David Bezmozgis - Natasha and Other Stories

After another drink Sergei’s head began to drift toward his plate and he accepted my father’s help and rose from the table. His arm draped over my father’s shoulder, Sergei stumbled into my bedroom and onto my single bed. My father closed the door and returned to the table. He lowered himself wearily into his chair. Submitting to gravity, he looked again like my old father.

As my mother served the tea Gregory confessed that Sergei was more right than wrong. But this was something my father knew as well as he did. A weightlifter’s career was five, maybe seven years. After that there was a nice arrangement. A position with Dynamo. A lucrative job with customs. Maybe a coaching placement, or moving papers from one corner of the desk to the other. Sergei would get what everyone else got. He’d keep his three-room apartment, he’d have his garage for his car, he’d never have to worry about a salary. That Russia was becoming a colossal piece of shit was a different story. That my father had proven himself a genius by leaving was undeniable. Dunking biscuits into his tea, Gregory admitted he should have left when he had the chance. Now it was too late.

My father looked at my mother before speaking.

— Don’t be fooled, Grisha. I often think of going back.

— Are you insane? Look at what you have. Take a walk outside. I saw beggars on the street wearing Levi’s jeans and Adidas running shoes.

— Three days out of five I’m afraid I’ll join them.

— Roma, come on, I’ve known you for thirty years. You don’t have to lie on my account.

— I’m not lying. Every day is a struggle.

— Look, I’m not blind. I see your car. I see your apartment. I see how you struggle. Believe me, your worst day is better than my best.

Leaving my parents and Gregory at the table, I went down the hall and into my bedroom. Even though I knew every step blind, I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Sergei was stretched out on my single bed, his feet barely hanging over the edge. I went over and stood beside him. I listened to his breathing and considered his body through his suit jacket. Again, I was amazed at how small he was. I bent closer to examine his face. I didn’t mind that he was in my bed, although I wondered where I would sleep if he stayed. When he suddenly opened his eyes, I was startled.

— Well, boy, what do you see?

He raised himself to a sitting position and looked me over. He put his hands on my shoulders and my arms and gripped for a proper appraisal.

— How many push-ups can you do?

— Twenty-five.

— Only twenty-five?

— I think so.

— For a boy like you, anything less than fifty is a disgrace. He climbed off the bed and kneeled on the floor. He patted a spot beside him.

— Come on, come on.

When I hesitated his hand shot up and seized me by my new Polo shirt. I felt the fabric tear and heard two buttons strike the floor.

— Let’s go. You and me. Fifty push-ups.

At first I managed to keep up with him, but after a while he began to race ahead. I strained not to fall behind, afraid of what he might do to me. But he continued to do the exercise, counting to himself, not minding me at all. When he finished I finished as well.

— See, it feels good.

I nodded my head in agreement.

Sergei looked over at my alarm clock. It read past ten.

— Look at how late it is. Shouldn’t you be asleep?

— It’s okay. Sometimes I stay up until eleven.

— When you were in Riga it was nine o’clock sharp. You remember how you liked it when I used to put you to sleep?

— I remember.

— It wasn’t so long ago.

— No.

— Come on, into bed.

— It’s okay. I don’t really have to.

— Into bed. Into bed.

His tone left no room for negotiation. I kicked off my shoes and lifted the covers.

— Good.

Sergei knelt down beside my bed and gripped the wooden frame.

— Comfortable?

— Yes.

His face straining, he used his legs and rose from the floor; my bed resisting, scratching the wall, but leaving the ground. At first the bed tottered and I gripped the sides, but then he steadied it. Smiling triumphantly, he looked at me. I heard the door opening behind him. I recognized my father’s footsteps. Then other footsteps. My mother’s. Gregory’s.

— Nu, boy, tell me. Who is the world’s strongest man?

Looking past Sergei at my father, I waited to see if he was going to do something. My mother started to take a step forward but my father restrained her.

— Nu, boy? Who is the world’s strongest man?

— Seryozha. Seryozha Federenko.

— Wrong, boy. That was yesterday’s answer.

He laughed and turned to face Gregory.

— Isn’t that right Gregory Davidovich?

— Put him down, you idiot.

Seryozha emitted something that was a cross between a cough and a laugh. He carefully eased my bed to the ground and proceeded to slump down on the floor. Gregory and my father both moved to help him up, but as Gregory reached for his arm Sergei violently slapped it aside.

— You bastard, don’t you dare put a hand on me.

Gregory stepped back. My father carefully took hold of Sergei’s armpits and helped him up. Without protesting, Sergei put his arms across my father’s shoulders.

— Roman, you were the only one who gave a shit about me, and we will never see each other again.

With faltering steps, my father supported Sergei into the hall. I got out of my bed and stood in my doorway. Gregory followed my father and Sergei into the hall and toward the front door. My mother came over and stood with me.

My father offered to drive or call them a cab.

Gregory shook his head and smiled the familiar Soviet smile.

— What for? Have you forgotten? There is always a car waiting downstairs.

Still holding on to my father, Sergei permitted himself to be led down the hall and into the elevator. Gregory said goodbye to my mother as she closed the door behind him. I went to my bedroom window and waited. Below, in the parking lot, I saw a man smoking beside a dark sedan. In slightly more than the amount of time it took for the elevator to descend to the lobby, my father appeared in the parking lot with Sergei clinging to his shoulders. Gregory followed. The man opened the rear door and my father eased Sergei into the car. I watched as my father shook hands with Gregory and with the man. As my father turned back in the direction of our building the man opened the driver’s-side door. For an instant, the light from the car’s interior was sufficient to illuminate his swollen face.

ON THE RAILWAY PLATFORM in Vienna, my mother and aunt forbade my cousin and me from saying goodbye to our grandparents. Through the window of the compartment we watched as they disembarked from the train and followed an Israeli agent onto a waiting bus. The bus was bound for the airport, where an El Al plane was waiting. We were bound for somewhere else. Where exactly we didn’t know — Australia, America, Canada — but someplace that was not Israel. As my mother, aunt, cousin, and I wept, my father and uncle kept an eye out for Israeli agents. These agents were known to inspect compartments. Any indication that we had close relatives on the buses would bring questions: Why were we separating the family? Why were we rejecting our Israeli visas? Why were we so ungrateful to the State of Israel, which had, after all, provided us with the means to escape the Soviet Union?

The answer to these questions, for my father and uncle, was 150 million angry Arabs.

For my grandfather, a lifelong Zionist, this was no answer. Back in Riga, packing our bags, he had decided that he would not go chasing us around the globe. At least in Israel he knew there would be a roof over his head. And at least in Israel, surrounded by 150 million angry Arabs, he would have no trouble identifying the enemy.