You’ll Want to Stay Away From the Spare Ribs

“I didn’t know I even had an Uncle Viktor, much less an uncle who was a national hero.”

“He’s from the old country, and we seldom speak of LaRocca,” Pavel Pushkin replies.

“No, you never speak about the old country. What’s it like?”

Misha’s father gives him a loving but patronizing smile, saying, “Not exactly a playground for the Kardashians.”

“From what your father has told me, even a native of Siberia might find LaRocca a bit old-fashioned,” Paisley, Misha’s mother says.

“So, it’s not exactly, viva LaRocca. But Uncle Viktor seems to have done all right. He’s getting a memorial in his name. What was it they called him?”

“The Lion of LaRocca,” his father says with a hint of disgust.

“What do you remember about him?”

“Not much. I was six when we came here,” Pavel replies. “Viktor was ten years older. I remember him teasing me, punching me, or chasing after me with a stick. It was kid stuff, but he seemed to take it seriously, so I was terrified of him. And I remember my parents were greatly relieved when he insisted he wanted to stay in LaRocca. We left him in the care of King Sergey.”

“We appreciate your willingness to represent us, Misha, but you don’t have to go,” Paisley says.

“But I want to. How many people get invited to a memorial ceremony by a royal family? I get to stay in a castle and take in old-world European history. It’s the ultimate road trip.”

“Watch out for those plump peasant girls. I may have five children, but there’s only one Misha,” Paisley says, fluffing his mop of light brown hair.

“There are a lot of strange customs there,” Pavel warns. “Just remember to stay close to your cousin, Sophie. And do everything she says.”

Getting off the plane, Misha is surprised to be greeted by an oompah band blowing out “Smoke on the Water.” A group of mostly toothless peasant women wearing brightly colored bandanas wave signs saying, ‘Welcome, Misha Pushpin,” and “We salute the cousin of the Lion of LaRocca.”

A curvy, long-haired redhead in a floral dress dripping with expensive jewelry approaches Misha. Throwing her arms around him, she gives him a robust, non-too-shy hug.

“You must be Cousin Sophie,” he gasps.

“Yes, welcome to LaRocca,” she says, tossing floral leis around his neck with the precision of a professional horseshoe player aiming at a stake.

Bowing, a tall, sullen chauffeur chucks Misha’s luggage into the trunk of a classic Lincoln Continental limousine.

“Are you ready for the opening ceremony celebrating your uncle’s life?” Sophie asks.

The limousine stops in the capital city’s Freedom Square, where thousands of smiling peasants in rumpled outfits cheer Misha and Sophie. Waving kisses at the crowd, the pair make their way to a gold platform surrounded by an ocean of pungent white roses.

A statue lies on the platform. With its shiny dark hair, pencil-thin mustache, dimpled chin, and turned-up nose, the facsimile of his uncle reflects his real-life handsome and athletic appearance.

Rows of long-legged women dressed like cowgirls dance around the platform as rockets burst into colorful patterns overhead.

Stern-looking men in white pith helmets dressed in kilts carrying flags march past, followed by a legion of Marines saluting Misha and Sophie.

Carefully balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres, a pair of little girls move toward Misha and Sophie.

In awe of the squadron of jets passing overhead, Misha absent-mindedly takes one of the hors d'oeuvres, popping it in his mouth.

“Wow, that’s delicious! What is it?”

“Liver pate,” Sophie replies.

Misha takes another hors d'oeuvre. “Man, this ceremony is really impressive.”

“So, you like LaRocca?”

“Beats the heck out of Starbucks and shopping malls.”

Sophie’s smile is like a beam of light. “Would you consider staying here? As my father’s nephew, you would inherit the title of the Duke of Pataskitown, live in a lavish mansion, and have a triple-figure income.”

A distant cousin, Ilya Pushkin, the Grand Admiral of the LaRocca Navy, introduces the dignitaries on hand. When Misha and Sophie are announced, the crowd cheers loudly and a cascade of confetti falls around them. 

