by Lara Vapnyar
“A ‘cupful of time,’” Victor said. “Isn’t that an amazing image?”
Shut the fuck up! I thought.
Sometimes I think that if the weather in Venice had been better, things could have turned out differently. It wasn’t bad, just gray, and sad, and cold. Actually, the temperature in Venice was five degrees higher than on Lake Garda, but it seemed much worse. In Venice, the cold felt like something liquid that dripped into every crevice between the layers of our clothes.
The first thing we had to do was buy some warm clothes.
I thought shopping in expensive boutiques would be fun, kind of like that scene from Pretty Woman I’d showed to my English students, but I found it oppressive. In the small space, the attention the salespeople lavished on me was too intense. Every time we entered a store, I had the desire to dash for the exit as soon as possible, so I would agree to every item they pushed on me, and say that no, I didn’t need to try it on. I ended up with a pile of ugly, ill-fitting, ridiculously expensive winter clothes, which looked bad both in reality and in photos.
In one photo, I’m standing on some nondescript street corner, wearing a short, belted, puffy coat with two collars—one stiff and frilly, pushing into my chin, and the other furry and soft, draped over my shoulders. Under the coat you can see dark blue corduroy pants tucked into mossy-green winter boots. The best feature, however, is my hat, a huge Russian-style fur hat with flaps tied together under my chin, so it looks like I have some sort of furry beard.
Okay, I can’t resist. But I’m making it really small and barely legible to preserve the fictional status of this book.
I loved our hotel suite though. The living room had four framed Canaletto prints on the walls. All four were of Piazza San Marco and looked more or less the same, if you didn’t peer too closely, but I peered too closely and I saw all these exciting subtle differences, which reminded me of the exercises my mother pushed on me when I was little. I wanted nothing more than to sit in the armchair in the middle of the room and count things in the paintings to see which of them had more items of each category. Two children, three dogs, four umbrellas, five red hats, six brown hats, seven white stockings, eight baskets, nine clouds—no, wait, those were actually two clouds joined together, so ten clouds.
But unfortunately, we couldn’t stay in the hotel the entire time, because if we did that, it would’ve been a waste of Venice.
On December 31, the weather suddenly turned nice with the sun breaking through the gray layers of the sky and giving the city some color. We spent the entire morning aimlessly walking around, which is the best thing you can do in Venice. I wanted to get lost, but Venice, though seemingly twisted, turned out to be too compact for getting lost, and no matter which route we took, we would eventually end up facing Hotel Danieli.
“Let’s take a boat to Torcello,” Victor offered at some point. “That’s our only chance to get away.”
We sat on the deck, looking at the milky pale water, which was almost the same color as the sky, save for the shimmery pink line on the horizon. Everything was so quiet and still that I jolted when Victor started to speak.
“I met a girl at Danieli once. More than twenty years ago.”
He was poor then; he had to work two jobs to save enough money for a trip to Venice, where he had always wanted to go. He stayed at a cheap pensione, sharing a room with a man who sang in his sleep, and he hardly ate anything but pasta with canned sardines, but he loved every second of his trip. Especially that feeling that anything at all could happen to him at any moment. Once as Victor was walking along the embankment, he was caught in a pouring rain. He looked around and saw that he was steps away from Danieli. He had passed it before and knew that there was a beautiful bar right in the lobby, so he decided to go there and order a cup of tea, because even in a place like Danieli, how much could they possibly charge you for tea? Once inside, he sat on the edge of an upholstered chair and ordered tea, trying to mask the intimidation behind his confident fluent Italian. Chicherin’s Italian? I thought. His clothes were soaked through; he was cold and shivering in the room full of wealthy, smug people sitting in their dry clothes, sipping their expensive cocktails. And then he spotted a girl, sitting alone a few tables away from him, blowing into her tea to cool it. She was modestly dressed and clearly as uncomfortable as he was. She smiled at Victor as if to show that she didn’t belong here either. She had such a simple, open face, not much makeup, just a bit of mascara smudged under her eyes. He wanted to talk to her, but he couldn’t summon enough courage. They sat there at their separate tables, smiling at each other from time to time. Then the rain ended, and the girl picked up her heavy raincoat and headed for the door. He wanted to run after her, but he hadn’t paid his bill yet, so he sat there like an idiot watching her walk away, with that stupid wet raincoat trailing the floor. He couldn’t stop thinking about her for a very long time.
