The sound of my name in Russian sent an unwelcome chill through me—I had no love for the country my parents fled, despite my fluency in the language, which I saw merely as a skill I could use to reach more patients and serve them better. Like many children of immigrants, I deeply cherished my American identity.
“Call me Natalie. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back to your hotel.”
The evening was brilliant, all crystal and floral centerpieces, white wine flowing and waiters weaving among the guests. What made it so magical was the fact that virtually everyone present really did wish the guest of honor well. For nearly thirty years, Dr. Andrew Solomon, my retiring mentor, had been the medical center’s standard bearer and moral compass, a brilliant, dedicated physician who’d managed to make us all a little better than we really were. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d knocked on his door with a question, a problem, or simply the need to talk unguardedly to someone who understood the kinds of things that troubled me. Not once did he make me feel small or stupid; I always left feeling stronger and more clear. You cannot put a price on that; you cannot say thank you enough. That’s what I said in my little speech, and the words, being heartfelt, came easily, no notes required. At the end, I could tell by all the smiling faces—some of the women even tissue-dabbing their eyes with care—that I’d done him justice, and that made me glad.
Afterwards, there were pictures, and some whispered nudges about how I was one of several candidates being considered for Dr. Soloman’s job. Then quite suddenly, in a flurry of flashing bulbs, I found myself standing between Dr. Solomon and Dr. Joel White, my arms lightly encircling each of their waists, and my inner world quickly crumbled. When the picture-taking was over, I excused myself shakily, found an empty table at the back of the room, and sat down among the balled-up linen napkins and lipstick-smeared coffee cups. People smiled at me from a distance, and I smiled awkwardly back. The dance band started up, the party rolled into full swing, and I was relieved to be left alone.
I saw Joel reach out to his brand-new wife, Melissa, and pull her onto the parquet. Joel and I had been medical students, interns, and residents together. We’d helped and stood by each other all that time, sharing notes, gripes, sandwiches, the flu, our heady successes, devastating failures, and the sheer addictive exhaustion of our work. We’d made love, too, using sex in all the ways it shouldn’t be used: as an antidote to loneliness, a sedative for anxiety, a novelty to break the boredom, a way to obliterate ourselves. We’d talked about marriage a few times, in a polite, obligatory way, but we were almost too close, too familiar, to take the idea seriously. For a few years, we lived in different cities completing fellowships, then found ourselves together again at GW, where we’d been close colleagues for the last decade. Now, with Joel graying at the temples, and my once-long hair cut in a short, simple style, we had an intimacy that was in some ways more profound, more crucial to our lives, than mere romantic love. We could almost read each other’s minds.
Melissa was not of our world. She was untested—coddled, in my opinion—superficial, as lucky people tended to be, and effusively light-hearted. She teased Joel in public about his work habits, as if they were a charming flaw. It was clear that she planned to cure him of workaholism with regular doses of social events, dinners and movies, and weekend getaways. The perfect confidence she brought to this task was just another of her delightful traits.
In my opinion, Melissa was naively miscalculating the depths of her husband’s dedication to his career. But how could a woman as protected as she truly understand a man like him? Had she ever seen an anesthetized patient stretched out on an operating table, or reached into that person’s liver to pull out a golf-ball-sized cancerous tumor? Had her after-work ears ever burned with the echoes of children crying from chronic pain and wretched, innocent bewilderment? Had she ever attempted to relax before a crackling fire, only to close a novel and grab a textbook she’d pored over a hundred times before because she needed to be absolutely certain, right then and there, that there wasn’t a single detail she’d overlooked?
As I watched her gracefully twirling at the end of Joel’s arm, in a lovely dress that fit her so well, that managed to be both tasteful and flirtatious, I felt my lips curl with unwanted envy. Young Melissa probably didn’t smell like antiseptic even after she showered. She could still enjoy the sweet feminine luxury of doting on the cuteness of babies because she’d never had to watch one die.
