The Lazarus Project

by Aleksandar Hemon

  I laughed a bit. I see what you mean, I said.

  You see nothing, Rora said and pointed at the neon sign glaring CASINO beyond the Rinok. We should go gambling.

  Gambling would feel good, I thought, although I was no gambler. On a whim, I volunteered to bankroll a hundred euros of the Susie money for Rora to gamble with. If he won, we could split the money, I suggested, he agreed, and off we went.

  A BISON-NECKED BEAST, apparently hiding hams in the sleeves of his faux Armani suit, stood at the metal detector and demanded that Rora leave his Canon case in the checkroom, pointing to the sign forbidding weapons in the casino. I was willing to turn away and seek some other avenue of abandon and distraction, but Rora stepped aside, thereby suggesting that I deal with the bison man. I stepped forth and spoke; my Ukrainian, spoken with an American (rather than a Bosnian) accent, implied a store of good, hard currency to be blown. I proposed to the bison that I hold on to the camera case while my friend gambled, promising that I would not open it or even touch it. He opened it and took out the Canon and the lenses, setting them down on the floor. I saw Rora cringe, about to object, possibly violently, but the bison stood up, letting Rora pack it all back in and hand it over to me.

  There was nothing gray in the room: the blazing-green felt; the red and blue and white chips; the pink shirts and raven-black vests of the two lonesome female croupiers. It was early evening, no gamblers were present. The croupier at the roulette table had her hair pulled tightly back to make her face wide and her eyes bigger, but she looked forlorn and lifeless. The blackjack woman said: “Hullo!” She was small-shouldered, her twiggy arms emerging like tongues from the puffy sleeves. Rora went straight to the blackjack table, sat across from her, and grinned. She smiled back and straightened up the chip stacks as Rora showed them the hundred-euro bill and pushed it through the slot. Some kind of a boss sat in a high chair in the far corner, a human watchtower, redirecting his searchlight gaze toward Rora and the dealer who was giving him the chips.

  I had never seen Rora gamble, but it seemed to me at first he was not very good; he barely looked at his cards, getting repeatedly busted, and very quickly lost half of his chips. I was getting all fidgety but stayed put because Rora did not stir. Rora and the dealer were not talking, but she occasionally arbitrarily tittered, her gaze stuck to the cards, hidden from the watchtower. It seemed that Rora was more interested in getting laid than winning.

  But then he got on a roll. The stack of chips rose in front of him, as he made large bets and kept winning. The dealer stopped smiling; she raised her index finger without lifting her left hand from the table edge—the watchtower man saw the signal. I was euphoric for a moment because I broke the secret code; I was in on the workings of the casino underworld, and imagined a photograph: a close-up of that hand. The watchtower walked into the light cone, put his hands over his crotch, his face in the dark. He had steely rings on all of his fingers, certainly for the purpose of breaking jaws and cheekbones. Rora lost a couple of hands but then went through an improbable winning series, turning his heap into a mountain. The watchtower murmured something into the dealer’s ear, and called over the croupier and the two switched. The croupier had a faint mustache and a thin, sharp jaw; she was not going to bat eyes at Rora, who leaned back and sighed, as though the whole winning ordeal was hard on him. He stretched his neck like a fighter, then angled forward to plant his elbows on the ledge, his hands together as for a prayer, and he put in a large bet.

  As I was falling asleep on the plane, Rora had told me of the time he escorted Miller to an interview with Karadžić. In the lousy Ukrainian casino, I recalled the story—or the dream I had dreamt. The Chetniks stopped him at the last checkpoint before they got to Karadžić, and one of them put a gun into his mouth, all the way to the tonsils. Rora assumed they couldn’t kill him, because Rambo made clear to his Chetnik business partners that Miller and Rora were under his protection and that killing them would hurt the commerce. The guy who put a gun into his mouth was probably bluffing, for the sake of Miller more than anybody else. Nevertheless, Rora said, for a moment I saw a gleam in his eyes— the what-if gaze. I had known that gaze: this was what you waited for in your opponent: you wanted him to think that nothing bad could really happen, that his daring would make everything go right for him. That was when you raised the bet and took the enemy down. But it was an entirely different game if you had a gun down your throat: the taste of grease, burnt powder, and death.

  And the face was ugly: a wrinkled forehead, asymmetrical brows, small, round, red-webbed eyes, and a pimple right in the corner of the left nostril.

  The bison moved to stand beside the dealer, the watchtower on the other side of her, both clearly hoping to menace Rora, who did not heed the fists over their crotches. I feared not pain or death, though now expecting one or the other or both seemed perfectly reasonable; nor did I fear being robbed to the bones. It was in fact exciting. The bison went on around the table and stood next to me, probably to see whether I was giving Rora signals.

