Moments later on his way back to his work station he sees Carl, leaning against a column, reading something on a sheet of paper. Vaniok’s first impulse is to turn down the corridor and avoid this meeting: all weekend he’s thought about their conversation at the Barn. He didn’t really say anything against Jory, nothing substantial anyway—he didn’t tell Carl about what he heard his countryman say in the car. Still, he isn’t happy with the role he played listening to the man’s suspicions of Jory—he could have just smiled politely and changed the subject but in his memory he was too eager to hear more, he kept encouraging Carl in his speculations, in his memory it seems like a betrayal.
Now he swallows all these doubts and calls Carl’s name. The man looks up from what he’s reading. “Oh, Van, hi.” There’s no smile on his face. “Busy day,” he says, pointing to the paper in his hands.
“Sure thing,” Vaniok mumbles. Exactly like the others.
He walks away quickly, as if in a hurry to get to his own work. He knows when he isn’t wanted. In truth, he isn’t entirely disappointed not to have had to talk with Carl; still, the man’s chilliness, on top of all the other reactions, stings. He wants to erase me. The recognition stifles the hot flow of anger rising within him. He remembers the blankness in Carl’s eyes when they talked at the Barn and he suggested that Jory was a criminal, like an investigator prying into the darkest corners of the man’s life. How much of that was beery bluster? Or has the man actually started looking into Jory’s past? For an instant Vaniok wonders whether the sheet of paper he saw Carl reading from had something to do with his countryman. I should tell him about Carl. Jory is in danger, he thinks; and, thinking that, he can’t help wondering if that danger extends to himself.
But it isn’t just Carl, he reminds himself. Something is certainly up this morning. What’s bothering the men has to be more than the basketball game and the riot that followed, though neither of those has helped their mood. Given their anger and secrecy, it’s more likely their behavior today has something to do with the cutbacks people have been talking about. Just a couple of days ago only a few people were taking them seriously. Can it be that over the weekend the men have been thinking about that situation, calling each other to find out that all of them are worried about it? That at least would make some kind of sense, that might explain the harsh reference to the university’s president. Whatever the reasons, they’re shutting him out of their conversations, maybe out of their sight: he’s becoming invisible to his fellow workers. Will they see him at all in an hour? He remembers thinking of Jory as the shadow-stealer. At the moment Vaniok could believe that only his shadow has any reality.
His progress toward his work station takes him by the closet-like room where the cleaning equipment is kept. He’s passed it a thousand times without paying much attention to it but now he stops before the blue door as if he’s heard someone calling his name. Who could it be, he wonders, and to his surprise he thinks of Ranush. For an instant he can believe his friend is nearby. Then the moment passes and he’s standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Vaniok looks around him: no one else is in the area. On an impulse he opens the door and steps into the tiny space. Cramped as it is, there’s room for him. Among the mops and brooms, the pails and the cans of cleaning fluid outlined by the light entering through the open door, there’s a wooden box he can sit on. With a single motion he closes the door behind him and settles himself on the box. He hasn’t bothered to turn on the light. In the darkness all the sounds in the building change, he might be in an undersea cave. The anxiety he felt moments ago has lifted from him and he feels the excitement of a child playing hide-and-seek. No one else seems to be interested in getting to work today, after all. Now I’m really invisible, he thinks.
In the enclosed space the smell of coffee mixes with faint traces of cleaning fluid rising from the mops and sponges and Vaniok is basking in a surprising contentment until he discovers that he’s crying, at first quietly, then with audible sobs and racking gasps: tears burn his eyes, they roll hotly down his cheeks, his throat stings. Yet while all this is happening, he seems to be disconnected from it: even as he’s shaken by his weeping he has a clear perspective on himself, he knows that nothing that’s happened to him this morning justifies this extreme reaction. As his tears continue he comes to recognize that they’re not for his trials here, that he’s revisiting other hard moments he’s endured: during the Thirteen Days, with Ranush, at Bostra, places he’s lived in since leaving the homeland. His harsh, choking sobs are amplified in the silence and darkness of the room, a few drops of coffee splash onto his hands. Yet he sits there, touching all these places from the past until he realizes that his shoulders have stopped heaving and his sobbing has gradually quieted. His throat burns but he feels emptied, cleansed, he can hear himself breathe. After an interval whose duration he has no way of gauging, he lifts his head in the dark, aware that his crying has stopped completely. He blinks, inhales sharply through his nose. He wipes away his tears, clears his parched throat and drinks some coffee, grateful for its strong, bitter taste.
