David Bezmozgis - The Free World

— Of course, Alec said. Tell her I’m sorry to have missed her.

— I will, Riva said, and started to slowly shut the door.

As Alec took his first step toward the elevator, he heard the door swing open again. His pulse leaped and he turned back to find Riva Davidovna in the door frame, looking like she had reconsidered something she had said or failed to say. She hesitated, as if weighing her words, then said, The best thing for your eye is a vinegar compress.

When the time came for Lyova’s appointment at the Ufficio Stranieri, they said their provisional farewells in the apartment. Alec offered to escort him to the ministry, but Lyova didn’t see the point.

— If they detain me, you’ll just end up waiting in the street.

Before Lyova departed, Polina surprised him by producing a small gift, a leather wallet from her store, which she had wrapped neatly in butcher paper.

— Something for your American documents and dollars, she said.

— And if they send me back to Israel?

— I hope you can use it there, too.

Alec and Polina watched him walk out the door and Alec was quite certain they would never see him again. The thought wasn’t pessimistic, only empirical. In the emigration, when somebody left, he left for good.

With Lyova’s departure, the sound of his footfalls receding to nothing on the stairs, Alec and Polina were left in a pristine silence. It felt as if they were being reintroduced after a lengthy separation — a jail term or a sea voyage. The place seemed suddenly too quiet and too big. Without Lyova’s mediating presence, Alec felt as if they had each been made transparent and their hidden thoughts exposed.

— I don’t think people were made to live like this, Polina said.

— Like what? Alec asked, fearing something devastating.

— To form attachments only to have them broken.

It was late morning, and they busied themselves tidying the apartment, as if it were a compulsory act, the period at the end of the sentence. Lyova had left his remaining possessions stacked up in one corner, the easier for them to ship to Netanya in case he didn’t return. Alec watched Polina sweep carefully around the stack, as around a household shrine.

When they had finished, Polina considered the contents of the refrigerator and said, I should go to the market.

— Would you like me to come with you?

— You’re no longer worried about frightening the neighborhood children?

— I’d thought it was getting better.

Polina crossed from the kitchen to the dining room table, where Alec was sitting, and lightly traced the perimeter of his bruise with her fingertips.

— Alec, if you’d like to come, come. But only if you want. I don’t plan to pick up more than a few things.

— Well, maybe for the sake of the neighborhood children, I’ll give it another day.

Once Polina had gone, Alec lit a cigarette and sat by the window that overlooked the street. He picked up a copy of the Herald-Tribune left behind by Lyova and he read about some kind of reverse pogrom where a mob of Orthodox Jews stormed a Brooklyn police station and injured sixty policemen. He read articles about the civil war in Beirut and the revolutions in Rhodesia and Iran. He read an article about Soviet workers being conscripted for the annual potato harvest. From his perch at the window, an Italian cigarette between his lips, Alec felt a momentary tranquillity — as though, like a lord, he was gazing down at the grubby idiocy of the world. For that moment, his own grubby idiocy seemed trivial.

Alec finished his cigarette and prepared to flick the butt out the window and into the street. As he did so, he saw a familiar figure walking briskly along Via Salumi. He leaned his head out the window for a better look, to make absolutely sure. But there was the loose-jointed, storklike gait and the wild conflagration of hair. Lyova spotted Alec in the window, broke into a wide grin, and raised a triumphant fist in the air.

Upstairs, Lyova showed Alec the dark green, clothbound little booklet: his temporary Italian passport. His picture had been affixed, his American visa stapled, and the pages bore the official stamps and signatures.

— So tell me, Alec said.

— There’s almost nothing to tell. After all this time, I didn’t have to plead or weep. I showed my papers, Carmela said she deplored the way the Israelis were treating the poor Palestinians, and I said I did too. What the hell? This way, at least one of us gets to go free.

— Mazel tov, Alec said, and fetched a bottle of grappa.

When Polina came through the door, grocery bags in hand, Alec and Lyova were still at the table. They looked up and watched her rein in her delight.

— Don’t be afraid, Alec said. He’s an American, not a ghost.

Polina smiled and came over to the table.

— Congratulations, she said. I’m happy to see you again.

— Thank you, Lyova replied.

Polina looked down at the grocery bags in her hands.

— I’m sorry, I didn’t get nearly enough. I didn’t think you’d be back.

— No need to apologize, Lyova said. I didn’t think I’d be back either.

To celebrate, Lyova went down for a bottle of Chianti and a box of chocolates. Polina threw together a mongrel dinner of boiled potatoes, white Italian bread, cottage cheese with sour cream, green onions, cucumbers, prosciutto, figs, and a wedge of parmesan.

They sat at the table and drank in honor of friendship, Rome, health, wives, fortitude, prosperity, and the future. Polina nursed the same glass of wine, while Alec and Lyova polished off the grappa and most of the Chianti as well.

The sky darkened as Lyova talked about what he expected from America. He’d lived abroad for nearly a decade, and so he didn’t think he’d suffer the shock of the new Soviet transplant. He had taken pains to learn English and to stay current on American affairs. His son had received some English instruction in school. The boy had a good ear for languages and Lyova thought he’d have little trouble adapting. His wife was a different story. Since she neither wanted to leave Israel nor believed that Lyova would succeed in getting them out, she had stubbornly refused to study English. Consequently, she would arrive in New York resentful and ill prepared — not a good combination. But Lyova hoped that once she inhaled American air it would trigger a chemical reaction and her outlook would change.

— What did she say when she found out? Polina asked.

— I haven’t told her yet.

— You didn’t call?

— No. Not her and not my parents.

— You do intend to tell them.

— I intend to tell them, but not over the phone. I don’t need to pay to hear their disappointment. They can read it in a telegram.

— What will you say?

— I haven’t decided.

— How about: “Pack your bags,” Alec said.

— Yes, Lyova said. “The voice of America is calling.”

— You might want to consider having a woman write it, Polina said.

— That’s a marvelous idea, Lyova said. You’d be doing me a great favor. There are some things men aren’t suited for.

— The favor is for your poor wife and son, Polina chided, and began to clear the table.

As she carried the cups and plates to the kitchen, the intercom buzzed. Polina looked over her shoulder at Lyova and Alec and, the hour being late, the three of them exchanged inquiring glances.

The buzzer sounded again — a longer, more insistent note.

— Maybe the Italians have reconsidered, Lyova said.

Alec rose from his chair and went to answer the intercom. He tried to give the impression of lightheartedness. An infinite number of people could be at the buzzer, including delinquents, junkies, and stray tourists — but nothing felt as plausible as the thing he feared. As he approached the intercom, he tried to read Polina’s and Lyova’s faces. If either of them harbored fears akin to his, their faces didn’t show it.