I’d tried not to see Joel’s marriage as a betrayal. I’d worked at not seeing it that way. But ever since that sunny winter wedding, when the smile on his face glowed brighter than any smile I’d seen on it before, there had been a sharp new pain in my heart and a grating tension between us. He’d taken to lecturing me in a friendly way on what he was learning from Melissa about the all-important work/life balance, on the apparently critical need to get out and enjoy yourself once in a while, and, to my horror, I’d heard resentment quivering in my retorts. I believed I knew only too well what he was trying to say: I was supposed to find someone, too. He needed that to complete his own happiness. It would free him up somehow, in some complicated way, if he could confidently release me into someone else’s care.
But it wasn’t that simple for me. Men had never really looked at me very much, and lately, they didn’t look at me at all. It had been a long time since I had a date.
The truth was that I’d managed to become what the Chinese call a “leftover woman,” a woman who’d traded the best of her child-bearing years for power and status. It was an ugly term, conjuring, as it did, stale smells and lumpy textures. Moldy food items that no one really wanted, that were kept around just until they could be guiltlessly thrown away.
This was obviously an unhealthy way to see oneself, so I was glad that the dark thoughts came only in the middle of sleepless nights, which, due to my chronic state of fatigue, were rare. For the most part, I succeeded in not giving my situation much thought. I was only aware of it in unexpected moments like the one that had just occurred, when, my arm encircling Joel’s waist, I felt his taut, graceful body under his suit jacket, and his familiar smell rose to my head like the world’s most excellent wine.
A hot sun—fat and round like the exaggerated yellow orb in a child’s drawing—was climbing the eastern sky when I arrived at the National Mall the next morning. The city had been in the grip of a heat spell for the last week, brutal even by Washington standards. I’d slept badly, my dreams crowded with images of wooden sentry towers and bedraggled prisoners shuffling across snowfields, and my early morning run had been an arduous, discouraging affair. Before leaving my condo, I’d donned big dark glasses and a Washington Nationals baseball cap.
Saldana appeared at the top of the marble steps a few minutes after nine, wearing the same yellow dress and ungainly platform sandals she’d had on the day before. The only difference was that her glossy black hair was woven in a long braid that fell across one shoulder. She caught sight of me when I waved, and began descending the stairs with effortless grace. There was something magnetic about her that drew the eye, that made the sneakered tourists turn and stare. I was reminded of a line from Byron, She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies.
“Come and sit,” I said as she approached. “It’s a glorious morning, even if it is beastly hot.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s only a few minutes. Have you had breakfast yet?”
She nodded a bit timidly, as if worried that eating breakfast had been an etiquette mistake.
“Good. So have I,” I lied. “Why don’t we walk for a while, before it gets even hotter. We can head up to the Washington Monument. There are a lot of wonderful museums on the way, and we can stop in one of them if you’d like.”
“Thank you. That would be very nice,” she said with perfect politeness, leaving me with no idea whether she meant it or not.
The mall was filling with hikers and lawmakers, mothers with running tod
dlers and dog-walkers tethered to several leashes at once. Saldana and I strolled to the Washington Monument, chatting all the way, past sprinklers spewing a fine rain on parched lawns. Then it was on to the Reflecting Pool, and all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, with Saldana gradually becoming more open and relaxed. When I asked what she liked best about the United States, she replied without hesitation: the cars.
“There are so many, and they all look brand new,” she said. “Where I’m from, only the richest people can afford them; everyone else has to take buses. I’ve spent half my life on street corners waiting for buses to come. It’s the worst in winter, because some days there’s so much moisture in the air that you’re in a fog of frost and can’t see very far in front of you. You don’t know the bus is coming until you hear the motor; then it looms out at you all of a sudden. Buses used to scare me when I was little.” She offered me an incongruously bright smile, pleased to have offered up this little intimate fact, and happily added, “If I lived in America, I’d buy a convertible and drive it all the way to Beverly Hills!”
