When he was alone, he took off his underwear and the bandage that he’d put back on after his relapse. Then, slowly, and despite the discomfort caused by his movements, he lowered himself into the water. The wound bothered him, but the warmth was soothing. He found a comfortable position in the tub and closed his eyes, breathing in the steam as if it nourished him. For a moment, while his whole body relaxed, his mind traveled to Detroit, and he saw himself in America again. A bathtub full of hot water . . . a job that fulfilled him . . . a hassle-free life . . . and Natasha. He was surprised by how little he would need to be happy.
He was on the verge of falling asleep again, when he heard knocking on the door downstairs. His comfort disappeared, turning into alarm. It couldn’t be Yuri because he had a key. He shouted out, receiving no response. He tried to sit up, but an intense pain ran down his spine. Gripping the edge of the bath, he gathered in his legs and rolled to one side. Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Yuri?”
The footsteps continued. There was no reply.
He tried to get up. Despite the pain, he managed to get himself onto his knees. Then he leaned back until he was squatting. He was on the verge of standing, when he noticed a figure before him. Jack stammered when he saw that the person looking at him naked, water up to his calves, was Natasha. Very slowly, cursing continuously, he submerged himself in the bath again.
“No!” she said, and ran to stop him.
With the young woman’s help, Jack got out of the tub and tried to cover himself with his underwear, but she made him lie on the bed, and felt the scar with a worried expression.
“What possessed you to take a bath? I told you not to get it wet.”
“What’re you doing here?” he said, covering himself with a blanket. “Did your father send you?”
“My father? Of course not! Well, he mentioned your relapse, but it was my idea to come. I asked for your address at the American store. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. The door was unlocked, and I was worried you might need help.”
Still in a daze, he looked at Natasha, whose face was even more beautiful with her hair unbraided. “You came here from the factory just to see me?”
“Not exactly. I live just a few blocks away, remember?”
“Well, no, not really. The time I took you home, I remember parking in front of an old building, but I’d had one drink too many. I still don’t know how I made it back to the village. But let me think . . . Ah, that’s it! Cooperative Street! That’s where your house is.”
“A house, me? No such luck. Just a room with a shared bathroom and kitchen, like any other single girl.”
“But, for someone in your position, isn’t living in a shared house a little, er, stifling?”
“Why?” She smiled. “I don’t have more hands, legs, or heads than anyone else.”
“I don’t know. You’re an important surgeon. You should have the right to—”
“To a house like this?” She looked around. “It certainly is big. And if properly cleaned, it would even be quite nice, but it would be even better if a couple of families that needed it lived here, don’t you think?”
Jack was surprised by the willingness with which Natasha accepted living conditions that didn’t match the importance of her role. He wasn’t sure what to say, so decided to remain silent and let the young woman tend to him. She was applying a dressing that she’d taken from her case, when Jack decided to be bold. “You look . . . I don’t know . . . different.”
“Oh! And is that a compliment?” She gave a start, surprised.
“No. I mean . . . I don’t know. It’s just seeing you like this, without your uniform . . .”
“Is it that bad?” Natasha got up, laughing. She did a twirl.
“No. You look lovely,” said Jack. “It’s just . . . today you look like a normal young woman!”
“What do you mean?” She feigned anger. “So what did I look like before?”
“Well . . . er . . . a Russian doctor!” he replied. “No! That’s not what I meant. It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve seen you being a doctor without your coat,” he said, quickly trying to dig himself out of a hole.
“Oh, I think you did mean it.” She was still smiling.
“Really, I’m sorry. This . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind turning around?” He motioned that he wanted to get dressed.
Natasha obeyed, the smile still spread across her face, while Jack pulled on his pants.
“So. How’s the burn doing?” He finished dressing.
“Well, this Russian doctor doesn’t think getting into the bathtub was the best idea. Let’s take a look.” She undid his pants and pressed gently. “Fortunately, the scar hasn’t softened too much. I imagine you’ll be walking unaided in a couple of weeks.”
“It’s still damned painful.”
“The fragment damaged the nerves. You might have to get used to it. What’s the smell in here?” She turned around to where Yuri had left a plate of leftover sausages.
“Breakfast. Will you join me?”
“I’d love to. It’s been ages since I’ve had a good meal, but I don’t know if I have time.”
“Come on! Help me. I won’t be able to cook them on my own.” He pretended to be in pain.
Natasha couldn’t refuse, and she helped him roast a couple of sausages from the package that Yuri had left, and toast some slices of black bread. The aroma spread through the house, mixing with the heat from the embers. They sat together by the fire and savored the food.
“You’re slimmer out of your uniform.” Jack examined her.
“I don’t think I’m all that skinny. It’s the rationing,” she replied, seeming embarrassed. “And work!” she quickly added.
“And what does your boyfriend think about it?” Jack joked.
“Boyfriend? What makes you think I have one?” she said, playing along.
“Well, I don’t know. It just seems strange that such a pretty girl, and someone so accomplished, could live in a shared apartment and think only about work.”