Apparently, he was still thinking about her, I thought with a mix of tenderness, fascination, and jealousy. And then I came up with a brilliant idea. I said: “Let’s reenact the scene.” I would go into the lobby and order tea. Victor would walk in some ten minutes later. We would sit away from each other, exchanging meaningful glances, only this time he would actually come up and talk to me!
I expected Victor to laugh at my suggestion, but he loved it. We were planning to have dinner at the Terrazza Danieli anyway, so we decided to reenact the scene in the lobby right before dinner.
The Danieli lobby looked exactly as Victor had described it, gleaming with marble and gold, filled with rich-looking people. I walked in there alone, in my belted coat and fur hat with flaps. One look at my reflection in one of the antique mirrors made me feel out of place, which was perfect for the role I was going to play. I sat down in a chair in the back, facing the door so I could see Victor as soon as he walked in. The waiter brought me tea in a thick white teapot. I poured some into my cup and blew on it, trying to channel that girl. She was in Venice on her own. I wondered what it was like to be in Venice on your own. Free and hopeful. That girl woke up every morning not knowing where the day would lead her. The possibilities were limitless. She was sitting there blowing on her tea, but at any moment a heavy door could open, letting in the man of her dreams. A man who would meet her eyes, and see her and want her, see her, want her, as nobody had ever seen or wanted her before.
I got myself so worked up that I started to tremble, the cup jingling against the saucer in my hands. And then Victor opened the door, and everything immediately felt wrong. He took a few steps and stopped in the middle of the room, searching for me. He looked nervous, the anxiety breaking through the haughty expression he always assumed in especially fancy places. Our eyes met for a second, but I looked away, because I wasn’t supposed to see him yet according to the script. But then Victor didn’t act according to the script either. He was supposed to pick a spot a few tables away from mine, but instead he walked up to my table and sat down across from me. He looked upset. I asked, “What’s wrong?” and he shook his head and said, “Let’s go.”
A wiser person would’ve dropped it, but I wasn’t a wiser person, so I kept pressing and pressing all through dinner, until Victor finally told me what was wrong.
“When I walked in, you looked at me with such disappointment!”
“I was playing a role!” I said.
“Okay, I know that, you were playing a role. But your disappointment was genuine!”
I guess my relationship with Victor could’ve ended there and then. But it didn’t. We made up. We were honest with each other. We both admitted how hard it was to banish our recent loves from our hearts, and focus on the future, on each other. If anything, that incident brought us closer.
We watched the New Year’s Eve fireworks from our balcony, drinking champagne straight from the bottle. When it turned midnight, we made a traditional Russian toast: “To the New Year! To new happiness!” which suddenly struck me as very strange. Was it meant to encourage people to
discard their old happiness and look for a new one? Fortunately, I was too drunk to share that thought with Victor.
Right before we went to bed, Victor proposed something unorthodox. “Let’s meet the New Year at sunrise.”
“Let’s!” I said.
We set the alarm clock for 6:15, but when it rang, we didn’t feel that enthusiastic anymore. I got out of bed and walked toward the balcony, squinting and groaning. When I finally managed to pry the blinds apart, I saw a solid mass of heavy gray clouds hanging low over the rooftops.
“We won’t see anything today,” I said.
“Well,” Victor mumbled and fell back asleep. I couldn’t sleep. I lay there for a while, tossing and turning and making Victor groan, until I realized that this was my only opportunity to explore Venice on my own. I put on my blue corduroy pants, my green boots, my puffy two-collared coat, and my rabbit hat, put the room key in my pocket, and went out.
