Asher ✓

11 | america

AUGUST 15, 2009 / JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

Asher decided, over the course of that night, he liked flying.

He liked the feeling of turbulence, because he imagined it felt like all the jittery, shuddering amusement park rides that he'd never been allowed to go on. He liked looking out of the window, at the infinite ocean below; it made him feel powerfully big yet incredibly humble at the same time.

He liked the feeling being in between countries gave him — like he was free from both political laws and the laws of life. In the airspace between Russia and the United States of America, Asher didn't have imperfections. He could easily picture Ekaterina waiting for him in America, clearly see a future full of promise, and success — free from pain and constant worry.

But the illusion promptly shattered when the captain announced, "Please return to your seats and buckle into your seatbelts. We'll be landing shortly."

Sunset from the troposphere, over the Atlantic Ocean, was the most beautiful thing Asher had seen in his thirteen years of life. The sky started bleeding colours into the ocean, the clouds dainty wisps of lighter reds and oranges in the sky.

The ocean looked like the largest and most crinkled sheet of maroon silk, wrapping around the world to keep humans safe. A steady-headed, practical side of Asher said, this happens every day. Nothing special, while the rest of him yelled, this is so cool, I'm up so high, this is so cool, special, special, special.

The two Delrovs had an aeroplane dinner of chicken, mash and sodas — Asher's first official American meal. And as the coastline of the star-spangled land sped towards their plane, Asher's eyes lit up like the city he saw, rimming the land like the closest-fitting golden eye-liner.

It was the mere sight of New York illuminated at night, stunning and inviting and floating on the horizon, that ignited his nerves and filled his hollow bones with something that felt like a piping hot gallon of his mother's signature hot chocolate. Definitely the right choice to come here.

The stamp Asher got from the international arrivals officer was proof that he was living just as widely and deeply as any other teenager. That night, it became a goal of his to fill his passport with stamps from countries with exotic animals and strange cities with interesting people — even if it meant letting people look at his ugly passport photo.

It was an irrational fear, but Asher looked extra carefully for his suitcase, in case he missed it and he'd never see it again. When, finally, his scrutinising gaze locked onto his suitcases (he had tied a neon orange ribbon to each handle to distinguish the plain navy blue from the other plain navy blues), Asher rushed to collect.

There were so many people at John F. Kennedy International Airport, and it overwhelmed Asher not because of the number of them, but because it was the first time they were all speaking a language he didn't know. Vasily kept a firm grip on his son's shoulder as he steered the baggage trolley to the taxi carpark — which, as TV shows had told Asher, would be filled with yellow taxis, carrying cigar-smoking, pot-bellied taxi drivers who had thick accents and greasy hair.

Waiting for an empty taxi to roll up was pins-and-needles boring, and Asher wished he could do something a little fun and reckless to make time pass more interestingly. His first live view of a taxi driver was a slim, older man who politely asked, "Where to?" when Vasily handed him one of many crisp twenty-dollar bills that he'd exchanged Russian currency for.

Vasily had been practising how to say the name of their new neighbourhood for a week. In a thick brogue — it was barely passable as English — he attempted to pronounce, "Astoria, Queens."

The experienced taxi driver — he had a trove of foreign travellers whom he had serviced — nodded and smiled at Asher, "Ah, got it."

Once the skyscrapers and twinkling city lights fell away, and the glimmer of an urban village took its place, the taxi driver started speaking, "So, are you visiting or here to stay?"

Vasily was utterly unprepared to speak any English more than their address, and neighbourhood. But having learnt the basics of the confusing language from his mother, who studied in the States, Asher leapt into the conversation.

"We're staying," he declared — though his accent was not much better.

Vasily Delrov gave the taxi driver an extra bill, and a piece of paper which had their new home address meticulously written on it. Asher was content to watch the buildings and people and street lights flare by in a whir of colour as they drove through the night. Buildings and people and street light were common things, and Asher had seen many, many of them before. But it was somehow different when you were in another country.

The names that they called their businesses were different, and the street lights weren't the same shape as they were back in Russia. The radio that was softly pumping static-y music into their vehicle was singing in a completely different language. All Asher understood out of the many words that flew by were simple; love, see, you. It was an entertaining game for him, to try and guess what the music was about.

After a song allegedly about trying to break up with someone who had cancer, and not wanting to hurt their feelings, and another one about falling in love with a con artist who was arrested, the cliche yellow taxi shuddered to a stop outside a two-storey house in Astoria, Queens.

The taxi driver — he had told Asher his name was Marv, but Asher honestly didn't trust himself to say that name correctly — waited happily as Vasily and Asher took their combined four suitcases up the driveway.

"Have a nice night, peeps," the grey-haired man called, and sped off in a cloud of exhaust.

Then, Vasily pulled out the key a real estate agent had sent them, along with brochures from their agency, forms and travel booklets. Tilting his head right back, Asher looked up at the stained-glass transom, as he passed through the threshold.

Their moving van would be arriving the next day, with all the things Vasily had sent from Russia on a ship two weeks ago. Their new home was dark, and pathetically empty. To the young boy, using home to describe any other place than the bungalow he'd grown up in was bizarre, and left a bitter taste on his tongue.

The house looked so vast when it was empty, like their old home had looked when the furniture had been packed away. At the back of his head, Asher knew it would look much cozier when their things had been moved in. The most pressing issue he had now was where to sleep, because they had nothing but four suitcases filled with clothes.

Vasily realised this, too, but he had a much more optimistic reaction, "Looks like we're sleeping on the ground tonight. Welcome to America."