Never looking directly at her, his tone sedate, the man spoke to her in Latvian.
—If you were my daughter, I would tell you to use your ticket. Nothing is going to change here.
Arturs rounded the hood and resumed his seat. Polina watched the formal black car, with its two apostates, pull away and disappear down the road.
NOVEMBER
1
My dearest Lola,
Belated Rosh Hashanah greetings to you and Igor! May you both have a good and sweet year! (See how I’m expanding my cultural horizons!) How did you celebrate the holiday in Rome?
Here, I was invited by my new friends to a special dinner. Thanks to you, I’ve been made an honorary member of their circle. They’ve even given me a new name: Naomi. They’re all very amused by the idea of me as Naomi. The name is from the Bible, which some of them claim to have read. As a work of literature, it’s gotten mixed reviews. Our mailman says that God was no Tolstoy. But everyone agrees that it’s the best source to consult when you need to name a Gentile.
So now I have three names. The plain one, Brigitte, and Naomi. Can you believe that an ordinary girl like me should have so many identities? You’d think I was Mata Hari.
I’ve come to feel more and more at home with these new friends, and with our mailman in particular. It certainly wasn’t what either of us intended to happen. In almost every way, it’s inconvenient, if not completely absurd. But I think he’s witty and sympathetic and resilient. And he says I’m the only free spirit in Riga. So, for the time being, we’re proceeding as if everything were normal.
This past month we’ve spent a lot of time together. I’ve kept this from Mama and Papa because I know that they would strongly disapprove. Our apartment is still gloomy, like the bottom of a lake, and we drift through the rooms silently, like eels. I am trying not to contribute to the gloom.
I know that I won’t be able to keep this up indefinitely. You probably find this hard to believe, but I’ve been very careful. I’ve avoided going places where we might be seen. Only yesterday, people went to the Riga synagogue to dance and drink in honor of Simchas Torah. I thought better of it. Our mailman went. (I should give him a name. I’ll call him Alain. After Alain Delon.) He said that he’d seen you there two years ago with Igor. You never told me. I didn’t know you’d been so daring. What other secrets have you kept from me?
Do you recall how many people were at the synagogue two years ago? Alain says that most of them are gone. Alain and I have talked a little about what we might do if he were to get his permission to go. What do you think about it?
(Funny how it’s Jewish women who are called “vehicles,” when, with us, it’s the men who provide the passage.)
2
Over the course of her brief stay in Rome, Masha had strayed from the pensione only a handful of times: twice to appear at the offices of HIAS; once for a disheartening interview at the U.S. embassy; and once to make some purchases at the round market in Piazza Vittorio. All of those times, she’d been under the supervision of her mother and brother. Consequently, she never got to see anything.
It was only because of her mother’s trust in Alec that she had allowed Masha to take the train by herself from Ladispoli. Alec met her on the platform at Termini and led her down into the metro. They rode four stops to Flaminio and emerged at the gates of Piazza del Popolo. Traffic on the avenue that circumscribed the ancient walls had ground nearly to a halt. It was a Sunday, and a great number of people were gathered in the square. Alec saw nuns in full habit scampering down from the plinth of the Egyptian obelisk.
The warm November sun was directly overhead, and the obelisk cast only a thin rim of shadow. A crowd streamed down Via del Corso, where it formed something of a procession.
—What’s all this? Masha asked.
From the little he overheard, Alec gathered that they had just missed seeing the new Polish pope. Only a few weeks into his papacy, he’d caused a sensation by going out among his parishioners on Sundays. The newspapers reported an epidemic of swooning nuns.
With the city before them, Alec asked Masha what she’d like to see.
—Show me what you think I’d like to see.
—It’s a big city, Alec said.
—If you know me at all, you’ll know where to take me.