Caught up in the crowd’s enthusiasm, Misha comments, “You’d think by the way they’re acting that we were getting married or something.”

“Everyone loves you, including me.”

Sophie looks at Misha adoringly, leaning into him.

Misha backs away. “Did you just try to kiss me?”

“Yes. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do.”

“It’s never appropriate! Cousins don’t kiss cousins where I come from.”

“Really? They marry each other here. It’s an honor. My father wanted us to get married. It’ll preserve our distinguished line.”

Misha can feel his hair stand on end. “I’ll play along for the sake of argument, but I’m twenty-six and you’re what, eighteen?”

“And a half. I’m an old maid,” Sophie laments.

“And you’re not concerned our children might suffer from hemophilia, kidney disease, have six fingers, or be mutants?”

“My father had six fingers. His cousin, Elder, had an extra kidney. He said it came in handy when he was stabbed. The doctor had to remove one of the other ones, so he still had two.”

Misha stares at Sophie in disbelief. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Sophie, but what did Uncle Viktor die from?”

Sophie offers him a faux smile. “Umm… He died from lead poisoning.”

Misha watches as people begin to file past Uncle Viktor’s coffin. “Is that the statue of Uncle Viktor that’s going to be placed in the square? I must say it’s really realistic looking.”

“It should be. Part of it really is my father.”

“You mean to tell me that’s his real body on display?”

“You have wakes in America where people view the deceased…”

“Yeah, but it’s been almost three weeks since Uncle Viktor died. Isn’t he a bit ripe by now?”

Sophie laughs. “It’s his skeleton covered in stainless steel. His skin and internal organs were all removed for use in the opening celebration.”

“Well, that’s a relief… Wait a sec, isn’t this the opening celebration?”

“Yes. The liver pate you said was so delicious? It was made from my father’s liver.”

Misha gags. Flagging down a passing server, he grabs a glass of wine, downing it.

A sudden unfortunate notion crosses his mind. “That wasn’t made from his blood, was it?”

“It’s white wine.”

“White wine is yellow. It could be made from something worse!”

“Calm down, Misha.”

“Calm down! You turned me into a cannibal!”

“We like to think of it as repurposing,” Sophie calmly explains. “We want to ensure peace for my father’s soul. By ingesting his remains, his spirit will live on in us forever.”

“Or until somebody eats you! I ate my uncle, and he was three weeks old!”

“Don’t worry, the pate was well preserved. It was still fresh.”

“Eating a relative or anybody else is a major crime in the United States!”

“It’s a tradition here.”

“Is he on the menu for dinner too?”

“Only members of the family will partake. There’s not enough of my father to go around as a main course for everyone.”

“I’m not eating any more of your father!”

“Then you’ll want to stay away from the spare ribs.”

Rising from the dinner table, his senses dulled from copious amounts of vegetarian goulash and white wine, Misha bows to his distant relatives. Sophie follows him as he heads toward his room.

“Are you ready to mourn your uncle in private?” Sophie asks.

Misha gives his cousin a suspicious glance. “I’m kinda tired. What exactly does that mean?”

“Spending the night with your uncle’s body.”

Misha’s horrified expression and his Porky Pig response say he’s clearly not ready. “A…A…A.. All na…na… night? Don’t you people believe in ghosts or spirits?”

“Of course. But not in a malignant way like you Americans. My father has no reason to harm you. He may want to meet you, to get to know you, but he won’t hurt you.”

“Is this another LaRoccan tradition?” Misha asks.

“I’ve got an idea that will help you relax.”

“Hit me with it, cuz.”

Sophie gives him a bemused smile. “I’m not going to strike you. I’m going to give you some Nighty-Nite Tea. It’ll help you relax.”

“Made from Uncle Viktor? I told you, I’m not having it.”

“No, it’s just tea. If you drink it, you’ll be able to spend the night with your uncle. You won’t have a care in the world.”

