Edith Pearlman - Binocular Vision - New & Selected Stories

She aimed two fingers at Dr. White, who did not flinch, did not even lower her eyes.

“… in autumn. There was a ravine where crystal water bubbled. On a branch hung a funnel-shaped ladle made of birch. They drank the cold fresh water. They walked along a winding path to an unused hunting lodge. They spoke of Dickens, of Dürer … favorite topics of well-bred Russians. In the late-afternoon sun the air was full of amber droplets, and everything was as if bathed in warm tea — the trees, the wet lane, even the faces of the two people who had not yet touched one another. This is the Russian spring.”

Dr. Lilyveck touched his balding head. “There is a translator. She is not in the hospital today.”

“My mother’s eyes were hazel and her teeth were widely spaced. Her skin was freckled, her curly hair light brown. As a member of the household, she had seen that Nicholas was prodded and worried by the adored empress and the detested monk. She pitied the Little Father. She was not raped that afternoon, not seduced; seigneurial right was not exercised. She collaborated in her own deflowering. His hands were gentle. His eyes were the brown of a thrush, and his beard too. There was only a little pain. There was extreme sweetness.

And then came an extraordinary moment. She looked up, into his brown gaze, and she saw his murder, the murder that would take place five years later, in July, Dr. Hauser.”

“It’s January,” he said in a low voice.

“Eight, she saw eight corpses — man, wife, five children, serving-maid — and a crushed spaniel, dying. The corpses, first shot, were then chopped, drenched in acid, burned, and buried. These meager remains were identified later by the metal photograph case and the skeleton of the spaniel, whose body had been tossed into the grave.

My mother saw other future things, disconnected images. She saw an open-eyed little girl, dead of typhus, or was it starvation, or was it the bayonet. One of the millions of the Little Father’s children to die during the coming civil war. She saw Trotsky in his greatcoat. She saw Zinovyev the apparatchik getting out of a limousine whose seats were covered with bearskin. She saw members of the cheka, blood dripping from their fangs. She saw Lenin dead from stroke or perhaps poison.

When news of these happenings reached her ears in far-off Brooklyn she merely nodded.

Good doctors, there is a figure in Russian legend: a domesticated bear, I cannot remember the name given him, call him Transient Ischemik … ”

“Transient ischemic, yes,” Dr. Hauser encouraged.

“… who has the power to foresee the future but not the language to reveal it. He can only gaze at his masters from the hearth — sorrowfully, for the future is always grievous. So it was with my mother — she spoke little, she spoke less, she spoke hardly at all, she might have been an animal. In Brooklyn, despite her nurse’s training, she worked as a lowly attendant in an institution for the feebleminded. We lived with an impoverished female cousin. The few sentences my mother did say she said in Russian.”

“The translator will come tomorrow.”

“Afterwards they stood and straightened their clothing. He picked up the framed picture of his wife, which had fallen out of his pocket. He raised my mother’s fingers to his lips. Separately they returned to the palace. She never saw him again.

She would hear many times that he had been autocratic, weak, extravagant, indifferent to his subjects, deserving of the epithet ‘Bloody.’ She did not contradict.

All this she told me in a spate of verbosity the night she died.”

Dr. Lilyveck said, “You need not think of death.”

She closed her eyes, banishing him, banishing his two subordinates. She recalled and then chose not to recall her pinched girlhood apartment on Avenue J and the two gloomy women who had raised her; her long and indifferent marriage; her contributions to topology; her only son, victim of cancer at thirty-five. Another dead Romanov. And she, propped up in a bed under three watchful pairs of eyes … might she at this late hour be invested with that old bear’s power to envision the future? Plagues, civil disruptions, babies born monstrous — any wag could foretell those catastrophes. No. Her gift was to witness not what was to come but what had been. She thought of the Little Father, Nicholas, abandoned before his death and disregarded afterward, remembered now only by a stroked-out mathematician who had not known him but could nevertheless see khaki garments. Beard. Kindly eyes. Mouth smiling at the freckled nurse who on a warm afternoon had soothed his troubled spirit. A solitary incident, one moment of singular ease, its issue one life of singular unremarkableness: hers. And with her passing would die not the memory of the incident — that memory had perished with Nicholas, with Vera — but the memory of its deathbed telling. The reputation of the tragic tsar … no further stain …

She opened her eyes. The doctors were still there, writing on their clipboards, exchanging glances, as thorough as the cheka. “My mother was mad,” she said hurriedly in English. “Her story was merely an invention,” she recanted, “to console me for my shameful birth. The season is winter, Dr. Hauser. The president is … a boob.”

Dr. White touched her hand. Little Mother , she said in the old woman’s tongue. If a lie, a generous one. And if the truth, safe with you and me. Rest now.

A few minutes later, in the hall, “Natalie,” snapped Dr. Lilyveck. “Your command of Russian — an unexpected talent. The patient’s prattle: what was it?”

“Mortimer,” Dr. White said sweetly. “A folktale, more or less.”

THEY HAD MANY THINGS IN COMMON, the man of sixty-seven and the girl of seventeen. They were both undersized. Their eyes were a similar light blue, though Francis’s vision was excellent, requiring reading glasses only for very small print, and Louanne’s was poor — she glared at the world through spectacles so thick they seemed opaque. They lived in mirror-image apartments on the second floor of a double brownstone. (Such solid burghers’ buildings were the mainstay of housing in Boston and its nearer suburbs, Francis said often, probably too often.) Louanne lived in her apartment with her uncle and aunt. Francis lived in his alone. Both preferred ice cream to pastry. Both favored backpacks.

Francis’s worn pack was almost empty nowadays. It held a book or two, the morning Globe , the neglected reading glasses, the Cystadane powder he had to mix with water and drink every four hours. But the pack was, he liked to think, his sartorial trademark. During the forty years he’d served in the Great and General Court of Massachusetts — first in the house, then in the senate — he’d disdained a briefcase. His pack had been full then.

Louanne’s was full now. It bulged with high school textbooks. She was studying chemistry, calculus, English, French, and Constitutional law. Constitutional law was a new and experimental course for gifted seniors. She had some trouble with it because it presumed a knowledge of American history. She’d come to this streetcar suburb from Russia only two years earlier, as a sophomore; American history was offered in the freshman year.

“American history is finished,” she’d muttered to him on a memorable afternoon the previous September. They’d met on the staircase. She was coming home from school, he was going out for a stroll.

“What do you mean, Ms. Zerubin?”

“I mean that I’ve never learned it and I can’t take it now,” and she explained further. “Please call me Louanne, Mr. Morrison,” she wound up.