The air in the room is close but the faint chemical odor is strangely bracing. In the darkness the place’s dimensions have expanded and the small room has taken on the vastness of outer space. So I’m alone, he thinks, and the men at work won’t talk to me. The thought doesn’t disturb him. It seems to him now that he’s always known this, that he knew it even when he went drinking with these same men a few days ago. If they were ready to turn against Jory then, why should it surprise him to find they’d do the same to him? He remembers that it was just when he felt elated about being included by his fellow workers that he had that vision of Jory and Ila together, when he had to admit to himself that the newcomer was now closer to his cousin than he was. In the spacious darkness he can’t understand why it meant so much to him to have been drinking with the men on that sunny afternoon, giving those ridiculous imitations of basketball players. Like a kid, like a little kid looking for the grown-ups’ approval.
Traces of sadness and hurt linger as the memory of that moment fades but they’re distant now and Vaniok is left with a sense of clarity. So, he tells himself, I’m alone. He’s been alone before, he knows he can stand it. On the bridge near Bostra nobody was there to watch over him, to tell him to stay or to go. There was, for all practical purposes, no nation left by then, there were no enduring loyalties anymore, few people you could trust. Every hour his fellow citizens were crossing the border, on foot, on bicycles, in cars, in the backs of trucks carrying melons or old tires; leaving their country behind, leaving history behind. Vaniok could easily have laid his rifle down among the weeds at the side of the road and made his way to that nearby border, joining the flow, he didn’t have to wait a few pointless hours to fulfill his questionable duty. Here in the darkness that smells of cleaning fluid, his blood pulses exactly as it did then. There were moments that night when he was terrified, when he was on the verge of taking the first step away from that bridge—all that was required was the slightest act of consent, as negligible as the faint touch of breeze he occasionally felt on his neck—yet it never came and mysteriously the terror gave way. There were moments when he was brave. And of course there were long periods when he just didn’t care. What was important was that he had the necessary strength for that ordeal; he made his own decision, for better or worse he stayed when plenty of others found reason to leave. And he managed to find his way here to this place.
Somewhere in the warehouse a machine growls distantly. Vaniok listens to his own breathing, as he did that night when he stayed beside the bridge over the muddy slow-moving river. Wasn’t Bostra worse than this, when every inhalation of the cigarette in his mouth might have been his last one, when for all he knew he wouldn’t survive much longer than the gray smoke that drifted over the dark water? The metal pails whose presence he can sense somewhere near him in the dark, the mops leaning against the wall a few feet away—all these are less real than that
place near Bostra where he spent a handful of hours of his life.
In the midst of these thoughts he remembers his trip to the Music Library, the woman who offered him coffee, the shadows under her eyes. He’s free to go back there, he can read that book on church music, he can talk to the woman, thank her again for the coffee. The prospect lifts his heart. All this is in his power, regardless of whether or not his co-workers think of him as a friend. It’s my decision, he recognizes, my choice. He reaches into the darkness and his hand finds a shape, he runs his fingers along the rough handle of a mop, he grips it tightly, listening. Somebody passes by outside. The heavy tread is quiet at first, then louder, then it fades into silence. Not a soul knows where he is. What if he stayed in this retreat all day? How long would it take to find him in his tiny sanctuary?