It was drizzling, with tiny beads of rain latching on to the fur of my collar and hat. The city contours seemed to be dissolving in the fog. I found my way to the embankment, following the wind and the sounds of the water sloshing against the borders. Soon I heard the dull rattle of the approaching vaporetto. The electronic tableau read: San Marco–Zattere–Cimitero di San Michele. I counted the stray money in the pockets of my puffy coat—I had enough for a return ticket—and ran toward the dock.
It was too cold to stay on the deck, so I dove inside and stayed there the entire time, as the vaporetto noisily made its way toward the cemetery. I absolutely didn’t plan to do anything crazy; I wanted to visit Brodsky’s grave, because this was something a cultured person was supposed to do. Honestly!
I was the only passenger to get off the vaporetto at the cemetery, and I was the only visitor there. In fact, the gates had just opened. There was no map, and I didn’t want to ask the old man at the gates for directions, so I wandered around along the labyrinthine paths, hoping to stumble onto Brodsky’s grave, until I saw this sign.
By that time I was so cold that that uscita option looked much more attractive, but I picked Brodsky.
The headstone was simple and white though darkened by the humidity. There were some rotting roses scattered on the ground around the grave, but I didn’t notice them until I felt a sharp thorn piercing the flesh of my knee through my corduroy pants.
I don’t know how it happened, I still can’t believe that I’m capable of doing something like that, but I found myself on my knees, in the cold dirt of the cemetery path in front of Brodsky’s grave, begging Brodsky to please please please do something so B. and I could be together.
I don’t remember how I got off my knees, or how I walked back to the vaporetto stop, or whether I had to wait for the vaporetto for a long time. But I remember that as soon as I stepped onto that vaporetto, I was hit by the most intense embarrassment I had ever experienced in my life. I made a solemn promise to myself that nobody would ever know about this.
Note to a sharp reader. Yes, I know, I know. I just broke that promise.
When I got back, Victor was already up and having breakfast at the little table facing away from the balcony. The TV was on and turned to a Russian channel. The host was reciting the news in a rapid and arrogant manner.
“Did you go for a walk?” Victor asked.
I said that I’d ended up going to the cemetery.
“Oh, you did?” Victor said. “Have some breakfast.”
I said that I wasn’t hungry, and went to take a shower, and as I stood savoring the warmth, I made a decision. Actually, I’d made that decision on the ride back from the cemetery, but it had been too cold for the thought to take shape into something solid and coherent. I couldn’t possibly stay with Victor after what had happened at Brodsky’s grave. I knew what I wanted and I knew what I didn’t want. I couldn’t lie to Victor and especially to myself anymore. And not because I had become an honest or rational person all of a sudden, but because I physically couldn’t. I had exhausted my ability to lie.
I came out of the bathroom, got dressed, and sat down at that little table across from Victor. He poured me some coffee.
I took a few sips and said that I wasn’t going back to Lake Garda with him. I was going to New York. I would call the airline and ask if they could change my ticket, and if not, I would buy a new one.
It wasn’t working between us. He must feel it too.
Victor turned away from me, pressed his fist to his forehead, and sat like that for a minute or two with his eyes closed.
Then he turned and said: “Yes, I feel it too. Of course I do.”
I took off the ring (this one, unlike the one that Len gave me, slipped right off) and handed it to Victor. For some reason, I expected him to tell me to keep it, and I was prepared to insist on giving it back. But he took it from me right away and went to lock it up in his wallet.
“Tiffany has a generous return policy,” he said with a bitter snicker. “They must know how these things turn out.”
It occurred to me that this would be the second time in two months Victor was returning an engagement ring to Tiffany. I thought that despite his name and his quest for perfection, Victor was a bit of a loser, at least when it came to love. I felt such a rush of affection for him that it made me wonder if perhaps we did have a chance as a couple after all.
