American Gypsy; A Memoir

7/31/2019 American Gypsy; A Memoir

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Farrar, Straus and Giroux

18 West 18th Street, New York 10011

Copyright 2012 by Oksana Marafioti

All rights reserved

Distributed in Canada by D&M Publishers, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

First edition, 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Marafioti, Oksana, 1974

American Gypsy / Oksana Marafioti. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-374-10407-8

1. Marafioti, Oksana, 1974 2. RomaniesUnited StatesBiography.

3. ImmigrantsUnited StatesBiography. 4. Marafioti, Oksana, 1974

Childhood and youth. 5. RomaniesSoviet UnionBiography. I. Title.

DX127.M37 A3 2012

305.891'497073dc23 2011047075

Designed by Abby Kagan

www.fsgbooks.com

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

To protect the privacy of certain individuals, the names and identifying characteristics of

several people have been changed and composite characters have been created.


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Te woman on the other side of the desk scribbled in her files.

I studied her with interest: perfectly manicured nails, killer perm,

and a beige pantsuit with the American embassy ID clipped to

the left breast pocket. She warmed us now and then with one of

those smiles that make you want to ask its owner to be your

childs godparent even if youve only just met. She didnt look like

someone who held the fate of my family in her hands.

Before the interview that morning, Mom had instructed Dad

not to speak, for two reasons. First, he couldnt complete a sentence

without swearing. And second, but more important, he always saidthe wrong thing.

Te woman looked up from her paperwork and turned to my

father. In a version of Russian that made me feel like I was teeter-

ing on a balance beam along with her, she said, Mr. Kopylenko,

tell why you want exist in United States?

I stared at Dads fedora, thankful that at least he had given up

his earrings for a day. Mom tightened her grip on her purse, and

my eight-year-old sister, Roxy, stopped swinging her legs.

Dad straightened, cleared his throat, and said in equally

AMERICAN CHEESE


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4 OKSANA MARAFIOI

precarious English, I want play with B.B. King. I great Gypsy

musician and he like me. When he hear me play, we be rich.

Here, I great musician, but nobody know. We live in 1980s, butfeel like 1880s. Russian peoples only like factory and tractor. I no

drive tractor. I play guitar. Her name Aphroditta. Also. He lifted

his index finger to stress the importance of what was coming

next. I super-good healer. I heal peoples. If you have hemor-

rhoid, I fix. I take tumor with bare hands. In Russia, I not free.

I go to jail, you understand?

I was mortified, my eyes jumping between Dad, the awfullyquiet American, and my mom, whod plastered on a smile like

a fresh Band-Aid.

We want our girls to have a better future, Mom said in Rus-

sian, after recouping from the awkward pause. You understand.

Years of managing a Roma performing ensemble had taught

my mother the schmooze side of business. She closed many

impossible deals over black caviar and bottles of Armenian co-

gnac, items she couldnt bring to our interview, though not for

lack of trying. Tat day, November 18, 1989, Mom had put on a

periwinkle wool dress, a fox-fur coatwe had waited in line out-

side the embassy for three hoursa pair of Swedish-made boots,

and not a flicker of jewelry except for her wedding band. She had

made sure none of us looked too rich or too poor; it was impor-tant to appear like the average Soviet family. Tis was tricky,

since, as far as Americans knew, the USSR did not have a middle

class and was not supposed to have an upper class, which we hap-

pened to belong to.

Tis wasnt Moms first trip to the embassy. Her brother Arsen,

who had moved with his familyincluding two of my favorite

cousins, Nelly and Aidato Los Angeles three years before, sent

us a visa that was short an important form: his agreement to spon-

sor us when we first arrived in the States. Te visa might as well


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AMERICAN GYPSY 5

have been blank without it. But Mom didnt give up, even though

it took her years of networking, bribing, and entertaining in the

classiest restaurants to finally get our file going. Tis last familyinterview was the key, quite literally, to freedom.

Tankfully Dad had kept quiet, and the American asked only

Mom questions from that point on. Soon the two women were

swapping locations of the best butcher shops in town. On

Wednesdays, go to Komsomolskaya Ploshad. Ask for Borya. ell

him I sent you, Mom said, voice low as if the room were full of

strangers waiting to snatch her secret.It still felt then as if we were bargaining like prisoners caught

between an unfair sentence and a pardon, but I could hear that

freedom. In my ears, bells were ringing, that huge music they

belted out from the towers of St. Basils Cathedral in Red Square.

Te woman flipped the pages of our file and addressed my

mother in measured Russian: Id read here that you drink? She

lifted an arm to her lips and curled her fingers around an imagi-

nary bottle. And a needle scratched across my sound track, exactly

the way you hear it in movies.

Te four of us halted like toys unwound.

Mom drank often. Tis was after Dad had nearly died of alco-

hol poisoning and renounced booze as the religion of choice, and

before Mom started drinking every day. But what if Americansdidnt drink? Ever. I hadnt considered that possibility.

With a look of complete mortification the woman said, Oh

goodness. Sometimes my pronunciation is bad. You sing, right?

