by Jocelyn Parr
He would, said Dimitri.
You don’t come here with him, do you? I asked, feeling a welter of emotions that included betrayal, desire, and pride.
No, he said.
We sat up, and I inched my way to the edge of the roof again and looked down.
Dimitri brought his feet underneath him so that he was crouching into a ball. He leaned onto his right hand and kicked off, dropping to the ground. From there, he held the stool for me.
Go down backwards, he said, it’s easier.
When I got home, the balcony door was still open, and the curtain was twisted around itself like a piece of thick rope. I crossed the room to close the door, feeling pieces of the watch like grit underfoot. I looked out the window. I wanted company that night. When I went down the hall to the bathroom, it was occupied, so I waited at the door in a familiar way, thinking it might be Sasha. When the man we called Uncle Gregory — not because he was related to us but because he was the age of an uncle and a kind man — opened the door, a ratty towel clutched with one hand around his hips, his steamed-up glasses in the other hand, I looked away.
Later, I swept the floor of our apartment clean, emptying the dustpan into the garbage without ceremony. Then I watched the ceiling for hours, tried to count the patches of peeled paint, tried to burn their irregular forms into my mind. There was a moment when I heard the door at the end of the hall open and shush closed. I propped myself up on my elbows. Footfalls approached our door and there was no time to think of what I most wanted to say or whether or not I ought to feign sleeping.
Next door, the deadbolt retracted.
I lay back down, pretended to myself that I wasn’t crying, and when I couldn’t pretend anymore, I told myself that I was exhausted. When I stopped, I still couldn’t sleep. I watched the play of shadows on the curtains, listened to the building sleep, wondered if people dreamt anymore these days.
In the morning, a metal crate being pulled across the courtyard woke me. I had slept in my clothes.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t see, then, what was happening to our country. I saw the homeless. I saw the corruption. I saw the lines outside Lubyanka. Of course I did; I wasn’t blind. But where Sasha saw only the negative, I thought things would get better. We were building something totally new. Of course it was difficult. All great endeavours are difficult. Art, love, science — they all dream big and fight hard before they achieve the grace of being settled. We didn’t want to be held back, but it was human nature to want to return to the familiar.
When I was younger, I’d been a regular at Komsomol meetings, but by the summer of 1928, I hardly went anymore. I guess it was in an effort to find my old self that I returned to them, and that was how I started to see Tobias again. When Sasha and I had first met him so long ago that summer’s night at the fountain, he was still a man who lived in society — he knew what the parents might think of a man bathing in his underwear, but he also knew that a man had to be clean. The short-term indignity of bathing in a fountain was counterbalanced by the dignity of a refreshed mien. When I found him again in the summer of Sasha’s inner migration, Tobias had lost all his dignity. One night he rattled off a story about a boat he’d seen and how it had been bigger than any that had ever, would ever, exist, and how his father was its captain, and that’s how I knew he was lying.
I said, Hey, Tobias, you’re lying to me, and Tobias said, It’s not a lie, it’s a story, and if I don’t tell you a story, then we’ll have to talk about death.
Why, I asked.
Because I’m dying, he said.
We’re all dying
I’ll be the first to go.
Go on, I said, say more about the boat, and so he continued, saying that the boat was meant to sail to the new world but sunk after collision with an iceberg, and it was the Titanic he meant and his father couldn’t have been the captain, but I humoured him because I didn’t want to talk about death either.
I didn’t tell Sasha about things like that anymore. Sasha would think Tobias was suffering, but I knew we had to be brave about the change that was coming and that some people would need to be braver than others. And if they couldn’t be brave, well, then we’d be best, in the long run, to be without them. Not that it was easy.
