The Free World (10 page)

A
fter her English class one afternoon, Polina came home to find Lyova at the kitchen table, hunched over the telephone. She heard him say, It’s good you can hold your breath for a minute and twenty seconds, but don’t upset your mother. Practice in the bathtub, not the sea.

Lyova raised his eyes and smiled weakly when he saw Polina enter.

—I don’t know how long I can hold my breath, he said. Probably not that long.

Polina crossed the apartment as quietly as she could.

—All right, I promise, Lyova said. I’ll try today and write you with the result. If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I burst.

Polina made to sneak into the bedroom, but Lyova gestured for her not to bother. She saw him glance down at the tabletop, where he’d laid his wristwatch.

—Okay, there’s thirty seconds left. I miss you. I kiss you. Let me say a few words to Mama.

Not knowing quite where to go, Polina went into the kitchen and began to carefully unpack the vegetables she’d bought at the round market.

She heard Lyova say, I’m glad he likes the shirt. And what about the shoes? Give me your honest word. Because if you don’t like them, you should sell them. They’re Italian leather, and many women wear your size.

There was some silence, and Lyova fiddled with his watch.

—All right. All right. Give my best to everyone, Lyova said and laid the receiver into the cradle. He rested his chin in his hands as if after a great exertion.

—I look forward to these calls all month, but they’re costly, and not just in money.

Then, instantly, as if he had thrown a switch, he flattened his palms on the tabletop and thrust himself up.

—I could use a walk, Lyova said. What do you say?

On the street, shop owners were beginning to open their doors after siesta. Lyova took Polina to a bakery in whose windows were trays ladened with assorted biscuits. The woman at the counter greeted him by name. Lyova filled a white paper bag with biscuits, and they walked along the streets, taking turns reaching into the bag.

—When I left, Lyova said, I thought everything would get sorted in a few months. You can say a few months to an eight-year-old boy without terrifying him. You turn three or four pages in the calendar. But after a year, he gets used to you not being around. For now he still lets me behave like a father for five minutes once a month on the phone.

On their way to Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, Lyova described, as he hadn’t before, the balancing act that was his life in Italy—the tours he gave to cover his expenses, to send money to Israel, to buy gifts, and to pay for the monthly overseas phone calls.

In the piazza, they found places on the steps that surrounded the central fountain. The crowds hadn’t yet arrived. The white paper bag stood open between them. Polina kept her shoulders square, but her bare knees, exposed below the hem of her skirt, were turned casually toward Lyova. Sitting this way, unhurriedly, on marble steps, reminded her of her student days, when she would unexpectedly fall
into conversation with a male classmate. A fleeting, platonic intimacy would arise, and they would wind up speaking frankly and seriously about themselves. Then they’d go their separate ways and never speak like that again, or need to. She’d forgotten all about these conversations.

—You love your son, Polina said. Why don’t you go back?

—It’s for him that I left Israel, Lyova said. I want him to grow up in a different sort of country.

—What sort of country?

—A psychologically easier sort.

—My sister-in-law’s parents and brother are in Israel. She says they’re happy.

—I’m sure they are. Many people love it. To live there, you need to love it. The country asks a lot of you. If you don’t love it, you should leave. That’s me. I also loved it, but then I saw some things and I didn’t love it anymore. I said to myself, Time to go. I didn’t want to have to see those things again, and, even more, I didn’t want my son to have to see them.

—A year away from your wife and son is a long time. You must be sure that America doesn’t have those same things. Or other things just as bad.

—”Those things.” Lyova smiled. I don’t mean to be cryptic. How to explain it. I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a military man, a tank officer. I grew up on my father’s war stories and I also wanted to be a hero. But instead of a war, I drew Czechoslovakia. I was one of those poor bastards on top of a tank in Prague, pointing a submachine gun at a bunch of students. Pretty girls in raincoats spat at me. After that, I was done with the army and the Soviet Union. And when people started applying for exit visas, I didn’t think twice. We lived a very good life in Israel for three years. I had a job and a car. And then in ‘73 I even got my war. If you remember it.

In 1973, Polina hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to Israel. To the extent that she’d been aware of the country, it had seemed a tumultuous land forever at war.

