David Bezmozgis - The Free World

Around midday, Alec opened his eyes. At first he felt immobile, as if he had been buried in sand. He turned his head and saw Polina’s indented pillow. The left side of his face ached. The ache had dimension and shape and it extended beyond the familiar plane of his face.

He willed himself out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The cold floor under his feet sobered him. Each step brought him closer to lucidity, until he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at his reflection — which dispelled any lingering doubts. He saw the bulbous purple swelling and the white plaster from which two sutures peeked out like insect legs. His face looked so gruesome and garish that the only reasonable response was to laugh. Alec stood in the bathroom and laughed, and a lunatic laughed back at him.

He dressed and went into the common room, where he found Lyova at the dining table sifting through a stack of documents. There were coffee cups on the table along with juice, bread, vegetables, cheese, and salami. Alec saw no sign of Polina.

— Have a seat, Chapayev. Your wife left you breakfast, Lyova said.

— Where did she go?

— To send a telegram to her sister.

Alec made himself a sandwich, and chewed delicately.

— She waited for you to wake up, but the telegram office was closing.

— I couldn’t go out like this anyway.

— Do you want to say what happened?

— I’d rather not.

— Whatever it is, is it finished?

— I think so.

They sat for a time without speaking. Alec nibbled his food and Lyova sorted his documents.

— Did I dream it, or did you say the Americans granted you a visa?

Lyova grinned and said, You didn’t dream it. I have a visa. Now all I need is a passport.

Alec didn’t pretend to understand.

— My Jewish luck. The Americans grant me a visa just as my Israeli passport expires. I didn’t even know it was due to expire. I haven’t looked at it in months.

— How hard is it to renew?

— Not hard if I go back to Israel. But if I go back to Israel, I’m cooked. The bureaucracy. And I don’t expect they’d let me travel. My American visa is only good for thirty days. The alternative is a temporary travel document from the embassy here. But it’s purely at their discretion, and the first question they ask is why you allowed your passport to expire abroad. And the second question is why you don’t return to Israel to renew it through the proper channels.

— Still, you should go. What do you have to lose?

— You’re right: nothing. I went yesterday.

— They turned you down.

— I had a very pleasant exchange. As a rule, the Israeli foreign service is stocked with the most rigid apparatchiks, but I drew a nice guy. He looked at my documents and we discovered that we had a lot in common. He was my age. Married with a kid. Served in the Sinai. Lived near Netanya. And his wife had also been driving on the coastal highway when the PLO killed all those people on the bus last March. He was sincere in wanting to help, but he said he’d never get approval from above.

— So what does this mean?

— It means, I think, that I have one last card to play. In five days, I have an appointment with the Ufficio Stranieri. They could issue me a temporary travel document. Or, of course, once they discover that I’m in the country illegally, they could deport me. But, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose. Worst case, either the Italians ship me back to Israel or the Israelis do.

In the five days that remained before his appointment, Lyova worked to put his affairs in order. He mailed some of his belongings to Netanya, and tried to sell off the rest. For his books, he went to a secondhand bookseller in Trastevere. For his van, he thought of returning to Angelo and the garage in Ladispoli.

This was two days after the incident in Ostia Antica, and Alec’s face, if it was possible, looked even worse than it had before. Alec hadn’t ventured out of the apartment — not to go to his job at the briefing department, not even to go to the corner store for cigarettes. But when Lyova mentioned his plans to go to Ladispoli, Alec volunteered to come along.

When they were on that same road, a few streets shy of the garage — but past the neighborhood where his parents lived, and also past Masha’s building — Alec asked Lyova to let him out of the van. It seemed an arbitrary place to stop — there was nothing there apart from the highway and a street of nondescript residential houses. There was no restaurant, café, or even a bus stop. The only other features of the landscape were the occasional palm trees that lined the road. Alec pointed to the nearest one.

— I’ll wait for you there, Alec said.

When Lyova did not immediately drive off, Alec added, If you see my brother, don’t mention I’m here.

Hiding behind the palm tree, so that he could not be easily seen from the highway, Alec tried to formulate a plan. He tried to envision different scenarios and how he might best behave in each. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, his thoughts became diffuse and drifted apart. It was impossible to plan without a clear objective, and he didn’t have one. He didn’t know what outcome he wanted.

After a time, Alec saw Lyova returning. This time on foot. Alec didn’t step out to meet him, but continued to wait behind the tree. When Lyova reached him, his face bore a sly smile.

— You look unharmed, Alec said.

— Sometimes it’s easier to deal with thieves.

— Tell me, Alec said, who was in the garage?

— I think the same crew as before.

— Can you be more specific?

— Angelo, the fat Italian who bought the van. I caught a glimpse of your brother, though he didn’t come out. Valera, who fixed the van last time. And one young Russian hood. Dark hair, tattoos on his arms — he was painting a car.

— All right, Alec said, and stepped out from behind the tree.

They walked back the way they had come, following the highway north. The road wasn’t meant for pedestrians and so they had to skirt the edge to avoid passing cars. As they neared the more residential section of Ladispoli, a sidewalk appeared. They followed it until they came to the front of Masha’s building, where Alec paused.

— Can I ask a favor?

— What’s that?

— Could you wait here a few minutes while I go inside?

Lyova looked at him with faint amusement, as at an impetuous child.

— A girl? Lyova asked.

— I won’t be long, Alec said.

Alec went into the building and rode the elevator, the same as he had when he’d visited in the past. He padded through the corridor and faced the door to Masha’s apartment — straining his ears to detect movement inside. He knocked and waited, straining still for any sound, as if his entire being were concentrated in his ears. As he prepared to knock again, he heard footsteps come toward the door and stop. He felt the weight of another human presence on the other side.

— Who is there? Riva Davidovna asked.

— Alec.

He believed he heard the sound of another set of footsteps withdrawing.

After a short moment, Riva Davidovna opened the door. He saw her stern face study him, though not unkindly. Her eyes passed fleetingly over his brow.

— Somebody hit you.

— It will heal.

— I am the mother of a son, you don’t need to tell me.

They remained for a few seconds without speaking. Riva continued to calmly study him, while Alec tried to glance subtly beyond her into the apartment.

— I feel like we haven’t seen you in a long time, Riva said. I just recently remarked this to Masha.

— Masha isn’t home?

— No, I’m afraid she’s not, Riva said. I would invite you in, but I don’t expect her until later.