A Bend in the Stars

by Rachel Barenbaum

  Clay flipped through the pages of Vanya’s notebook too quickly for him to take any of it in, then motioned for Dima to join them, to translate, and for Vanya to begin explaining his equations. Vanya started line by line. But Clay waved his arms and said, “Slow down.” Vanya pared it back to smaller expressions. The more he reviewed, the more certain he was that he was correct, and he found himself speeding up again. When that happened, Clay reminded him, “Slower.” And then: “Tell me one more time.”

  Hours ticked by. “Maybe some symbols don’t translate?” Vanya asked.

  “They do,” Dima said. “But the ideas, they are very complicated. I can’t follow them. Vanya, tell me, how many people at your university understood? Is it something the American should truly know?”

  “No,” Yuri answered. Vanya had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t even noticed Yuri was still there. “His sister says there aren’t more than a handful of people in the whole world who can check Vanya’s work.”

  “Clay could be one of them,” Vanya said. He had to be, because Vanya realized that the more he explained, the more he needed Clay to tell him he was right, or wrong. Even though it terrified him. “Keep going,” Vanya said. Line after line.

  When he came to the section of his proof that fell apart, Clay scratched his head. “You have ideas?” Vanya asked. “Acceleration? Gravity?”

  Clay leaned back. “I’ll be damned,” he said after a long pause. “You weren’t lying.”

  “Does that mean he can help with the equations?” Vanya asked.

  “No. He has no idea what these equations mean,” Dima said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “But he understands what I’m trying to do? Why I need a photograph of the eclipse?”

  “That he understands well,” Dima said. “He wants to support you, to publish with you, but he can’t help with this math. Only the photograph.”

  “Then he has them, the glass plates. Where are they?” Vanya stopped. He was out of breath suddenly. “Tell him. For us to be coauthors, I need them. If he doesn’t show them to us now, tell him I’m leaving. I’m taking my work and we’re going.”

  “You’re certain you want to draw that line?” Yuri asked.

  “Why are we here, risking our lives, if he doesn’t even have them?”

  Dima translated and Clay took a swig of vodka. Then he smiled and looked Vanya in the eye for the first time. “A partnership,” Clay said, nodding. “With you Russians, there’s always something. But I like it. I need a partner.” He stood up and stretched. His bones cracked. He headed for the kitchen. “Follow me.” Vanya fell in line with Dima and Yuri behind him. Clay took them into the pantry off the kitchen. One wall was lined with shelves of preserves. Clay moved three jars filled with peaches, then reached to the back. Vanya heard a click. The wall moved because it wasn’t a wall. It was a door.

  Dima translated, “Clay says the owner told him to keep his valuables here. That if he needed to run, they’d be safe. He paid her extra for it.”

  “They let you know all that?” Yuri asked.

  Dima smiled. “No. Somehow they worked it out before we arrived. He just told me about it.”

  The room wasn’t more than four wooden walls and a dirt floor. The American pointed to a pile of crates. “Move the books, the ones in front,” he said. “Open the one in the back. The largest one.”

  “We don’t have time for games,” Yuri said. But Vanya moved the crates of books and heaved the largest one up on top of the others, then pried off the lid. Whatever was in there was well packed, wrapped with layers and layers of horsehair stuffing.

  “Careful,” Clay said. He waited for the last strands to fall away and then announced, “It’s the photographic plates! I brought them with me, of course. The most valuable cargo I had—along with the camera. You were right to suspect as much, that I wouldn’t leave them to steerage with the rest. Nothing here would fit my American camera. Even the slightest bulge could ruin an image.” Vanya stood, looked at the other crates. “No,” Clay said, anticipating his question. “They really are books. You can put them on the shelf behind the desk when we’re done. That one crate of plates—that’s it. All that’s left. I came with one hundred, but the rest, they shattered. On the boat, in the wagons.”

  “Eleven?” Vanya said. “I only count eleven.”

  “Eighty-nine lost,” Yuri said.

  Vanya shook his head. Already he felt his hands go damp. His voice trembled when he spoke. “How long does it take to capture an image with your camera?”