“Well, maybe I’m strange. But I can promise you that, if I had a boyfriend, he’d kiss me even if I were the skinniest girl on earth.” She laughed, and when Jack put his arms around her, also laughing uncontrollably, she let him kiss her. “And you? Haven’t you had a girlfriend? I mean . . . apart from your wife.”
“Sure. Come here, I’ll introduce you to her.” He pulled her toward a mirror so she could see herself.
“No. I mean an American girl.” Her expression turned serious. “My father said you’d been seeing Wilbur Hewitt’s daughter.”
“He said that? Well, you don’t need to worry. She’s water under the bridge.”
“So, it’s true.”
“What does it matter? Hey, what’s with the twenty questions? You wouldn’t be jealous, would you?”
“Me? Are you kidding? Oh wow! You even have a phonograph!” She broke off the interrogation and headed cheerfully toward the device. However, when she saw it close up, her expression changed to one of astonishment. “Where . . . where did you get this?”
“Do you like it? It’s an Edison, from—”
“I know what it is! I’m asking where you got this contraption from.”
Jack noticed a sudden hardness in her tone.
“Um . . . an official gave it to me to repair,” said Jack, feeling as if he were being accused of an unknown crime.
“An official?”
“Yes. Viktor Smirnov. He’s an OGPU officer under your father’s command. Is there something wrong?”
“No . . . it’s just that . . . you’d do well to keep away from that man.” Her voice faltered.
“Viktor? Since I arrived, he’s done nothing but help me.”
“Viktor doesn’t know how to help anyone but himself.”
“How would you know? Do you know Viktor well?”
“Sorry, but I’d rather not talk about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
/>
Jack had to swallow his curiosity. He didn’t know what to say. All that occurred to him was to ask about the people wounded in the recent demonstrations. Natasha seemed to relax again.
“It was terrible,” the young woman said. “There were dozens of casualties: young, old, women . . . I don’t understand how the police could have responded so brutally.” She took a last bite of her breakfast.
“They may have had their reasons. I mean, it’s possible those young men, old men, and women were so desperate they didn’t fear whatever retaliation came their way. That, or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or quite simply, the police overstepped the mark.”
“You and your prejudices against the Soviet Union!” Natasha stood up. “Those who died were counterrevolutionaries trying to destroy everything the country has built. And my father would never authorize—”
“All right, all right! But do you know what? This whole counterrevolutionary thing is starting to sound like a chorus you’ve all learned, as if it’s been drilled into you since kindergarten. I hear it from you, from Sergei, from Viktor, from the police, from officials, from operatives . . . and from that irritating radio channel they broadcast in every corner of the Avtozavod day and night!”
“I have to go. Thanks for the sausage,” Natasha said.
“Wait! I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“That when it’s not counterrevolutionaries, it’s the capitalists, or failing that, the imperialists. You see enemies everywhere and . . . damn it, some of us have come to help you!”
“Sure. Anyway, Jack. It was a pleasure getting you out of that bathtub.” She gave him a fleeting kiss.
“Wait. You’re leaving, just like that?” he yelled when he saw her starting to go down the stairs.
“No. We Soviets aren’t as rude as you think.” She smiled at him. “Come by the hospital whenever you like,” she added, before turning around again and leaving the house.
31
Jack spent some of the next week tidying up his house. He cleaned and organized it, and the repairs carried out by Yuri on the carpentry work finally made it look like a proper home. However, most of his time he dedicated to running the store, which, with the arrival of the festive season, was in full swing.
On Christmas Eve 1933, Joe Brown cashed up and showed Jack their earnings. After adding up the total again, Jack shook his head.
“What’s troubling you, Mr. Beilis? It’s quite a lot more than we expected.”
It was a while before Jack answered. He was remembering his father. It was exactly a year since his death. “It’s not that, Joe. And I told you not to call me Mister.”
“If it’s about the customers again, let me tell you that if not for this store, even more of them would go hungry. And you won’t stop me from calling you Mister, sir. You’re my boss now, and for as long as you are, you’ll have to put up with it.”
“I see. Here.” He handed him the bonus he’d decided to share among his staff. “But Mrs. Newman can’t feed her sick kids, and Burton’s caught typhus, and—”
“And you looked the other way when you caught his eldest son stealing four pieces of meat. Do you think I didn’t notice?”
“They would’ve rotted anyhow.”
“Sure . . . well, I know people who’d kill for that rotted meat.”
Jack decided the conversation was over and continued stacking empty crates. The exercise was strengthening his hip, and as Natasha had predicted, he could now manage without crutches. However, his memories were still plagued by old wounds.
He longed to see Natasha. After the episode with the bathtub, they had continued to meet, and though the young woman was friendly, for some reason their encounters felt clandestine. Natasha always chose solitary parks for them to walk in, where they could kiss and fondle without being seen, huddling together to keep out the cold. But she refused to go to his new house, giving him excuses that he didn’t understand. However, the young woman asked him to trust her, so he did.
That was why he was surprised when, that evening, just before they closed the store, Natasha showed up at the door wearing her overcoat and ushanka, her blond braids falling onto her shoulders.
“Hello!” he said, startled.
She waited for a few seconds in the snow, until he invited her in.