Misha’s body begins to feel like butter melting in a skillet by the time he puts his cup on the table.

“Whoa, I can’t feel my legs,” Misha mumbles, following Sophie into the viewing chamber where his uncle’s remains lie in state.

Misha scans the large room, his pop-eyed stare focusing on the stained-glass windows.

“Everything is so vibrant, so alive! Such pretty colors! You have to send me a shipment of this stuff!”

Sophie helps Misha into a cushioned chair situated across from his uncle’s statue, which lies on a long table.

“Are you still afraid?” Sophie asks.

“No! I’m really, really, happy!”

Misha nearly falls out of the chair, snapping awake.

The statue of his uncle is sitting up, grinning at him.

“So, you’re my little brother’s boy,” he says. “You remind me of him. Nerdy looking.”

“Thanks, I guess. It’s nice to meet you, given the circumstances, even if this is a hallucination. I like what the mortician did with you. You remind me of Fidel Castro.”

“It took a rebel to catch the rebels.”

“Yes, I heard you put down a revolution. How did you do it?”

“My men and I went from house to house, taking people captive whose neighbors told us they were insurgents. We took them to Freedom Square and shot them in front of the people. Then we did it again, and again. Anyone thinking about revolting against the king got the message.”

“You made neighbors turn each other in?”

“The smart ones did. The last execution received a five-star rating on the sports channel. After the third round of executions, the rest of the King’s enemies surrendered. Most of them are still in a remote part of the country in snow up to their noses… Speaking of which…”

Uncle Viktor’s nose falls off. Gingerly picking it up, he jams it back in place.

“That doesn’t sound very heroic,” Misha says.

Uncle Viktor flashes a smarmy smirk. “Don’t repeat what I said to the king.”

“He wasn’t aware of what you did to put down the rebels?”

“King Sergey is more of a get-it-done type of ruler, rather than one who wants to stop playing polo long enough to get involved.”

“I’m beginning to understand why my father was so afraid of you.”

“Water under the viaduct, boy. Knowing your bookworm father, he’s probably a professor or a teacher.”

“He’s a tenured Professor of Anthropology at Swinton University.”

“A success. And when I died, I was a success at what I did best.”

“Killing people?” Misha asks, his voice rising.

“Let’s just call it thinning out the herd,” Uncle Viktor’s statue replies. “I hear you’re going to marry Sophie…”

“She’s a great kid, but it goes against tradition in the United States. Marrying his cousin wrecked Jerry Lee Lewis’s career, and I don’t think it’ll work for me. I may be just an IT drone, but I like my job.”

Uncle Viktor stiffly waves his hand dismissively. “America, land of the free, ha! I still can’t believe my family left here to live there. You persecute your minorities, ignore drug use, and your government officials are corrupt.”

“Yeah, that’s much worse than incest and cannibalism.”

“You ate my liver without any complaint when you thought it was a simple party snack,” Uncle Viktor retorts.

“Believe me, if I could gag it back up and go for a Big Mac instead I would.”

Uncle Viktor laughs. He catches his teeth as they fall out of his mouth, slipping them back into place. “Then let’s agree to disagree. But before I died, I decreed you would marry Sophie…”

“Thanks for the heads up. But I didn’t get a copy of that decree, so, no dice.”

“Our tradition says you must follow the wishes of the deceased, which is me. If you don’t marry my daughter, you and I will be having this discussion every night until you die.”

“You’ll haunt me? Now I understand why the family put a whole lot of gone between themselves and you… Sophie says you died from lead poisoning. I’m beginning to think her explanation lost something in the translation.”

“She was being tactful. A group of rebels ambushed me a week after they signed a peace treaty. I was shot thirty-five times. They wanted to make sure I was dead.”

“Then they should have reloaded,” Misha whispers to himself.

“What?”

“I said I’m really loaded.  Can I ask you a question? What’s it like to be dead?”