Sasha didn’t come home. Alone, I started listening through the walls using the technique my father had taught me so long ago. The hollow clink of the glass against the wall. The heat of my ear pressed to the bottom of the glass. The oceanic sound of my blood swooshing inside my own head. The listening made me feel like I knew the people around me. In the afternoons, I listened to the shit piano player, and later, the opera singer. She sang only arias and only at night. Her husband left for work at 5:00 p.m. every day, and after that she would start singing until 7:00 p.m., when her brother came home. If he came home later, she would sing later, but the later he came the more drunk he’d be, and the later it was, the more horrible it became to listen to what happened once he’d slammed the door. The husband was home by midnight or 1:00 a.m., so things often improved then. When the husband and wife talked, I couldn’t distinguish the words. I knew they were talking because the wife’s voice, even when it whispered, was like a song, and so her whispers lilted and laughed through the walls. Sometimes, I thought she was crying, but even that was beautiful in its way.
One night, I tired of listening through the walls and decided, instead, to turn on the radio. Instead of the station I’d expected, I heard a slight crackle and then the unmistakable intonation of a voice speaking in French. At first it was one voice and then it was two. From the tone and rhythm of the conversation, I could tell that the voices were listening to each other and that the topic was grave. The woman’s voice — it was a woman and a man speaking — was worried. I had heard about people listening to the radio stations from Europe, but I’d never thought to do it myself. Apparently Sasha had. I wondered what the French people were worrying about at this time of night. I fell asleep listening to it, though I couldn’t understand a thing.
Sasha stayed away a long dark week, and then, one afternoon, he showed up again at the institute. He’d come in from the back, but had had to walk to the front to find me in the entrance. I could see that it was raining outside from the droplets of water that dotted his hat. A pure happiness washed over me at the sight of him. Relief, I suppose. I wanted to embrace him and forget about everything, but then he was just so cold. He was on his way to Dimitri’s.
He wanted me to invite you, he said, loosening his scarf.
Oh? I was sitting behind the desk, which gave our exchange a certain formality. I looked for signs that he knew about Dimitri but there were none. He walked a little closer, but even as he did, the distance between us seemed to grow.
He invited Rima and Yuri, so he thought you’d want to be invited, I guess, or that they’d want you to come. He was telling me he didn’t want me there by telling me that they did.
He took the brim of his hat in his hand and shook it over the floor to get rid of the water droplets.
It would be weird if you didn’t come, he said.
He looked down and kicked at something I couldn’t see. If the desk hadn’t been between us, the distance mightn’t have felt so great. Maybe without the desk there, I would have been able to slide from my stool and grab his hand.
This place is full of creeps, he said, looking around.
He was jittery. I could see it in his eyes, the way he wanted to run.
I’ll be there soon, I said.
Sure, he replied.
By the time he left, it felt less like we were repelled by one another, and more like we were tired of being so tired.
Before I could leave, Zhanna rushed up to me, placing her hand on my arm and looking at me with desperation, saying she needed me to stay. She sat me down and quietly explained that some things had gone missing.
What things? I asked.
Small pieces, she said, of almost every exhibit we have.
What she wa
s most worried about were the necrotic tissue from Lenin’s brain, the lantern slides that documented it, and multiple slices of Bekhterev’s brain. I wanted to ask how long she’d known about the missing items, but her lips were quivering with emotion already. What she was worried about, and what I got worried about, was Sarkisov.
I need this job, she said.
Me, too, I said.
I took my coat off again and together we went through the entire collection, going through the cabinets, the boxes, sliding open and closed the hundreds of drawers that lined the back wall of the lab. They made a wooden shrrrr when slid open or closed, and this sounded like some kind of progress for the time being. If the drawer was empty, it was just the shrrrr, shrrrr. If the drawer contained something, it was shrrrr, clunk, shrrrr, clunk, as the object inside shifted. One of the drawers was looser than the others. Where the other drawers required an initial tug to pull them open, one of the drawers slipped open so quickly that a small glass slide — no more than the length of my thumb — slid to the end of the drawer and skipped out. It would have broken into thousands of pieces had I not caught it, its keen edges pressing into my fingers and palm. Once there, it seemed careless to return it to that faulty drawer, and so I slipped it into the fold of my pocket and forgot about it.
