Rus Like Everyone Else (26 page)

“So you work at Overall?” a woman with a cigarette asked Rus at the party. “How do you like it?”

Rus had finished the last of the two hundred files at eight thirty that day, his shoulders up so high that his shoulder pads covered his ears. When he got home at nine, longing to have dinner with Wanda and to tell her about the problem with the sound in the office and how strange his colleagues had acted about it, Wanda was waiting for him by the door with her coat on. They were going to a housewarming party. She looked very nervous and her face was powdered browner than usual.

“Yes, I work at the Overall Company,” Rus replied to the woman at the party. “There is a terrible sound coming from the air vent. It distracts me from my work.”

That was how he had been making conversation at Barry and Vera's housewarming party and how he had chased most people who tried to talk to him away. When they did not go away Rus had a hard time concentrating on their replies, and this got him so nervous he could not hear them at all anymore, and he would hear nothing but that scraping sound in his head.

All Rus wanted was to go home with Wanda and tell her about his problem at work, but Wanda was in another corner of the room and she did not want to go home. People were talking to her, talking into her, pressing their thumbs in her arms, and she looked very much unlike how he knew her; she looked small and she kept her head bent a lot. But when he walked over to her she said: “Go and mingle, I'm having fun.”

Rus went out to the balcony. If I live to be eighty, he thought, I
have fifty-five years to go. Making random calculations like this, he stared at the backyard of the neighbors below, and the cold wind made his nose tingle. The sun had already gone down and the clouds around the moon were blue and yellow.

Barry also stepped out on the balcony, to smoke. The tip of his cigarette lit up red and they stood there silently while he smoked. Barry looked a bit like the photo in the shopping district, Rus noticed. His jaws were broad and he was wearing a button-down shirt under his jacket.

Rus saw a bit of burning ash fall down from the cigarette. He followed the red speck with his eyes to the balcony floor. On that floor were Barry's two feet, and on Barry's feet were brown loafers with leather tassels where the laces should be. Rus looked at his own feet that were standing a few centimeters away from them. The shoes were exactly the same, only Rus's shoes were older, and they were worn at the nose. Barry saw it too, and he smiled at Rus, giving him a pat on his shoulder.

Through the window Rus saw Wanda in the living room, looking over her shoulder at the balcony, and he raised his hand, but she wasn't looking him. Wanda, in her flower-print skirt, with her round hips and short legs. The scraping sound in his head got a bit louder, and as he opened his mouth to breathe, a memory came back to him like it was real.

He was in Café Valentines and came out of the men's room. There was Francisco in his fluffy coat, the feathers poking out of the holes in the fabric.

Francisco grabbed Rus's shoulders. “You are my friend,” he said. He pushed his forehead against Rus's and squeezed his shoulders. He said, “You are my friend.”

Rus felt a lump in his throat, just like he had then, and he tried to hold on to Francisco and tell him, “Don't leave me behind. Please take me with you. Take me to the submarines. I can help. I know the wind directions, I can steer the ship. Don't go.” But the memory was a memory and unchangeable, and Francisco disappeared from his hands.

Rus looked sideways at Barry. He blew the smoke out very slowly. It formed circles that became larger and larger. Rus looked at how nicely the smoke dissolved in the air, and he wished that the
sound in the office would dissolve like that, and then he wished that his worries would dissolve like that, and lastly that he himself could dissolve like Barry's smoke.

When you know someone's face really well, like I know yours and you know mine now, you can't really see that face anymore like you saw it the first time you met. All that you know about this person becomes visible in their face and forms a kind of cloud that lies over their features. When I look at you I see my own feelings for you in your face. It makes your face look softer, more perfect than it really is. I sometimes think I can see your thoughts pass by behind your eyes when you frown or when your eyes light up.

Mrs. Blue could always read Mr. Blue's face like a book, with their life together as the pages. When she looked at him she saw his mood and his thoughts, she saw the things he was worried about, the things he found funny, and she saw all the past Mr. Blues whom she knew. The young Mr. Blue she had met in the cigarette factory, the strong one who had fought for his country, and the anxious one who had came back from the war. When he started to slip away she saw new things in his face sometimes: a strange gaze, a blank stare, panic, or an anger toward her that was never there before. He recognized her only in old photographs in the end, not as she was now at eighty-four.

But you can still love someone very well without them loving you back, I think, even when this person does not know you. You can love the expressions on someone's face, or the way you get used to their moods. You can love someone's movements; when you get to know their specific way of opening a can, of eating, or the way they frown when they read a book, like you do.

On the other side of the city we find Rus. He sits on a chair by the window, and he is watching Wanda as she sits on the couch, bent over an old shoebox. Her eyebrows are raised and there are lines around her mouth. Her expression is almost surprised, in a sad way. Rus does not know what that means, and it worries him. He vaguely thinks he has to chase her down the hallway and tickle her, but the sound in his head blocks out all his thoughts, and instead he watches her quietly until she gets up without looking at him, and he follows her to bed.

GRACE IN THE STORY

Vertical and horizontal lines divided the landscape around Grace into squares and rectangles. The mist had risen and hung as thick white clouds above her.

The air was different too; it tasted fresh and moist on her tongue.

In the distance, rays of light came up over the horizon, the growing light giving color to the white world. Green and red and yellow was poured into the squares and rectangles around Grace, and they became green and red and yellow fields.

A dark, broad road became visible too now, leading up to a collection of lights in the distance.

“A city,” Grace whispered, relieved.

