imelda Wei Ding Lo (a.k.a. Fortunus Games) is a multi-disciplinary writer, artist, podcaster, and game developer who is passionate about environmentalism, technology, alternative health, and above all, story-telling mediums that explore character psychology and development.
Imelda's short story, "Mephistopheles Tips His Hat," was published in the Victoria Literary Festival's 2019 short story anthology.
She has also self-published two graphic novels, "Sam in New York" and "The Book of Joel," which are currently being updated weekly on Tapas.io.
Some of her artworks, including "The Modern Tantalus" and "Farewell My Father's Son," were exhibited at THE HOLY ART and Boomer Art Gallery in London, England, in 2021.
Imelda is also the co-host of the literary podcast, "The Nuts and Bolts of Writing," which is on YouTube, Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and other platforms, which are all linked in the podcast’s Anchor.fm profile.
You can find her on Twitter/Instagram @fortunusgames. Her website is www.fortunusgames.com.