The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

this, or did the other iguana shudder, slump on its feet a bit?
    “Please send my regards to her,” he goes on—not one to be knocked off his course, that’s another habit of the powerful—ignoring anything out of line, letting it slide as if it never happened. Canceled as being not in effect. Except, if your matinka’s off limits for me, then why the hell should you be messing with mine?
    “Regards from whom?”
    “Boozerov,” the iguana finally cracks and names himself, and it sounds unexpectedly intimate: the hood falls, the frill folds, there are worn loose sacks around his eyes, sagging jowls of well-cured skin above his shirt collar—a man in his fifties, and deeply so—with liver spots on his cheekbones, troubles with digestion and very likely his prostate, too, his career mostly played out, and obviously not too brilliantly, ahead of him only retirement with its pension and the constant worry that it’ll be cut, and what has he done to be snarled at like that?
    “Pavlo Ivanovych Boozerov,” he confides further—almost embarrassed as if he were whispering something lewd into my ear, a man pestering a woman in the street, following her—and is transformed right before my eyes, this poor, ill man, just think about living with a last name like that, sheesh, that’s quite a favor his mom and dad did him! A serious name—earnest, genuine Ryazan-Tambov vintage—the kind often found among old army retirees, like the unforgettable lieutenant colonel Plankin who taught PE and history at our school and was rumored to have become Plankin after he took his wife’s name, having himself been born Dillrodov. So Boozerov is actually not that bad, could be worse—unless, of course, Pavlo Ivanovych is pulling my leg, because he looks no more like an authentic Boozerov from Ryazan marshlands (Tatar cheekbones, gray eyes, a general watery indeterminacy of color) than I look like Osama bin Laden. The casting’s all wrong. Is he expecting to hear how pleased I am to meet him, or what?
    “Just say it like that, to your dear matinka—Boozerov, Pavlo Ivanovych. I think she’ll remember me. Our paths crossed.”
    “It’s a small world,” Aidy observes philosophically, inserting his head into the frame, and, thankfully, right on time—I have not the slightest clue what to say to Pavlo Ivanovych’s lyrical pronouncement. Really have no desire whatsoever to learn when and under what circumstances his path may have crossed with my matinka’s, and thus proceed to say nothing, obtusely and not politely at all. Over and out. And anyway Pavlo Ivanovych’s digestive juices must be trumpeting their call to battle: I see two yellowish-white streaks curdled like old sheep-cheese in the corners of his mouth and get genuinely queasy. Pavlo Ivanovych, on the other hand, feels quite the opposite.
    “A pleasure,” he helpfully voices the line I missed—if no one’s serving, he’ll help himself. “A pleasure to know that she’s raised such a...famous daughter (last word spoken with the Russian stress). I myself often watch your shows, although it’s not always easy for me to find the time. And my daughter (with the Russian stress) just worships you.”
    This stiff little stump in his corset suit smiles for the first time. What a surprise—an awkward, meager smile, à la Shtirlitz from the classic Soviet TV series. It looks as though he had to engage untrained and long-calcified facial muscles; maybe that’s what they did in their Cheka schools: set everyone’s faces to the same standard, one mold for all, but still—at the mention of his daughter, the smile works, comes out warm, likeable, brightens his face—he’s basically a handsome man, even exotic-looking, so what if his shape let him down a bit.
    And I do smile back and say thank you, and that it’s very nice to hear: an automatic reaction like a camera’s flash once you pushed the button, but wait, it’s not over yet; he reaches into his chest pocket (No gun under his arm!—then again, should there have been?) and pulls out a notepad and shoves it at me, opened to a blank page of checkered graph paper. His daughter (with the Russian stress!) would be so thrilled to have my autograph. A loving dad—how nice. I’d be happy to, of course, only I would need a pen, too. And something for her personally, he mutters. Just afew words, one line. Of course, my pleasure. What’s her name? Jeez. Very nice...thank you...me too.
    Sheesh, that was it?! All