Page 65 of Aftertaste

Sweet, tart, tangy soup. Slim strips of boiled cabbage. Carrot. Potato. Cubed and stewed. A single chunk of beef chuck, boiled so long it dissolved in the broth. Beet, cubed and blanched till its color faded to pink and dyed everything else in the pot maroon. Something zesty, below and above—tomato paste? Pizza sauce? Oh, gross—ketchup (?!!!) and a swirl of (blasphemy!) Miracle Whip. Borscht. With unorthodox trimmings.

“Who puts ketchup in borscht?” Kostya wondered aloud. “Or Miracle Whip?”

The petite brunette gasped.

“Babushka Fira! But how did you—” she began, though Kostya wasn’t listening.

The kitchen seemed to go dim, everything muted but Viktor’s face across the island, stunned surprise registered in his raised brows, his smirk.

“Now we’re in business,” Kostya said.

THE REST WASeasy. Kostya dashed off the ingredients and Viktor sent one of his many minions to the grocery store down the block. Volière had brought a sous vide and a pressure cooker with him and was only more than happy to let Kostya borrow them. (But of course! This I must see.) Fortyishminutes later, Baba Fira was coalescing in scarlet fireworks above their heads, the audible gasps and expletives from the spectators filling Kostya with a sort of buoyancy. It never got old, granting people’s wishes.

It made him wish that he could grant his own.

He ached to see his dad. To test his sudden revelation about triggering the aftertastes. He wondered whether embracing his grief would make him tastepechonkaagain, and how to draw that flavor of agony out of himself, something deeper and more raw than the dull pain he usually felt. He watched jealously as the brunette reached for her grandmother’s glittering hand, thought about how easy it would be to sneak away, to rush back to his apartment and try to conjure up his dad.

But something held him back. A kernel of fear, of doubt.

He’d already missed his father twice. Two strikes. He couldn’t risk a third, not if it might be his last chance. He had to be sure this worked beyond this party. That it worked every time. Airtight. Because what Maura had said—if he kept this up, sooner or later, something had to give—if that was true, he couldn’t let that something be his dad.

He smiled across the room at the old woman’s spirit. One day, when he was sure, it’d be his turn. She looked up, and, through glowing, burgundy tears, smiled back.

AFTERWARD, VIKTOR INVITEDhim back to the living room for a champagne toast, the clink of their glasses as good as any handshake.

“To partnership,” Viktor toasted.

“And success,” Kostya added.

The bubbles were so fine in Kostya’s mouth, notes of caramel and vanilla undercut by mineral, salt, metal, the limey acid transforming into warmth in the back of his throat, sweetness like bruised fruit. He held the flute up to the light, watched the slender streams of fizz dance across the glass, the almost green glint of it.

“You like the Krug?” Viktor asked. “Is Blanc de Noir. From black grapes.”

“It’s wonderful.”

Viktor studied his own glass. “I always like name.Krug.Like circle.” He took a sip. “I save for special people. My partners”—he nodded at Kostya—“join this circle. Like family. Closer.”

On cue, Kostya’s phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. He silenced it. It rang again.

He pulled it out, his mother’s photo flashing across the screen, a tiny thumbnail of her wedding photograph, she and Kostya’s father in profile, grinning.

“I—I’m sorry, it’s my mother. Please… excuse me a minute.”

He shuffled a few steps away, picked up, didn’t even have a chance to say hello before the barrage began.

“Kostya, thanks God! You completely step off your mind?! I text in morning! Say important! You not call back. I have eight stroke while I waiting. You want kill me, you doing good job.”

“Mama, sorry. Busy day.”

“I hear! Vanya call me yesterday night, and say you talking to Viktor Musizchka—”

“Well, yeah, actually I—”

“—and I tell Vanya, what kind of garbage nonsense you carrying me? Kostya smart boy, he know better. He never talk to thugs like this! Musizchka family all gangsters.”

Kostya’s tongue felt glued to his mouth.

“New money but no better than old KGB,” she continued. “No rules, no moral, bang bang left right. I tell Vanya, you not get involved. You stay away.”

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