The Wife Who Wasn't: A Novel

By Alta Ifland

An exhilaratingly comical, crosscultural debut novel, The Wife Who Wasn’t brings together an eccentric community from the hills of Santa Barbara, California, and a family of Russians from Chișinău, the capital of Moldova. It starts in the late 1990s, after the fall of communism, and has at its center the mail-order marriage between a California man (Sammy) and a Russian woman (Tania) who comes to America, which engenders a series of hilarious cultural misunderstandings.

The novel’s four parts take place alternately in California and Moldova, and comprise short chapters whose point of view moves seamlessly between that of the omniscient narrator and that of various characters. Delivered in arresting prose, both realities—late 90s, bohemian/hipster California and postcommunist Moldova—thus come together from opposite points of view.

Above all, this novel is a comedy of manners that depicts the cultural (and personality) clash between Tania and Sammy, Anna (Sammy’s teenage daughter) and Irina, and Bill (Sammy’s neighbor) and Serioja (Tania’s brother). It is also a comedy of errors in the tradition of playful, multiple love triangles. The novel reaches a shocking climax involving a stolen Egon Schiele painting and alluding to the real history of East Mountain Drive, whose bohemian community was destroyed in the 2008 “Tea Fire.”

A literary tour de force and a rollicking satire of both suburban America and urban Eastern Europe, is a must for fans of Gary Schteyngart (The Russian Debutante's Handbook), Keith Gessen (A Terrible Country), Ludmila Ulitskaya (), and Lara Vapnyar (Divide Me By Zero).

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Europe Books
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734537925

Book preview

Tania

Dear Mother,

I’m still recovering from the trip, during which I thought I would starve. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the apples you so wisely thought of giving me, I probably would have. When they offered us food on the plane, I was afraid to spend what little money I had, so I declined, contending myself with the aromas coming from the meals of my fat neighbors. And wouldn’t you know it, it turned out that the meals were included with my ticket. Of course, by the time I realized that, it was too late.

When the car pulled up in the driveway, Sammy—that’s what he said I should call him—had to help me out of the car. That’s how weak I was. Now that my stomach is full again, I can tell you that this is Paradise. Mother dearest, he is rich! On our way here, after we’d left the highway, we drove up and up on a country road that snaked its way around trees and through some type of dry vegetation I’d never seen before, ever deeper into the wilderness. For a minute I thought, What if he’s some kind of psychopath and takes me God knows where? But as soon as I finished that thought, we reached a clearing and I saw it: the house. It was a bit of a shock: the house is black! Can you believe it? A black house. But the more I looked at it the more I liked it. It’s the house of a gentleman. The car is black too. And shiny, as if he bought it yesterday. But the house . . . The way it appears, all of a sudden, from a sea of green shrubs, and beneath a clear blue sky . . . Oh, Mother, you’ve never seen such blue! Nothing like our gray, always-cloudy skies. Imagine a black house under the blue sky with a row of silver-leafed trees in front (olive trees, Sammy explained), and a flower garden all around . . . Nothing could be more beautiful than its sunflowers against the black of the house. And when I entered the house . . . Are you ready? The kitchen and the bathroom are black marble with golden fixtures. Everything shined as if it was brand new, but, when I asked, Sammy laughed and said that it was thanks to the maid who cleans once a week. He has a maid!

I’ll tell you more about the house later. Now listen to this: when I told him I was starving, he apologized, opened the fridge and began to throw something together—something that turned out to be . . . a big salad. Yes, he welcomed me with salad! He opened a bottle of wine, too, but I kept waiting for the real food the salad was meant to accompany. Eventually, I understood that the salad was the meal. So, it seems that we have a problem: my Sammy is rich, but stingy. After he left the kitchen, I opened the fridge and helped myself to whatever I found there—some Swiss cheese and salami; there wasn’t any bread, so I made do without. Poor man: you can tell he’s been a widower for a long time. So rich and so badly fed! You better believe I’m already making a list of things to buy. I wonder if they carry vodka at the supermarket. I didn’t have the courage to ask him if he had any—it wouldn’t have made a good impression—but I looked everywhere and couldn’t find any. I did find lots of other bottles, cognac and liqueur, and even that whiskey stuff they drink. I tasted it, and I can tell you you’re not missing anything: it tastes like a concoction made of ticks.

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t mentioned the daughter, Anna. Don’t worry, no problems yet. It’s just that we haven’t been introduced. She’s visiting some relatives in Los Angeles—here they call it L.A.—and will be back tomorrow. This habit of calling cities and people by their initials! I’ll keep you updated on new developments. Give a big hug to Irina and a kiss to Seryozha.

