Everything Is Illuminated (8 page)

I did not yearn to mention this, but I will. Soon I will possess enough currency to purchase a plane voucher to America. Father does not know this. He thinks I disseminate everything I possess at famous discotheques, but as proxy for I often go to the beach and roost for many hours, so I do not have to disseminate currency. When I roost at the beach I think about how lucky you are.

It was Little Igor’s fourteen birthday yesterday. He made his arm broken the day yore, because he fell again, this time from a fence he was hiking on, if you can believe it. We all tried very inflexibly to make him a happy person, and Mother prepared a premium cake that had many ceilings, and we even had a small festival. Grandfather was present, of course. He inquired how you are, and I told him that you would be reverting to university in September, which is now. I did not inform him about how the guard stole Augustine’s box, because I knew that he would feel ashamed, and it made him happy to hear of you, and he is never happy. He wanted for me to inquire if it would be a possible thing for you to post another reproduction of the photograph of Augustine. He said that he would present you currency for any expenses. I am very distressed about him, as I informed you in the last letter.

His health is being defeated. He does not possess the energy to get spleened often, and is usually in silence. In truth, I would favor it if he yelled at me, and even if he punched me.

Father purchased a new bicycle for Little Igor for his birthday, which is a superior present, because I know Father does not possess enough currency for presents such as bicycles. “The poor Clumsy One,” he said, extending to put his hand on Little Igor’s shoulder, “he should be happy on his birthday.” I have girdled a picture of the bicycle in the envelope. Tell me if it is awesome.

Please, be truthful. I will not be angry if you tell me that it is not awesome.

I resolved not to go anywhere famous last night. Instead I roosted on the beach. But I was not in my normal solitude, because I took the photograph of Augustine with me. I must confess to you that I examine it very recurrently, and persevere to think about what you said about falling in love with her.

She is beautiful. You are correct.

Enough of my miniature talking. I am making you a very boring person. I will now speak about the business of the story. I perceived that you were not as appeased by the second division. I eat another slice for this. But your corrections were so easy. Thank you for informing me that it is “shit a brick,”

and “shitting bricks,” and also “to come in handy.” It is very useful for me to know the correct idioms. It is necessary. I know that you asked me not to alter the mistakes because they sound humorous, and humorous is the only truthful way to tell a sad story, but I think I will alter them. Please do not hate me.

I did fashion all of the other corrections you commanded. I inserted what you ordered me to in the part about when I first encountered you. (Do you in truth think that we are comparable?) As you commanded, I removed the sentence “He was severely short,” and inserted in its place, “Like me, he was not tall.” And after the sentence “ ‘Oh,’ Grandfather said, and I perceived that he was still departing from a dream,” I added, as you commanded, “About Grandmother?”

With these changes, I am confident that the second part of the story is perfect. I was unable to ignore observing that you again posted me currency.

For this I again thank you. But I parrot what I uttered before: if you are not appeased by what I post to you, and would like to have your currency posted back, I will post it back immediately. I could not feel proud in any other manner.

I toiled very hard on this next section. It was the most rigid yet. I attempted to guess some of the things you would have me alter, and I altered them myself. For example, I did not utilize the word “spleen” with such habituality, because I could perceive that it made you on nerves by the sentence in your letter when you said, “Stop using the word ‘spleen.’ It’s getting on my nerves.” I also invented things that I thought would appease you, funny things and sad things. I am certain that you will inform me when I have traveled too far.

Concerned about your writing, you sent me many pages, but I must tell you that I read every one of them. The Book of Recurrent Dreams was a very beautiful thing, and I must say that the dream that we are our fathers made me melancholy. This is what you intended, yes? Of course I am not Father, so perhaps I am the rare bird to your novel. When I look in the reflection, what I view is not Father, but the negative of Father.

