David Bezmozgis - The Free World

In Vienna, Alec and Polina had had a tiny, but private, room. In Rome they had no such luck. Karl, Rosa, and the boys were given a room of their own but Alec and Polina were directed to share a room with Samuil and Emma on the fourth floor of the hotel. The elevator was either broken or off-limits, it wasn’t exactly clear which. On the ground floor, a sign composed in both Russian and Italian had been posted on the elevator doors. In one script was written, Elevator is not functioning, though in another script someone had scribbled the words “For Russians” before the word “Elevator.” To ensure that nobody misunderstood the prohibition, the hotel’s manager planted himself in front of the elevator doors. He was a grim little man, his face a mask of blunt suspicion. To Alec he seemed like a bad comic actor. The effect was reinforced by the man’s red hair, which he styled in a pompadour roughly the size and hue of a cheap fox fur hat. Who could get angry at an Italian gnome with a red pompadour? Alec mentioned this to a man who lurched past him, crippled by the bulk of two suitcases. The man hissed curses at the manager as he mounted the stairs.

— Swine. Son of a whore. — What’s the point? He’s a clown.

— How many floors do you have to climb?

— Four.

— So who’s the clown?

Theirs was one of the rooms not equipped with a toilet. A shared bathroom was down the hall. It served three other rooms, each occupied by four people. Karl, who helped Alec bring up their bags, recommended the use of their bathroom. It would demand climbing another flight of stairs, but at least they would not be hostage to the bowel and hygiene peculiarities of a dozen strangers.

When Karl returned to his room, Polina stated to Alec that she’d rather take her chances with strangers than ask Rosa’s permission every time she had to pee. From his parents’ half of the room there was silence. Alec didn’t need to look to confirm the magnitude of his father’s disapproval; he was an expert in the many tones of his father’s silences. He could have written a dissertation about them.

— We had it much worse during the evacuation, Emma said. People would have paid anything to have such a room for even one night.

Samuil remained silent. He refused to respond to Emma’s pacifying overture, even though the war was one of his favorite subjects.

— You know, I’ve thought about it, Emma said, and what is this except another evacuation? Emigration, evacuation; I don’t see such a difference. At least this time everyone is together.

— Think before you speak, Samuil said. In the war you ran from the enemy. Now who are you running from?

To Alec’s relief, this interlude of family harmony was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alec hopped over a suitcase, opened the door, and was greeted by the momentarily startled face of Iza Judo. Alec, whose own expression must have mirrored Iza’s, could not at that instant imagine a less likely visitor. He said the only thing that came to his mind.

— Iza, how did you know we were here?

Iza shrugged ambiguously.

— I heard, I guess.

Alec had never been so happy to see Iza Judo — hadn’t supposed that the sight of Iza Judo could bring him happiness. They had never been close friends. Sometimes they socialized in the same company. In the summers, they played soccer together on the beach in Jurmala. He’d never particularly liked Iza, preferring Iza’s brother, Syomka. The two were identical twins, although nobody would ever mistake one for the other. Iza had shaved his head when he enrolled in the Institute of Sport, where he specialized in judo. Syomka grew his hair long and studied engineering and languages to become a translator of technical literature.

Alec tried to think back to when he would have seen Iza Judo last. He remembered a small party at the dacha of a friend. There had been half a dozen men and four women. Alec and his friend had met two girls at a café and invited them back to the dacha. Iza had arrived later with other friends and two girls. One of the girls had been very drunk and she had wedged herself at the kitchen table with a guy named Robik. Robik presumably held something in a closed fist and the girl kept whining, incessantly and mind-numbingly, for him to show her what it was. Robik, show me. Come on, Robik, show me. Robik, show me. At the same time Iza had been trying to make headway with the other girl. The girl was slight and dark. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had an idea of herself. Part of this idea included the belief that she was too good for Iza Judo. She was also sober. When she was no longer willing to tolerate Iza she tried to leave. Iza blocked her way and then, somehow, managed to catch her head in the door. That nearly ruined the evening. The girl threatened to call the police, but eventually she calmed down, accepted a drink, and spent the night with Alec’s friend. Alec spent the night with the girl he met at the café. He no longer remembered her name. Mainly what he remembered was that as a child she had owned eleven pet bunnies. Even then, when he spoke of her, he referred to her as Eleven Bunnies.

Alec invited Iza in and cleared a place for him on the bed. Iza seemed to deliberate over the invitation. Hanging from his shoulder by a vinyl strap was a medium-size valise. Iza eyed this valise before he finally accepted the invitation and picked his way through the bags to take his seat.

— I wish we had something to offer you, Emma said. But as you can see …

— Don’t trouble yourself, Iza said.

— I’m surprised you’re still here, Alec said.

— Australia. Even the embassy is run by kangaroos. We’ve waited seven months.

— Before you left, Syomka mentioned an uncle in New Jersey.

— He lives in a home for geriatrics. We’ve never even seen a picture of him. If we’d gone to visit him and a nurse wheeled out the wrong old Yid we wouldn’t have known the difference.

— So why Australia?

— First, Syomka heard good things. Second, for America, they fly you out of Rome in about a month. But Syomka thought, We’re in Italy, what’s the hurry? So I thought, All right. New Jersey or Sydney: once we get there it will be all the same shit. Pardon my language, Emma Borisovna. And what about you?

— Chicago.

— You have relatives?

— My mother’s cousin from Vilnius, Alec said. They settled two years ago.

— Chicago’s a big city. I don’t know much about it. But people go there.

The conversation then hit an uncomfortable lull. Iza sat on the bed, at something of a loss. Alec kept expecting him to give some indication as to why he had come to see them, but Iza offered nothing and looked instead as if he was hoping that someone would explain the same thing to him. Eventually, Emma eased the awkwardness and asked Iza about his parents.

— Still there. My brother-in-law doesn’t want to leave. He’s the transport coordinator at the fruit and vegetable terminal. They live well. Everywhere he goes he carries a watermelon. My sister has the two kids. Our parents don’t want to leave without them. Me and Syomka, they’re happy to be rid of. They figure we’ll settle somewhere first and then it will be safer for the others to follow. We’re like the minesweepers.

— I’m sure that’s not what they think, Emma said.

— Maybe; maybe not. In any case, they didn’t want to be separated from the grandchildren. I don’t blame them.

— Of course not. A family should stay together, said Emma, intoning what had effectively become her anthem.

— And how do your parents feel about Australia? Samuil asked.

— They are getting used to the idea.