“I thought I was going to freeze to death!” she said with a smile. “How’s it all going?”
“Fine, fine. Come in and sit near the barbecue. We’ve just put it out, but it’s still warm.” He pointed at the terra-cotta grill that Miquel and Joe Brown had built in a corner. “What a surprise. What brings you here?” As she took off the ushanka, Jack admired her bright, affable face.
“It’s the twenty-fifth tomorrow. It’s just another day here, but I guessed it would be different for you. That you’d miss your family, and the gifts, all those things.” She took a package wrapped in newspaper from her case and handed it to him. “I thought you’d like this.”
Jack unwrapped the package with curiosity, without admitting that he didn’t usually celebrate Christmas, either. When he tore away the last piece, he discovered the beautiful cover of a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.
“Heavens! Thanks a lot. But, how . . . ?”
“I remembered you reading in the hospital to keep yourself amused. A few years ago, an American patient gave me this novel, hoping that reading it would help me love his country, but I’ve never had time. And anyway, even if I’d wanted to read it, I only understand a little English.” She laughed. “He told me it was a wonderful story about New York, and I thought you might like to remember your city. And maybe you could read it to me.”
“Well, thanks again. I must say I was surprised to see you here, in the village. Lately, with all the hiding away we’ve been doing, I’ve gotten used to having a secret lover.”
She smiled when she heard Jack’s description of their relationship. Though it had been half in jest, she planted a kiss on his cheek as a reward and sat beside him. “So, will you read it to me?”
“I’ll do better than that.” He set the book aside and returned her kiss. “I’ll take you to New York so you can see it for yourself.”
Natasha laughed like a little girl. “I don’t know if I should. I hear people eat disgusting things there, like hot dogs.”
“Bah! You shouldn’t listen to that Communist propaganda.” He laughed. “Anyway, after trying those sausages the day you surprised me at home, I doubt anything will frighten you. My God! I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such disgusting sausages.”
“Ha! I didn’t want to say anything, but me neither!”
Jack didn’t let her finish. He gave her a kiss that came from his soul. As their lips touched, he started to slowly undress her. One button followed another, and another. And with each button he kissed her, and with each kiss, the caresses were more eager. When he opened her white coat and brushed against her chest, he stopped, as if suddenly sensing he was about to commit a forbidden act. Yet Natasha’s eyes remained closed, and her mouth waited for him, half open. Jack kissed her again and closed his eyes. His heart fluttered. That kiss was followed by hundreds more, on her neck, on her chest. He savored her nipples, which responded by straightening and offering themselves to a tongue that grew ever more hungry, more daring. Jack explored her body, sampling it as if it were the first and the last he would ever taste, and embraced her with abandon. Their bodies melted together as they held each other, their moans growing bolder, and when he sensed her breathing, hoarse and frantic, when her soft body arched against his, Jack let himself go, forgetting everything he knew and losing himself in the depths of her emerald eyes, in the redness of the cheeks that, for an instant, he thought belonged to him.
Jack was still sleeping when Natasha woke at dawn. She looked at him affectionately, noticing the medallion that hung over his powerful chest, and she took it between her fingers, smiling as she remember
ed how, while they made love, it had hit her several times on the chin. As she rested it back on his chest, Jack woke up.
“Do you never take it off?” she asked.
“I’d sooner die.”
“It has a curious engraving. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. My mother gave it to me when I was a boy. At night, when she tucked me in, I remember her stroking the medal on my neck and saying . . .” He fell silent.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. Forget it. It’s stupid.”
“Come on, Jack! I’m sure it isn’t. What did she say to you?”
Jack was silent as he fixed his eyes on Natasha’s. “Well, she would say . . . She’d say that, without love, life wasn’t worth living. There you go. Maybe that’s why she died. Because I wasn’t there by her side to love her.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Without love, life isn’t worth living . . . I told you it was stupid.”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.” He abruptly got up.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s a sad story. Do you know what? I’ve often thought that if I lost this medallion, I’d lose the only thing of value in my life.”
“Really, I’m sorry. I—”
“No. Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Apart from asking me to take it off, you can do whatever you want with me.”
Jack was overjoyed to find that there were other ways to have fun in the Soviet Union in addition to drinking vodka, and he loved that Natasha was the hostess revealing those ways to him. Every evening, when she’d finished seeing her patients, the young woman would take the tram to the store in the American village, and though by that time night had fallen, to Jack it was as if the sun had just come up. Every minute with her was the equivalent of months of happiness stored up. They chatted, laughed, cooked, or kissed. And then they played, and were dragged along by a torrent of caresses filled with feelings as intense as they were new to them. For as long as their bodies were intertwined with each other, they were oblivious to the cold and the solitude that enveloped the Avtozavod. They existed only for each other, and they wanted to remain like that, skin against skin, their breathing labored from tiredness, as the hours passed deep into the night. Only laughter interrupted their kisses, and only kisses interrupted their laughter, until the moment their serenity ended because Jack had to take Natasha home. Then, when he returned to his own house, he wondered why she never agreed to stay with him, and at those moments, the injustice of it tormented him.
The Last Paradise Page 32