Garth Greenwell - What Belongs to You

I want to go, he said then, and heaved himself off the couch. He swayed for a moment and stumbled, catching himself by throwing out first one leg and then, as he began to fall forward, the other. Maybe he had stood up too quickly and was dizzy, in addition to being drunk and whatever else he was, and in this odd, almost falling way he moved from the main room to the hallway. I stood too, unsure whether I should stop him or be grateful the ordeal had been so brief. Now that I knew or thought I knew I would finally be rid of him I didn’t want him to go, and I was almost happy to see him turn away from the door, walking or stumbling instead down the hallway to my bedroom. I got up to follow, and watched as he collided with the bed and then fell down upon it, as if he were feeling his way in the dark and had been surprised by it. He lay for a moment and then pushed himself up, swaying before half falling again. He stayed then in a half-sitting, half-lying posture, his hands still working, I saw, gripping and releasing the light blanket I had been sleeping under. I stood at the doorway, watching, unsure whether I should go to him; the bed was a dangerous place, with its memories of what we had done there. But then as if his strength gave out Mitko let himself fall, drawing his legs onto the bed (he hadn’t removed his shoes, I saw them muddy the sheets), and then he pulled his knees to his chest and again began to weep, but quietly this time, the tears sprang and his face closed in on itself but his mouth opened and shut without making a sound. I did go to him then, I went to the bed and lay beside him and put my arm on his shoulder, not embracing him but offering him comfort, I hoped, a sign of my presence though I touched him nowhere else, and immediately he seized my arm with his and pulled it to his chest, which rose and fell as he gasped in his silent weeping. And he didn’t just pull me to him, he rolled back as well; I had kept a space between us but he pressed against me, the whole length of his back against my front. I tightened my arms around him, holding him as he wept, and he reached one of his legs through mine and pulled me tight, so that I felt his body all along my own, his body that had been, in however partial or compromised or intermittent my fashion, beloved to me. As I pressed my face to his neck and breathed him in, his scent sour with sweat and alcohol, it seemed impossible it could dissolve, simply dissolve, this form I had known so intimately with my hands and my mouth, it was unbearable that this body so dear to me should die. But though I held him more tightly the space that had opened up between us remained, and I knew I would stay on the other side of it, the side of health, I knew I wouldn’t stay with Mitko and face the death he faced; I know it’s everywhere, that it’s an illusion we ever look anywhere else, but as long as I could believe it I would pretend to look away. Love isn’t just a matter of looking at someone, I think now, but also of looking with them, of facing what they face, and sometimes I wonder whether there’s anyone I could stand with and watch what I wouldn’t watch with Mitko, whether with my mother, say, or with R.; it’s a terrible thing to doubt about oneself but I do doubt it.

Even so, I lay beside him, I held him as he held my arm, embracing it against his chest. When he had calmed he began to speak, and his hands, which had been still as he wept, started to knead me again where they gripped me, taking up again their strange motion. Obichash li me , he asked, do you love me, but it wasn’t a question; I know you love me, he said, not waiting for me to speak. I know you love me but I can’t love you, I’m sorry, you are my friend, he said, priyatel , that word that could mean so much and so little, you are my friend but poveche ne moga , I can’t do anything more. Hush, Mitko, I said, it’s all right, don’t worry, I understand, but he wasn’t listening to me, he was speaking for himself, the circling of his thoughts impossible for me to follow. Gospod go obicham , he said, and for a moment I thought I must have misunderstood him, he had never spoken of such things before. But he said it again, I love God, no men ne me obicha , but God doesn’t love me, God loves the strong and I’m not strong, and again he was weeping, speaking at that strange heightened pitch the voice strikes under strain; he loves the strong, he said again and again, repeating it like a chant or a prayer. What are you saying, I said to him, gluposti , nonsense, and again I told him to hush, speaking to him as if he were a child, I didn’t know how else to speak to him. God loves the strong, he said again, and I’m not strong. Iskam maika si , he said then, I want my mother, and again the tears came freely, he had taken my hand and was squeezing it hard. Do you love God, he asked me when he could speak again, do you go to church, and now I didn’t try to speak, not knowing how to answer, unable to bring myself to say what I knew would quiet him, though it felt unkind I couldn’t make myself say the words.

