David Bezmozgis - The Free World

At this, Iza turned dramatically, a pained expression on his face, as if Alec had just uttered something petty and outlandish.

— What train? Iza said. Who said anything about a train? We do this and you go home in a taxi.

On the way to Ostia, Dmitri drove without uttering a syllable, the back of his neck a truculent pillar. Minka the thief gazed out the window and smoked indolently. Iza was the only one to do any talking. The other men’s silence did nothing to inhibit him. He was full of energy, twitchy and garrulous. As they jounced together in the back of the Fiat, Iza announced to Alec that his and Syomka’s documents had finally been approved for Australia. In six days, they would be on the plane to Melbourne.

— Eleven months of chasing my tail in Rome, Iza said, but that’s all over now. No more HIAS, no more Joint. No more groveling like a schlepper from one office to another begging for handouts. That’s it. We finally go and live like free men in a free country. Over there, you have money in your pocket, you do as you please. No more of this bullshit where some bureaucrat with a pike up his ass goes: Not for you; unavailable; off-limits; forbidden. Twenty-nine years of that was enough. I think about my mother, who nearly died giving birth to me and Syomka. Did she go through all that so we could live our lives like neutered dogs? You can be sure, I’m kissing all that shit goodbye. The glorious Soviet Union, the refugee caravan. Let me ask you, by the way, when you leave here, how many bags will you have?

— Leave Rome?

— That’s right.

— I couldn’t say.

— I’ve got none, Iza said. A round zero. You know why?

— Why? Alec obliged.

— Because there’s not three things worth keeping from the entire Soviet Union. And everything I bought in Italy is also crap. The only thing worth bringing from here is capital. Dollars. For which you don’t need a suitcase. So that’s what I’ll be leaving with. Capital and my Australian passport. And fuck everything else in the eye. You get what I mean? Iza asked.

— Sure, Alec said.

— That’s why I’m doing this deal. My last deal in Italy. A serious deal with real money on the table. Not like the Americana and the pensiones. That was crumbs; this is the loaf. I do the deal, I take my profit, and arrivederci Roma.

They drove west toward Ostia. Ahead of them, beyond the horizon, the orange sun eased itself gently into the sea. Everything went orange in the expiring light. Orange-hued cars barreled along the orange-hued Ostiense until Dmitri pulled up and veered off onto a side road. The road led to a paved parking lot, with posted signs from the tourist bureau and a ticket booth. But for their car, the lot was empty and the ticket booth closed.

— I thought we were going to Ostia, Alec said.

— We’re in Ostia, said Minka.

— Ostia Antica, Iza elaborated.

Dmitri turned off the ignition and got out of the car. Minka and Iza followed suit. Alec, observing the others, did the same. Dmitri went around to the rear of the Fiat and opened the trunk. He reached inside and retrieved two identical brown leather briefcases. He handed them to Minka and bent down to get two more. These he gave to Iza. He repeated the process once again and extended the next two briefcases to Alec. When Alec didn’t immediately reach for them, Dmitri snapped, What are you waiting for? We don’t have all night. Dmitri bent one last time into the trunk and collected the final two cases. He slammed the trunk closed and started in the direction of the ticket booth. Minka fell in step, and Iza followed only slightly behind. Alec picked up his pace and joined Iza.

They walked past the unattended ticket booth and along a dusty path that led to the entrance to the ruins of Ostia Antica. As they advanced, nobody spoke. They went with single-minded purpose past the jagged wrecks and orphaned columns. Dmitri led the way with practiced, confident strides. From the main road, he cut to the left and went through a complex of redbrick walls and stone foundations. Fragments of bricks and loose stones crunched underfoot. Lizards darted through the coarse grasses and scampered up the walls. Set into these walls were niches, meant for funerary urns.

Dmitri led them out of the necropolis, past a statue of a headless, armless man in a toga, and along a street of bleached stone ruins, with their exposed floors mutely resigned to the whims of sky. They passed an amphitheater, remarkably well preserved, with curved stone benches and, upon the stage, stone masks mounted atop marble columns — their petrified mouths laughing, leering, and grimacing.

Dmitri pressed ahead. The evening light began to fade. Alec thought for sure that in a matter of minutes they’d be stumbling around these ruins in the dark. So far as he knew, nobody had bothered to bring a flashlight. And he didn’t expect to find any in the briefcases. What there was in the briefcases, he could only speculate. His appeared to be packed tightly, with nothing shifting about. Both cases were of equal weight. They had a heft, a solidity. Alec guessed at something between books and cigar boxes. Though for such a caper, Alec presumed something more substantial. Swiss watches in velvet cases or stacks of dollar bills. The one thing he couldn’t understand, though, was his role. So far as he could see, he seemed to have been brought along because they needed another pair of arms.

Following after Dmitri, it seemed to Alec like they covered the entire length of Ostia Antica, passing through all manner of squares, temples, and interchangeable ruins. But Dmitri kept going, leading them beyond the heart of the settlement, through a field, and toward the lights and sounds of an adjacent road. He finally came to a stop not far from a fence that separated the ancient site from the intermittent traffic. Where he stopped, there was one last ruin, not unlike the others — collapsed walls, jutting columns — only it was essentially isolated, set apart.

The headlights of passing cars flashed between the pillars. Silhouetted in the headlights, Alec saw the form of a large fat man. The man came toward them and, in a booming, gregarious voice, greeted them in Italian. At his side was a second man. Backlit, their faces were obscure, but as they drew near Alec was able to identify them. The larger man was Angelo, owner of the garage, and the smaller one was the Italian kid who’d been playing ball outside the garage when he and Lyova had first pulled up.

As Angelo approached, Dmitri set his cases on the ground and shook hands with the Italian. Angelo, looking jovial, grinned broadly at everyone.

—È un piacere vedere tutti i miei amici Russi, he said.

Dmitri, not one to accommodate to social graces, kept his face blank, but Alec saw that Minka and Iza Judo bared their teeth and made obliging noises.

— Where’s Karl? Alec asked.

— Looks like he’s not here, Dmitri said.

— Looks like, Alec said. Is he coming?

— How should I know? Dmitri said.

— Iza said he’d be here. That’s why I came.

— Looks like Iza was mistaken, Dmitri said. Karl’s not here. And you are. Looks like that’s the way things stand.

— Cosa c’è? Angelo inquired.

— Cerca Karl. Ma Karl non c’è, Dmitri replied.

— Ho capito, Angelo said, and smiled at Alec. Certamente, è normale che vorresti tuo fratello. Tu gli vuoi bene. Anch’io gli voglio bene. Karl è bravo. Molto bravo. Ma Karl non può essere dappertutto.

— What did he say? Alec asked.

— He said what I said. Karl’s not here.

— That’s all he said?

— What’s with you? Dmitri snapped. Karl’s not here. You see that. I see that. Everybody sees that. So why are we still talking about it? What are you so worried about?