Yankel. He is a good man, yes? Why do you think he made to swindle that man so many years ago? Perhaps he needed the currency very severely. I know what this is like, although I would never swindle any person. I found it stimulating that you made another lottery, this time to dub the shtetl. It made me think about what I would dub Odessa if I was given the power. I think that I might dub it Alex, because then everyone would know that I am Alex, and that the name of the city is Alex, so I must be a very premium person. I also might name it Little Igor, because people would think that my brother is a premium person, which he is, but it would be good for people to think so. (It is a queer thing how I wish everything for my brother that I wish for myself, only more rigidly.) Perhaps I would name it Trachimbrod, because then Trachimbrod could exist, and also, everyone here would purchase your book, and you could become famous.

I am regretted to end this letter. It is as proximal a thing as we have to talking. I hope you are appeased by the third division, and as always, I ask for your forgiveness. I attempted to be truthful and beautiful, as you told me to.

Oh, yes. There is one additional item. I did not amputate Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior from the story, even though you counseled that I should amputate her. You uttered that the story would be more “refined” with her absence, and I know that refined is like cultivated, polished, and well bred, but I will inform you that Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior is a very distinguished character, one with variegated appetites and seats of passion. Let us view her evolution and then resolve.

Guilelessly,

Alexander

Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior converted her attention from masticating her tail to trying to lick clean the hero’s spectacles, which I will tell you were in need of cleaning. I write that she was trying because the hero was not being sociable. “Can you please get this dog away from me,” he said, making his body into a ball. “Please. I really don’t like dogs.” “She is only making games with you,” I told him when she put her body on top of his and kicked him with her back legs. “It signifies that she likes you.”

“Please,” he said, attempting to remove her. She was now jumping up and also down on his face. “I really don’t like her. I don’t feel like games.

She’s going to break my glasses.”

I will now mention that Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior is very often sociable with her new friends, but I had never witnessed a thing like this.

I reasoned that she was in love with the hero. “Are you donning cologne?” I asked. “What?” “Are you donning any cologne?” He rotated his body so that his face was in the seat, away from Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior. “Maybe a little,” he said, defending the back of his head with his hands. “Because she loves cologne. It makes her sexually stimulated.”

“Jesus.” “She is trying to make sex to you. This is a good sign. It signifies that she will not bite.” “Help!” he said as Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior rotated to do a sixty-nine. Pending all of this, Grandfather was still returning from his repose. “He does not like her,” I told him. “Yes he does,” Grandfather said, and that was all. “Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior!” I called. “Sit!” And do you know what? She sat. On the hero. In the sixty-nine position. “Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior! Sit on your side of the back seat! Get off the hero!” I think that she understanded me, because she removed herself from the hero and returned to punching her face against the window on the other side. Or perhaps she had licked off all of the hero’s cologne and was no longer interested in him sexually, but only as friends. “Do you smell something really awful?” the hero inquired, moving the wetness off of the back of his neck. “No,” I said. A befitting not-truth. “Something smells just awful. It smells like someone died in this car. What is that?” “I do not know,” I said, although I had a notion.

I do not cogitate that there was a person in the car that was surprised when we became lost amid the Lvov train station and the superway to Lutsk. “I hate Lvov,” Grandfather rotated to tell the hero. “What’s he saying?” the hero asked me. “He said it will not be long,” I told him, another befitting not-truth. “Long until what?” the hero asked. I said to Grandfather, “You do not have to be kind to me, but do not blunder with the Jew.” He said, “I can say anything I want to him. He will not understand.” I rotated my head vertically to benefit the hero. “He says it will not be long until we get to the superway to Lutsk.” “And from there?”

the hero asked. “How long from there to Lutsk?” He affixed his attention to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, who was still punching her head against the window. (But I will mention that she was being a good bitch, because she punched her head against only her window, and when you are in a car, bitch or no bitch, you can do anything you desire as long as you remain on your side. Also, she was not farting very much.) “Tell him to shut his mouth,” Grandfather said. “I cannot drive if he is going to talk.” “Our driver says there are many buildings in Lutsk,” I told the hero. “We are being paid tremendously to listen to him talk,” I told Grandfather. “I am not,” he said. “Neither am I,” I said, “but someone is.” “What?” “He says from the superway it is not more than two hours to Lutsk, where we will find a terrible hotel for the night.” “What do you mean when you say terrible?” “What?” “I said, what . . . do . . . you . . .

mean . . . when . . . you . . . say . . . the . . . hotel . . . will . . . be . . . terrible?” “Tell him to shut his mouth.” “Grandfather says that you should look out of your window if you want to see anything.” “What about the terrible hotel?” “Oh, I implore you to forget I said that.” “I hate Lvov. I hate Lutsk. I hate the Jew in the back seat of this car that I hate.” “You do not make this any cinchier.” “I am blind. I am supposed to be retarded.”

