Elliott Holt - You Are One of Them

“How long have you lived here?” I said.

“In this house?” Zoya said. She was doing math in her head. “Ten years, maybe. But my family also had an apartment in the city.”

“On the Arbat?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Chistye Prudy.”

I kept waiting for her to give me some kind of sign, some nod of recognition. But the woman across from me remained detached. Her posture was remarkable: it was as if even her spine were unburdened by doubt. She had none of Jenny’s softness; her edges were sharp. And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew her. Under her icy shell, I could see a blueprint of the person she might have been.

“Where in the States did you live?” I pressed. “In Washington?”

“Yes, Washington,” she allowed. She twisted a strand of golden hair.

“But your parents are Russian?” I said. Moscow Rule #8: Don’t harass the opposition. I didn’t want to push her. I’d play along.

“My parents are dead,” she said.

The half-truth hung in the air between us the way, years later, I felt its presence between me and the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. “Is there someone else?” I said to him. We were sitting side by side on the sofa of the New York apartment we shared, and when I asked the question, he froze for a moment, then said—while staring straight into space or into the imagined face of the shrink who had coached him through the breakup rehearsal—“I just need to be alone. This is all I can handle.” The unsaid words were suspended, as if from wires, and I knew that he had already transferred his allegiance, that another pair of hands was already guiding him inside her, that another conjured body fueled his masturbation, that another phone was receiving his flirtatious text messages. He couldn’t look me in the eye. I could have said, I can tell you’re lying, but he wasn’t lying, exactly, just omitting the part of the story that would make him look bad. The result was the same, wasn’t it?

He was withdrawing his affection; he was demoting me to the past tense. He thought his leaving me was unrelated to his joining her, but I knew he wouldn’t have the courage to go without a destination. She was waiting with arms open, adoring and not yet disappointed. Because it’s easy to love someone you haven’t let down. In the beginning the promises are like fresh snow, not muddied by footprints, not yet trampled. You are a hero to the country you defect to, a traitor to the one you defect from. The face of the one you’re leaving is crestfallen, biting her lip in an effort to stay strong, to believe, in spite of all the evidence, that you are innocent. “It just didn’t work out,” he said to me, as if he had no agency in the matter, as if it were chance, not choice, taking him away from me.

Would I have felt better knowing that there was nothing I could have done to make Jenny stay? Would it have been easier to let her go?

Svetlana returned with four glasses. “These are okay?” she said to Zoya.

Zoya nodded. In her presence Svetlana was deferential and eager to please. I realized that Zoya was the sun who pulled Sveta into her orbit.

Svetlana placed the glasses on the coffee table and sat down beside Andrei. “Perhaps you would like to walk in the woods?” she said to me. “It is very beautiful place for walking.”

“Also skiing,” said Andrei. “Cross-country skiing.” He opened the vodka and filled the glasses.

“It is not so cold today,” Zoya said. “But better if we take a walk after lunch.”

“U menya tost,” said Andrei.

“In English,” said Zoya, “so our American guest can understand.”

“Ladno,” said Andrei. “A toast to friendship between nations.”

All our glasses met in the center of the table. “During a Russian toast,” said Zoya, “you have to make eye contact with everyone.” So for a moment my eyes locked on hers. They were impenetrable pools. I couldn’t find my way.

“Now,” Andrei said. “Time to grill shashlik. Come. I will show you how we do it.” He beckoned to me.

I bundled up and followed him outside to a primitive grill constructed of a few bricks. He squatted to build his fire. “Svetlana is like schoolgirl around Zoya,” Andrei said. He imitated her voice. “‘Zoya says this, Zoya says that’ ... She would follow Zoya off a cliff.”

“Svetlana told me I shouldn’t trust you,” I said.

He laughed. “That’s because she is jealous. She knows I like you.”

“Huh,” I said.

“You like kebabs?”

“Sure,” I said. “But I’m really cold.” I wanted to talk to Zoya out of Andrei’s earshot.

“I can keep you warm,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you can.”

“You are very cynical for an American,” he said. “You know that?”

“I’m going inside,” I said.

SVETLANA AND ZOYA were preparing lunch. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched them chop vegetables.

“You like peppers?” Zoya said to me.

I nodded. The kitchen was a bright, charming space. Pots climbed the walls on hooks, and blue-and-white porcelain tiles made a flowery backsplash behind the stove. The table was draped with a yellow cloth and set with four china dishes in a green-and-white pattern. My tulips had been arranged in the center in a white jug.

Svetlana opened a jar of preserves and held it up for my inspection. “At dacha we gather the berries in summer and then make the jams.”

Through the warped old window, I could see Andrei tending his fire.

“And mushrooms?” I said, turning back to face Sveta. “You also gather mushrooms?” It seemed like a dangerous enterprise, separating the edible fungi from the poisonous. I wouldn’t know how to tell the difference.

“Of course mushrooms,” Svetlana said. “At dacha we live simple life.”

I was about to tell Zoya I knew who she really was when Andrei walked into the room. “I am ready for the meat,” he said, and clapped his hands.

Zoya passed him a plate piled with skewers of lamb. “I’ll come with you,” she said.

“When can I talk to her without Andrei?” I said to Svetlana after they had gone outside.

She just held a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said. “Patience.”

I looked outside. Andrei caught Zoya’s hand and pulled her close. The embrace was brief, but their bodies came together easily, as if by habit, and I wondered if they were lovers. I glanced at Svetlana. She was busy slicing bread.

WHEN ANDREI AND ZOYA returned with the shashlik, we sat down to a feast. Soup, of course, but also beet salad, boiled potatoes, and the lamb kebabs. Even caviar, red and black. And vodka. Svetlana refilled our glasses as we took our seats.

“This is lovely,” I said. “I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble just for me.”

“It was our pleasure,” Zoya said. When she smiled, I saw the remnant of a dimple. I was following crumbs, trying to find Jenny’s path through the woods. I sat across from her. Andrei was next to me.

“Do you like living here?” I said.

“I am a Russian citizen,” said Zoya. “Where else would I live?”

“Why are Americans so surprised that we are happy? Russia is great country,” said Svetlana.

“If Russia is so great,” I said, “why are you trying to find a foreign husband so you can leave?”

“I keep the options open,” said Svetlana with a shrug. I admired her honesty. I couldn’t blame her for being pragmatic. Maybe she’d written to me because she thought I could help her find an American husband.

“You, too?” I said to Andrei.

“What?” he said.

“Are you also keeping your options open?”