  “Thirty seconds. Maybe less,” Clay answered.

  “Eight photos,” Vanya said. “That’s all we’ll have time for. Leaving three for practice.” It wasn’t enough. They’d need to adjust the camera. Test it. Calibrate it. Surely, Vanya would need more. Even an experienced photographer would.

  “Just one photo,” Yuri said. He put his hand on Vanya’s shoulder. “That’s all we need.”

  Clay spoke again. “Of course, my photographer never did make it. You’ll have to handle the camera on your own.” He held up his hand to demonstrate. There wasn’t a steady bone in the American’s body. He’d never be able to take the photograph. “I was waiting to catch someone like you. Just wish I’d known sooner you were already here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I knew my equipment would attract a coauthor, someone who could solve the math. Or, I hoped as much. That if I offered the photograph, the other half of the proof would come to me. And it has. But honestly I thought it would come from somewhere in America or England. Or Germany. I wasn’t expecting a Russian peasant.” Vanya was facing the American now. And Clay was still smiling. His tiny eyes pinched so tight there was no color to them. And he held his arms crossed over his chest so he appeared inflated. He continued with Dima translating, “This is the way the world works.” Clay walked back to the kitchen, to his vodka. “Everyone has a place. You, you’re brilliant. I see that now. But you’re not capable of raising funds, organizing an expedition. That’s my department.” He refilled his glass. “In America. We have great universities, like Harvard. The name, Harvard. It belonged to a man who provided funds. Yes, there is brilliance on that campus, but it is always hand in hand with someone who is willing to back it. If your math stands, and our photograph is clear, we’ll call it all the Clay Abramov theory of general relativity. Yes. This is perfect!” He clapped a hand on Vanya’s shoulder and held his hand out to shake Vanya’s.

  “No,” Vanya said. “Dima. Tell him. The theory is mine. The Abramov theory of relativity. When I publish, he’ll be listed as someone who helped.” Vanya waited but Dima didn’t say a word in English. Instead, he pulled Vanya to the side.

  “Friend, think what you’re saying.” Dima’s voice was so quiet it was hard to hear. “Even in the Garden of Eden, the snake offered the apple, but Eve, she accepted it because she wanted knowledge. And I’d be the first to say she made the right decision.”

  “Most would call that sin.”

  “I call it progress. And I have a feeling you do, too. What other choice do you have? Think. Should I tell him yes?”

  “Tell him we’ll buy the photograph,” Yuri said.

  “That American isn’t moved by money.”

  “I know,” Vanya said. But it didn’t seem right that Clay would claim so much and offer so little. But was it so little? Clay’s equipment was the only way Vanya could secure his family’s ticket to America. There was only one answer. And by Clay’s smile, Vanya thought Clay knew it, too. Vanya had come too far to give up. He couldn’t tell Miri and Baba he’d lost their way because he was too proud to add another man’s name next to his.

  “Vanya!” Dima said. “If you don’t accept, you have nothing. You told me this is bigger than you. It’s about understanding the universe, not vanity.”

  A log under the stove in the kitchen behind them popped, the last ashes from dinner burning out. Vanya blinked. He crumpled his hands into fists. “Tell him I accept.�
�

  XXI

  Dima woke early the next morning and was surprised to find that Vanya and Yuri weren’t next to him in the barn. For a split second he’d wondered if they’d run, that Clay had scared them off, but no. He didn’t think they had it in them. At least Vanya didn’t. Not when he was so close to the eclipse. He’d agreed to that American’s terms and he’d stick to it. Besides, the American had a point. The man with the bigger wallet always wins a piece of every prize. If Vanya didn’t know that yet, then it was time he did. But where were they? Did Vanya work all night with Clay? When it came to math, he didn’t need a translator as urgently as he did with other matters; it was why he’d left them. Dima made his way along the mottled path to the kitchen to look for them.