All at once Ranush is with him. In the darkness without dimension his old friend is standing inches away, tall, stooped, his weight shifting imperceptibly from one foot to the other. Vaniok is alert, attentive: Ranush is here, in this room; at the same time he’s somewhere in the Deep Lakes beside a thick white birch, a brilliant confetti of colored leaves in the air around him. Everything is bathed in a haze, like something seen out of the corner of the eye, there’s a smell of damp earth, a brisk autumn wind that promises a chilly rain. The mysterious presence brings a shiver. Is this really Ranush? Can Vaniok be losing his mind? He drives his fingernail into the heel of his palm, he resists the temptation to open the door and let in a sliver of light. “Ranush,” he whispers, but the other man gives no indication that he hears him. Still, Vaniok can sense that his visitor is smiling. It’s a lopsided, comic smile yet serene, the smile of someone who’s been through the very worst that can happen and has found to his surprise that it isn’t as bad as all that; and Vaniok knows that the smile is meant for him, that Ranush wants his friend to know that he doesn’t hold anything against him.
“Thank you,” Vaniok says. It’s only after some seconds that he realizes Ranush is no longer there, that he’s looking into an empty darkness. Yet at the same time the memory of Ranush’s smile lingers. Vaniok experiences a sense of great relief, he’s a man blessed. Once more his eyes are wet. He knows, though, that when they’re dry he’ll be ready to go back and rejoin the world.
Not meeting Ranush at the street corner is something that’s eaten at Vaniok’s heart relentlessly and he’s used to telling himself that he feels an ache every time he thinks of his friend because he showed his weakness then. But even he knows that explanation isn’t enough to account for the persistent bite of memory: after all, everyone is weak at some point—he was weak only moments ago when he cried. That doesn’t mean one is weak forever. What was weaker was not admitting to himself that there were other emotions entangled with that fear that lay behind his desertion of his friend.
Ranush was tall and gawky, he had a lock of hair that never could stay in place. He moved so deliberately that people joked about his match going out before he got around to lighting his cigarette. Vaniok knew, though, that for all his slowness the man was uncannily quick in sensing the slightest shift in his friend’s moods. “What’s wrong?” Ranush would ask even before Vaniok had finished greeting him with a falsely hearty salute and he’d have to admit that, yes, just hours ago one of his brothers had made some offhandedly condescending remark. “None of them will ever take me seriously,” he’d protest and Ranush would nod encouragement, bent forward sympathetically, his eyes full of understanding. “I know exactly how you feel,” he’d say and Vaniok would be grateful, as he was moments ago remembering his friend’s forgiving smile.
The two of them were terse and ironic with each other in public, which was the style back there, but when they were by themselves they could talk passionately about everything imaginable. One night in the summer before the Thirteen Days, the two of them were drinking at a fishing lodge in the Deep Lakes. Ranush, who worked in the postal department, had just received a small promotion and they were ostensibly marking that event, though they didn’t need an occasion, they might just as well have been celebrating summer and being young, their hearts beating with a hunger for life. It was after midnight and they’d taken their drinks outside. Most of the lights in the lodge were out, the sky above them was ablaze with stars. He and Ranush lay on the cool, gently sloping lawn, they looked into the brilliant dazzle above, heard the occasional sound of a fish jumping, the steady trill of crickets, the haunting cries of the loon. They traded speculations about life on other planets and spoke in hushed voices about the mysterious turns of fate. A young woman they knew named Lanya had recently been killed in a car crash and they kept mentioning her name in wonder. “She isn’t here anymore,” one or the other would declare, evoking the memory of that tall, wide-hipped woman with large teeth who moved with the grace of a dancer. “We can say the name but it no longer refers to a living person. Lanya,” they’d pronounce the name while the stars blinked impassively.
The night was mild but this kind of talk brought a chill, the stars themselves seemed colder, and the silences between their words lengthened. Ranush began talking about his father. The two of them had quarreled all the while Ranush was growing up. Now, when he hoped they could come closer, the old man’s mind had begun to slip. Ranush wanted to tell him he’d learned a great deal from him, that he was only becoming aware now how much he had learned; but his father had returned to his own youth and all he would talk about was an important football game he was going to be playing in. Nobody gave their team a chance, he’d laugh cunningly, everyone believed the other team was unbeatable but soon they were going to find out they were wrong. “I’ve lost all my opportunities to make up with him,” Ranush said to Vaniok. After a while he added, “If I only believed in God I’d have someone to blame. My father’s mind is dead, Vaniok,” he said. “He’s as far from me as Lanya.”