Your daughter,

Tania

Bill

For the first time in his life, Sammy locked his most valuable pieces of jewelry in the house safe. Up till then, the only times he’d done this was when he traveled and the house remained empty for days or weeks. As he did it, he felt slightly embarrassed, because he was hiding things from his wife. But she was a stranger, and the prospect of having to live, from now on, under the same roof as a stranger appeared in all its worrisome annoyance. As he always did when he had a problem, Sammy tried to reassure himself by invoking the benefits of time. Give it a little time, he thought, and things will fall into place. But in the meantime, he couldn’t help worrying, and so, chose to confide in his only friend, Bill.

Sammy found him on his back porch, sipping, as was usual at that time of day, a martini; or rather, he found two Bills, one in the wicker chair, the other in the reflection of the house’s mirror-glass walls, also in a wicker chair, surrounded by a profusion of grass and palm trees. Though only a few years younger than Sammy, his blasé youthfulness made it seem as if Bill were almost from a different generation. Or maybe his dyed hair kept him forever young.

After he fixed himself his own martini and took a seat beside his host, acknowledging the twin in the mirror—a game he was happy to play when visiting his friend—Sammy wondered which complaint to begin with.

What would you think of someone eating a ten-inch block of Swiss cheese, a pack of salami, a big bowl of salad, and then asking for something to eat?

I’d say they have a healthy appetite, Bill replied with a large grin.

It’s more than I’ve seen you eat in the entire time I’ve known you.

I never claimed to have a healthy appetite. Hell, I never claimed to have a healthy anything.

This self-deprecating remark was slightly disingenuous. A steady regimen of alcohol and daily workouts had given Bill a lean, toned physique and a melancholy bluish tinge under the eyes.

The two men sat in silence, as they usually did, sipping their martinis and shooting occasional glances toward the horizon. It was beginning to cool off, and threads of cold air hung here and there all around them. Sammy got up and, as he took his leave, heard Bill inviting him once again to bring her over. Bill had politely avoided the word wife, but, as Sammy walked back, there was no getting around it: he was a married man and his wife was waiting for him at home.

Tania

Dear Mother,

I never would have thought that I’d move all the way to America, live in a house with black marble in the bathrooms, a fridge as big as a closet, a cleaning woman, but no TV! Yes, I now know what, before, I only suspected: this house has no TV. When I asked my husband why there wasn’t one, he answered that he hadn’t owned a TV since moving out of his parents’ house, that he wanted his daughter to grow up free of the influence of its poisonous commercials. Oh, Mother, isn’t life a joke? Do you remember how thrilled we were a few years ago when Moldovan TV aired its first commercials? I remember them perfectly. I’m beginning to wonder whether this husband of mine might be a communist. After all, he is a Jew.

Long story short, I was so upset by this incident that I began to cry. I told him that I didn’t come to America to live like a stupid peasant or an African tribeswoman. He said that, if I wanted a TV, I could get one as long as I kept it in my room. And you wouldn’t believe it, but a few hours later a truck stopped in front of the house and two men in overalls came out holding a forty-two-inch color television—something that would make my former classmates green with envy!—which now rests in my bedroom. I was ecstatic at the prospect of watching Santa Barbara², but it turned out that the series stopped airing here over three years ago. How’s that for irony? To come all the way from the other end of the world to Santa Barbara only to discover when I get to Santa Barbara that there is no Santa Barbara.

Speaking of my room, when Sammy first uttered those words, I hadn’t realized I’d be spending the night alone in my own room, in my own bed. Do you remember that white, gauzethin nightgown I was so happy to get my hands on a month ago? Well, he hasn’t seen it yet. At first, I was a little taken aback, but then I thought: my husband is a true gentleman. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to make the first move, like those passionate women in American movies who throw their men into bed and jump in on top of them, or who appear in negligées at the bathroom door and shimmy provocatively up to the bed where the man is waiting. Well, I put on my nightgown, my skin peeking out so delightfully that no man could resist me, and entered his room. He was so surprised he literally jumped off his chair—he had been reading the paper or something.

Can’t you knock first? he shouted.

Knock?! I’m your wife!

You can’t imagine how humiliated I felt! Later, he came to my room and apologized, saying that he wanted us to get to know each other first. He seemed sincerely remorseful, so I forgave him. Can you picture any of those troglodytes from back home saying, I want us to get to know each other first? Ha! Once again, I told myself that I was lucky. And I could tell, as he sat next to me on my bed, that he wasn’t immune to my charms.

I am enclosing a photo of the TV so you can show it to those bitches, Tamara and Sofia. Tell Irina to keep studying English because I’ll soon bring her here.