  Cook was boiling and frying. She nodded him through to the sitting room where Vanya was spread out on a divan. Yuri was on the other. Both were asleep. Thanks to God. Not that he was worried. Still, it was a small relief. Vanya had his notebook on his chest. Dima took it gently, tucked it up under his arm, intending to copy it. Even if Vanya never solved his math, well, Dima needed something to give Ilya. Whatever Vanya scratched in there had to be worth a high price, and if this American didn’t understand it, there was a good chance, Dima figured, Kir Romanovitch wouldn’t, either. Dima could tell Kir it had what he wanted and run before Kir figured out otherwise—if at all. Just as Dima turned toward the door, Clay caught him, stepped in front of him. “Take your hands off that. We can’t afford to have you messing things up.”

  “What do you mean?” Dima asked, keeping his voice quiet.

  “I mean there’s no reason for you to touch that notebook.”

  “You understood his work?” Dima asked.

  “That he’s working on relativity, like Einstein? Yes. Now hand it to me.”

  “Why should I?” The better question, Dima thought, was why was Clay suspicious?

  “Because I might be able to help him finish. Complete relativity.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Clay said. Dima ignored him and pushed past. “I received a telegram,” Clay called after him when both men hit the veranda. The strength in his voice, a tone Dima had never heard, stopped him. “From a man named Kir Romanovitch.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Dima replied, trying to look unruffled. But in the way Clay said Kir, he made it clear he knew the name had meaning regardless of what Dima said. Why was the American in contact with Kir? He’d seemed genuine enough the night before. What had Dima missed?

  “Don’t you want to know what he had to say?” Clay continued.

  Dima turned on the American with a fury he couldn’t hold back. He grabbed the pathetic scientist by the neck and put his thumb over the nub right where he could control the man’s breathing. “What did you tell him?” Dima seethed.

  “That Vanya isn’t here.”

  “Why would you lie?”

  “I wouldn’t be loyal to a Russian—not one I’ve never met or never heard of.” Clay gasped as Dima eased his grip. “I want relativity, too.”

  “Liar.”

  Dima pressed harder on his throat and Clay’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “I want. The credit,” he whispered.

  Few lied when pressed like that, especially blubbering men like Clay. Dima released him as quickly as he’d grabbed him, then turned and kept walking back toward the barn, tried to keep his pace slow and even. Dima didn’t believe the American would be so loyal to Vanya in front of Kir, but at least he’d showed his cards and now Dima knew Kir and his men could be there anytime. Dima had been walking a plank and hadn’t even known it. Did he still have a safe way out?

  Dima looked up, turned the corner to the barn, and saw Vadim and Stepan. As quickly as he could, Dima tried to smile. “Greetings, brothers,” he said, hoping he sounded relaxed. They were lounging in the grass, eating breakfast. The crickets were loud. Mosquitos buzzed. Dima swatted one and missed. At sea they had sharks; he’d take their razor teeth over the insects’ thousands of pinpricks any day. At least with a shark he could see what he needed to kill it.

  “There’s our sailor,” Vadim said. “Joining us? Cook brought bread.”

  “Better company than those snobs,” Dima said, gesturing toward the house. He reached into his pocket for his vodka and took a long swig.

  “I don’t know how you stand it with those idiots all day,” Vadim said.

  “They pay me,” Dima laughed, and took another swig.

  “Vodka so early?” Vadim winked and held out his hand, asking for a swig of his own. Dima passed the dented flask, and Stepan handed Dima a hunk of bread and an apple. Dima opened his jaw and cleaved off a full quarter of the fruit in one bite. Then he went into the barn where he could settle into a corner unseen. He pulled out Vanya’s notebook, and an identical blank notebook Vanya had given him to practice his letters. Even incomplete the notebook would earn him a fortune, so long as he copied all of it. Carefully. Correctly. But he’d have to get a hold of himself. And that Ilya, he better stay away or Dima’s whole plan would be ruined. “Damn American,” Dima said, still shaking.

  XXII

  Russia passed by Miri and Sasha slowly, slowly, as a stretch of forests and farms until the evening they stopped at a coal depot on a ridge overlooking a river. The lead engineer and his men jumped down and started shoveling. Miri huddled behind mailbags, next to Sasha, tried to imagine she was smaller than she was, that she could fold over and into one of the cracks in the floor in case they opened the mail car. It wasn’t likely. But still. Outside, the men grew louder, bawdier. They were drinking. She was hungry, but all they had left was a bit of cheese from Pavel and a few berries they’d scavenged from the edge of the woods a few nights earlier when they’d eluded the guard and snuck out to forage for food and water.

