David Bezmozgis - The Free World

Holding a piece of paper with her cousin’s name, address, and phone number, Emma approached one of the operators at the counter. Karl, Alec, and Samuil drew up to the counter with her while Polina found a chair beside the window. The operator was a woman in her middle thirties, plump though not unattractive, with a hairstyle too fashionable for her job and her face. Because of her hairstyle, Alec expected her to be curt or impatient, but she listened attentively as Emma repeated the words “Chicago, Illinois, America” and her cousin’s name, and pointed to the digits of the phone number as they were written on the slip of Soviet graph paper. Emma looked meaningfully at the operator, as if, in the absence of a shared language, concentration and desire could effect understanding. The operator peered back at Emma. Then she pointed to Emma and spoke one word. When Emma didn’t respond, she continued to point and said several more words, hoping, perhaps, that given a broader choice of words, Emma might encounter one she recognized.

— What did she say? Emma asked Alec.

— I don’t know.

The operator pointed to herself and drawled: “Gisa.”

— What does she want? Emma directed her question nonspecifically at Alec, Karl, and Samuil.

— Your name, Samuil grumbled. Tell her your name.

They had spent immoderately on the train to Ladispoli. But Samuil hadn’t wanted decisions made about an apartment without him; Alec had insisted that Polina come and see the place for herself. To compensate for the expense, Emma had planned ahead and instructed everyone to conserve their dinner rolls from the previous evening. Rosa had sent them off with lingonberry jam from her private stash, and so, as they waited for their call to be connected, Emma unpacked the bread and jam and prepared their lunch. Sharing the waiting area with them were an elderly Italian, an Arab laborer in stained jeans and work boots, and the wife of the Russian man who denied stealing his friend’s furs.

The Russian completed his telephone call and left with his wife. (“So?” his wife asked as they walked out the door. “You’d think I hadn’t done enough for him,” the man spat.) The operator connected the Italian, and Alec watched as he limped to his designated booth. Every few minutes Emma checked her watch.

— What do we do? Emma asked.

— We’ve already waited an hour. You want to cancel the call? Samuil asked.

— Rosa is waiting with the children. What will she think?

— She’ll think. She’ll think we’ve been delayed, Karl said.

— If we knew how to call the hotel, Emma said, they could inform Rosa and maybe put our food aside.

— Do we know how to call the hotel? Samuil asked.

— No, Emma said.

— So why blabber about it?

— I only thought, Emma said dejectedly.

Just then, the operator’s phone rang.

— Emma. Numero due, the operator said, and motioned to the appropriate booth.

Emma sprang up and rushed to the booth, beckoning for the others to follow.

— Hurry, so everyone can have a chance to speak, she said.

Everyone rose, except for Polina, who shook her head and said, The woman doesn’t know me. Go on. You talk.

The woman didn’t know Alec all that well either. He had seen her perhaps three times in his life. She was his mother’s first cousin. As children they had been close. They had, in fact, shared the family house. During the war, they had evacuated together and spent the war years in the Kara-Kalpak region of Uzbekistan. Shura, the cousin, had met her husband there and, after the war, settled in Vilnius, his town. Emma had meanwhile returned to their house in Latvia, and soon was married to Samuil. Over the intervening years they had corresponded. On occasion, Emma visited Vilnius. More frequently, her cousin came to Riga.

When Alec reached the booth, Emma already had the receiver to her ear and was raising her voice.

— Shura, she repeated, is that you? It’s very difficult to hear. Hello?

Emma looked imploringly at Samuil and Alec.

— You can’t hear her? Alec asked.

— Shurachka, can you hear me? Emma asked again. She paused and pressed the receiver tighter to her ear. There. Now I hear you. Yes, I hear you, she said.

In a letter they’d received in Vienna, Shura had written about the secondhand car her husband had purchased. It was two-tone, green and gold, and larger than a Volga. Her husband had a job half an hour’s drive from their apartment. He was fifty-six years old and, in his entire life, had never operated a car. But he had passed for his license on the first attempt and was now driving on an eight-lane American highway. Shura was also learning to drive the car. Because of the car’s size, her husband had fashioned blocks for the pedals and she sat on a feather pillow, which she stored in the trunk along with the spare tire.

She’s been in America only four months but look at what she’s done, Emma had said after reading the letter. It’s hard to believe that she’s the same person.

Alec tried to imagine his mother in similar circumstances. In Riga, his father had owned a car, a Zhiguli, which he drove poorly and infrequently. Arturs took him to work and, when the need arose, Samuil expected either Karl or Alec to drive him where he wanted to go. Otherwise, the car sat in the garage, halfway across town. Samuil recorded the mileage on a pad to ensure that neither Karl nor Alec took the car out for their pleasure. It never occurred to anyone that his mother might also want to drive it.

Some of the photos that Shura sent depicted her and her husband in the parking lot outside their apartment building, smiling in front of their car. Other photos showed them in downtown Chicago, set against a formidable panorama of receding buildings. There were also photos that they’d taken inside their apartment. One was of Lyona, Shura’s husband, with a bottle of beer at the kitchen table; another was of Shura, her hand resting on a velour sofa, flanked by a floor lamp taller than she.

— For God’s sake, don’t bother with trivialities, Samuil hissed when Emma asked Shura about the weather.

— Other than Rosa and the children, we are all here. In a moment I’ll let everyone say hello, Emma said.

The conversation proceeded for a minute or two along typical lines until Emma came to the point and asked her cousin about sponsorship.

— What happens, Emma asked, do you send your form to HIAS, or do they send something to you?

After this, there was a lengthy pause, during which Emma nodded her head and said nothing. Then she said, Yes, I’m still here. I hear you. I hear you. I understand. No need to apologize, I understand. Yes, of course, I understand. Naturally. All right. Would you still like to say hello to everyone?

— What is she saying? Samuil asked.

— Spin the globe, Karl said.

— Another time then, Emma spoke into the phone. Of course. Of course, I will write you. Yes. Certainly. Send my best to everyone.

Emma replaced the phone and tried to put on a brave face. The way she looked, Alec feared she would crumble if Samuil started to berate her.

— Well, Samuil said.

— Let her at least step out of the booth, Alec said.

— They got a letter saying that Lyona’s brother’s visa was approved, Emma said. They’d been under refusal for two years. What could she do?

— What could she do? She could keep her promise, Samuil said.

— It’s Lyona’s brother and his family. He’s a brother. How could they deny them?

— I didn’t know you had your heart set on Chicago, Alec said.

— What do I care about Chicago? Samuil said. Where I want to go, the door is closed. This is about principle.

— She feels horrible, Emma said.