Listening, Vaniok felt the brush of the cool grass against his neck. He wanted to tell Ranush that things might get better, that his father could still recover his faculties, if only briefly, and that a reconciliation wasn’t out of the question; but something in the night air demanded honesty and all he could do was to shake his head. At the same time he felt an overwhelming sympathy for his friend, he wanted to assure him he understood his sorrows and he wished he could help. As if reading his mind, Ranush said quietly, “It makes me feel better anyway to tell you.”
“I’m glad of that,” Vaniok said, his throat suddenly thick. Death and loss were all around them in the night. He knew then that Ranush meant more to him than anyone else in the world and he told him so. He was happy he’d said it, he repeated it even more ardently and Ranush answered that the same was true for him. Soon the two were holding each other as if they were lovers. There was a spacious tranquility to that night and nothing about what they were doing seemed unnatural, even Vaniok’s awareness of his friend’s sexual arousal, which was matched by his own.
Nothing further happened: they held each other for some time, they talked, they heard the almost inaudible breeze moving through the nearby birches. They were unembarrassed by their sexual excitement, they even joked about it. Later, they got up and went to their separate rooms in the lodge. Neither of them mentioned that night afterward but Vaniok couldn’t help thinking of the experience as a gateway, though he couldn’t say where it would have led; and often when he thought about that night he was troubled. Finally he came to wish it had never happened. At times, though, especially when they were drinking together, he felt that Ranush was waiting for him to say something about it just as he was waiting for Ranush. In the end they never got around to talking about it. What would have happened had one of them done so Vaniok doesn’t know. But he knows this: that as he drank by himself in the Old Hunter hours after he heard about what happened to his friend, there was a moment in the midst of his inconsolable grief when he acknowledged a sense of relief, a feeling that something was settled now that would never have to disturb him, that now at last this uncomfortable business between
them would be silenced forever.
Holding what’s left of his coffee in the dark room, Vaniok nods as if in response to some question, assenting to everything that’s implied in his thoughts about his friend. He feels as if here in the host country he and Ranush have at last had the chance to talk about that night under the stars, that each of them recognizes that it happened and that neither is sorry that it had. It’s as if without speaking a word his friend said, “Of course I understand you might have felt upset about that, it may have played a part in the whole swirl of reasons that prevented you from meeting me. As we used to say when we tried to understand why other people behaved as they did, who does anything for just one reason? I understand that in your confusion afterwards you might even have thought you were glad about what happened to me. But that’s not important when you think of our relationship over the years. We’re only human, after all. Possibly I would have felt the same way. There can be love even with betrayal.” Yes, Vaniok thinks now, there was love between them. At this moment he’s sure that, however tangled his relationship with Ranush may have been, they loved each other, and not in any way that he thinks of with shame.
He emerges from the storage room like a man who’s been asleep for a century, he sees everything with new eyes. A pair of his fellow workers is talking in a corner, their heads close, conspiratorial, but this time he feels no ache of exclusion. Now he’s certain that it’s the threat of cutbacks that has frightened them, made them band together against the strangers. To Vaniok they seem like men who’ve been robbed of something precious who are trying to understand why it’s happened to them. The basketball team’s success gave drama to their lives and they followed its fortunes as if they were somehow connected to their own hopes and actions. Very likely the team’s unexpected loss and the students’ response has made these men see what their true connection to the university is: as employees; and their good spirits have turned sour. Fearing for their livelihoods, how could they feel other than angry toward the students? Vaniok can sympathize with them. Just now he feels exalted, as if he could forgive everyone all their transgressions and weaknesses. So what if the men are staying away from him because they see him as an outsider who wouldn’t understand the way they feel? They’re wrong but it doesn’t surprise Vaniok that in their confusion they huddle together.
The 14th Day Page 16