A brilliant and bitingly funny collection of stories united around a single, crumbling apartment building in Ukraine that heralds the arrival of a major new talent"Reva is a miracle writer… You've never read anything like [these stories]."—Elizabeth McCracken, author of BowlawayA bureaucratic glitch omits an entire building, along with its residents, from municipal records. So begins Reva's ingeniously intertwined narratives, nine stories which span the chaotic years leading up to and immediately following the fall of the Soviet Union. But even as the benighted denizens of 1933 Ivansk Street weather the official neglect of the increasingly powerless authorities, they devise ingenious ways to survive.In "Bone Music," an agoraphobic recluse survives by selling contraband LPs, mapping the vinyl grooves of illegal Western records into stolen X-ray film. A delusional secret service agent in "Letter of Apology" becomes convinced he's being covertly recruited to guard Lenin's tomb, just as his parents, not seen since he was a small child, supposedly were. Weaving the narratives together is the unforgettable, chameleon-like Zaya: a cleft-lipped orphan in "Little Rabbit," a beauty-pageant crasher in "Miss USSR," a sadist-for-hire to the Eastern Bloc's newly minted oligarchs in "Homecoming."Good Citizens Need Not Fear tacks from moments of intense paranoia to surprising tenderness and back again, exploring what it is to be an individual amid the roiling forces of history. Inspired by her and her family's own experiences in Ukraine, Reva brings the black absurdism of early Shteyngart and the sly interconnectedness of Anthony Marra's Tsar of Love and Techno to a collection that is as clever as it is heartfelt."Bright, funny, satirical and relevant…. A new talent to watch" —Margaret Atwood"You've never read anything like them" —Elizabeth McCracken"Darkly hilarious" —Anthony Doerr"Bang-on brilliant" —Miriam Toews"Fearless and thrilling" —Bret Anthony Johnston
The statue of Grandfather Lenin, just like the one in Moscow, 900 kilometers away, squinted into the smoggy distance. Winter’s first snowflakes settled on its iron shoulders like dandruff. Even as Daniil Petrovich Blinov passed the statue and climbed the crumbling steps of the town council behind it, he felt the Grandfather’s 360-degree gaze on the back of his head, burning through his fur-flap hat.
Inside the town council hall, a line of hunched figures pressed against the walls, warming their hands on the radiators. Men, women, entire families progressed toward a wall of glass partitions. Daniil entered the line. He rocked back and forth on the sides of his feet. When his heels grew numb, he flexed his calves to promote circulation.
“Next!”
Daniil took a step forward. He bent down to the hole in the partition and looked at the bespectacled woman sitting behind it. “I’m here to report a heating problem in our building.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We have no heat.” He explained that the building was a new one, this winter was its first, someone seemed to have forgotten to connect it to the district furnace, and the toilet water froze at night.
The clerk heaved a thick directory onto her counter. “Building address?”
“Ivansk Street, Number 1933.”
She flipped through the book, licking her finger every few pages. She flipped and flipped, consulted an index, flipped once more, shut the book, and folded her arms across it. “That building does not exist, Citizen.”
Daniil stared at the woman. “What do you mean? I live there.”
“According to the documentation, you do not.” The clerk looked over Daniil’s shoulder at the young couple in line behind him.
Daniil leaned closer, too quickly, banging his forehead against the partition. “Nineteen thirty-three Ivansk Street,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable.
“Never heard of it.”
“I have thirteen, no, fourteen people living in my suite alone, who can come here and tell you all about it,” Daniil said. “Fourteen angry citizens bundled up to twice their size.”
The clerk shook her head, tapped the book. “The documentation, Citizen.”
“We’ll keep using the gas, then. We’ll leave the stove on day and night.” The stove offered little in the way of heating, but Daniil hoped the wanton waste of a government-subsidized resource would stir a response.
The woman raised her eyebrows; Daniil appeared to have rematerialized in front of her. “Address again?”
“Nineteen thirty-three Ivansk Street, Kirovka, Ukraine, USSR. Mother Earth.”
“Yes, yes. We’ll have the gas-engineering department look into it. Next!”
Was it fourteen now? Had he included himself in the count? Carefully avoiding the ice patches on the sidewalk on his way home, Daniil wondered when he had let the numbers elude him. Last month twelve people had been living in his suite, including himself. He counted on his fingers, stiff from the cold. In the bedroom, first corner, Baba Ola slept on the foldout armchair; second corner, on the foldout cot, were Aunt Inaya and Uncle Timko and their three small children (but Uncle Timko promised they’d be assigned their own place soon because of his job superintending the municipal square’s public restroom—a government position); third corner, Daniil’s niece and her friend, but they hardly counted, since they ate little and spent most of their time at the institute; fourth corner, Daniil himself, bunking under Uncle Timko’s mother, (Great) Aunt Nika; in the hallway, someone’s mother-in-law or second cousin or who really knew, the connection was patchy; on the balcony camped Second Cousin Glebik and his fiancée and six hens, which were not included in the count but who could forget the damn noisy birds? That made thirteen. He must have missed someone.
