Lara Vapnyar - Still Here

Once outside, Sergey was assaulted by a burst of wind so strong that it seemed to be attacking him from all directions. What was the point of skyscrapers if they couldn’t even shield people from the weather? Sergey checked the time and started to walk toward the ferry. When he turned onto Pearl Street, he slipped on a piece of a hamburger on the pavement and barely kept his balance.

His phone started to vibrate. Vica. She must’ve sensed that he had been fired. The thought of answering it and talking to her right now made him sick.

He passed an express bus stop. There was just one person waiting there, a sullen-looking man in his sixties wearing a thick sweatshirt with the hood down and work boots splattered with white paint. But then, of course, it was only twelve fifteen, too early for the commuter crowd. Sergey wondered if the guy had gotten laid off as well.

Sergey made it to the ferry just as the glass doors of the terminal were closing. He was completely alone on the left side of the deck. He could see the Verrazano Bridge in the distance, thin and fragile like a spiderweb.

He grabbed the railing and stared straight ahead, imagining himself in charge of the ferry.

Sergey strengthened his grip and steered it forward. The waves were thick but not too unruly. The important thing was to keep the ferry steady. It was a challenging task, trying to make it safely between all those barges and yachts and erratic speedboats. He managed to turn the ferry to the right toward the Statue of Liberty, when he noticed an enormous cruise ship right in front of them surging at full speed. In a split second, Sergey calculated the approximate speed of the cruise ship, its distance, and the angle at which it was going and decided that a collision could be avoided if he could steer his ferry to the left. He turned his head to see what was on the left side. There was a long, slow red barge, but it was far away enough. And the coast guard boat was getting pretty damn close. He should have given the signal to alert the coast guard boat to his intentions. But that was something he couldn’t do. He had no power over signals. Only over the ferry. So he adjusted his grip again and took a very slight turn to the left. And then straight, then to the right again. The cruise ship was rushing right at them. Could it be that he had miscalculated the speed and a collision was inevitable? He felt like closing his eyes, but he knew that he couldn’t. He had to stay in control. Strong grip. Steady course. Stare forward. Ignore the cruise ship. Ignore the boat. Forward through the wind. He made it!

A couple of tourists in yellow rain ponchos over their thick parkas walked on the deck, saw Sergey, and smiled at him. He became aware that he was still gripping the railing. He let go, and walked toward a bench. He had been holding on so hard that his fingers were stiff and white.

Once again the whistle that signaled the ferry’s arrival came too soon. Sergey disembarked, walked to the parking lot, unlocked his car, and climbed in. He started the car, then hesitated. This was Tuesday, the day when Vica worked nights. She would be at home now. Snug in the armchair like a big lazy cat, her feet in warm socks on top of an electric heater. Watching TV. Her first reaction on seeing him would be annoyance at being interrupted. Then the true meaning of his coming home early would dawn on her and her face would take on an expression of woozy disappointment. He could deal with her anger, with her screaming, with her kicking things, but he couldn’t deal with her disappointment. He couldn’t possibly go home yet.

Sergey suddenly had an idea. There was that strange place he’d accidentally discovered a couple of months ago. He’d been driving home from the mall — he’d had to pick up some last-minute supplies for Eric’s school project — and it was late. The usual route was closed due to road repairs, so he had to drive down some unknown, unmarked road. He soon saw that he had lost his way but continued to drive. He found himself on top of a hill overlooking the ocean and the glittering Verrazano. The road was narrow with charming villas on both sides half hidden in their lush gardens. The view reminded Sergey of the Mediterranean villages he and Vica had visited on their European tour five years ago. He had liked it so much that he’d saved the location in his GPS under favorites. He decided to drive there now. He would park the car, walk down the hill, explore the neighboring streets, find out if the place would hold its charm in the daylight. Sergey turned on the GPS, found the coordinates, and pressed Go.

“Turn right on Victory Boulevard,” the GPS commanded Sergey, and Sergey told him to go to hell. First of all, he didn’t want to take Victory Boulevard — with the road repairs going on now, traffic would be awful. Another reason was that Sergey couldn’t stand this GPS person (default American male) — he reminded him of his boss David’s voice, brimming with overconfidence and extra r ’s. The name of the street came out as “Victorrrr Ry Boulevarrrd.” Sergey switched to the American female, but she proved to be everything that he hated about American females. She was too righteous, too optimistic, too enthusiastic. She reminded him of their tennis instructor. That had been Vica’s idea — to make them all, including little Eric, learn how to play tennis, because she thought it was a necessary step on the way to becoming true middle-class Americans. Their instructor kept yelling “Good job!” when one of them hit a ball; “Good try!” if one of them missed. Her pointless praise made Sergey feel like an idiot. He switched off the American female and decided to try the Russians. There was no Russian male option, and the female sounded mean and controlling. She expected him to do whatever she told him, and there were really nasty gloating notes in her “Pereschityvayu!” when she was recalculating the route. That nastiness was all too familiar. Sergey hurried to switch her off. He didn’t speak any other languages, but he didn’t really need to know them to understand directions. All the GPS said was “turn left,” “turn right,” and “recalculating.”

The Italian man was dripping passion — he sounded too much for Sergey’s taste.

The German man sounded disappointed.

The French woman sounded haughty and patronizing.

The Chinese woman was too harsh.

The Japanese woman was too playful; she seemed to be on the verge of giggling at all times. Sergey enjoyed it for a while, but then he started to doubt if she was sincere.

The Icelandic woman, however, was perfect.

She said: “ Snúa til vinstri. ” She said: “ Snúa til hægri. ” And when she attempted to recalculate the route, she simply said: “ Reikna. ” It must have meant “recalculate.” She sounded both respectful and firm. She sounded as if she were aware of Sergey’s limitations but didn’t mind them at all. He could miss a turn, miss a turn again, miss a turn twenty times in a row — she wouldn’t be angry, annoyed, or disappointed. So what if he kept missing turns? There was still plenty about him to admire and appreciate. There was still plenty to love. The tone of her voice was perfect, the melodic notes magnificent. The way she rolled her r ’s and softened her l ’s made Sergey feel butterflies in his stomach. And the word reikna made Sergey’s heart melt. He drove to the northern part of the Staten Island Greenbelt, found a deserted parking lot, and kept circling and circling it for the sake of hearing “Reikna” again and again. The parking lot was covered by last year’s brown leaves. They made whooshing sounds under the wheels of the car. There were tall trees all around him, mostly bare but still beautiful, gracefully crisscrossing patches of blue sky.