by Niles Kovach
My apartment was on the third floor of a block-style brick building near Pulaski Road. It consisted of one room and a bathroom. The room was divided by a short counter that created a kitchen nook with a two-burner stove, sink, and small refrigerator. This was the first view as the door opened, and where I had first concentrated my attention when I came in, as there were two leftover slices of pizza in the fridge that could, maybe, erase an empty dinner.
I was not used to having strangers waiting for me on my sofa.
To the right of the door was the bathroom. To the left was part of my furniture, a stack of planks and cinder-blocks that made a system of shelves to support my stereo and books. Across the room from the stereo was a sofa bed, where Vasily sat, one arm casually sprawled over the top while the other held a magazine in the fading light from the only window on his right. The window looked out onto the street. In front of Vasily was a small, plain coffee table Papa had found in the attic and let me have.
I stood with my mouth open, trying to find words to fill the space.
He said simply, "Hello."
When I was still mute after a long pause, he said, "I came to see you, knocked on the door, and it opened as I knocked." He stood and walked toward me. "I came in to see if everything was all right, and decided to wait for you."
I recovered. I felt a cold shiver spread through me as I faced the intruder calmly, my initial infatuation dissolved by his lie. The door had not been open. My disordered appearance disguises an orderly mind. I have a system for everything, from putting books on a shelf to locking my door. I have never locked myself out of home or car, have never lost a document, and have never discovered a forgotten item in the bottom of a drawer. I catalogue, group, classify, and place each item in my life with unsparing precision. I do this without descending into obsession because my rationalism is simply a natural result of the way in which I think, and it causes problems only when I am forced to live with someone as chaotic as I am systematic. Like my mother.
I faced Vasily and for the first time understood that he was dangerous. The knowledge cleared my mind and allowed me to think and to watch him carefully.
"Did you find your icon?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Why? Did you?"
"I am not looking for it."
"But you're interested in some way."
Vasily looked at me with a different intensity. I watched his eyes move from my frazzled, unkempt hair, to my perpetually wrinkled wool skirt, and back to my face.
"You are not what you seem," he said.
The kettle whistled wildly, billowing steam. "Coffee?" I said.
"Yes."
"Why are you here?"
He took a moment to reply, so I had time to look up from the stove to see his expression. He seemed to make a decision. "I came to ask you to have dinner with me."
Another great lie.
"I don't know you," I said.
"Nick introduced us."
"Who? Oh, Boris. He's hardly what I would call a reference. I don't even know your last name."
"Sobieski."
"What's a Pole doing with a Russian name?" I handed him a coffee mug.
"Sobieski is Polish."
"Vasily is Russian."
"Poles use it."
"Obviously."
"I did not know Americans worried about such things."
"I'm not worried. I'm curious."
"That seems to be your biggest problem."
Our conversation continued this way until the coffee was gone. We answered questions obliquely or not at all and circled each other in a verbal contest for advantage. With difficulty, we agreed to meet at a restaurant of slightly better quality than Boris' hangout.
I was not sure how I should feel about this milestone in my life. On one hand, I had just made my first date. He was not just any date, either, but a handsome, apparently wealthy man who radiated power and self-assurance. I was uneasy though, because I could not believe such a man could actually be interested in me, and I knew instinctively that he was accustomed to having his way.
For some reason, he kept bringing the topic around to my parents. Where were they and who were they and did I know where they were from? I answered simply "Leningrad," since this was what I had been told. I was on my guard with this man and unwilling to say more to him.
"Do you believe in coincidence?" he asked me, finally getting the hint that I did not want to talk about my family.
"It depends on what you mean," I said. "If you mean do I believe that coincidences happen, yes, I do. I think there is plenty of evidence. But if you are asking if I believe in pure chance, no, I don't."
"Precisely."
"Which?"
"There is no pure chance," he said. "A coincidence happens because someone causes it to happen."
"Yes."
"There is always an explanation."
I was not sure what he was getting at. "No," was my answer. "There is not always an explanation."
"There must be. If there is a cause, there is an explanation."
"Not necessarily," I said. "The cause can be the primary cause of all things, who requires no explanation. Even where there is a surface, or human, explanation, if you trace it back as far as it will go, you come to the primary cause."
"God?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Are you going to preach to me now, Alex?"
"No, why?”
"Are you devout?"
"What does that mean?"
"Even if one allows that God is the original cause, there is still a natural explanation. Don't you agree?"
"No, I don't," I said. "God is not bound by natural laws. He can do things directly, without using natural forces."
Vasily looked at me strangely. "If there is a God, and if he is interested enough," he said.
"There is, and He is interested."
Moses' tongue was loosened when he required it. Not mine. This was the best I could do. I can sit in an easy chair and conduct brilliant philosophical arguments with myself. But as I sat next to Vasily that day, engaged in a conversation I was having difficulty following, logical argument failed. Faith cannot be shared by logic.
"If he is interested," said Vasily, "then it is in a general way, not individually."
"I disagree," I said.
"What is your argument?"
"My argument lies in the word coincidence. To coincide means to exist or happen at the same time. Do you accept Einstein's theory of relativity?"
"Yes."
"Then you accept that time is relative."
"Yes."
"Then for events to coincide within the infinity of time, yet each within its own relative time, requires direction from outside of time."
"Or chance."
"No. Not chance. Coincidence is common to the human condition. Everyone experiences it. Its frequency suggests a cause greater than chance; its universality means it is individually directed."
"I don't agree," he said. “Universality cannot mean individuality.”
"Then what is your argument?"
He seemed distracted and did not answer. Instead, he changed the subject and we had another cup of coffee. As we talked, I had the impression that he distrusted me. He seemed forever trying to catch me at something, but I did not know what. Our conversation ranged over many things, his arguments always well-defined, his insight better than mine, especially regarding people. He avoided philosophy though, and kept the topics centered on the concrete.
After an hour, my infatuation returned; he was fascinating. But I did not forget how he must have come to be there. It sobered me and made me careful.
"Saturday, then," he said, draining his cup. He stood to leave. "I will pick you up."
"No," I said. "We said we would meet."
"Oh, yes. That's right. I will see you then." He walked to the door and seemed bothered by something.
I went with him to the door, hoping with everything in me that he would kiss me. He didn't. I was bitterly disappointed.
He unlatched the dead bolt lock with some expertise and let himself out.
Once he was gone, my disappointment gave way to a desire for security. I attached the chain lock, knowing it was useless, and searched for something to put against the door. There was nothing heavy enough to hold it so I settled instead on an alarm and piled several pots precariously under the doorknob. Safety provided for, I rushed to the window to satisfy curiosity. I reached it in time to see Vasily climb into the passenger side of a black Mercedes parked under a streetlamp.
CHAPTER SEVEN