We didn’t find anything.
Who would want the leeches? she asked.
I could think of plenty of young boys who would have wanted them. I would have wanted them if I were a child.
Going through the collection made me late, and the sky was black with clouds that threatened rain. I went to the dinner directly, not stopping to pick up meringues or pies. Just before I arrived, the downpour began, the big fat drops soaking me in seconds. The buzzer to their apartment didn’t work, so when an older woman arrived with a key, I followed her inside. In the lobby, she asked me who I was visiting. When I told her it was Dimitri, she nodded in what I took to be approval. They all lived on the fourth floor, Dimitri alone, Yuri and Rima with Rima’s parents and her brother, Kolya. After all that had happened, I needed to see Rima first. My shoes, wet from outside, slapped loudly against the marble stairs for the first few flights but quieted as they dried.
I rang the door to Rima’s hallway, hoping that Rima would answer and not one of her neighbours.
I heard a door inside open, then the yapping of her dog, Marksena, and then the shushing sound of Rima’s slippers against the tiles in the hall.
Oh! she said, smiling in the genuine way that she did. You’re drenched!
I followed her and the dog down the hall and into the apartment. At the door, I stepped out of my shoes and tiptoed over the pools of water and dirt that had gathered in the vestibule and into their main room. The apartment had three sleeping quarters. Koyla’s was a closet really, especially for a man of his size, and Rima’s parents occupied the third room. Kolya managed a herring plant. He brought herring to dinners, as if this were an act of generosity and not a sign of his pilfering. Rima handed me a new shirt and a towel for my hair, then resumed her position at the hotplate, her left hand on her hip as her right stirred the pot. This was something I’d always admired about her. She could get a hotplate while every other idiot (myself included) had to make do with the communal kitchens. She was always the exception.
As I towelled off my hair, I saw that her body was taking on the shape of middle pregnancy. She tired more easily these days, but tried not to show it.
Marksena ran circles around my legs.
Where’s Kolya? I asked, removing my shirt.
Right here! he said, appearing in the doorway to his room.
I scrambled to cover myself. Kolya laughed at me saying don’t be so shy, but Rima instructed him to give me some privacy, so he turned his back as I slipped the new shirt over my head.
I went to stand next to Rima, so that the two of us stood side by side watching the liquid in the pot swirl and steam. Beside the hotplate, there was a sink so deep a small child could bathe in it. It was not hooked up to any water. Both the hotplate and the sink were illegal, but Yuri had lost the argument over it when they’d moved in together. I tasted the soup, salted it, and turned down the temperature. Rima looked at me and understood that I needed some time with just her.
Watch the soup, will you? she said to Kolya.
Meaning? he asked.
Stir it, dummy. And bring it to Dimitri’s with you when you come.
Rima and I walked down the hall, through the doors, and further on to the communal kitchen, where we paused. I lit a cigarette. We stood in the hall, just outside the kitchen doorway, passing the cigarette back and forth, not talking.
I peered into the kitchen and saw that the old woman who had let me into the building was sitting there at the table with a cup of tea and a small notebook. She’d closed her eyes for a second, but looked up when we came in. She nestled her age-spotted hands under her round belly, her slippered feet planted squarely on the floor.
Oh, she said to me. Weren’t you visiting someone else?
Dimitri Petrovich, I said, but then wished I’d stayed quiet.
That’s the one, she looked at us both for a moment, as if drawing some elaborate conclusion. But you two are friends, too. How nice.
Rima sighed, Yes, Mrs. Bonner. We’re friends.
The kitchen was filthy. A single electric bulb hung from the centre of the room, spreading our shadows out over the countertops, into the drawers, into whatever direction we looked. Scratched into the wood of the cupboards were the names of the residents — an attempt at ownership that no one respected.
Haven’t seen you for a while, the woman said to Rima.
No, you haven’t, said Rima, turning her back to look for the plates in the cupboard. How many are we, Tatiana? she asked over her shoulder.
