David Bezmozgis - Natasha and Other Stories

That night my uncle, Zina, and Natasha slept at our house. Natasha in the guest room, Zina on the downstairs couch, and my uncle on the floor beside her. Zina refused to leave the house without Natasha and Natasha refused to leave with Zina. I was relegated to my basement. In the morning Natasha had indeed calmed down and she agreed to return home with Zina and my uncle. Forgoing breakfast, the three of them walked out the door neither looking at or touching one another. As we watched them go my mother announced that she had now seen enough craziness to last a lifetime. Whatever the truth, she knew one thing for certain: Natasha and I were kaput.

The following day, after hours of waiting, I left the house and headed for Rufus’s. Books, bong, television; no distraction could eclipse the greater distraction of Natasha’s absence. I was alone in my basement, she was up eleven floors with Zina — I couldn’t understand why she didn’t come. Our afternoons could still be ours. My mother’s proscription didn’t have to be obeyed between nine and five. Had the situation been reversed, I would not have disappointed her. Despite everything that had happened the previous night, I couldn’t see why anything needed to change. Clearly, judging from the teeth marks on Zina’s hand, Natasha wasn’t Zina’s source of information. And even though Zina’s accusation happened to be more true than not, it appeared to be an unfortunate raving coincidence rather than something she could confirm. I didn’t see why I had to suffer because of a lunatic.

A pool company’s van was parked outside Rufus’s and I followed the sound of voices into the backyard. In the middle of the yard, Rufus stood with two men from the pool company. Guys in jeans and golf shirts with the pool company’s logo stitched on the breast pocket. The three were talking like old friends, each with a beer in hand, discussing the possible dimensions of a possible pool. Rufus invited me to contribute to the deliberations. If the price was right they could start digging tomorrow.

I had never known Rufus to be much of a swimmer; on nights when some of the other stoners and I would hop the fences of neighborhood pools, he rarely participated.

— Do you even swim?

— Berman, nobody swims in these things. They’re for floating. Fill them up with plastic inflatables and free-associate. Gentle swaying stimulates the brainpan.

I watched the pool guys pacing off most of his yard.

— Why not start with a hammock and work your way up?

— Sometimes I’m out here and I need to take a leak. But I don’t want to go inside. The weather’s nice. I want to stay out but I need to pee. Just for that the pool would be worth the investment.

— You could pee on the bushes.

— I’m a suburban homeowner, there’s a social contract. Pissing in the pool is fine but whipping out your dick and irrigating the shrubbery is bad news. It’s all about property value.

I settled back on Rufus’s deck and waited for the pool guys to leave. I had no deliveries to make that morning and I had neglected to bring along the books I was supposed to return to him. I was there without the veneer of pretext. After escorting the pool guys back to their van Rufus joined me on the deck.

— Where’s the girl?

— With her mother.

— I thought she hated her mother.

— She does.

— So what are you doing here? Go liberate her.

— It’s forbidden.

— You’re sixteen, everything is forbidden. The world expects you to disobey.

— I’ve been accused of unnatural acts.

— Society was founded on unnatural acts. Read the Bible. You start with Adam and Eve, after that if somebody doesn’t boink a sibling it’s end of story.

— You mind if I use that argument with my mother?

Rufus got up and looked out across his yard.

— What do you think about a hot tub?

— Instead of the pool?

— With the pool. Do everything in mosaic tile. Give it a real Greek feel. Put up some Doric columns. Get a little fountain. Eat grapes. Play Socrates.

He descended from the deck and walked to the corner of his yard and struck a pose that was either Socrates or the fountain. Our conversation was over.

From Rufus’s I walked to my uncle’s building and lurked until an old man was buzzed in by another old man. Romeo climbed a trellis, so I took the stairs. Eleven flights later I was in the hallway, passing the smells of other apartments. With one or two exceptions all the doorposts had mezuzahs, just like the hallways above and below. Everyone conveniently assembled for UJA solicitors and neo-Nazis.

I knocked and Zina opened the door. She was wearing the same blue housedress. She blocked the doorway so that it was hard to see beyond her into the apartment. At first she said nothing. I had prepared myself for the worst, but she seemed pleased to see me.

— I wanted to apologize to you myself. I don’t blame you for what happened. It wasn’t your fault. She has turned grown men inside out and you’re just a boy. It was crazy to expect anything else. I know how weak men are. I am to blame. The life in Russia was like a disease to children. Natasha is a very sick girl.

Behind Zina I noticed a movement. It was Natasha. I could see her over Zina’s shoulder. She stood at the far end of the apartment, leaning against the living room couch. When I caught her eyes they reflected nothing. They were no less remote than the first time I saw her at the airport. She continued looking in my direction, but I couldn’t discern if she was looking at me or the back of Zina’s head. Zina, sensing Natasha’s presence, turned to look at her daughter. When she looked back at me, her turning was a motion that included the closing of the door.

— It will be best for everybody if you didn’t see Natasha anymore.

Late that night, after a day spent missing Natasha, despairing over the black void that was the remainder of my summer and my life in general, Natasha knocked on my basement window. I woke up and cupped my hands against the glass to see out. By the sound of the knock I knew it was her. I looked out and saw her squatting like a Vietnamese peasant in front of the window. In the dark it was hard to see her face. Upstairs in the kitchen I opened the sliding glass door and went into the yard to join her. She was hugging her knees at the base of our pine tree; her suitcase, the same one I had seen at the airport, was lying on the grass beside her. When I got close enough I could see that she had been crying. I joined her on the grass. Already, after only one day apart and remembering the way she had looked at me over Zina’s shoulder, I didn’t feel as though I could touch her.

— You listened to her lies. Why did you listen to her lies?

— What was I supposed to do?

— You could have knocked her down. You could have broken down the door.

— And what then?

— I don’t know. Something. Something else would have happened. But you left me alone with her.

— You looked right at me. Why didn’t you say anything?

— But I already told you everything. You saw how she tried to ruin my life and your life and how she was killing your uncle. You knew all of this but you didn’t do anything. You’re like your uncle. You want people to make decisions for you.

Natasha picked at the grass. Tears welled up in her eyes. She let them fall. I got up and picked up her suitcase. It felt empty and weighed almost nothing. I made a move toward the house.

— What are you doing?

— Taking it inside.

— I can’t go inside. I can’t stay here. I have to leave.

— You have to leave tonight?

— Do you want to come with me?

— Where?

— Florida. One of the businessmen who came to the dacha lives there. He is very rich. He promised that if I ever came to Florida he would give me a job. He’ll give you one too.