Alec steered Masha away from the Catholic faithful and onto Via del Babuino, which ran like a spur directly to Piazza di Spagna and its famed steps—where one could see the city’s birds in all their plumage: wily immigrants peddling their souvenirs and tchotchkes; American tourists, with the movements and features of overgrown babies; long-haired bohemian kids, their limbs casually intertwined, treating the steps like a huge communal bed; pious middle-European pilgrims, resting between epiphanies; and snooty Roman socialites returning from the elegant shops on Via Condotti. Alec proceeded past the window displays of the famous fashion houses, the Versaces and the Guccis. From Via Condotti through a series of tributary streets, they emerged in front of that great wedding cake ornament, the Trevi Fountain. After four-plus months in Rome, Alec’s knowledge of the city inhered in him physically, like sense memory. He knew his way around just as he knew how to ride a bicycle or dribble a soccer ball. He looked to Masha to see if she was impressed.
With a note of petulance, Masha said, Is this all you wanted to show me?
—There’s more, of course, Alec said, his tone upbeat. Not two minutes away is the Pantheon, with its perfect round blowhole; and not five minutes from that is Campo dei Fiori, where there is a statue of a monk whom the Church burned at the stake.
Masha’s expression didn’t brighten.
Alec went on: On the Corso, there’s a large shopping center, unlike anything we had in the Soviet Union. And set off, practically on its own, is the Colosseum, where the gladiators fought and the emperors sent Christians to be devoured by lions. The stands remain. You can sit right where Caesar sat two thousand years ago.
Alec couldn’t tell if Masha was genuinely peeved, or if this was just part of a game. But, glumly, she said, If that’s all, then I guess you don’t really know me.
They made one or two more circuits like this before Masha finally unburdened herself.
What she really wanted to see was where Alec went when he left her in Ladispoli. She wanted to see the square, the building, the very window that faced the street. She wanted to see more still—the apartment itself, and the bedroom, and the bed. But that exceeded even what Alec was willing to do.
It seemed reckless to show her where he lived and Alec knew that he would only be indulging a childish need in her. But then, his address wasn’t classified. If she wanted to find him badly enough, she could. So better show her himself—and get the surge of tempting fate.
Through the ghetto and over the bridge they went. Past the pharmacy and the hospital on Isola Tiberina and across the second bridge to Trastevere. Alec steered Masha to the intersection of Via Anicia and Via dei Salumi, from where it was possible to see the building, its front door, and Lyova’s window. Alec regarded Masha as she gazed up at the window and the apartment. No movement could be seen through the window. Lyova had, that morning, gone again to plead his case at the American embassy. Just to keep in practice, he’d said. Polina was at her job.
They stood there for some time, with Masha looking fixedly at the apartment house. At last, she relaxed and leaned against Alec.
—Well, now you’ve seen the palace, Alec said.
—Don’t mock me, Masha replied in an injured tone.
—I’m not mocking, Alec said. It’s a building like any other.
—No it isn’t, Masha said. But I don’t expect you to understand.
—What should I understand? Alec said.
—That I can’t feel close to you if I don’t even know where you live.
—All right, Alec said. So you know. —Yes, Masha said. —Are you happy now? Alec asked.
—Yes, Masha said, and slid her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
3
Just south of Verona, on his most recent tour of northern Italy, Lyova had been involved in a car accident. Two women inside his van had started quarreling and Lyova had momentarily taken his eyes off the road. When he looked back, the rear of a bus loomed massively before him. To avoid the bus, he swerved to his right and collided with a Fiat. He sheared off the Fiat’s side mirror and dented the driver’s door. It had cost him a week’s wages—one hundred thirty mila lira—to settle with the Fiat’s owner and thus avoid police involvement. His own van had fared little better than the Fiat.
Ordinarily, Lyova would have fumed over the accident and the lost wages, but upon his return he’d heard some news that had lifted his spirits. Through a diplomat at the American embassy he’d been made aware of some new legislation before the U.S. Congress. The loosening of strictures that related to his case.
It didn’t exactly mean he could start packing his bags, but it provided a reason for optimism. In the near term he would still have to keep earning money. The more the better. And for this, he needed to repair his Volkswagen, which had sustained superficial body damage, but also structural damage to the wheel well. Bent metal brushed against the driveshaft and caused a grinding sound.