  And then all the lights went out, and my bowels sank—we were about to get swallowed by the darkness. The bison pinched the skin under my shirt and viciously twisted it; the pain was surprising; the abrupt absurdity of the assault was terrifying, but I giggled. Starting toward the door, I stumbled over a chair and fell, and the lights went on, as though the whole purpose of the blackout was my fall. Everyone except me was still in their pre-blackout position, including Rora.

  I am going to cash out, he said in Bosnian. The men understood and nodded, approving of the wisdom of his decision. No one said or did anything that would suggest that the blackout had taken place. Rora pushed a little stack of chips toward the dealer, for a tip; I got up and straightened the chair.

  I had to help Rora with his chips to the cashier, struggling to hold on to the camera, dropping some of the chips on the thickly carpeted floor, but not even considering picking them up. Rora had made fifteen hundred euros. You could buy yourself a hard-working peasant for that kind of money in Ukraine. There was something deeply satisfying about the fact that the Susie money begot more money. The bison walked us to the door, kindly wishing us good night. Dobra nych, I said. It was only outside on the rainy Lviv street that I nearly passed out from the combination of fear and exhilaration.

  AT VIENNESE CAFÉ, I guzzled down the most expensive Armenian cognac they had in stock, as Rora confidently explained to me it was all about counting cards, nothing but simple mathematics. But you don’t want them to see you counting, you must never appear to be thinking at all. You are better off if they think you don’t know what you are doing.

  Miller was crazy about poker; it was part of his Americanness. He played with other foreign correspondents, but then he ran out of poker buddies. Rora was pitching himself as a fixer to Miller, so he promised him a regular poker game. He knew Rambo was a gambler, too, and that playing with Miller would appeal to him—a Sarajevo warrior playing tough poker with an American war reporter—so he set up a game. Rora was at the table; Beno, ever a capable killer but never very bright, was there, too, as security; there was a guy from the Bosnian Special Police, whose purpose was to make Miller feel safe, although he lived with his head up Rambo’s butt; there was a Government Guy, who loyally watched Rambo’s back. Everyone except Miller knew that Rambo was going to win. Rora wisely got himself out of the game by losing his money quickly. He considered it an investment, for the purpose of the game was to establish a relationship between Rambo and Miller from which Rora could benefit. He described to me different hands in detail, all the bluffs, all the raises, until only Rambo and Miller were left playing: Rambo with a large pile of dollars, Miller with a smaller one and a full house in hand, kings over queens. It was a setup, for Rambo had four jacks. They kept raising until Miller put down his watch and gold chain and, in the end, his future earnings. He was drunk, too, having brought a couple of bottles of Jim Beam to the table, and he gave Rambo his word that he would pay him if he los
t. In some other game, in some city not under siege, no one would accept such a promise, but Rambo and everyone present and even the drunk Miller knew that dying in Sarajevo was the easiest thing in the world, even if you were an American reporter—a misunderstanding, an accident, a sniper shot. Miller lost, of course, and Rambo had him in his pocket. Afterward, Miller did little favors for him: a little package delivered to a friend; a story in American papers about Rambo, heroically fighting against the Chetniks; passing on drugs to other foreign reporters; connecting TV crews with Rambo, etc. It all worked out well for Rora: he was off the front line now, no more trenches or night actions for him, because Rambo let him be Miller’s fixer so he could keep an eye on him.

  You’re making up these stories, I said.

  I wish, he said.

  You should write it all down.

  I took photos.

  You must write it down.

  That’s what I have you for. That’s why I brought you along.

  After the autopsy is performed by the esteemed Dr. Hunter, Assistant Chief Schuettler shows the report to William P. Miller, who is rather touched by the newly found professional intimacy between Assistant Chief and himself:

  Body of a man, about 20 years old, 5 feet 7 inches tall, weighing about 125 pounds, somewhat undernourished.

  Over the left frontal eminence puncture wound one-fourth inch in diameter.

  Puncture wound over the left side of the chin.

  Puncture wound in the right eye.

  Puncture wound two inches above the clavicle on the right side.

  Puncture wound two inches to the right of the left nipple.

  Puncture wound at the lower angle of the left scapula.

  Puncture wound in the medial line of the back of the head.

  And beneath skull at this point a bullet was found.

  The cranium is of peculiar formation. The hair is dark, the skin is of dark complexion. The nose is not of pure Jewish type but has a Semitic cast.

  From other evidence, however, it is clear that the man was a Jew.

  No filling in the teeth. Hands well formed, indicating manual labor.

  In removing the skull cap, the skull was found to be exceptionally thin. Three bullet wounds were found to have punctured the brain.

  The puncture wound in the proximity of the left nipple was found to have pierced the heart.

  Other organs normal.

  The thin skull cap, the large mouth, the receding chin, the low forehead, the pronounced cheekbones and the oversized simian ears all indicate a well-marked type of degeneracy.

  In our opinion, said unknown man came to his death from shock and hemorrhage following bullet wounds of the body.

  “They are creatures of a different world,” Assistant Chief says, pensively, as though he was working on the thought while Miller was reading. Assistant Chief’s office is dark—only a desk light is on—and the windowpanes are drumming under wind assaults.

