What Belongs to You

by Garth Greenwell

  Even so, I lay beside him, I held him as he held my arm, embracing it against his chest. When he had calmed he began to speak, and his hands, which had been still as he wept, started to knead me again where they gripped me, taking up again their strange motion. Obichash li me, he asked, do you love me, but it wasn’t a question; I know you love me, he said, not waiting for me to speak. I know you love me but I can’t love you, I’m sorry, you are my friend, he said, priyatel, that word that could mean so much and so little, you are my friend but poveche ne moga, I can’t do anything more. Hush, Mitko, I said, it’s all right, don’t worry, I understand, but he wasn’t listening to me, he was speaking for himself, the circling of his thoughts impossible for me to follow. Gospod go obicham, he said, and for a moment I thought I must have misunderstood him, he had never spoken of such things before. But he said it again, I love God, no men ne me obicha, but God doesn’t love me, God loves the strong and I’m not strong, and again he was weeping, speaking at that strange heightened pitch the voice strikes under strain; he loves the strong, he said again and again, repeating it like a chant or a prayer. What are you saying, I said to him, gluposti, nonsense, and again I told him to hush, speaking to him as if he were a child, I didn’t know how else to speak to him. God loves the strong, he said again, and I’m not strong. Iskam maika si, he said then, I want my mother, and again the tears came freely, he had taken my hand and was squeezing it hard. Do you love God, he asked me when he could speak again, do you go to church, and now I didn’t try to speak, not knowing how to answer, unable to bring myself to say what I knew would quiet him, though it felt unkind I couldn’t make myself say the words.

  He squeezed my hand harder, pressing against me, coaxing me, God loves you, he said, you should love God, God believes in you, you should believe in God. All right, I said finally, all right, agreeing with whatever he said, or making the sound of agreement, and then he was silent for a while, and increasingly still. He was falling asleep, and though I took pleasure in the weight of him beside me I wondered how long he would be there, whether I should wake him, whether I would be able to if I tried. I had no idea what time it was, there was no clock in the room, and though I had gone to bed early I thought it was late now, probably not long before I would have to get ready to teach. Maybe it would be better to wake him now, I thought, before he was sound asleep, it would be unkind to wake him but he couldn’t spend the night. I would give him money for a room somewhere else, I decided, but before I could bring myself to rouse him he roused himself. Ne, he said sharply, I don’t want to sleep, and he let go of my hands to push himself upright again. He sat there hanging his head, propped up by his hands on either side while I kept my own hand on his back, both as a steadying force and also for the touch itself. Soon I wouldn’t be able to touch him, I thought, maybe I would never touch him again. Gladen sum, he said, I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten for a long time. He stood awkwardly, again as if having misjudged the force it took, so that he overshot the mark, as it were, and almost tumbled forward, catching himself by putting his hand out toward the wardrobe door and pressing his fingers on the mirror mounted there, leaving marks I would find myself examining in the days that followed, until the woman who comes to clean my apartment wiped them away. Mitko moved in his lurching way out of the room but I stayed where I was, lying in a half-raised position as I heard the refrigerator door open and the noise of things being taken out. A few minutes later, he called out that single syllable that was his name for me, that called me to myself or rather to that self I was with him, and I got up slowly to join him.

  He was more lucid now, the effects of alcohol or whatever else wearing away, or maybe he was refreshed by his few minutes of sleep. He was sitting upright, perched on the very edge of the couch, leaning forward between his knees, having laid out before him a banana and a cup of yogurt, a spoon and beside this a bottle of milk. Ela tuka, he said, come here, and I sat beside him again, closer this time. Trugvam si, he said, I’m going, I’m not going to bother you, I just want to eat something first, and I told him not to worry, he wasn’t bothering me at all. I had checked the time after he left the bedroom, waiting until then to pick up my phone where it lay on the table beside the bed, and I was surprised to see it was early still, not even midnight, my sleep though it had been deep had been brief. Mitko picked up the banana he had placed on the table, and with exaggerated care began to unpeel it, drawing each long strip down slowly, as if every movement required the greatest attention. It was as though he had lost the sense of his body in space, I thought, that unthinking knowledge we have; it was as though nothing could be assumed but must be carefully measured out. His eyes weren’t rolling anymore but they weren’t quite focused either, he didn’t track the banana as he brought it to his lips and bit into the tip of it. He turned slightly to me, holding the banana out in offering. Eat, he said gravely, speaking in English, and when I didn’t eat he said it again, pressing the white flesh against my lips. But I don’t want to eat, I said, though it wasn’t simply that; I was unnerved by the seriousness with which he stared at me, stared or didn’t quite stare with his unfocused eyes, and I didn’t want to participate, it felt sacramental somehow, like a ritual by which I would be bound. But Mitko ignored what I said, pressing the fruit more urgently against my lips, so that I had to turn away. I don’t want it, I said, but he hushed me, blowing his breath between his teeth; Vizh, he said, look, and then he brought the banana back to his lips. I eat, he said, speaking again in English, and then holding the banana to my face again, now you eat. But again I turned away, and he returned his hand to his lips. Dnes sum tuka, he said, speaking again the words he had made his chant, today I’m here, I eat, do you understand, I eat. Razbiram, I said, and again he snapped back at me Nishto ne razbirash, you don’t understand anything. But then his voice softened, as it had before, I understand you, he said, but you don’t understand me, and he looked at me again with such sadness that I did eat, finally taking the gift he had offered, though I could barely swallow, my gorge rose at the sweetness of it.

  Good, he said in English, good, and then he set the banana down half-eaten, carefully folding the skin back over the flesh. He picked up the yogurt then, a cheap flavored brand, and after carefully peeling back the aluminum cover halfway (centimeter by centimeter, again as if measuring the force it took) he brought the cup to his lips and took two large mouthfuls, not spooning it out but drinking it. He turned to the milk again, and holding it in one hand and the yogurt in the other, he began to pour the milk into the cup, slowly, as if he were determined to maintain the thinnest possible ribbon of liquid, a process made difficult by the fact that his hands were trembling, both of them, as they always did when he was drunk. Mite, I said, using my own name for him, his nighest name, I thought, or as nigh as I could come, shortened as if for a child, Mite, is there nothing they can do, is there no treatment? Without looking away from his task, as though any break in concentration would disrupt the delicate process, he brought his head up and then down, a decisive gesture, Ne, he said, nishto. I wondered why this was so, whether because of his condition or because of the expense of whatever was needed to treat it, even here where such things are so much cheaper, and I let myself imagine taking it on, the impossible task of saving him, for a single breath I imagined it, and then I let it go.

  He set down the milk and yogurt, and having peeled the foil top the rest of the way off he began stirring the mixture with a spoon. He was making some variant of airan, I realized, the watered yogurt that everyone loves in Bulgaria. Mite, I said again, I will help you, I will give you money to go back to Varna. Ne iskam pari, he said, I don’t want money, and he took my hand in his again, squeezing it, though not with the same force as before. I came because you are my friend, he said, many people say they’re your friend but they aren’t, they’re with you and then when you need them they’re gone. But you are a real friend, he said, istinski, you have helped me many times, and I thought but that isn’t what I’ve done, remembe
ring those transactions that had nothing to do with help, I was claiming him the only way I could. But I didn’t say this, I said I’m glad for that, looking into his eyes that looked at me so earnestly and yet weren’t looking at me at all. Let me help you now, I said, you should go back to Varna, you should be with your mother. At this his eyes softened still further, and I watched them fill with tears. Mitko nodded, he would take the money, and I wondered what urge had been satisfied in pretending he might not. Istinski priyatel, he said again, letting go of my hand and turning back to his drink.

  But I am your friend too, he said then, the tone of his voice shifting as he poured more milk into the cup, do you know how good a friend I’ve been? Other people, when they’ve seen us together, they’ve said Mitak—which was another one of his names, people here have many nicknames, I had seen others use it with him on Skype or hookup sites but I had never used it myself; it sounded hard to me, Mitak, I never felt it would summon the person I wanted him to be with me. Mitak, they’ve said, what are you doing with that guy, why are you hanging out with that faggot, and he used the word pederast, here as elsewhere it’s the preferred term of abuse. There are other words for what he said, of course, but pedal or obraten wouldn’t have struck with the same force, I would have had to translate them, however quickly; words in a foreign language never wound us like words in the language to which we’re born. But when I heard this word, pederast, I drew away from him slightly and grew very still. But ne ne vikam az, he went on, I say he’s not a faggot, I tell them leave him alone, toi e hetero. He was stirring the yogurt in its little cup as he said this, staring not at me but at it, his eyes still unfocused though he was more lucid than I had thought, I realized, lucid enough to make his threats, since I knew it was a threat he was making. Why are you saying this, Mitko, I asked, giving up our private names, why are you saying this to me? He shrugged a little, still stirring the mixture of yogurt and milk, pointlessly now; maybe the motion was like his chant, a rhythm he had fallen into, something he did for the feel of it. There are bad people, he said, speaking in the abstract as he always did when making his threats, gesturing to that gallery of faces or masks any of which he might choose to put on, though for now he let them hang. There are bad people who might say what you are, he said, they might not keep your secrets, they might make trouble, he said, and as he spoke a deeper sadness came over me, not at the betrayal this implied but at how futile it was, that it was the only threat he could make, or that he thought it was a threat at all. It was a threat in a different world, in his world perhaps but not in mine. But Mitko, I said, speaking gently, not in fear but in pity, I am an open person, I don’t have these secrets, everyone knows what I am, and I used his formula though it made me uneasy, tova koeto sum. Everyone, he said, incredulous, at the College too, your colleagues, your students? Of course, I said as if it could never be otherwise, from the first day I’ve told them, everyone knows, and as he looked down, shrugging his shoulders again, I felt a strange disappointment, as if I regretted my own safety, as if I missed the threat that lay now out of his reach.

  Mite, I said, using again my favorite name for him, his nighest name or the nighest to me, I’m sorry, it’s time for you to go, and as I spoke the words I found that I was sorry, knowing that I would truly be rid of him now. Yes, he said, agreeing, trugvam si, but he didn’t get up to go; he remained perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on the cup of yogurt he had emptied. I got up and took my wallet from my coat, which was hanging beside the door. The bus to Varna would be thirty leva, or had been not long before, so I took out twice that, and then a little more, and folded the notes until they were a tight coil in my palm. Here, I said, holding this out to him, this will get you to Varna, and there’s money for food. He looked at the money I held out but didn’t move to take it, as if his unfocused gaze didn’t quite recognize what it saw. Here, I said again, you should go to Varna, you should be with your mother. He nodded at this, he wiped his hands on his jeans and then took the money from me and stood up. He was visibly better now, he wasn’t quite steady but he didn’t stumble. Mersi, he said, nothing more, as he slid the money into his pocket. Then he turned and carefully picked up his crumpled jacket, putting it on slowly, not just out of a need to manage his resources, I thought, but out of a reluctance to leave, so that even as he said again Trugvam si he made no movement toward the door. He went to the refrigerator instead, pulling it open and peering inside. I’m still hungry, he said, I’ll just fry an egg before I go, pet minuti, he said, five minutes. But I stepped toward him and put my hand on his shoulder. Mitko, I said, I’m sorry, I have to sleep, you can eat somewhere else, you have enough for that. And again I did feel sorry, I felt cruel forcing him to leave, though I had fed him and given him money. What would it mean to do enough, I wondered, as I had wondered before about that obligation to others that sometimes seems so clear and sometimes disappears altogether, so that now we owe nothing, anything we give is too much, and now our debt is beyond all counting.

  Dobre, he said, straightening up, and then once more, trugvam si. He took a few steps toward the door before he paused again, turning to face me. I’m okay now, he said, at first I thought referring to his recovered lucidity, now that the effects of alcohol and of whatever else he had taken were wearing off; but then he stepped closer, saying again Veche sum dobre, and as he placed his hand on my waist I understood what he was offering. I let him pull us together and press his pelvis to mine so that I felt his cock again, and for a moment I allowed my response, the flood of excitement that only he could make me feel. But then he leaned his head toward mine and I put my hand on his chest, not quite pushing him away but stopping his approach. Mite, I said, and then quickly, lest it seem an invitation or an expression of passion, as perhaps it was, ne, I said, and then said it again, ne. He didn’t argue, but he held me a moment longer, rubbing himself against me, grinding against the hardness that was already evident, as if to reassure himself of the effect he had. He was going, he said again, just a moment, and then before I could protest he went to the refrigerator and pulled out another little cup of yogurt. I can take this, he said, not really asking, and I said yes, of course. Then he was at the door again, and this time he did hold out his hand, returning to the rituals he had neglected on arrival. We will never see each other again, he said, never again, smiling slightly, and then, still gripping my hand, as if to keep me from pushing him away, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine, not passionately, though mine softened to receive whatever he would give. It was a brief kiss, it lasted a moment, and then he turned and opened the door, leaving me to close it again behind him.

  I turned off the lights, wanting to be in darkness or near darkness, it’s never truly dark in Mladost, it’s only ever twilight with the lights from the street and from the windows of neighboring buildings; and then I crossed back through the main room and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a crisp night, with a spring chill so different from fall or winter, not in its temperature but in the quality of the air, its softness or tenderness, what has always seemed to me like its welcome. It was late but not terribly late, the moon was in the middle of the sky, the only natural light where it hung above the blokove. I could hear the traffic on Malinov, and there were two cars coming down my own street, one of which pulled into a gap at the curb to park, drawing itself up on the sidewalk and letting its lights go dark. I heard the closing of the building’s door down below, the loud sound it made when pushed open and allowed to swing back freely, a discourteous sound, and then Mitko came into view, walking not quickly but with purpose, not steadily but without risk of tumbling over. He was shaking the cup of yogurt, holding it close to his ear as if fascinated by the sound it made. Ahead of him, the car doors opened, and a young couple stepped out, fashionably dressed, returning from dinner, I supposed. The woman closed her own door and then opened the one behind, bending down to occupy herself with a child, extracting it from its buckles and straps and then rising up again with it in her
arms. It was a little girl, I thought, judging from her clothes rather than from any features I could make out, and she was sleeping, her body was limp in her mother’s arms. Mitko slowed his pace as he approached them, looking at the little girl with interest, the yogurt still raised to his ear though he had stopped shaking it, and I saw him lean toward the child a little, saying something, though of course I couldn’t make out the words. I had witnessed this many times here, the freedom with which people addressed small children, leaning in as Mitko did now, calling them milichka, sweetness, as I imagined him doing; no one took offense, as though it were granted that children were a kind of public property, something to be cherished in common. There was a crisis, every few months there were alarming articles in the newspapers about the falling birthrate; though there were many children in my neighborhood the country as a whole was imperiled, people couldn’t afford children, or they saw no point in having them, and as everyone who has the chance flees abroad—like my own students, I thought, who are so eager to escape—the population declines and the warnings in the papers grow more strident and the nation itself becomes a little less real, fading away, some fear, to nothing. There’s no hope for it, some of my students have said, not in class but in private, whispering as though it shouldn’t be said out loud, it is a dying country. Small children are a shared joy, then, their parents bask in it, the stroked cheeks and milichkas, but this mother didn’t welcome Mitko’s joy at the sight of the child; she turned from him just slightly, not rudely but insistently, as if shielding the girl from his interest, and then the father was beside them, ushering them toward their building’s door. Mitko stood for a moment, as if perplexed, and again I was filled with grief for him, seeing him standing alone on the street. He had always been alone, I thought, gazing at a world in which he had never found a place and that was now almost perfectly indifferent to him; he was incapable even of disturbing it, of making a sound it could be bothered to hear. Suddenly I was enraged for him, I felt the anger I was sure he must feel, that futile anger like a dry grinding of gears. But from a distance Mitko didn’t seem to feel anything at all; these were only my own thoughts, I knew, they brought me no nearer him, this man I had in some sense loved and who had never in the years I had known him been anything but alien to me. He set off again, shaking the cup of yogurt he had never lowered from his ear, and I watched him until he turned out of sight, headed toward the boulevard and the bus that would carry him away. I stood there for some time, gazing at the corner from which he had vanished. Then I stepped inside, and sitting where he had been just a moment before beside me, I lowered my face into my hands.