David Bezmozgis - The Betrayers

— The next bus from Simferopol isn’t due for another three hours, he told Leora when he rejoined her.

— And so …?

— When it comes, I expect more locals will return offering rooms. But that still leaves three hours.

— And those people there?

— Those forlorn-looking people? Somebody should teach them the importance of projecting an image of strength.

— We have three hours. You could give them a seminar.

— Yes, well, perhaps now is not the best time.

— Perhaps not.

— Three hours is long enough to investigate one or two places. If we don’t find anything we like, we can return in time for the Simferopol bus and see what else materializes.

While they were speaking, Kotler noticed that some of the people had taken a keener interest in them, as if having picked up the scent. When Kotler and Leora started toward the group, two people separated themselves from the others and stepped forward to meet them. They did not appear to be in league; rather at odds. Both were middle-aged women, and each held a hand-lettered sign advertising accommodations. The one who took the lead was stouter and darker complexioned. Her hair had been cut short and dyed an unnatural shade of burgundy. Her features were regular, the eyes, Kotler noticed, a striking dark blue, and though her skin had thickened with age, he imagined that she had been alluring in her day. The second woman was short, shorter than the first, and appreciably shorter even than the diminutive Kotler. She was sinewy, the twin points of her collarbones jutting from the top of her summer frock. She was younger than the first woman by as much as a decade, her hair longer, wheat-colored, and undyed. Each woman wore a small gold Orthodox cross around her neck. Whereas, ethnically, the first woman was harder to place, the second had the snub features of a Russian peasant. Yes, the old game of deducing ethnicity; in this they were all participants, experts.

— Are you looking for a room? the first woman inquired.

— We are, Kotler replied.

— For how long?

— The week.

— I have it. If you’ll come with me, I can show you.

— Why should he go with you? the second woman protested. I also have a room. And more convenient. Closer to the beach. Let’s ask the client what he wants.

— Here is the difference between my room and hers, the first woman said. Hers may be closer to the beach by five minutes, but it is smaller and lacks a private bath. So it depends what you want. In my experience, people today prefer to have a private bath.

— And the price? Kotler asked.

— Whatever she offers you, the first woman said, I will match it.

— And the others? Kotler said, regarding those who had remained in place and who, in the shade of the glass-and-concrete hulk of the terminal, followed their conversation with a flat, disconsolate interest.

— You’re welcome to talk to them. But none of them will offer you anything better. And besides, do you have the time to see every place? Why not come with me? I believe you will be satisfied. But if not, you can come back and try with someone else.

— As usual, Svetlana, you’re very aggressive, the other woman said.

— Pardon, madame? Svetlana replied, the French words heavily accented with Russian. Exactly who is being aggressive? You have some nerve to insult me in front of clients.

— It’s correct that my room doesn’t have a private bath, the second woman said to Kotler and Leora, making a point of ignoring Svetlana. But I wouldn’t call it smaller. It is also clean and newly renovated. My husband, a qualified carpenter, did the work himself. And it is much closer both to the beach and the bus station. In the interest of saving time, why not come see it first? To go with her will take you twice as long.

Kotler exchanged a quick look with Leora to ascertain her opinion. What he saw from her was mostly demurral, abstention from the vote.

— Where are you from? Svetlana asked, thrusting herself more completely in front of the other woman.

— America, Kotler said and flashed another glance at Leora.

— Are you Jews? Svetlana asked ingratiatingly, in a tone Kotler had never much liked.

— Do you ask this question of all your clients?

— My husband is Jewish, Svetlana stated, as though it were an article of pride.

— Oh, and what of it? the second woman declared, stepping around Svetlana. Maybe my grandfather was a Jew?

— If you’re Jews, Svetlana continued, you will understand what life is like for us here.

— Now you’re Jewish too? the second woman scoffed. It’s news to me. Well, if you’re so Jewish, what are you still doing here? The other Jews, those with any sense, skipped off to Israel at the first opportunity.

— You see what we have to put up with, Svetlana said contemptuously.

— Is your husband from here? Kotler asked casually.

— No, from Kazakhstan, Svetlana said, and added defensively, There are many Jews from Kazakhstan.

— Well, I suppose it’s better here than in Kazakhstan, Kotler said.

— If you have to struggle for your daily bread, it makes little difference, Kazakhstan or Crimea.

Kotler turned once more to Leora. He now had no trouble discerning her mind. He could tell that she disapproved of his inclination. She was savvy, disdainful of risk, and far less sentimental than he. Without a doubt, hers was the more prudent course, but he had never been good at stifling the contrarian part of his nature. And he was much too old to undertake a transformation.

— Doesn’t it say in the Torah that you should first help your own kind? Svetlana pronounced.

— Does it? Kotler replied, but he had already made his decision. And even this comment didn’t cause him to revise it.

He gripped the handle of his suitcase and tipped the bag so that it rested on its little wheels. Reluctantly, Leora did the same.

— Very well, Kotler said to Svetlana, after you.

To get to the house, they rode in Svetlana’s boxy little Lada, not so old and yet seemingly unchanged from Soviet times, its interior smelling cloyingly of rose water. The drive, snaking up into the hills away from the coast, took only a few minutes, long enough for them to formally introduce themselves. Svetlana gave her full name, complete with patronymic, and Kotler and Leora provided their former Russian names, omitting their last names; thus, for the first time since his release from prison, Kotler presented himself as Boris Solomonovich, and for the first time since she was a Moscow kindergarten student, Leora introduced herself as Lena Isaacovna. If only for the purposes of reaching back in time, the use of his old name seemed appropriate. Not until he said it did he realize the extent to which simply identifying himself as Boris evoked a former self. A self very distinct from the man he had resolutely chosen to become. Boris. He might as well have said Borinka, the pet name his parents had used for him. His heart swelled at the ghostly sound of it in his head. And though he recognized that he was in a delicate frame of mind, still he was surprised by how vulnerable, how sentimental he had become. How easily and intensely he could be moved by his own thoughts and recollections.

The house Svetlana brought them to was a single story and, like the neighboring houses, showed signs of deterioration and slapdash repairs. She veered her car sharply onto a pitted driveway and came to a stop in front of flaking, pale green stucco walls. Kotler noted that the roof was of terra-cotta tiles, but a newer addition, affixed to the main body of the house like a crude prosthesis, was covered with slanted corrugated metal. Beside this addition was a small patch of dry grass, the domain of some idle brown hens and a white goose. A stunted peach tree clung to life at the edge of the patch. It was an ordinary village house. A plot of land and its modest yield. A life of shtetl dimensions.