I watched the old woman fumble her fingers around the notebook and pull it closer to her. Her hand shook slightly, and I thought she would be better off if the book were more substantial; it might weigh down her fluttering hand.
I looked back at Rima: We’re bringing these to Dimitri’s? I have no idea. You, me, Sasha, Yuri, Dimitri, Kolya. Who else?
It’s odd how rarely we see one another, said the woman.
Is it? said Rima. Let’s get eight settings, she said to me, taking several plates from her cupboard, and the remaining ones from someone else’s.
The Brodskys are away, then, are they? said the woman.
Rima ignored her. I put the forks and knives into the glasses and fit everything into a basket so that I could carry them all at once.
In the hall, Rima balanced the stack of plates on her hip and leaned against the wall.
Well, you look tired, she said.
It’s the institute, I said, setting down the basket.
That’s not all, she said.
We’re fighting, I guess.
Your lives are too entwined. You need other people around to make it work, she said.
We have you and Yuri, I said. And he has Jack and Dimitri.
Other lovers, she said.
Sasha would never, ever accept that.
Maybe he’ll have to, she said.
We said nothing for a few minutes. I thought of Dimitri, but didn’t say anything. In one of the apartments a radio turned on. In another, a baby cried. Rima shifted her weight and the plates shifted too, clinking.
The baby’s started to kick a little, she said, smiling. I smiled back in a stupid way, because it seemed miraculous, but then it happened every day; a miraculous everyday thing was happening to her.
In those years, it was pretty normal for people to sleep around. Sometimes a couple would live with an additional lover and other times the entanglements were more fleeting. But most people did it, and I had no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed. In fact, it should almost have been a source of pride, of liberation from old ways, from the traditional. Dimitri and I had had that, but there was no reason for anyone to know about it. Or to talk about it. Or even to hint at it.
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br /> When we got to Dimitri’s, Sasha and Dimitri were sitting at the end of the table, smoking. On the wooden table there were a few ceramic cups, several plates of onions and herring, and three carafes of vodka. One of the carafes sat between them and was half-empty. Sasha raised his eyebrows at me, then got up to greet Rima. Dimitri sprang out of his seat to take the plates and dishes from us and then returned to hug us with a warmth I wanted to resist but couldn’t. If he held onto me longer than he did Rima, no one noticed but me.
Get drinking, Comrades, he said. You’re behind!
Rima laughed.
Yuri, Kolya, then Sergei and Anna all arrived one by one. Sergei and Anna were friends of Yuri’s so I’d seen them regularly over the years but knew little about them. Mismatched bowls and dishes accumulated in the centre of the wooden table. When we were ready to eat, Rima, Kolya, Sergei, and Anna sat down on a row of crates and chairs of approximately the same height. Sasha and Dimitri lifted the table from either end, pinning them in so that there would be room for the rest of us to sit on the other side. The table stopped where Kolya’s stomach began.
No escape now, Dimitri observed.
Rima and I sat on the end, then Yuri beside me, Dimitri beside him and, on the end farthest from me, Sasha. The distance between us could have seemed accidental.
Dimitri filled the ceramic cups for the first toast.
As the meal progressed, I noticed how Sergei looked at Anna every few seconds in a way that made me know he loved her. Either she didn’t know, or did but didn’t love him back. When she wasn’t eating, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms over her small frame. Sergei stayed hunched over his bowl. Anna probably thought they were friends. He probably knew they would never be friends, even though he’d keep trying because the way it hurt when he was with her was better than the nothing he felt when he wasn’t.
More and more carafes appeared and disappeared. The room started to blur as if a grease-smeared pane of glass had descended between each of us, or perhaps it was just me, me in my very own grease-smeared bell jar, separated from the rest. The room resonated with the ordinary — the clink of cutlery against dishes, Kolya’s grunting agreements, Rima’s chatter — but visually nothing was quite right. I resisted the urge to run my fingers through the air around me. Of course I knew there was no jar. But what use is knowing there is no jar when you are plainly trapped inside of one?