David Bezmozgis - The Free World

— Buonasera, Alec said, consulting a slip of paper on which he had copied out words from a phrasebook.

— Buonasera, the man said.

— Luigi? Alec inquired.

— Si, sono Luigi.

— Appartamento, Alec began, and then attempted to string his words together.

The man listened to him for a few moments before he interrupted, chattered very quickly in Italian, and then fell silent. Disoriented and intimidated, Alec stared at the telephone booth’s scarred wooden panel. Gathering himself, he tried again. A-ppar-ta-men-to. There was another pause, after which the man laughed. His laughter was ringing and hysterical, as if Alec had just told him the greatest joke. Still laughing, the man said, in what Alec was almost certain was a mocking tone, Appartamento?

— Si, appartamento, Alec said, now angry and humiliated.

— What kind of apartment are you looking for? the man asked, this time in fluent Russian.

Only seconds earlier, Alec had wanted nothing other than for the man to miraculously speak Russian, but now that he had, Alec had to restrain himself from hanging up in fury.

— I was calling for Luigi, Alec said.

— I’m Luigi, the man said.

— You’re Luigi? Alec asked.

— In Kishinev I was Lyova. In Netanya I was Arieh. Here I’m Luigi.

— And you have an apartment, Luigi?

— Si, the man said, and laughed again.

— Listen, just because I’m desperate for a place doesn’t mean I’ll deal with any lunatic, Alec said.

— Take it easy, Lyova-Luigi said. It’s a miserable world. Can’t a man amuse himself?

The price Lyova-Luigi quoted was almost reasonable and, speaking in the Soviet conspiratorial tone, he suggested they could possibly negotiate once they met in person. Alec considered this sufficient to propel him and Polina through the labyrinth of Rome. Wide, reassuring boulevards gave way to serpentine streets that seemed to double back on themselves or to terminate at the steps of gloomy churches. Sometimes teeming streets led to teeming squares, other times to courtyards occupied only by laundry and flower boxes. Often Alec suspected that a tiny street they had accidentally stumbled upon was a shortcut known only to locals, though, his being lost, the discovery was naturally of no use. Different blocks bore the marks of different centuries. Neighborhoods changed, but he could not interpret the changes. He could not have said with any conviction what kind of people lived where, or when a place should be visited or avoided.

Eventually they came to the river and crossed a bridge to the opposite bank. More stumbling and they began to see the names of streets Lyova-Luigi had mentioned. Trastevere, what the neighborhood was called, bore a distinct resemblance to Old Riga: dignified and ramshackle; three-story buildings; medieval streets, narrow and constricted, conducive to the spread of plague.

On Via Salumi they found the designated house: green shutters and a tangerine, peeling stucco exterior. Beside the frame of a wooden door, built to withstand marauders, was a line of buzzers. Alec depressed the little black nipple on the uppermost buzzer and then, through the door, heard the bolt and hinges of another door opening above and within, and then rapid footfalls beating the rhythm of staircase, landing, staircase, landing, staircase, landing. The door was pulled open; Lyova-Luigi stood before them and extended a long freckled hand.

— Lyova, he said. Welcome.

He was at least a head taller than Alec. His red hair and sideburns were chaos. His features were a series of conflicting planes: sharp, skeletal cheekbones; his nose a high, thin ridge; an Adam’s apple that was like a second nose in his neck. He wore steel, largeframed eyeglasses that magnified his blue eyes and their pink rims. When he spoke or smiled he exposed long teeth and the flesh of his upper gums. He was the kind of ugly man women found attractive. Alec had often seen very beautiful women clinging to men like Lyova. Speaking as if under the influence of some narcotic, women described these men as “interesting.” What the women meant was that they had faces that made you want to keep looking — which, for all practical purposes, was the same as handsome.

Alec and Polina followed him up the marble steps. On the third floor they went through the door which Lyova had left ajar. From the entrance, and to their right, they could see one large room that had been divided in half by a brocade curtain of green leaves on a black background. The far half of the room had windows, a single bed, an armoire, and a small television; the near half had a simple walnut table, four chairs, and a bookshelf with books and a telephone. To their left was a small kitchen, a door to the bathroom, and a third door, which was closed. Lyova walked ahead and opened it to reveal a larger bed with a headboard, a window, and a closet.

— I sleep here, Lyova said, and indicated the single bed behind the curtain. The other room would be yours. The table, the kitchen, and the washroom are shared. As you can see, it is clean. Everything works.

With a chivalrous gesture, Lyova invited Polina to inspect the place.

— Open anything you like, Lyova said.

When Alec didn’t give any sign to the contrary, Polina stepped into the kitchen and glanced at the cupboards and the stove.

— Where are you from? Lyova asked.

— Riga, Alec said.

— And where are you going?

— We’re still deciding, Alec said, and offered a summary of their recent reversal.

— It’s difficult to travel with a large Jewish family, Lyova said. Too many opinions. Like the joke about the couple that has sex on the street in Israel. Everyone who passes by tells them they’re doing it wrong.

— And what about you? Alec asked.

— Me? Lyova said.

— Where are you going?

Lyova raised his palms and exhaled contempt mixed with resignation mixed with despair.

— You’ve heard of Prisoners of Zion? Jews punished for Zionism? I’m the other kind of Prisoner of Zion. No country will take me. I lived in Israel, so I’m no longer a refugee. There is only one option: back to Israel.

— How long have you been here?

— Fifteen months.

— You won’t go back?

— I haven’t yet given up on the idea that I’m a free man in the free world. I lived in Israel. I worked. I paid taxes. I served in the army. I repaid my debt. Now I’d like to try somewhere else. Why not?

Polina moved from the kitchen to the bathroom. From the doorway, she peered into the bedroom.

— What do you think? Lyova asked.

— It’s fine, Polina said.

— You haven’t seen anything else yet, right? Lyova said. I understand, you have nothing to compare it to. But let me say, you won’t find a better arrangement in Rome. Within walking distance are cathedrals, parks, monuments, galleries. Also the Porta Portese, the Americana market. I never have trouble renting the space. Normally, tenants leave, I know in advance and the day they leave I have already replaced them. This time, I was giving a tour of Florence, Venice, and Milan, and so the place has been vacant three days. But already I have had seven calls. I try to be selective. I live here, after all, when I am not giving tours. Generally, I can spot an honest face. Your wife, for instance, has an honest face.

— I’ve always felt that, Alec said.

— About you I’m not so sure, Lyova said and smiled.

— She will vouch for me, Alec said.

— In that case, Lyova said.

My dear Brigitte,

I hope you received my last letters. I sent two from Vienna. I send this one from Rome. I am writing it at the table of our new apartment. When I look out the window I have a view of the street. Actually, it is a view across the street of another building. I can see into the window of an apartment where a bald Italian man is reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee. Not very exciting, I suppose. I realize I could have looked out the window and seen essentially the same thing in Riga, and it certainly wouldn’t have interested me or seemed like the sort of thing to include in a letter. But already I’ve looked up half a dozen times to see what he is doing. He’s caught me looking twice and smiled. He may think I’m in love with him, or he may be used to this sort of thing. The apartment that we’re living in has been rented by a continuous stream of émigrés. There must be different Russians staring at him each month. In New York and Melbourne and Miami there are people from Leningrad and Baku and Kiev whose memories of Rome include this man drinking coffee. Now mine will too. Wherever I end up.