David Bezmozgis - The Free World

After Lyova gathered Alec’s belongings, Polina closed the door to the bedroom and turned off the lights. Unwilling to lie down, she sat on the edge of the bed and saw the woeful scene replay itself. It had the grotesque character of a bad dream: the knot of shrillness, violence, and perversity, too strange and horrible to be true. She hadn’t believed everything the girl had said but the simple fact that she was in their apartment proved that there was some underlying substance to it. If nothing else, Alec had allowed himself to become involved with this mixed-up, angry, voluptuous child, and he had brought this ugly scandal into their lives. She recalled Marina Kirilovna’s warning — Alec, a boy with a butterfly net. She had disbelieved her words and disregarded her warning. She’d instead nursed the belief that she saw in Alec what other people failed to see, did not try to see. On the strength of this belief, she had staked her future and her family bonds. Now she was flooded with shame and self-reproach.

Like a swooping bird, the most despicable memory assailed her: when her parents had refused to sign the consent form, she had, in her own hand, written that they were dead. What authority could pardon her for that?

Polina sat stiffly in what felt again like a strange room in a strange city. She saw no way forward with Alec. What options remained for her? If Nadja went, to follow her to Israel? To return to Riga? To venture somewhere else, entirely on her own? The choices made her feel at once captive and terribly adrift. She was dismayed to find herself in this predicament. How can it be, she wondered, to have lived a life that she would have never described as reclusive. To have been loved and nurtured as a child. To have been, at every passage, surrounded by classmates and friends. To have never felt shunned or excluded. To have worked for years amid colleagues — a participant in every party and celebration. To have been twice married. To have been a guest in countless homes, and to have hosted countless guests in return. And after all this, to make a tabulation — sitting in the dark, in tears, in this unfamiliar room — and to discover that you have passed through life like a knife through smoke. That almost nothing has adhered to you. From a lifetime of society, only Nadja, one single wisp.

The prospect of sleeping in the bed, of staying in the room, sickened her. She rose and opened the door. The rest of the apartment was also dark. She had half expected to find Lyova up, reading at the table or in his bed, but she was glad for the darkened apartment. Lyova had drawn the brocade curtain, but Polina brushed it aside and entered his half of the room. She saw the outline of Lyova’s body in his bed. He was facing the wall but, at her approach, he turned toward her. Polina felt that she understood what had brought her to Lyova — the simple wish not to be alone. But she was also aware of another manifestation of this idea: the need to see if she could still act to gratify her desires.

Lyova seemed to wait for her to speak.

— I can’t sleep in that room, Polina said.

He sat up and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, You can have my bed.

Polina easily imagined a scenario in which Lyova gallantly relinquished his bed, and in which nothing more happened between them.

Without saying a word, Polina knelt on the edge of the bed. If she were mistaken, Lyova could still protest, but he didn’t. Instead, he edged toward the wall, making a space for her beside him. For a few moments, they lay silently facing each other before Polina put out her hand and placed it on Lyova’s ribs. She felt Lyova’s hand slide through the bedsheets and onto her ribs in return. She then felt the press of his mouth on hers, and the contortions to undress — the tangle of clothes with the bedsheets and the blanket. The act itself felt like they were assembling a complicated machine for the first time, with pieces strewn about and then forced into place. In the midst of things, Polina thought of Alec, and how this very disorder must have appealed to him.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the narrow bed.

— What will you do? Lyova asked.

— I’m not sure, Polina said.

— I wish I could offer you some help.

— Don’t concern yourself, Polina said. There’s nothing you could do. I’m just waiting for my sister’s letter. When I get it, I’ll know what to do with the rest of my life.

Not long after the girl departed, Samuil left the house and set off for the Ladispoli train station, the late autumn sun bright and bolted high overhead. Emma’s exhortations trailed after him as he pressed forward, disregarding her completely and wishing that she might finally sprout the good sense to quiet down.

Syoma, don’t go alone, she called. Rome is a zoo. What if you get lost? Let someone come with you!

As he reached the foot of Via Italia, he heard Emma’s voice fade to the point of irrelevance. Pocketing this small satisfaction, he headed toward the station. As he went, he attempted to quell his emotions. He did not want to undertake the trip in a state of excitement. As a soldier and as a manager — if not always as a husband and a father — his greatest strength had been his ability to maintain his composure. He credited it for his successes, and he tried to invoke it here once again.

The morning’s spectacle had deeply unnerved him. The frantic banging on their door. The girl raving in their kitchen. Spewing her wild accusations. Causing a shameful, disgusting scene in front of his grandsons, his daughter-in-law, and his wife.

When Samuil had heard enough, he had said to her, My son is capable of many things, but not this. Get out of our house.

By the time the train touched off, his anger had subsided. He looked about the train at his fellow passengers — Italians — and, for once, he did not feel estranged from them. He saw people like himself — with a destination, attending to the practical affairs of their lives.

Out his window, he watched the brown countryside unfurl, the fields harvested and tilled. The sky was a flawless blue. Small black birds glided effortlessly across it.

The farms gave way to larger settlements. Samuil saw more pavement and with it more people, more vehicles. Then, curiously, the train slowed, and presently stopped. There was no station, so far as he could see. There was not even a town to speak of. Looking out, Samuil saw a narrow road that ran beside the tracks, he saw scattered houses, low buildings, with many vacant patches between. He turned to regard the other passengers, and saw many of them also peering out the windows. Then a man’s muffled voice sounded over the public address. Even before the man concluded his statement, passengers began to grumble and shake their heads. Some gathered their belongings and made for the doors. Others he saw settling into their seats — some in frustration, some in resignation. Samuil was casting about for another Russian émigré when he caught the attention of a man of his generation, dressed neatly, wearing steel-framed glasses, his eyes gentle, considerate.

The man walked up the aisle to Samuil.

— Non parle Italiano? he inquired.

Samuil shook his head.

— Français? the man asked.

Samuil shook his head again.

— Español?

Samuil shook his head once more and, though his knowledge of the language was spotty, proposed, Deutsche?

It was the man’s turn to shake his head.

— Ruskii? Iddish? Latviesu? Samuil asked for the sake of formality.

The man smiled regretfully and then paused, as if considering one final, doubtful possibility.