At higher speeds, the grinding became more of a high-pitched squeal, and this is what Alec heard as he and Lyova drove the highway from Rome to Ladispoli. To help Lyova, Alec had proposed a visit to the body shop that Karl either owned, had a partial stake in, or managed—Alec didn’t pretend to know the intricacies of the arrangement.
To find the body shop, they first stopped by his parents’ house. Emma answered the door, a wooden spoon in her hand. A faint crackle of frying oil, and the associated smells of eggs, onions, and sausage, wafted over from the kitchen. It was eleven in the morning.
Alec said, Breakfast?
—For Papa, Emma replied. And added in a conspiratorial whisper, He’s been sleeping late.
They followed Emma into the kitchen, where Samuil sat alone at the table. Rosa had taken the boys to the apartment of an acquaintance, where they could play with other children. Karl had left, customarily, at dawn. She’d stayed behind to attend to Samuil—he was alone so much of the time as it was. She didn’t like the idea of him preparing his own meals and eating by himself.
Samuil eyed first Lyova, then Alec, and asked, Official HIAS business?
Emma said from behind the stove, where she transferred the omelet from the pan to a plate—We have plenty of food. Syoma, invite them to sit.
Alec watched his father raise an unenthusiastic eyebrow.
—If you’re going to eat, you might as well sit, Samuil said.
—He doesn’t mean to be impolite, Emma said, mostly to Lyova.
—Not at all, Lyova said. I’m grateful for the hospitality. And inhaling the aroma from the steaming plate, he asked, Are those veal sausages?
—They are, Emma said proudly.
With a butter knife, she divided the omelet into three sections.
She distributed the food and turned back to the stove. Alec watched his father poke absently at his eggs.
—I’ll cook up some more, Emma said. It won’t take five minutes.
—It’s hard to find veal sausages here, Lyova said. Mostly, they sell pork.
—Rosa, our daughter-in-law, has become very close with the rabbi and with the rabbi’s wife, Emma said. I go with her to classes on Jewish subjects. The rabbi’s wife teaches us what is the right way. It’s harder, of course, and you have to make an effort. But we do it. We have almost no pork in the house.
—I applaud your efforts, Lyova said, and dug into his omelet. I’m not religious, but I appreciate variety. In Jerusalem, for example, it is the other way around. There, it is nearly impossible to find a piece of pork. The religious Jews don’t eat it, and neither do the Arabs. It’s the one thing they can agree on. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to make it the basis for peaceful coexistence.
—You lived in Israel? Samuil inquired, exhibiting his first mild interest in his guest.
—Syoma, Emma said, he’s the one who shares the apartment with Alec and Polina. I’ve spoken to you about him.
Samuil cast her a disparaging look that implied that he couldn’t be expected to account for every piece of flotsam.
—I lived there for five years, Lyova said. Near Tel Aviv.
—And no longer? Samuil said.
—No longer, Lyova said. I’m a serial dissident. A rootless cosmopolitan, as they used to say. A “seeker of happiness,” Lyova added, citing the title of the classic Birobidzhan propaganda film.
Samuil wasn’t amused.
—I’ve heard of people like you, Samuil said. I’ve also heard of others who, having quaffed the Israeli waters, developed a thirst for home.
—There are those, too. Some unfortunates couldn’t adapt, others were merely dopes, and a few were KGB plants, sent abroad to serve as object lessons for the benefit of the press.
—KGB plants? Samuil scoffed. According to whom?
—Lyova imagines KGB agents everywhere, Alec volunteered cheerfully.
—Naturally, Lyova said. I lived in the Soviet Union with my eyes open. I was an officer in the army, a tankist who rolled into Czechoslovakia in August of 1968. I have a healthy appreciation for Soviet power. What I’m saying is realpolitik, not criticism. In the history of the world, was there ever a nation that thrived without spies?
—They didn’t need to plant you, though, did they? Samuil countered.