  Miri heard a stranger approaching. Whoever was coming had a slow gait and a lame foot. “You’re here for the night?” the stranger called. He sounded young. One of the engineers replied but his words were muffled. “Good, then join us for a dance,” the stranger said. Miri had been terrified the stranger would ask for his mail. “Come, for the price of one bottle of vodka per man, you can dance with us in the village. And trust that you and your train will be safe.”

  “We only have half a bottle left,” an engineer called.

  “Then you can’t come!” The stranger dragged his foot across the gravel. A retreat.

  “Okay, okay.” The engineer laughed. There was a cheer from the other men. Bottles clinked. Footsteps hurried, following the stranger back to his village. They walked past the mail car so close that Miri saw the whites of their eyes through slats in the wooden walls.

  Miri and Sasha didn’t dare to move for nearly an hour. Not until wisps of moonlight slid through the cracks around them. Outside, wolves howled. In the distance, they heard an accordion. “Kalinka” was the tune. It was an old Russian folk dance, one of Babushka’s favorites, played mostly at festivals or on special occasions. The music alternated between fast and slow, exhilaration and something else—uncertainty. Sasha jumped up to his feet. He smiled. “Miriam, you love to dance. I see you swaying.” He bent at the waist and held out a hand. “Please, may I have one dance?”

  “And if they hear us?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “One man stayed behind. There’s always one man behind.”

  “If he’s here, he’s too drunk to know anything.”

  He was right. The man would be drunk. And Miri did love to dance. She’d danced with women at weddings, and with Babushka and Vanya. And she’d sneaked out onto a balcony, at a wedding of one of Baba’s clients, to dance with Yuri once. He was slow and he’d stepped on her feet but still it was thrilling. “It’s just one dance,” Sasha tried. “Please. Yuri wouldn’t mind.”

  “How did you know I was thinking of him?”

  “Aren’t you?” He grinned. “Just one dance?”

  Miri looked at the piles of mail. Hun
dreds, perhaps thousands, of notes filled with dreams and fears. So many of them would never reach their intended recipients. Most would be dead before their mail was even delivered. Was it right to dance now, during war? She was being ridiculous, looking for an excuse when she didn’t need one. It was only one dance. She took Sasha’s hand. She remembered the night in the cellar when her hand was on his skin, at his hip, as she helped him to the hearth. “Okay?” Sasha asked.

  “Fine.” It was nothing she couldn’t tell her grandmother about. They stood, facing one another, and then he leapt down to a crouch, shot one heel out and then the other, kicking his legs as he made a circle in their nook between the burlap sacks, in time to the music. Miri laughed.

  He took her hand and in one smooth motion twirled her around so she landed with her back against his chest, their arms entwined. They fit together so easily it surprised her. He eased them around in a circle in time with the rhythm. “You dance wonderfully,” he said. Never had she heard such a perfect accordion.

  The music gained speed, and they unfurled their arms and linked hands, kicking their toes and heels. Even with the mail around them, there was space for them to dance apart, and yet neither of them let go of the other. Heels up, heels up. Not once did Sasha step on her toes. When the tune came back to its slower section, Sasha dropped his hands to her waist. They should have separated, sashayed side by side, but they stayed still. The accordion launched again into a speedier tempo and Sasha came closer. He brought his cheek up flush with hers. She expected her skin to chafe under his whiskers but he was soft. His breath was on her neck. The salty tang of his sweat mixed with the pine that still clung to him. He moved slowly and quickly at the same time.

  She closed her eyes. When their lips touched, he was so gentle Miri almost thought she’d imagined the kiss. She lingered, slid her hand along the length of his jaw, to his neck. He tasted like the cheese they’d eaten for dinner. Sasha pulled her so close she could feel his every curve and yet she couldn’t touch or taste enough of him. And she sensed he felt the same. She forgot where she was, forgot the train, the mail. All she was, was under his touch.