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “What else do you like about America?”
“The handicap ramps,” she said more soberly. “So people in wheelchairs can go wherever they want. In Yakutsk, they mostly stay inside.”
Her impressions of the US weren’t all positive, though. She was displeased with the dance company she was performing with because, as she haughtily explained, they practiced sloppy techniques that a Russian ballet master would never tolerate.
“They rehearse too much,” she said. “It’s not necessary. If you know a piece, you know it. You don’t need to keep repeating it over and over again, until you hate every step and just the sound of the music makes you cringe.”
The museums we passed hadn’t interested her, but she was very keen on the Botanic Garden when I mentioned it, so from the Lincoln Memorial we strolled all the way back towards the Capitol Building, except on the other side of the mall. By this time, heat was radiating up from the ground in palpable waves, and the air was a nearly unbreathable soup of stifling humidity. Saldana’s bare arms had grown pink from the sizzling rays. I hastened our steps, eager to reach air conditioning.
The main hall of the Botanic Garden was like an oasis when we finally entered it: cool and lush, its light softened by a soaring glass dome. The place had just opened for the day. A noisy, excited throng of tourists was milling about, snapping group photos and grinning selfies. Saldana looked a little wilted from our hike.
I led her through glass doors into the tropical rain forest, which was hushed and cool, despite the thick humidity. A dense earthy fragrance greeted us, and there was a greeny dimness to the air, as most of the light was blocked by the thick jungle canopy overhead. We wandered for a while in companionable awe before taking a seat on a wooden bench tucked into a corner. Tangled ropey vines dripped from branches, and the ground was lushly carpeted with flat-leaved ferns in varied shades of yellow and green. I knew—and I think Saldana knew it, too—that with so much friendly, superficial banter behind us, the time had come for her to honestly explain herself—the long train ride, the surprise appearance, the urgency. What she really wanted.
“I love that you’re here, Saldana. I love getting to know you. But I wonder if there isn’t some reason for your visit you haven’t told me yet,” I said.
She froze a little, then swallowed hard enough that I could see her neck muscles move. “I have something to ask.”
“Go ahead.” I wondered if she wanted money, which I was prepared to give, up to a point.
“I’m very proud to have been sent to the United States as a representative of my country. This is a wonderful opportunity for me to share the artistry of Yakutia with American audiences. Now more than ever, when there’s so much hostility in the world, it’s important to promote understanding between our two countries. Whether Russian or American, we’re all the same underneath our skin. Don’t you agree, Natalie?” She produced a tortured-looking smile.
I nodded, wondering what on earth was prompting such a stilted speech.
“It’s very unusual for a Russian citizen such as myself to be granted a visa to the United States. I’ll probably never have such luck again. I’m scheduled to return to my country soon, as you know. But…”
“But…?”
“But everything’s so nice here! America is a good place to be a dancer! And if I couldn’t be a dancer, I could go to school! There are a lot of schools in America. My English is not good right now, but I would study very hard and soon have a job to support myself.” Her smile folded into what it had wanted to be all along: a grimace. “But my visa is only for thirty days.”
An Indian family passed in front of us, the woman in a brilliant sari and two children trailing wide-eyed with wonder. We remained quiet until they were gone and for some moments afterward. I had a sense of where this was going and was hoping I was wrong.
“Have you looked in to getting your visa extended?” I asked.
“Not possible,” she said quickly. “It was issued for cultural exchange, not work or study. I would have to have a job here to get it extended, and even then, it’s very difficult. The rules are very strict.”
“You might try calling the US State Department.”
“I’m a principal dancer at a respected ballet company in Russia,” she whispered in a low voice, as if revealing a state secret. “I am…what you call…a national treasure. My country will never let me leave.”