—I suppose I wouldn’t admit it if they had, Lyova said and grinned.
—Now there’s an idea that never occurred to me, Alec mused.
—Everything is a big comic revue for my son, you see, Samuil pronounced, but let me ask you a foolish question. If you had to return to one or the other place, which would it be?
Lyova surprised Alec by appearing to seriously contemplate the question.
—No, it’s a good question, Lyova conceded. I think about it often, but nobody has ever asked me. When I go out with my placard to attend protests and I speak with journalists, they—depending on their politics—want to know either why I left Israel or why I will not return there. Even the Communists don’t imagine that a person would trade life in the West for life in the Soviet Union. Other than Christina Onassis, who could afford to? This is why her story made headlines. It wasn’t that the world’s wealthiest woman had renounced her fortune and had thrown her lot in with the citizens of the workers’ paradise. She renounced nothing. She kept her millions. That was the point: she proved what most people already suspected, that only a multimillionairess could afford the luxury of living in the workers’ paradise. The average person knew that he could no more afford to move to the Soviet Union than he could afford a private jet. The only exception to this mind-set is that of the former Soviet citizen. Only the former Soviet citizen, dazed and pummeled by emigration, could yearn for home and imagine a better life in the Soviet Union. Did I have these thoughts? I did and I do. Do I have similar thoughts about Israel? Yes. But don’t we all have our pathological thoughts? Rapists and murderers also have pathological thoughts. So what separates a rapist from a normal person? The rapist submits to his pathological thoughts, and the normal person resists them. To return to Israel is, for me, pathological, and to return to Kishinev, also pathological. Which is worse? How to answer such a question? Which is worse: rape or murder? To a normal person, neither is acceptable. So that’s all. Zehu, as they say in Hebrew.
Alec watched his father for a reaction. He’d heard Lyova expound like this before, many times, and had found it entertaining. Samuil said nothing, and instead looked at Lyova as if from the seat of an intellectual throne. When he finally deigned to speak, he said, with a mixture of pity and reproach, What you are looking for doesn’t exist, and you’re not going to find it.
Taking no offense, Lyova said, That may be so. Then again, I’m not looking for perfection. So far I’ve been a citizen of two utopias. No
w I have modest expectations. Basically, I want the country with the fewest parades.
4
Karl’s body shop was at the southern edge of town. From where Lyova stopped the van, they could gaze out at the autumn stubble of harvested fields. In the immediate vicinity there were a few small houses with crumbling stucco exteriors, spaced widely apart. The last of the houses on the street looked to be uninhabited. The second to last was the one that had been converted or commandeered to serve as the body shop. Three Fiats were parked bumper to bumper to bumper just shy of the house, their body panels sanded down and blotched with primer. Directly in front of the house two kids were kicking a white leather soccer ball around. Alec guessed that they were about fourteen or fifteen years old. One was fair, tall, and skinny, with knobby elbows jutting out of his plain white undershirt. He wore Adidas track pants from the Americana and Russian canvas sneakers. He had lank hair and a few blond whiskers emulating a mustache. His counterpart was shorter, darker, and stockier. He was clothed much like the first kid, but his features and body language identified him as Italian. Alec and Lyova watched them kick the ball around for a few moments before Lyova put the van in gear and rolled up to the house.
As the van crept closer, the boys looked up from their game. Both eyed the van with street-kid bravado. The Italian lifted his chin and called out first in his language.
—Hey, dove stai andando?
Lyova slowed the van to a stop.
—Dal meccanico, Lyova said.
—Quale meccanico?
—Che cos’è quella dietro di te? Non è un’officina?
—Chi ti ha detto che è un’officina?
Lyova grinned wickedly and said, Tua madre.
Naturally, this provoked the kid to fly at the van, spewing curses and their accompanying hand gestures. His Russian friend followed close behind.
When the Italian kid started banging on the hood of the van, Alec called out to the Russian kid to calm his friend. He received the inevitable response.
The Free World Page 23