He squeezed my hand harder, pressing against me, coaxing me, God loves you, he said, you should love God, God believes in you, you should believe in God. All right, I said finally, all right, agreeing with whatever he said, or making the sound of agreement, and then he was silent for a while, and increasingly still. He was falling asleep, and though I took pleasure in the weight of him beside me I wondered how long he would be there, whether I should wake him, whether I would be able to if I tried. I had no idea what time it was, there was no clock in the room, and though I had gone to bed early I thought it was late now, probably not long before I would have to get ready to teach. Maybe it would be better to wake him now, I thought, before he was sound asleep, it would be unkind to wake him but he couldn’t spend the night. I would give him money for a room somewhere else, I decided, but before I could bring myself to rouse him he roused himself. Ne , he said sharply, I don’t want to sleep, and he let go of my hands to push himself upright again. He sat there hanging his head, propped up by his hands on either side while I kept my own hand on his back, both as a steadying force and also for the touch itself. Soon I wouldn’t be able to touch him, I thought, maybe I would never touch him again. Gladen sum , he said, I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten for a long time. He stood awkwardly, again as if having misjudged the force it took, so that he overshot the mark, as it were, and almost tumbled forward, catching himself by putting his hand out toward the wardrobe door and pressing his fingers on the mirror mounted there, leaving marks I would find myself examining in the days that followed, until the woman who comes to clean my apartment wiped them away. Mitko moved in his lurching way out of the room but I stayed where I was, lying in a half-raised position as I heard the refrigerator door open and the noise of things being taken out. A few minutes later, he called out that single syllable that was his name for me, that called me to myself or rather to that self I was with him, and I got up slowly to join him.

He was more lucid now, the effects of alcohol or whatever else wearing away, or maybe he was refreshed by his few minutes of sleep. He was sitting upright, perched on the very edge of the couch, leaning forward between his knees, having laid out before him a banana and a cup of yogurt, a spoon and beside this a bottle of milk. Ela tuka , he said, come here, and I sat beside him again, closer this time. Trugvam si , he said, I’m going, I’m not going to bother you, I just want to eat something first, and I told him not to worry, he wasn’t bothering me at all. I had checked the time after he left the bedroom, waiting until then to pick up my phone where it lay on the table beside the bed, and I was surprised to see it was early still, not even midnight, my sleep though it had been deep had been brief. Mitko picked up the banana he had placed on the table, and with exaggerated care began to unpeel it, drawing each long strip down slowly, as if every movement required the greatest attention. It was as though he had lost the sense of his body in space, I thought, that unthinking knowledge we have; it was as though nothing could be assumed but must be carefully measured out. His eyes weren’t rolling anymore but they weren’t quite focused either, he didn’t track the banana as he brought it to his lips and bit into the tip of it. He turned slightly to me, holding the banana out in offering. Eat, he said gravely, speaking in English, and when I didn’t eat he said it again, pressing the white flesh against my lips. But I don’t want to eat, I said, though it wasn’t simply that; I was unnerved by the seriousness with which he stared at me, stared or didn’t quite stare with his unfocused eyes, and I didn’t want to participate, it felt sacramental somehow, like a ritual by which I would be bound. But Mitko ignored what I said, pressing the fruit more urgently against my lips, so that I had to turn away. I don’t want it, I said, but he hushed me, blowing his breath between his teeth; Vizh , he said, look, and then he brought the banana back to his lips. I eat, he said, speaking again in English, and then holding the banana to my face again, now you eat. But again I turned away, and he returned his hand to his lips. Dnes sum tuka , he said, speaking again the words he had made his chant, today I’m here, I eat, do you understand, I eat. Razbiram , I said, and again he snapped back at me Nishto ne razbirash , you don’t understand anything. But then his voice softened, as it had before, I understand you, he said, but you don’t understand me, and he looked at me again with such sadness that I did eat, finally taking the gift he had offered, though I could barely swallow, my gorge rose at the sweetness of it.