You singer.

All the Kopylenkos in the room showed signs of life for the

first time in at least fifteen seconds.

Yes, yes, I do! Mom laughed and we joined in, somewhat ma-

niacally, as I recall. In Russian, drink and sing are a letter apart.

At the end of the hour, the American finally stamped our


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6 OKSANA MARAFIOI

papers. She blushed while my parents took turns hugging her, all

three talking as if they were going to be neighbors once we

moved. Even when we walked out of the offi ce I couldnt breathe,too afraid she would change her mind and rush out to take back

the good news.

Once we had our permission my parents didnt waste time

packing. In their desperation to leave they didnt pause to con-

sider the diffi culties they might encounter across the ocean. Tey

just knew that everything would be better in America.

Te days leading up to our departure seesawed between toomuch activity and too little sleep. Were finally getting out of

this hellhole, Dad told anyone willing to listen. He practiced his

guitar with frenzied dedication, for that fantasy meeting with

his hero, B.B. King. It never crossed his mind that maybe he

couldnt walk up to any old music legend and dazzle him with

killer technique.

Mom sold or gave away most of our valuables because Soviet

customs employees werent shy about confiscating anything that

turned a profit on the black market. Even our house had to go.

According to Soviet law, we had to surrender all real estate before

emigrating. Moms relatives talked her into giving it to one of her

distant cousins. It was better than seeing it go to a stranger. My

parents had friends who put their names on waiting lists for yearsfor an opportunity to buy Moscow real estate. As connected as

Mom was, it had taken her two cases of cognac and fifteen thou-

sand rubles to bribe a housing authority offi cial to bump up her

name for a fifty-year-old house with cracked shutters.

Our house was located near the city limits, where oak and

maple trees commanded the streets, making human structures

look insignificant and fragile.

Muscovites preferred the city high-rises, and I didnt know

that only the old folks and the Gypsies still lived in those old


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AMERICAN GYPSY 7

houses on the outskirts until one of my fourth-grade classmates

educated me.

Its like I read in my dads newspaper, Nastya said, pushinga mop around our classroom. We had floor duty every uesday

after school. Our leaders built these new apartments for every-

one to live in. Te old people got smart eventually. But the Gyp-

sies set up tents in the courtyards and said they liked to sleep and

pee outside. Can you imagine? If you ask me, I think they just

didnt know what to do with all those walls and doors. Like, if

you bring a mouse inside, its always looking for a hole to jumpinto.

What does that have to do with houses? I asked Nastya,

taking care with my words. When I started first grade, my par-

ents, without much explanation, told me not to mention that

I was part Roma. o Nastya, I was Oksana Kopylenko the Ukrai-

nian, because all Soviet last names ending with nkotraced their

roots to Ukraine.

She leaned on the mops tip and whispered, Teyre closer to

the dirt that way.

After school I marched home and demanded to know if

Nastyas story was true.

Dad was in the garage mixing paintsneon yellow and torch

redto use on our car. Mom stood inside the doorway, eyesfixed on Dad, arms crossed like a pretzel high and tight over her

chest.

It took those cretins five years to get all of the Roma off the

grounds, Dad said. Tey were so used to people obeying that

Gypsy insubordination was big news, headlines in all the papers.

Its not true. I was appalled. I had hoped Nastya had lied.

Why wouldnt they want to live in a house? It doesnt make sense.

My reaction sent Dad into a fit of laughter.

You think everyone lives like us? Nice place with modern


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amenities? In some cities those charity apartments dont even have

heating or water. You squat behind a tree and wipe your ass with

newspaper.My parents loved that house. Tey had put in parquet floors

throughout, except for the kitchen, where Mom preferred marble.

Both bedrooms had sleek Swedish furniture, while the living

room, the center of all gatherings, boasted curvy Queen Anne

style couches and Persian rugs.

Well buy a mansion in Los Angeles, Mom assured every-

one who called to ask after her mental health. And for dirtcheap.

Dad left a number of albums with his sister, Laura, for safe-

keeping. Featuring my grandparents beautiful voices, they were

produced during the height of Roma popularity with the Russian

public and signified an irreplaceable legacy. He wrapped them

with painstaking care in soft towels, laying them inside a small

Grandpa Andreis first Gypsy ensemble, 1936. Grandpa Andrei isseated in the middle row, with Grandma Rose to his left


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AMERICAN GYPSY 9

wooden chest. Its only for now, he had told his sister. I made

copies on these tapes in case you want to listen to them. Te

needle scratches on that damn record player.My eight-year-old sister bragged to all her friends about the move.

She had recently developed a crush on George Michael and had

been making plans of her own, which included locating, ensnaring,

and eventually marrying the pop star.

I spent most of those last days in an emotional limbo, uncer-

tain of how I felt about the impending metamorphosis. Petrified

to part with the comfort of familiarity, I still couldnt deny myexcitement at living in a place most of the world believed to be

paradise. A few years back, a drummer from our ensemble had

taken a trip to Las Vegas. When he came back, his eyes were as lit

up as the fabled Sin City billboards.

