David Bezmozgis - The Free World

So now I have three names. The plain one, Brigitte, and Naomi. Can you believe that an ordinary girl like me should have so many identities? You’d think I was Mata Hari .

I’ve come to feel more and more at home with these new friends, and with our mailman in particular. It certainly wasn’t what either of us intended to happen. In almost every way, it’s inconvenient, if not completely absurd. But I think he’s witty and sympathetic and resilient. And he says I’m the only free spirit in Riga. So, for the time being, we’re proceeding as if everything were normal.

This past month we’ve spent a lot of time together. I’ve kept this from Mama and Papa because I know that they would strongly disapprove. Our apartment is still gloomy, like the bottom of a lake, and we drift through the rooms silently, like eels. I am trying not to contribute to the gloom.

I know that I won’t be able to keep this up indefinitely. You probably find this hard to believe, but I’ve been very careful. I’ve avoided going places where we might be seen. Only yesterday, people went to the Riga synagogue to dance and drink in honor of Simchas Torah. I thought better of it. Our mailman went. (I should give him a name. I’ll call him Alain. After Alain Delon.) He said that he’d seen you there two years ago with Igor. You never told me. I didn’t know you’d been so daring. What other secrets have you kept from me?

Do you recall how many people were at the synagogue two years ago? Alain says that most of them are gone. Alain and I have talked a little about what we might do if he were to get his permission to go. What do you think about it?

(Funny how it’s Jewish women who are called “vehicles,” when, with us, it’s the men who provide the passage.)

Over the course of her brief stay in Rome, Masha had strayed from the pensione only a handful of times: twice to appear at the offices of HIAS; once for a disheartening interview at the U.S. embassy; and once to make some purchases at the round market in Piazza Vittorio. All of those times, she’d been under the supervision of her mother and brother. Consequently, she never got to see anything.

It was only because of her mother’s trust in Alec that she had allowed Masha to take the train by herself from Ladispoli. Alec met her on the platform at Termini and led her down into the metro. They rode four stops to Flaminio and emerged at the gates of Piazza del Popolo. Traffic on the avenue that circumscribed the ancient walls had ground nearly to a halt. It was a Sunday, and a great number of people were gathered in the square. Alec saw nuns in full habit scampering down from the plinth of the Egyptian obelisk.

The warm November sun was directly overhead, and the obelisk cast only a thin rim of shadow. A crowd streamed down Via del Corso, where it formed something of a procession.

— What’s all this? Masha asked.

From the little he overheard, Alec gathered that they had just missed seeing the new Polish pope. Only a few weeks into his papacy, he’d caused a sensation by going out among his parishioners on Sundays. The newspapers reported an epidemic of swooning nuns.

With the city before them, Alec asked Masha what she’d like to see.

— Show me what you think I’d like to see.

— It’s a big city, Alec said.

— If you know me at all, you’ll know where to take me.

Alec steered Masha away from the Catholic faithful and onto Via del Babuino, which ran like a spur directly to Piazza di Spagna and its famed steps — where one could see the city’s birds in all their plumage: wily immigrants peddling their souvenirs and tchotchkes; American tourists, with the movements and features of overgrown babies; long-haired bohemian kids, their limbs casually intertwined, treating the steps like a huge communal bed; pious middle-European pilgrims, resting between epiphanies; and snooty Roman socialites returning from the elegant shops on Via Condotti. Alec proceeded past the window displays of the famous fashion houses, the Versaces and the Guccis. From Via Condotti through a series of tributary streets, they emerged in front of that great wedding cake ornament, the Trevi Fountain. After four-plus months in Rome, Alec’s knowledge of the city inhered in him physically, like sense memory. He knew his way around just as he knew how to ride a bicycle or dribble a soccer ball. He looked to Masha to see if she was impressed.

With a note of petulance, Masha said, Is this all you wanted to show me?

— There’s more, of course, Alec said, his tone upbeat. Not two minutes away is the Pantheon, with its perfect round blowhole; and not five minutes from that is Campo dei Fiori, where there is a statue of a monk whom the Church burned at the stake.

Masha’s expression didn’t brighten.

Alec went on: On the Corso, there’s a large shopping center, unlike anything we had in the Soviet Union. And set off, practically on its own, is the Colosseum, where the gladiators fought and the emperors sent Christians to be devoured by lions. The stands remain. You can sit right where Caesar sat two thousand years ago.

Alec couldn’t tell if Masha was genuinely peeved, or if this was just part of a game. But, glumly, she said, If that’s all, then I guess you don’t really know me.

They made one or two more circuits like this before Masha finally unburdened herself.

What she really wanted to see was where Alec went when he left her in Ladispoli. She wanted to see the square, the building, the very window that faced the street. She wanted to see more still — the apartment itself, and the bedroom, and the bed. But that exceeded even what Alec was willing to do.

It seemed reckless to show her where he lived and Alec knew that he would only be indulging a childish need in her. But then, his address wasn’t classified. If she wanted to find him badly enough, she could. So better show her himself — and get the surge of tempting fate.

Through the ghetto and over the bridge they went. Past the pharmacy and the hospital on Isola Tiberina and across the second bridge to Trastevere. Alec steered Masha to the intersection of Via Anicia and Via dei Salumi, from where it was possible to see the building, its front door, and Lyova’s window. Alec regarded Masha as she gazed up at the window and the apartment. No movement could be seen through the window. Lyova had, that morning, gone again to plead his case at the American embassy. Just to keep in practice, he’d said. Polina was at her job.

They stood there for some time, with Masha looking fixedly at the apartment house. At last, she relaxed and leaned against Alec.

— Well, now you’ve seen the palace, Alec said.

— Don’t mock me, Masha replied in an injured tone.

— I’m not mocking, Alec said. It’s a building like any other.

— No it isn’t, Masha said. But I don’t expect you to understand.

— What should I understand? Alec said.

— That I can’t feel close to you if I don’t even know where you live.

— All right, Alec said. So you know. — Yes, Masha said. — Are you happy now? Alec asked.

— Yes, Masha said, and slid her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

Just south of Verona, on his most recent tour of northern Italy, Lyova had been involved in a car accident. Two women inside his van had started quarreling and Lyova had momentarily taken his eyes off the road. When he looked back, the rear of a bus loomed massively before him. To avoid the bus, he swerved to his right and collided with a Fiat. He sheared off the Fiat’s side mirror and dented the driver’s door. It had cost him a week’s wages — one hundred thirty mila lira — to settle with the Fiat’s owner and thus avoid police involvement. His own van had fared little better than the Fiat.