  “Indeed they are,” William P. Miller says.

  THE EMPTY STREETS crawling between the dark buildings; the unwieldy carriages pulling through thick sheets of rain and deep puddles; the disoriented, freezing drunks and the late-shift workers—all are flashed into brief existence by a thunderbolt. The storm is punishing Chicago, whipping its citizens with hatred.

  Here it is, Olga thinks. For an instant, the shards on the floor glitter like remote celestial bodies. The petrified rye loaf appears on the table, then it vanishes. The fire in the stove is still expiring with nauseating smoke; cinereous flakes slip through the cracks in the stove and land on Olga’s hair and face, light as breath. She feels the weight of her hands in her lap, and when lightning cleaves the dark space, she sees them as skinned little babies. They perish, and the only thing left is the damp coarseness of her dress. The thunder roars away, ending with a spiteful last grumble. No point in lighting the lamp, for the wafture would extinguish it.

  Dear Mother,

  Our Lazarus is asleep, but out of that sleep we may not awake him.

  She cannot send a letter home until the proper burial, unless Kaddish is said. They will dump him into a hole in the ground, like a beast. Will they even put him in a casket? Will they wash him or did they leave it to the rain? Will the politsey kick his corpse into the grave? Will they piss into it? She leaps out of her chair and makes two steps forward, one step back on the shards. The forks and knives and the cups clink and crackle. The noise makes her furious; she grabs a fork as if to stab someone, but then stands with her hand half-raised, the spikes of the fork pointed at the darkness. The rain is scudding against the windowpane. In the far corner, in the deepest darkness, something watches and listens.

  Dear Mother,

  There is no good way to say this: Lazarus is no more.

  No. Nothing.

  Dear Mother,

  It seems we can never escape grief. We have lost Lazarus. What have we done to deserve so much suffering?

  Her dress reeks of doleful sweat and policemen’s cigars, her stockings are torn, the heel is broken on her left shoe. He cried when he lost one of the calf-skin gloves he received as a bar mitzvah present. Lazarus in his silly boy-sailor suit. He used to be afraid of sparrows. Lazarus at the bar mitzvah, reading from the Torah, haltingly. Why does the Jewish day begin at sunset? Lazarus teaching a stray dog to fetch in the refugee camp in Czernowitz, the dog watching him with confused disinterest. And then the way he pushed his ears forward with his fingers and jutted his lower jaw to look like a monkey. The depth of his laughter when Mr. Mandelbaum did his tricks: an egg would disappear then reappear behind Lazarus’s jug ear. He refused to acknowledge the first gossamer on his chin. The taste of his curls when she kissed them: sweet and salty, sometimes bitter. His cold face in the morgue; no heartbeat in his chest, nothing.

  Dear Mother,

  Your last letter made us so happy. We’re more than fine: I have a new job as a legal secretary and Lazarus is working for the Hebrew Voice as a reporter. He is contemplating getting married.

  It would be a waste to throw away the desiccated rye bread. She should steam it. She will never eat it. A vague smell of the forgotten carrion coats everything in the room. The place is hollow without Lazarus, the objects in it stand excluded from her world, uninvolved in her woe: an empty basin, a shawl hanging over a chair, a stolid water pitcher, the sewing machine, its belt occasionally rattling. She cannot bear to touch them; she stares at their shapes, as if waiting for the moment when they will break open and reveal the hard pit of sorrow that is inside every cursed thing. Here it is. Here sat Lazarus Averbuch, a nineteen-year-old boy. Here he ate his kasha, taking crud out of his left eye with his thumb, yawning and exposing his gums and incisors, like a cat. Here he put the tin bowl into the sink and here it clanged against the brim. Here he pinned the picture from the Daily News: a throng of Jewish girls exercising on the roof of a building, reaching for something in the sky.

  Did the politsey search the outhouse?

  She rushes down the stairs, past the slumbersome politsyant in the hallway who does not leave his chair. She trudges through the storm, the backyard morass, the frigid mud squeezing into her shallow shoes; she slips but she doesn’t fall; her hair sags with rain. Bending over, she pushes the rock that keeps the outhouse door closed and flings it open; the stench is horrid—the storm released the putrefaction vapor, the shit rose with rainwater. Here was the English-Russian dictionary he liked to take to the outhouse. She gropes for the dictionary and touches its spine, which is sticking out like a minikin mountain range. She always warned him it would be too cold to sit here and read, but he never listened; he would come back, coughing and sniffling. Last week she wiped his nose; he winced and whined like a child. The book is warm, as though Lazarus has just held it, his life still radiating out of it. Her knees give in and she sits down with a sob, her left buttock over the shithole. Lazarus, she cries, pressing the book against her bosom. My little brother. All the lives he could have lived. She used to help him study; she
read English words to him and he would respond with the Russian equivalents; just on Tuesday, they were going through the letter L: