<DIV>Sergei Dovlatov&#8217;s subtle, dark-edged humor and wry observations are in full force in <I>The Suitcase</I> as he examines eight objects&#151;the items he brought with him in his luggage upon his emigration from the U.S.S.R. These seemingly undistinguished possessions, stuffed into a worn-out suitcase, take on a riotously funny life of their own as Dovlatov inventories the circumstances under which he acquired them, occasioning a brilliant series of interconnected tales: A poplin shirt evokes the bittersweet story of a courtship and marriage, while a pair of boots (of the kind only the Nomenklatura can afford) calls up the hilarious conclusion to an official banquet. Some driving gloves&#151;remnants of Dovlatov&#8217;s short-lived acting career&#151;share space with neon-green crepe socks, reminders of a failed black-market scam. And in curious juxtaposition, the belt from a prison guard&#8217;s uniform lies next to a stained jacket that once belonged to Fernand L&#233;ger.<BR><BR>Imbued with a comic nostalgia overlaid with Dovlatov&#8217;s characteristically dry wit, <I>The Suitcase</I> is an intensely human, delightfully ironic novel from &#147;the finest Soviet satirist to appear in English since Vladimir Voinovich&#8221; (<I>The Washington Post</I>).</DIV>