I got on a flight with a connection in Rome, and all the way to Rome, I kept thinking whether I should go back to Len. There was no sense in upending everybody’s life now. I would beg Len to forgive me, and he would forgive me and take me back. I wouldn’t be happy with Len, but I wouldn’t be desperately unhappy either. Once my love for B. finally died (and it would die, wouldn’t it? It had to die at some point!), I would be only moderately unhappy.
The layover in Fiumicino was only fifty minutes, and I used the time to get my last cup of real Italian espresso in the airport café. I sat down at the tiny marble table, unfastened my coat, and put my rabbit hat on the empty chair next to me. I was stirring my espresso, pondering if I should call my mother and tell her that I was coming home. I decided against it. I knew that she would ask me what happened and I didn’t want to get into it over the phone. I was about to check my email when I realized that my cup was empty. The problem with espresso is that you can’t possibly savor it. Can’t drink it leisurely while checking your email. I had to order another espresso. There was so much junk among my emails that I almost missed one from B. I felt a familiar jolt of pain. I didn’t want B. to know that my new relationship was already over. I was kicking myself for bragging to him about Victor. Assuming I was going to keep in touch with B. (and it seemed childish not to), I would have to tell him that it had ended. But he’d ask why, and I didn’t want him to know that it had ended because of him. I was in the middle of spinning some plausible story about Victor when I finally opened the email from B.
There were only six words.
“I left Nadya. I love you.”
No, I didn’t drop my espresso cup to the floor—I managed to put the cup down in one piece—but I did have to grab on to the edge of the table to keep my balance.
I read his message again and again, but I couldn’t believe it. I’d imagined receiving this message so many times—these exact words—that it couldn’t possibly be true. I kept rereading it until I heard the boarding announcement for my flight. A few minutes later, as I was running down the moving walkway, I remembered that I’d left my rabbit hat in the café. And right after that I remembered about Brodsky. Brodsky! It was Brodsky. He’d come through for me. And only then did I let myself believe that this was happening.
B. was free. B. loved me. We would be together.
TWENTY-ONE
I’m pretty sure I had never heard about the concept of “time dilation” before. My mother had never discussed it with me when I was a child. I wonder why. Could it be that she hadn’t found it useful before? Perhaps she understood its meaning only now, at sixty-seven, as she was rushing toward death with greater velocity
than she had ever expected. Or perhaps she decided to include “time dilation” in her notes because she saw death as the ultimate gravitational field, pulling us all right to its center. Anyway, soon after I realized that my mother was dying, something changed in my perception of time as well. I didn’t experience time as a smooth flow carrying me forward anymore, but as a series of sharp painful leaps.
Seven months before my mother died, I spent the happiest three days of my life.
I spent them with B., in a cheap Staten Island motel called Bella Luna, where he took me after meeting me at JFK.
No, the births of my children were not the happiest days of my life. Both times, I was physically torn apart, and heavily drugged. And when I held each of them in my arms for the first time, I felt heart-wrenching affection mixed with terror, rather than happiness.
The time I spent with B. on my return from Italy gave me pure happiness. It was a different happiness from the one we experienced at the beginning of our affair. Back then we felt drunk; this time we were happy and sober.
What I can describe is our fourth day together, which I happen to remember in the tiniest detail. We woke up very late, and had breakfast at my favorite McDonald’s, decorated like a fifties drive-in restaurant, with those neon-colored booths made to look like cars. After breakfast we went for a walk on the beach. It must have snowed while I was in Italy, and there were patches of snow melting on the sand. The wind was attacking us in sharp gusts, and I kept saying that this was like some insane Arctic fairy tale and begging B. to wear a hat. B. refused to wear a hat, his hair was flying in all directions in the wind, he was smiling almost the whole time, and his dark eyes looked impossibly bright.
Then we went back to the motel, turned the heat all the way up, and jumped into the bed. Sex was not as intense as during the first three days, but it was somehow better, simpler, happier. Afterward we fell asleep, even though it was still light out.