David Bezmozgis - The Betrayers

Those were the last civil words they exchanged. Period. The end.

Leora listened to all this dully, with neither expression nor reaction.

— And the mystery? she asked.

— You see, I told you it wasn’t much of a story.

— I just don’t see the mystery.

— The mystery? The entire thing. Did he dash the plates deliberately or did they fall by accident? And what was going through his head?

— Of course he dashed them, Baruch.

— Yes? And what was going through his head?

— He was conflicted. Stricken by conscience. He didn’t want to face you.

— There’s that.

— What else could there be?

— I don’t know. But life has taught me that there is always something else. Some surprise beyond the scope of my limited imagination.

Through the door they heard movement, the sounds of the day’s first activities, a kettle set on a burner.

— Well, Leora said, here is your chance to find out.

She rose from the bed and walked briskly to the door. This time Kotler did not inhibit her. She opened the door and passed into the hall. The sounds of a morning’s preparations came more distinctly now. He heard Leora greeting their landlady and the woman returning the greeting and inquiring if Leora would be having breakfast. There was also the sound of a man’s grumbled Good morning. Kotler felt a jolt in his heart. And yet, if he hadn’t already known that this voice belonged to Tankilevich, would he have recognized it?

Here it was. The moment he had fantasized about had finally arrived. Naturally, it was not how he’d envisioned it. In his vanity, he had always imagined meeting Tankilevich and his other former tormentors at the height of his powers, when he could gaze down upon them like a Zeus upon mortals. But this wasn’t how things stood now. It could be said that he was now as low as he had ever been and that he could not have chosen a less auspicious time for this grand reunion. But now was when it had happened. Only a fool believed that the world was built to stoke his vanity. Not from the heights but from the depths was life truly lived! And other such hokhmes.

Forward! Kotler commanded himself.

Ten strides and he was in the kitchen, facing his audience. He found the women on their feet and Tankilevich at the kitchen table, a teacup between his hands. That Leora eyed him expectantly was no surprise. But he saw similar expressions on the faces of Svetlana and Tankilevich. As if they too had been intent upon his appearance. What had they been expecting? Clearly not him. Tankilevich flinched and knocked his teacup against its saucer. He looked down to see if the liquid had spilled but when he looked up, his face had hardened and set. There was no doubt. No doubt for either of them.

— Boker tov, Volodya, Kotler said.

Like quicksilver, a look flashed between Tankilevich and his wife. Kotler saw the woman’s face blanch. Instinctively, she crossed herself.

— My God, she said.

— Your God, Tankilevich snapped. See how He’s answered your prayers.

He turned from his wife and glared at Kotler with the loathing of a cornered animal.

— A merry game, eh? An important man like you, you’ve got nothing better to do? Well, have a good look around, then. Here’s your old enemy. The despicable beast. The disgrace of the Jewish people. See how fate has settled its accounts with him. Give your girl a good laugh at his expense.

— What do you think, Volodya, Kotler said, that I had the Mossad hunt you down? That we chased you fifteen years, like Eichmann?

— You’ve come to insult me? Insult me. Rejoice. I’m a defenseless man. Say what you want and leave us be.

— Volodya, it’s pure coincidence, not the Mossad, that has brought me here. I’ve no more sought you than you’ve sought me.

— Chaim, Tankilevich said.

— What’s that? Kotler asked.

— I go by Chaim, Tankilevich said resolutely.

— Ah, you see, Leora, Kotler said with a grin, the first surprise.

— What’s the surprise? Tankilevich demanded. You alone reserve the right to change your name? I’m no less a Jew than you. No less a Zionist either.

— I’m glad to hear it, Kotler said. Though, if you’ll forgive my saying so, this also comes as a surprise. The last time I saw you, you denounced me before a Soviet tribunal as a Zionist imperialist spy working for the American intelligence services.

Splaying his hands on the tabletop, Tankilevich pushed back his chair and rose stiffly. He cast another baleful look at his wife and then turned to face Kotler.

— What do you want? You have come to collect? Well, I have paid and paid for my sins. I have paid in excess. I am paying still. And I have nothing for you.

On his way out of the kitchen, Tankilevich glanced one last time at his wife.

— Return their money.

The three of them watched his broad back fill the doorway and listened to his ponderous steps in the corridor. There was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and of footfalls on the gravel outside.

After an instant, recovering from her shocked state, Svetlana sprang from the table and went in pursuit of her husband, leaving Kotler and Leora to each other. The door opened and slammed shut again, and Svetlana’s footfalls joined her husband’s on the gravel path. From Leora came the unspoken question: Satisfied? To which what could Kotler reply? In a way.

Through the kitchen window it was possible to see what was unfolding in the driveway. Svetlana caught up to Tankilevich as he unlocked the car door and was preparing to lower himself into the driver’s seat. She gripped the door and would not release it. Kotler and Leora watched the struggle between them and heard the more heated parts of their argument.

From Svetlana: With your eyes! Have you forgotten what the doctor said? Suicide!

And from Tankilevich: I want those people out of my house!

The standoff continued for a little longer. Tankilevich resisted and did not easily relinquish the wheel, but Svetlana held fast and wouldn’t allow him to close the door. Eventually, in supreme frustration, Tankilevich wrenched himself from the car and stalked off toward the road. In parting he declared: One hour!

Svetlana watched him go, and when he had disappeared from view, she eased shut the car door. She then looked back to the house, where she found Kotler and Leora at the kitchen window. She eyed them grimly, then started inside. Before long, she was back in the kitchen. Nobody spoke and the room felt hollowed out, vacuous. The three of them regarded one another as through spans of chilled space. Svetlana, looking sorely perplexed, broke the silence.

— Is what my husband said true?

— What part? Kotler replied.

— That you came here deliberately.

— You were at the bus station. Do you believe we staged that encounter? Does that seem plausible to you?

— I don’t care about plausible. I am asking you if it is true.

— Svetlana, ask yourself: If we knew where to find you, why would we even bother with such contortions? Why would we not come straight to your door?

— So you deny it?

— I’ve already denied it. I denied it to your husband. I can deny it a thousand more times. But to what end? In my experience, denial is pointless. It is just words. What matters is logic and proof. I see you are not a simple woman. Ask yourself a different question: Why would I deny this? If indeed I sought your husband out, why wouldn’t I say so? Why would I engage in this pretense? Especially since, as anyone will tell you, I am a terrible actor. My strength, such as it is, lies in the opposite direction.

Svetlana stopped to consider this, to consider him. Kotler felt as though he could discern, behind her eyes, the minutest cogitations of her mind. He saw her reach a decision, the thought clicking into place. She turned to the stove and lifted the kettle, which had just started to whistle. Kettle in hand, she faced Kotler and Leora.