Less than six weeks after his arrival in the United States, Gantchev, a Russian immigrant living in Brighton Beach, stumbled into his life’s work. He became a Mandelbaum impersonator.

Not that he knew very much, if anything, about the mute actor who had first taken Broadway and then Hollywood by storm; Mandelbaum’s fame not yet having reached St. Petersburg, let alone Yasnaya Polyana, where Gantchev had lived. He had never seen any of the actor’s movies. He had never heard of the actor’s scandals. He had never heard the actor’s name. But Shastikov, "two years already an American," Mandelbaum’s movies he had seen. Mandelbaum’s stripper he knew all about. Mandelbaum’s name he knew, although when it came to printing the sign for Gantchev’s new career, it came out somehow Mandlebaum. An error he always attributed to —

But this gets ahead of the story.

Shastikov and Gantchev are walking on the boardwalk. Shastikov, as is his habit, is giving advice. He is after, all, an old hand at being an American.

"A man doesn’t speak English, it is hard to find work."

Gantchev nods agreement. At best he doesn’t talk much, a trait Shastikov, a man of more than enough words for two, finds endearing.

"You’ll learn English, you’ll get work."

Gantchev nods.

"Until then —"

"Yes. Until then?" Gantchev interrupts.

Shastikov stops as if shocked that his friend first of all that his companion had the ability to speak, and second of all that he had had the temerity to use it to interrupt his train of thought.

"Until then? Until then, we’ll think of something."

And by the time they had reached Brighton 12th Street, something they had thought of, at least something he had thought of, at least something happened that had —

Whatever, at Brighton 12th Street, walking towards then from the direction of Coney Island, there are two young girls. Teenagers. They are gawking and pointing. Gawking and pointing at Gantchev. Gaping at Gantchev with eyes wider than the sea on their right. And as they pass, they are giggling breathlessly to each other: "It is." "It couldn’t be." "It is." "In Brighton Beach?" "It is." "No way." "It’s Mandel—"

"It’s Mandel—," hits Shastikov in the head with a light bulb. He looks at Gantchev — a big man, taciturn. In his mind he pushes black hair away from the brow a little, pushes in the nose a little, rounds his shoulders just a pinch, and there standing there next to him, he sees not a Russian immigrant who can’t find a job because English he cannot speak, no, a movie star he sees, an idol of stage and screen. Standing there next to him he sees Mandelbaum, or as his sign was later to indicate, Mandlebaum.

"Until then? Until then, you’ll be a Mandelbaum."

"A Mandelbaum?"

"A Mandelbaum."

"A Mandelbaum is what?"

"Mandelbaum, you never heard of? Mandelbaum is in the movies an actor, a great actor, a famous actor."

"In the movies, I’ll be an actor?"

"In the movies, you’ll buy a ticket. In the streets you’ll be an actor. Presley Elvis, you’ve heard of? People, you’ve heard of, they dress up like Presley Elvis in fancy suits. With sequins. They imitate."

"So?"

"So? Mandelbaum, you’ll dress up like. Mandelbaum, you’ll imitate."

"Mandelbaum, I’ll imitate? Mandelbaum, I never even heard."

"This is what is beautiful. Mandelbaum nobody ever heard. Mandelbaum is an actor, he doesn’t speak. He never speaks." Shastikov puts his fingers to his lips and zips. "English, you don’t speak. English, he doesn’t speak. Nothing, he says, nothing. Never. It’s perfect. Your mouth, you never have to open. You’ll dress up. You’ll stand on the corner by the entrance to the elevated–across from where the gypsy plays the mandolin. You’ll keep shut your mouth and you’ll make a fortune."

"A fortune from standing in the street?"

"A fortune — you’ll listen to me — a fortune. Your hair, we’ll push a little this way; you’ll stoop a little — a fortune."

The next day, seven thirty in the morning, standing by the step to the Brighton Beach station, Gantsev squints silently at the faces passing by on their way to work. At his feet there is a New York Mets baseball cap turned upside down. In the cap are two quarters and a crumpled dollar bill. Next to the cap there is a hand lettered sign: "Mandlebaum."

Shastikov stands off a way, his eyes fixed on Gantchev, on his face a look of awe.

"Oh, my God," he shouts, "It looks just like — ."