“It’s wonderful! I went to a Gordon Lightfoot concert last night. I had breakfast with Franklin Roosevelt this morning. Since he doesn’t have polio anymore, he raced me to the corner. I have a date with Marilyn Monroe tomorrow. She’s usually booked for months, but since I’m a hero, I was able to jump the line.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“One more question,” Misha says. “Is there any way I can avoid having to eat more of you? I think cannibalism, no matter how you guys spin it, is gross.”

“Tsk. Tsk. You Americans are such culinary squares,” Uncle Viktor replies. “Ask Sophie about ceremonial options.”

Uncle Viktor waves his six fingers at Misha. “Bye!”

Misha falls into a deep sleep. When he opens his eyes, the sun is beaming through the windows and Uncle Viktor’s statue is laying placidly on the table.

Sophie waves a steaming cup in front of him.

“More tea?”

“Your father mentioned there were other ways I could pay my respects to him. Something other than having him as a main course.”

Sophie’s eyes brighten. “You could walk back and forth across a bed of hot coals…”

“Great! I’ll get a pair of construction boots with metal soles.”

“You have to be barefoot and carry a live goat over your head.”

Misha slaps his palm against his forehead. “Is there something a lot less damaging to my fallen arches? And I’m sure I don’t want to know what the goat is for.”

“Low threshold of pain, eh? How about getting tattooed?”

“Sounds better. A small tattoo of Uncle Viktor’s initials on my ankle or a rendition of the national flag of LaRocca on my forearm works for me.”

Sophie lets out a woeful sigh. “You’ll have to have my father’s life story tattooed across your back. Since he did so much during his lifetime, our court artists may have to decorate your legs and your face as well. It should only take twenty sessions.”

“That’s a hard pass, cuz.”

“You can dive off a cliff. We’ll attach one end of a rubber chord to a tree and the other to your ankle, then you’ll jump headfirst off the cliff. Because the chord is rubber, when it reaches its full length, you’ll bounce back before you hit the ground. I believe it’s called bungee jumping in America.”

“Bingo.”

Misha stands on a cliff overlooking a rocky, jagged landscape.

“Couldn’t we do this over water, just in case?”

“You want to save face, don’t you?” Sophie asks. “My father was considered a brave man. You have to demonstrate to our people that the rest of the Pushkin family is worthy of the respect my father was given.”

Misha looks over the edge of the cliff. His stomach churns and he breaks out in a sweat.

“Everybody looks so small. How high up am I?”

“Three hundred feet.”

“A mat. I don’t see a mat, you know, to land on just in case. Is this safe?”

“We’ve never lost anyone,” Sophie replies confidently. “Now close your eyes, say a prayer for your Uncle Viktor, and jump.”

“You mind if I say a prayer for myself first?”

“Don’t worry. After this, you’ll be declared the Duke of Pataskitown and we can start planning our wedding celebration.”

Taking a deep breath, Misha jumps.

Misha waits for the rebound that will keep him from free-falling.

Looking up he can see the chord has snapped.

Paisley sobs against her husband’s chest.

“You were right. We should have let him go. Imagine how alone he must have felt when he fell off that cliff.”

“I still don’t understand it,” Pavel replies. I thought Misha was afraid of heights. Why would he go hiking in an area he’s not familiar with?”

“Do you think we did the right thing by letting Sophie handle the funeral arrangements and having him buried in LaRocca?”

“She said that in the short period Misha was in LaRocca he had come to think of it as his new home,” Pavel says. “It’s only fitting that he be buried there. Besides, I think it’s nice of her and King Sergey to honor him with a recognition ceremony and a statue.”

Paisley moves toward the items on the kitchen table. “Sophie arranged for so many other wonderful tributes. She sent us a nice plaque and a beautiful dedication. She even sent us a picture of his statue. It’s very lifelike.”

Pavel points at a silver box. “Did Sophie send that too? What’s in it?”

“Liver pate.”