“Are you sure? I could put you in touch with someone—an immigration lawyer or someone like that.” But even as the words were leaving my mouth, I knew they were hollow. I was just trying to create some cover for myself. If I could pass Saldana off to someone else, I might be able to slip away from any involvement. “A professional will give you the best advice for your situation. I’m sure there are some legal avenues open to you.”
Saldana stiffened, and spoke the next words with surprising steel. “I’m not returning to Russia when my visa expires. I will remain in the United States. Things will be very difficult for me at first. I’ll need so much—a place to live, US dollars, food. It would be much easier if I had someone, an American citizen, to help me out.”
My cheeks grew warm with rising blood. So this was the reason for the surprise visit. I was being asked to help her defect. I could forgive her opportunism; I even admired it. What I couldn’t abide was her naïveté.
“Saldana, listen to me. Before you go too far down this road, you’d better think long and hard. Maybe you’ve got some picture in your head of what America is like. Picket fences, apple pie—I don’t know. But whatever you’re imagining, I’m going to tell you right now you’re dead wrong. Life here isn’t easy for undocumented aliens. You’d be hiding in the shadows, always looking over your shoulder. And you, of all people, have so much to lose. I doubt you’d be able to dance in a company here without papers. Are you really willing to give up your career?”
“I was told there are jobs in hotels,” she said staunchly.
“Hotels? Are you serious? How could working in a hotel possibly be good for you? Long, exhausting hours for low pay. Being treated like a servant constantly—and still not able to make ends meet. You’re a ballet dancer, Saldana. An artist starting out on a wonderful career that you’ve worked very hard to achieve. Do you even know what you’re saying?”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Please, Dr. March. Natalie. Please…”
But I wouldn’t allow myself to be swayed by emotion, not in this case, where there was so much to lose. “I’m sorry. I can’t in good conscience support your choice to do something that I know would be difficult and dangerous, and that I honestly believe you would live to regret. And then there’s the not-so-small matter of the law. What you’re proposing is illegal. You must know that. If there’s some other way I can help you, I would certainly like to do it. But you can’t expect me to intentionally break the law. I’m very sorry, Saldana. It grieves me to say this. B
ut I won’t help you defect.”
A few tears spilled over her lower lids. She brushed them away quickly, before they could roll down her cheeks. “I was hoping…since we’re cousins…”
“You thought our being related would make a difference?”
“Yes,” she said in a small voice.
“It makes no difference, Saldana. If anything, it only makes me care about you more. And what about your relatives back in Russia? Your mother and brother, your grandmother. Have you thought about them?”
“My mother is the one who sent me here! She says I have to stay, no matter what. I can’t go home!”
“What do you mean, you can’t go home?”
She fairly spit out the next words in a mix of bitterness and despair. “I never wanted to come here, but when my mother found out I could get a visa through this cultural exchange, she said I had to take it. That it was an opportunity I wouldn’t get again, that I’d be sorry all my life if I didn’t get out of Russia when I had the chance. She told me to contact you, that you’d help me because we’re family. And she promised that she and my brother would join me here soon.”
She was madly twisting the ring. “But I think she was lying to give me courage, because she never said a word before about wanting to leave Russia. She loves her country, as I do! And I know for a fact Misha would never come here!”
Her face reddened and crumpled, and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She swiped them away with her small, perfect hands, tried to control the heaving of her breath.
At a loss for words, I tried to put my arm around her shoulder but she pulled away slightly, not wanting to be consoled, and continued in a rush, “Something is happening to my family, something bad. I didn’t speak to my brother at all before I left. My mother said he was away on a trip, but where would he be that he couldn’t call to say goodbye? And why would he have gone on a trip without telling me? When he moved away, we stayed in touch, then I didn’t hear from him at all. That’s not like him! My mother was trying to act normal, but it was obvious she was upset. I begged her to tell me what was happening, but she only kept repeating that America is a wonderful country, that I would be the first to go but soon we’d all be here together, happier than before. Yet she looked so sad!”
FINDING KATARINA M. Page 2