David Bezmozgis - The Free World

Ordinarily, Lyova would have fumed over the accident and the lost wages, but upon his return he’d heard some news that had lifted his spirits. Through a diplomat at the American embassy he’d been made aware of some new legislation before the U.S. Congress. The loosening of strictures that related to his case.

It didn’t exactly mean he could start packing his bags, but it provided a reason for optimism. In the near term he would still have to keep earning money. The more the better. And for this, he needed to repair his Volkswagen, which had sustained superficial body damage, but also structural damage to the wheel well. Bent metal brushed against the driveshaft and caused a grinding sound.

At higher speeds, the grinding became more of a high-pitched squeal, and this is what Alec heard as he and Lyova drove the highway from Rome to Ladispoli. To help Lyova, Alec had proposed a visit to the body shop that Karl either owned, had a partial stake in, or managed — Alec didn’t pretend to know the intricacies of the arrangement.

To find the body shop, they first stopped by his parents’ house. Emma answered the door, a wooden spoon in her hand. A faint crackle of frying oil, and the associated smells of eggs, onions, and sausage, wafted over from the kitchen. It was eleven in the morning.

Alec said, Breakfast?

— For Papa, Emma replied. And added in a conspiratorial whisper, He’s been sleeping late.

They followed Emma into the kitchen, where Samuil sat alone at the table. Rosa had taken the boys to the apartment of an acquaintance, where they could play with other children. Karl had left, customarily, at dawn. She’d stayed behind to attend to Samuil — he was alone so much of the time as it was. She didn’t like the idea of him preparing his own meals and eating by himself.

Samuil eyed first Lyova, then Alec, and asked, Official HIAS business?

Emma said from behind the stove, where she transferred the omelet from the pan to a plate — We have plenty of food. Syoma, invite them to sit.

Alec watched his father raise an unenthusiastic eyebrow.

— If you’re going to eat, you might as well sit, Samuil said.

— He doesn’t mean to be impolite, Emma said, mostly to Lyova.

— Not at all, Lyova said. I’m grateful for the hospitality. And inhaling the aroma from the steaming plate, he asked, Are those veal sausages?

— They are, Emma said proudly.

With a butter knife, she divided the omelet into three sections.

She distributed the food and turned back to the stove. Alec watched his father poke absently at his eggs.

— I’ll cook up some more, Emma said. It won’t take five minutes.

— It’s hard to find veal sausages here, Lyova said. Mostly, they sell pork.

— Rosa, our daughter-in-law, has become very close with the rabbi and with the rabbi’s wife, Emma said. I go with her to classes on Jewish subjects. The rabbi’s wife teaches us what is the right way. It’s harder, of course, and you have to make an effort. But we do it. We have almost no pork in the house.

— I applaud your efforts, Lyova said, and dug into his omelet. I’m not religious, but I appreciate variety. In Jerusalem, for example, it is the other way around. There, it is nearly impossible to find a piece of pork. The religious Jews don’t eat it, and neither do the Arabs. It’s the one thing they can agree on. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to make it the basis for peaceful coexistence.

— You lived in Israel? Samuil inquired, exhibiting his first mild interest in his guest.

— Syoma, Emma said, he’s the one who shares the apartment with Alec and Polina. I’ve spoken to you about him.

Samuil cast her a disparaging look that implied that he couldn’t be expected to account for every piece of flotsam.

— I lived there for five years, Lyova said. Near Tel Aviv.

— And no longer? Samuil said.

— No longer, Lyova said. I’m a serial dissident. A rootless cosmopolitan, as they used to say. A “seeker of happiness,” Lyova added, citing the title of the classic Birobidzhan propaganda film.

Samuil wasn’t amused.

— I’ve heard of people like you, Samuil said. I’ve also heard of others who, having quaffed the Israeli waters, developed a thirst for home.

— There are those, too. Some unfortunates couldn’t adapt, others were merely dopes, and a few were KGB plants, sent abroad to serve as object lessons for the benefit of the press.

— KGB plants? Samuil scoffed. According to whom?

— Lyova imagines KGB agents everywhere, Alec volunteered cheerfully.

— Naturally, Lyova said. I lived in the Soviet Union with my eyes open. I was an officer in the army, a tankist who rolled into Czechoslovakia in August of 1968. I have a healthy appreciation for Soviet power. What I’m saying is realpolitik, not criticism. In the history of the world, was there ever a nation that thrived without spies?

— They didn’t need to plant you, though, did they? Samuil countered.

— I suppose I wouldn’t admit it if they had, Lyova said and grinned.

— Now there’s an idea that never occurred to me, Alec mused.

— Everything is a big comic revue for my son, you see, Samuil pronounced, but let me ask you a foolish question. If you had to return to one or the other place, which would it be?

Lyova surprised Alec by appearing to seriously contemplate the question.

— No, it’s a good question, Lyova conceded. I think about it often, but nobody has ever asked me. When I go out with my placard to attend protests and I speak with journalists, they — depending on their politics — want to know either why I left Israel or why I will not return there. Even the Communists don’t imagine that a person would trade life in the West for life in the Soviet Union. Other than Christina Onassis, who could afford to? This is why her story made headlines. It wasn’t that the world’s wealthiest woman had renounced her fortune and had thrown her lot in with the citizens of the workers’ paradise. She renounced nothing. She kept her millions. That was the point: she proved what most people already suspected, that only a multimillionairess could afford the luxury of living in the workers’ paradise. The average person knew that he could no more afford to move to the Soviet Union than he could afford a private jet. The only exception to this mind-set is that of the former Soviet citizen. Only the former Soviet citizen, dazed and pummeled by emigration, could yearn for home and imagine a better life in the Soviet Union. Did I have these thoughts? I did and I do. Do I have similar thoughts about Israel? Yes. But don’t we all have our pathological thoughts? Rapists and murderers also have pathological thoughts. So what separates a rapist from a normal person? The rapist submits to his pathological thoughts, and the normal person resists them. To return to Israel is, for me, pathological, and to return to Kishinev, also pathological. Which is worse? How to answer such a question? Which is worse: rape or murder? To a normal person, neither is acceptable. So that’s all. Zehu, as they say in Hebrew.

Alec watched his father for a reaction. He’d heard Lyova expound like this before, many times, and had found it entertaining. Samuil said nothing, and instead looked at Lyova as if from the seat of an intellectual throne. When he finally deigned to speak, he said, with a mixture of pity and reproach, What you are looking for doesn’t exist, and you’re not going to find it.

Taking no offense, Lyova said, That may be so. Then again, I’m not looking for perfection. So far I’ve been a citizen of two utopias. Now I have modest expectations. Basically, I want the country with the fewest parades.