Your daughter,

Tania

Anna

Anna was rarely away from home, but Sammy had decided that it would be less awkward if she were absent upon Tania’s arrival, so he sent her to stay with her great-aunt in L.A. When she returned, two days after the newcomer’s arrival, her sensitive nose picked up an unusual smell as soon as she crossed the threshold. It may have been all those years spent outside climbing trees and chasing rabbits that led to the development of this uncanny ability: she could tell people apart by their smell. And, as far as Anna was concerned, Tania emanated the strongest, most nauseating odor ever produced by another person: the odor of a sweaty, wild creature, a sweet and sour mixture of hairy armpits that drove her insane. And so, even before Anna laid eyes on the woman, her olfactory glands already hated her with a passion. The creature walked around in a transparent nightgown, her immense breasts flapping insolently, her pink curlers framing her baby-round face.

Since Anna couldn’t confide in her father about the woman he’d brought into their lives, she chose to confide in Todd. She knew the path to the Johnsons’ residence by heart, every single shrub and tree, and, whenever she walked down it, felt like a righteous guardian surveying her property. She always carried a stick when she walked, not because she needed it, but because her title and position demanded it. Privately—very privately— she thought of herself as the Black Queen, that is, the Queen of the Black House, and of Todd as the Glass Boy—the boy who lived in the house of glass. The Black Queen was ruthless and unsparing, and, as she walked toward the Glass House, she savored her most recent decree: that every head wearing pink curlers be lopped off.

The path to the Johnsons’ curved twice, once to the left—and then, one could see patches of bright, sparkling glass between the tall, green trees—and once to the right—and then, the house vanished from sight. Close as it was, it seemed a Fata Morgana until the end of the path, where the house emerged in all its outlandish glory. When the sun was at its zenith, like now, the house bathed in a blinding pool of light, and one had to squint until one was close enough that the reflection of the trees overpowered the shimmer of light.

Anna was hoping to find Todd outside, but there was no sign of him, so, reluctantly, she knocked on the door. She’d always had ambivalent feelings about the house, the way one had ambivalent feelings about a house in a fairytale, deep in the woods. One never knew whether the sense of mystery that enveloped such a house was a good or a bad omen and one had the foreboding suspicion that behind the colorful, tantalizing walls of sweets, an ugly witch could be hiding. Anna still remembered the day Todd had showed her the house for the first time, a house that more closely resembled an astronauts’ moon-base or a high-tech laboratory than a dwelling fit for human habitation. There was a TV and a computer in every room, no rugs, and the sparse furniture, together with the visitors’ movements, were reflected in the whimsical surfaces of the glass walls. All these reflections, added to the images pouring out of the TV screens—each set to a different channel—had the momentary effect of transporting them to a magic realm, with the unfortunate side-effect of giving her a crippling headache for the rest of the day.

It was no wonder, then, that the wizard monitoring all that brittle magic from behind a glass curtain intimidated Anna. When Bill opened the door, holding the glass of whiskey that seemed to accompany him everywhere, Anna took a step back and asked if Todd was around, hoping for an answer that would allow her to leave immediately. Fortunately for her, Todd wasn’t home, so, bidding Bill a quick good-bye, she turned her back to him and left, almost running.

Holding his glass, his hair in disarray, his shirt unbuttoned, Bill squinted. Following the girl with his unsteady gaze, he wondered what was different about her. There was something vaguely and imperceptibly disturbing about her, but what? Was it the fact that this girl, who used to fit in his lap, was now taller than his sixteen-year-old son? That, in some ways, she resembled a woman, although, in many others, she was the same little girl? Congratulating himself on having had the good sense to father a boy rather than a girl, he closed the door and went for a refill.

Tania

Dear Mother,

I can finally get to what you’ve been waiting for: shopping for groceries. Two days ago, Sammy and I went shopping at a huge store called Safeway. First of all, when they go shopping, Americans always take their cars. Their stores aren’t just around the corner; you have to drive a good fifteen minutes to get to them.

When we entered the store it felt as if we’d walked into an amusement park full of people who were pushing around some kind of carts on which they’d piled everything they wished to buy. And the shelves, Mother, the shelves! The best thing about American products is their sparkling, multicolored packaging. I couldn’t believe how bored all the people seemed, as if the packages meant nothing to them. I wanted to stop and shake them, Hey, look around! Look at all this beauty! Feast your eyes on it! I never thought about it, but why did our people have to drain the color from everything? Do you realize that everything around us has always been gray or brown?

Sammy told me that I could get anything I wanted— anything! And I did. The more colorful a package was, the better its chance of ending up in my cart. We spent almost two hundred dollars. I waited at the cash register, curious and impatient to see the bills, but guess what? They don’t pay with cash; they use plastic cards. As Sammy returned the card to his wallet, I felt a powerful desire to hold it in my hands and pass it matter-of-factly to the clerk. I noticed that Sammy had a bunch of other cards, and I wondered if he’d even notice if one disappeared.