YOU ARE NOTHING

The secretary had stayed up all night: twenty-four hours had gone by and she had registered every second of it. There were long shadows in the apartment; the sun was just coming up. Her muscles were shaking with cold. There was a smell of vomit in the bathroom and her legs were stiff and painful. She stood up.

“Don't think I don't know why you are not showing up for work anymore,” the voice of the lawyer said in her living room. He was leaving a message on her answering machine. “Don't think I don't know what you are trying to do. But you won't take me down with you. Nobody at the office will ever choose your side. They don't even remember you.”

The secretary walked into the living room. Everything was still colorless, but she felt empty and light.

“You are nobody,” the lawyer whispered, “you are an absolute nobody here.”

The secretary nodded as she walked naked through the room toward the window.

He was right.

She opened the window and let the wind blow over her face and her body. It was almost as if the wind were blowing through her. Behind her the clock still ticked.
Tick. Tick. Tick
. She thought of all
the clocks in her life—the clock in the living room, the clock above the elevator in the office, the clock above the metro station—all ticking her time away.

If you really want to be here, she said to herself, you have to do things you remember. You have to respond to the things that happen to you. You have to be radical.

THE MEETING

Rus was in the meeting room with his coworkers. They sat around a large white table, looking at a screen that listed the agenda points. Point one: Concerning the recent takeovers. Point two: Improving intern communication. Point three: Closing early due to the Memorial Service. At point four: Anything else? Rus raised his hand.

“Yes, Rus,” the manager said, “keep it short.”

“It is about the sound,” Rus said, looking around the table at his coworkers.

“Excuse me?” the manager said.

“The sound in the air vent in the office,” Rus said, nodding. “I think there may be a bird in there.”

“A what?” the manager said. “What are you talking about?”

“A bird,” Rus said, speaking as loud and clear as possible. “There are bird sounds coming from the air vent. Shrieking, cawing, scratching. It sounds like a gull. And it keeps getting worse.”

“Does anybody know what he is talking about?” the manager asked.

Rus's coworkers looked at one another. Fokuhama coughed.

“Is this a Russian thing, Rus?” the manager said. “Because we have a cultural element in our yearly office party. That would be the appropriate moment for Russian folk tales and so forth.” He tapped impatiently with his pencil on the table.

“No.” Rus shook his head. “There is scraping and shrieking and fluttering. It comes from the air vent. I can hear it very clearly; it is right above my desk. I think a bird got in there from outside. The noise is very loud and annoying and it disturbs me when I copy the forms. I promised Wanda I would finish my trial period, but frankly I do not see how anyone can work with that noise!”

Rus realized that he was shouting a bit. He cleared his throat. His
coworkers kept silent. Most of them looked at their notebooks or out the window.

“I think something needs to be done about it,” Rus said. “Maybe someone can go in there and chase it away. Or find out how it got in and block the entrance. We could use a long stick, not to hurt it, but to give it a little push, so it goes away.”

The manager looked at Rus for a few seconds with a frown on his face.

Then he placed his copy of the Company Guidelines on the table in front of Rus. He opened it to the letter B.

“Let's see,” the manager said. “What does it say about birds in here, Rus?”

Rus looked at the index page: “Back-to-back loan. Balance. Ballpark. Bankruptcy. Bill. Board. Bookkeeping.”

“Nothing,” Rus said.

“Exactly,” the manager said. He took back the book and closed it carefully. Then he looked around the group.

“There are no animals in the office,” he said firmly. “Is that clear?”

He placed his hand on the table in front of Rus and leaned toward him. “No. Bird.”

Quietly Rus's coworkers got up from the chairs, avoiding Rus's eyes as they walked out the room. Slowly Rus picked up his calculator and his notebook and put them in the plastic bag.

THE DAY OF TRUTH

The sun was shining on Mr. Lucas as he sat on the bus to the Memorial Service. He looked out the window. Kids in hooded sweatshirts were playing music and dancing by the bridge; a young woman in a veil held hands with a man. It was sad to know that in reality the city was much grimmer than what his hypnosis allowed him to see. The youngsters were most likely intimidating passersby, or robbing them, and the woman was probably walking far behind the man, her head bent.

Mr. Lucas had seen it all on the news, the terror that ruled the streets. He was blind to it now, and he wished for everyone to live in the beautiful world he was in. He started to invent some idea
about mass hypnosis and seas of calmness, but then the driver called, “Memorial Square,” and Mr. Lucas got up with a jump.

There it was, his Memorial Square. Mr. Lucas straightened his suit as he stepped out onto the pavement. In the glass of the bus stop he saw his reflection—his black suit, his hair combed over—standing in the middle of the city. He was surrounded by a stream of tourists, businessmen and businesswomen, families, and police, and the monument was towering over them, glowing with an aura of sun.

“I made it,” he said, “I made it, I'm really here.”

From his bag he pulled out his map and his passport, and made his way through the crowd of people toward the police officer guarding the gate to the fenced-off invitation-only Memorial Square.

THE BOSS'S SON

The Queen was standing by the window of her room when the boss's son came up to the tower. She looked very serious. She was wearing her official costume; he'd mended her crown for the Memorial Service for her, gluing all the rubies back on.

“The only way to find out,” the Queen said while she wrapped her hands around the curtain, “is when I die. If everything is still there when I am dead, that means I did not make it up. The only way I can find out is to wait till the very last moment when I am almost, almost dead, and then force my eyes open to see if everything is still there or if it died with me. That would be the only way to really know.”