David Bezmozgis - The Free World

When Raj Kapoor performed the film’s signature song, “A Tramp, I Am,” Alec’s hand gained Olya’s breast. As Kapoor sang, Alec felt for the first time a nipple, like an independent living thing, grow rigid under his touch. This was part of the great tantalizing secret guarded by the adult world. It was the forbidden thing paraded around in plain sight. Parents or teachers would describe the function of a locomotive, a diode, or a molecule, but wouldn’t say a word about what was going on between everyone’s legs. This knowledge you had to acquire on your own. Often as not, in the dark — possibly even while an Indian actress executed a bizarre, jerky, melodramatic dance around the mast of a sailboat. I wish the moon would look away / while I make love to him, Nargis sang, which Alec took as encouragement to allow his hand to explore further, drifting down to Olya’s thigh. Once there, he became indecisive, unsure if he could proceed. But then, with her own hand, Olya reached down and guided Alec through a gap in the fabric and onto the warm, faintly moist cotton of her underpants. She raised the elastic where it hugged her thigh, drew Alec’s hand into the opening she’d created, and left him there to make sense of the soft, mossy, alien landscape.

When the film was over, they walked together back to Olya’s building. Hours had passed and the streets had assumed their evening character. As before, Olya held Alec’s hand and rattled on about the movie as if nothing more had happened. In her courtyard, she went directly to the spot where she’d stashed Alec’s bicycle and wheeled it out for him. Alec kept waiting for her to acknowledge what had transpired between them, to utter some pledge or promise of a future meeting. But she gave not the slightest indication that this was on her mind, and instead made Alec wonder if she’d been in some kind of trance during the movie and couldn’t remember what she’d allowed him to do. The thought that he might never be able to touch Olya again sickened and astonished him. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t stop himself from offering to return the following Sunday to see the movie a second time.

— Sorry, Olya said, today was the last day. Tomorrow they start The Cranes Are Flying.

And that was it. Olya went into her building and Alec cycled home in a state of anguish and reverie — the paramour’s companion feelings. When he came home, he sensed that he was no longer the same person. Climbing the stairs to his apartment, he felt imbued with a new knowledge. And as he readied himself for the inevitable beating from Samuil, he consoled himself with the thought that no amount of beating could revoke what he’d learned or undo what he’d done.

My dearest Brigitte,

It was wonderful to get your letter and to hear your voice again, if only on the page.

It’s strange that you would have seen Maxim on that day, though not so strange to hear that he’s looking well. Perhaps he’s found a new woman to take care of him, someone more suitable than I was. I’m sure there’s more than one who would leap at the chance for the apartment alone.

Here, we continue to wait for our interview with the Canadian embassy. Everyone we’ve spoken to says that we should expect to spend the fall and winter in Italy. And maybe even the spring. I know that this doesn’t sound like a horrible predicament to be in, and yet I still haven’t quite adjusted to the idea. There had been uncertainty every step of the way getting to Rome, and I’d somehow expected that once we got here everything would be made clear. In any case, there’s nothing we can do but wait, and, as everyone tells me (including you), make the most of it.

You’d be surprised how I’ve made the most of it so far. For five consecutive Sundays, Igor and I went to the Americana to try to sell all the ridiculous things we’d brought with us. I’ve managed to sell nearly everything we brought, including a few things for other people — apparently, I’d developed a reputation. Now that everything has been sold, I have gone looking for other work. Igor told me that I didn’t need to, in fact, he encouraged me not to. He thought I should just be a woman of leisure, a tourist in Rome. He says that we can survive perfectly well on the money we get from the Jewish Agency and from his job at HIAS.

For one week, I tried, but I just don’t have the right constitution for it. I went to beautiful tourist attractions and felt strangely out of place. I felt like a solitary person in a crowd. For the week that I was supposed to be a woman of leisure, I just wandered around the city feeling idle and aimless. I told Igor that he needed to recognize that he’d married an incorrigible proletarian.

So, in short, I went looking for a job. Many Russians work here. Men like Igor, who speak English, get jobs with the Jewish agencies. Men who don’t speak English sometimes get work at construction sites. Others, like our roommate, give tours of Italy to émigrés. There are cultured women who take émigrés through museums and galleries in Rome. And there are also Italian shopkeepers who hire Russian girls to cater to their Russian clientele. The day before yesterday, Lyova introduced me and Igor to a shopkeeper he knows in Piazza Vittorio.

We went at the end of the day, as the market was closing. I was nervous, as you can imagine. Igor and I had made plans to meet Lyova in the Park Borghese and we waited for a half hour for him to show up. The Park Borghese is very big and we thought maybe he’d gotten lost, or that we were waiting for him in the wrong place. But just when I really started to despair, I spotted him from a distance, jogging toward us with a picket sign. He was coming from the Israeli embassy, where he and four or five others occasionally stage protests. In Hebrew, Italian, and English his sign read: “Israel, Let Your People Go!” Igor contended that the English had a grammatical error.

The two of them alternated carrying this sign from the Park Borghese to Piazza Vittorio. It isn’t a short walk and it leads through the middle of the city. I think people took us for avantgarde street performers.

The shopkeeper Lyova introduced me to is named Giovanni. He is probably in his fifties. His wife works with him. We were only able to exchange a few words, but they seemed like warm people. They sell leather goods for women and men — shoes and coats and even skirts. They’d hired a Russian woman once before, and Lyova has dealt with them and he says they are fair. Their shop is small and the salary they offered is modest, but I will get to keep a percentage of my sales. Honestly, I don’t anticipate that I’ll make much money. And Igor still believes that I’m foolish to take the job: Why would I choose to spend my days surrounded by cowhide when all the splendors of Rome are spread out before me? But it’s hard to explain to him that I miss order and I miss routine. For that I am prepared to forgo splendors. When Giovanni offered me the job I was so happy and grateful and relieved that I nearly gushed like a little girl. All I could think was that now when I woke up I would have someplace to go.

Tomorrow will be my first day. Wish me luck! I will work in the afternoons on the days I have my English classes, and on the days when I don’t have classes I will work a full shift.

And, by the way, since I know you’re wondering, the things that Igor disparaged as cowhide are actually quite stylish. It is customary, Lyova says, for employees to be given a discount. So, if nothing else, I might be able to pick up something nice for myself — and maybe even for you.