“What are you saying up there? And what the hell is that smell?”

“What?” “Tell him to shut his mouth or I will drive us off the road.”

“What . . . are . . . you . . . say . . . ing . . . up . . . there?” “The Jew must be silenced. I will kill us.” “We were saying that the trip will perhaps be longer than we were desiring.”

It captured five very long hours. If you want to know why, it is because Grandfather is Grandfather first and a driver second. He made us lost often and became on his nerves. I had to translate his anger into useful information for the hero. “Fuck,” Grandfather said. I said, “He says if you look at the statues, you can see that some no longer endure. Those are where Communist statues used to be.” “Fucking fuck, fuck!” Grandfather shouted. “Oh,” I said, “he wants you to know that that building, that building, and that building are all important.” “Why?” the hero inquired. “Fuck!” Grandfather said. “He cannot remember,” I said.

“Could you turn on some air conditioning?” the hero commanded. I was humiliated to the maximum. “This car does not have air conditioning,” I said. “I am eating humble pie.” “Well, can we roll down the windows? It’s really hot in here, and it smells like something died.” “Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior will jump out.” “Who?” “The bitch. Her name is Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior.” “Is that a joke?” “No, she will truly go forth from the car.” “His name, though.” “Her name,” I rectified him, because I am first rate with pronouns. “Tell him to Velcro his lip together,” Grandfather said. “He says that the bitch was named for his favorite singer, who was Sammy Davis, Junior.” “A Jew,” the hero said.

“What?” “Sammy Davis, Junior was a Jew.” “This is not possible,” I said.

“A convert. He found the Jewish God. Funny.” I told this to Grandfather. “Sammy Davis, Junior was not a Jew!” he hollered. “He was the Negro of the Rat Pack!” “The Jew is certain of it.” “The Music Man? A Jew? This is not a possible thing!” “This is what he informs me.” “Dean Martin, Junior!” he hollered to the back seat. “Get up here! Come on, girl!” “Can we please roll down the window?” the hero said. “I can’t live with that smell.” With this I licked the last crumb of humble pie from the plate. “It is only Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior. She gets terrible farting in the car because it has nor shock absorbers nor struts, but if we roll down the window she will jump out, and we need her because she is the Seeing Eye bitch for our blind driver, who is also my grandfather. What do you not understand?”

It was pending this five-hour car drive from the Lvov train station to Lutsk that the hero explained to me why he came to Ukraine. He excavated several items from his side bag. First he exhibited me a photograph. It was yellow and folded and had many pieces of fixative affixing it together. “See this?” he said. “This here is my grandfather Safran.” He pointed to a young man who I will say appeared very much like the hero, and could have been the hero. “This was taken during the war.” “From who?” “No, not taken like that. The photograph was made.” “I understand.” “These people he is with are the family that saved him from the Nazis.” “What?” “They . . . saved . . . him . . . from . . . the . . . Na . . . zis.” “In Trachimbrod?” “No, somewhere outside of Trachimbrod. He escaped the Nazi raid on Trachimbrod. Everyone else was killed. He lost a wife and a baby.” “He lost?” “They were killed by the Nazis.” “But if it was not Trachimbrod, why do we go to Trachimbrod? And how will we find this family?” He explained to me that we were not looking for the family, but for this girl. She would be the only one still alive.

He moved his finger along the face of the girl in the photograph as he mentioned her. She was standing down and right to his grandfather in the picture. A man who I am certain was her father was next to her, and a woman who I am certain was her mother was behind her. Her parents appeared very Russian, but she did not. She appeared American. She was a youthful girl, perhaps fifteen. But it is possible that she had more age.