At home, I prepared my first meal. We were having a guest, a young man named Todd, a friend of Anna’s, and I wanted to show them what a Moldovan feast looked like. I made stuffed cabbage rolls, white beans with bacon and ricotta-filled blintzes. I’d tried to find good lard in the supermarket, but the only thing that came close was some anemic-looking bacon. Even their ground meat isn’t the same as ours. I don’t know what it is, but the meat just doesn’t taste the same. The bread too is funny: it’s very soft and sweet. Now that I think of it, almost everything here tastes a little sweet, as if it were made for children.

My meal fell a little short of my expectations; still, it was the best thing I’d had since I arrived. I expected to be showered with praise by Sammy and Anna, but during dinner I noticed Sammy carefully picking out all the pieces of bacon and placing them on the rim of his plate. As for Anna, she declared, without even tasting anything, that she never eats meat, and proceeded to make herself a salad—a salad—instead.

But just taste it, I said. I promise it’s the best meal you’ve ever had.

She refused to try it, and seemed annoyed by my insistence. I waited for Sammy to intervene and ask her to behave or at least taste the food, but he said only, Anna is a vegetarian, as if that gave her the right to act like a spoiled brat. And I thought our Irina was the most stubborn sixteen-year-old in the world! I can see that this girl, Anna, is going to give me trouble, and I’ll have to work very hard to instill a sense of discipline in her. It’s not really her fault, she grew up without a mother, poor girl! With a father weak as a lamb, what else can you expect?

The only one who seemed to appreciate my meal, and even asked for seconds, was the guest, Todd. I liked that boy. He reminds me of Ted Capwell from the early episodes of Santa Barbara. They even have the same name—by the way, I think the actor who played Ted was called Todd Something. It’s obvious he’s head over heels for Anna, and she should consider herself lucky, given that she looks more like a boy than a girl, can’t eat meat and doesn’t do any household chores. After he left and Anna went to her room, I shared my thoughts with Sammy. His reaction was shocking. He got very upset and said, among other things, that his daughter had plenty going for her and had no reason to consider herself lucky to be liked by anyone. Besides, he said, she’s still a child.

You can imagine how that made me feel! I’d only said what I said because I was concerned about the well-being of his daughter. This is how he thanks me, by making a scene? But this taught me a lesson: Americans think very highly of their children, and, as a consequence, are incapable of acknowledging the truth. I’ll try to keep my mouth shut from now on, but it won’t be easy. When one has my clarity of vision, one feels obligated to speak up.

Tell Irina I know what she’s up to, even from here.

Your daughter,

Tania

Lenny

When Lenny had a party—and that happened about once a month—he invited all his neighbors and close acquaintances, so the number of guests ranged from fifty to a hundred, depending on their availability. This time, when Sammy, Tania and Anna arrived, the sun was setting on at least eighty people, who were mingling all over the property. As the new guests walked up the driveway, dozens of colorful little bulbs hidden in the bushes and the trees suddenly lit up, which prompted a series of cheerful exclamations from Tania. The only lit trees she’d ever seen were Christmas trees, and that was only one week a year—starting at Christmas and ending on New Year’s. This impromptu Christmas celebration in the middle of October, with its debauchery of lights, was—like everything involving waste and excess—a sign of the triumph of lavish capitalism over pitiful, ascetic communism. With her Leica camera—one of the few things she’d brought with her from home—she was ready to capture all the signs of bourgeois decadence (as they used to call it back home) and mail them to those bitches in Moldova who would no doubt eat their hearts out with envy. Finally, a Santa Barbara that measured up to the Santa Barbara she’d left behind.

After immortalizing this October Christmas, Tania took a few shots of the fairytale house whose caramel brick walls and bright blue trim stood out among the surrounding green. The house was made of three parts, the center one a two-story structure with gabled roof, and the other two on each side, one story each, roofed by crenellated terraces, like a medieval fortress. The two terraces were full of guests milling about with glasses or plates of appetizers in their hands. Inside the house there was a similar scene, people coming in and going out, laughing as if they had no worries, or otherwise lost in contemplation over one of the many paintings that decorated the walls. Tania didn’t like disorder, and the environment reeked of chaos. She had attended her share of parties, either with coworkers or with her relatives or neighbors, but she’d never been to a party in someone’s home where the guests moved about as if it were theirs, unattended, free to take whatever they could get their hands on. And there was plenty you could get your hands on.

The living room looked like a museum, with a large glass-topped table, under which Tania could see numerous little figurines made of bone, ivory, clay and marble. Tania moved closer to examine them and was shocked to discover that quite a few represented entanglements of naked men and women in the most bizarre (and uncomfortable) positions imaginable. Some were Chinese (or were they