You get free soap in all the hotel rooms, Vova had exclaimed

in our kitchen. My parents, along with a few musician friends

who came to hear about the States, wrapped their ears around

Vovas stories. Sometimes, like in the case of the free-soap claim,

they would burst into a debate. I dont believe it, somebody

said. Why should anyone need free soap in Vegas? Another

added, o wash their ass with, after they shit all the money

away.

Roxy and I had lurked in the corners of the kitchen thatnight, trying to stay undetected. But when Vova produced a piece

of something yellow covered in filmy plastic, we forgot about the

threat of bedtime.

What is that? Roxy asked.

TisVova held the delicate sheet between his forefinger

and thumbis American cheese.

Our cheese came in thick blocks, so heavy they could kill a

man. Even when sliced, it never turned out so thin.

My father, always the smart-ass, interrupted the momentary


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glorification of the cheese. Are the Americans rationing food?

I thought the war was over.

No, man, Vova said. Its like this on purpose. You put it be-tween two slices of bread and cook it on a skillet until the cheese

melts.

What about the plastic? I asked.

Here. Vova placed the cheese into my palm. You pull this

edge up and remove the wrapper.

A collective Oh went around the kitchen.

My father shook his head, still unimpressed. He turned toMom and said, See? I told you. Anybody with half a brain can

become rich in America.

But all I thought was, My Godsingly wrapped cheese; so

exotic, so needlessly luxurious. As Vova continued to list the mar-

vels of everyday American life, I couldnt help but daydream of

what living there would be like.

I even got a special haircut for the big move. It was called the

Lioness.

In the USSR, all haircuts had names. Te Lioness looked iden-

tical to Jon Bon Jovis hair except fluffi er. amara, Moms hair-

dresser, had suggested the cut to offset my eyes, which, she claimed,

appeared unnaturally large compared to the rest of my face. If its

good enough for Jon, I thought, its good enough for me.For my arrival, I wore an outfit that you could appreciate only

if you grew up during the eighties. In that case, you would be sick

with envy over my aquamarine sweater and neon-pink corduroy

pants, purchased on the black market for three hundred rubles.

I had even put on makeup: a touch of green eye shadow and pink

lipstick. I felt like a movie star. My Wednesday Addams personal-

ity nearly vanished behind the trendy Oksana who was about to

move to the land of opportunity. I had no doubt I would fit right

in, wearing clothes in the tradition of the MV music videos


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AMERICAN GYPSY 11

I had studied. Perhaps this Oksana could pass for a girl with an

average family, instead of a Gypsy one.

Funny: I really thought it would be that simple.

For the first fifteen years of my life, my parents performed in a

traveling Roma ensemble the size of a circus. Tey had little

choice in the mattermy grandparents ran it, and it was a family

affair. Although my mother was Armenian by blood, once she

married my father, she may as well have been Roma.We led a spur-of-the-moment kind of life, always on the road

touring and adjusting to schedules and local customs. Offi cially

we lived in Moscow, but by the age of ten, I had traveled from the

Mongolian deserts to the Siberian tundra; I had become adept at

sleeping on the worn-out seats of old train stations and during

show rehearsals.

Even after I started school, I tried to spend every possible mo-

ment on the road, in part to hide my inclination to forget home-

work assignments or to ditch school for a matinee of a foreign

flick. But a bigger reason was fear. For the first five grades Id done

well as the Ukrainian Oksana. Ten, one day, a classmate stuck a

piece of paper to my back. I didnt notice it for some hours, and by

then it was too late.Gyp.

Te classmate was Aleksey Moruskin, Nastyas boyfriend.

Later, when he and I sat in the principals offi ce, his hair and face

stained magenta-red as he sulked at the floor between the princi-

pals desk and his feet, I knew his pout had little to do with guilt

and a lot with the fact that Id dumped a bowl of beets on his

head during lunch. It was the only time I was grateful to the

school cooks for making home-style vegetables every day.

imofey imofeevich, who sometimes punished students by


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making them kneel on a pile of dried beans in the corner of his

offi ce, sat across from us like God come down for Judgment one

day early.Raskazivay(ell me), he said to Aleksey.

Te boy mumbled, Nastya heard hera nod at me

grandmother singing on the radio, then stopped and swung his

legs like a kindergartner.

I dont have all day, boy. imofey imofeevich sang bass with

an a cappella quartet called Bright Sunrises. His voice reached

places.Te announcer guy said she was a . . . you know . . .

Wheres that bag of kidney beans Ive been saving for a spe-

cial occasion?

Hesaidshewasagypsy, Aleksey pinballed in a single breath.

Te bag was opened, the beans scattered. Aleksey cut me a

look that hissed of revenge. He kneeled down, cheeks puffed to

hold in the sobs. Youd have to kneel for a while before it went

from uncomfortable to painful, but he still cried.

My dad is a UkrainianRom, I said to imofey imofee-

vich, as if he were about to confiscate my last name now that the

Gypsy part had been revealed.


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American Gypsy; A Memoir