—Well, there’s nothing good to remember about it, Lyova said. I
was almost thirty then, with a wife and son. I no longer had any desire to be a hero. All I wanted was to get out in one piece. I was a tank man in the Sinai. I served with young boys from the kibbutzes who had never been anywhere. They’d never been on a train. They’d never seen a museum. They left life having barely tasted it. When the war ended, they sent us to Gaza. Once again I found myself on top of a tank pointing a gun at civilians. When they saw us coming, women clutched their children, and the men turned to face the walls. In Czechoslovakia, I had consoled myself with the thought that my people weren’t responsible. The Russians were doing it, and I was a Jew. In Gaza, I couldn’t think this. With me was an Israeli, another reservist with a wife and kids. He said,
It’s shit, but it’s our shit.
For me this wasn’t the excuse, this was the problem. I’m sure there’s much I don’t know about America, but I know that their sons don’t have to go and do this.

They left the piazza and headed back to the apartment. As they went, it occurred to Polina that she had never seen a photograph of Lyova’s wife and son. He hadn’t any up in the apartment. Early evening was approaching, and they were in the narrow Via Della Lungaretta with the growing ranks of tourists who loitered in front of the souvenir shops that lined both sides of the street. Lyova stopped in the middle of the street and withdrew a snapshot from his wallet. He showed it proudly to Polina.

—One month ago, he said.

His wife and son were side by side in front of an ice cream parlor, each holding a cone. Some distance behind them could be seen the crowns of palm trees. There was, in the light and the architecture, the intimation of a beach. Lyova’s wife stood not much taller than his son; in a sleeveless dress, her upper arms were soft, her shoulders round. She wore her brown hair cut short and she peered into the camera defiantly, her expression at odds with the backdrop and the ice cream. The boy, lanky like his father, but otherwise bearing a closer resemblance to his mother, beamed.

—People say he looks like his mother, Lyova said.

—The smile is yours.

—He’s a handsome boy, Lyova said. Good that he didn’t get my face.

—What’s wrong with your face? Polina asked.

—Mine is the archetypal Jewish face. Like something formed on the run and in a panic. Nose, eyes, ears, mouth: finished. He has a face for a new age, I hope. No more running, no more panic.

My dearest Lola,

Now I can finally reply! I will write you at least one letter a day for the next week. Just watch, you’ll get so many letters from me you’ll dread going to the mailbox. “Oh God, her again. How she babbles on.” You see, this way it will feel like we were never separated at all.

In case you were wondering, I think I’ve received all of your letters. I have four so far. Two from Vienna and two from Rome. I’ve read each of them a thousand times and could recite them by rote like verses from
Eugene Onegin.
It all sounds like a fantastic adventure, including the miserable parts. Not that you asked for my advice, but I’ll give it anyway: enjoy yourself and don’t spend any time worrying about me. I miss you terribly, but other than that I’m just fine.

It felt very strange waking up the morning after you left. I didn’t sleep well and when morning came I looked out my window and saw that it was raining. I thought that was fitting. It seemed perfectly reasonable that the weather should reflect how I felt. But after breakfast the sun came out and it turned into a brilliant morning. I thought that this had some kind of
significance too. Maybe it meant that everything would turn out for the best? And then, when I went out, the sky darkened again and I was caught in a thundershower. It lasted no more than ten minutes and then cleared completely. So I read something into that as well. This was the way I felt all day—everything had to do with you and me. Outside our building, a boy rode past me on his bicycle, shouted something, took his hands off the handlebars, and plowed into a parked car. Going to meet a friend, I thought I would miss my bus; it passed me on the way to the stop and I didn’t even bother to run after it. But then, conveniently, it delayed at the stop for a long time. When I got there, the ticket taker was arguing with a drunk. People were shouting at the drunk and several men rose from their seats to physically remove him. When they put their hands on him he started to wail that they should have pity on him seeing as how he was a veteran who’d been heavily wounded in the battle for Berlin. As they pushed him out the door he struggled to undo his shirt and show everyone his scars. I’d never seen this drunk before, but people on the bus said they were familiar with his act. Other times he’d claimed to have received his wounds in Stalingrad and in Kursk.

And finally, the strangest of all. When the bus reached the city center, at the stop across from the store, Children’s World, who should get on but Maxim? I could scarcely believe my eyes. I couldn’t have been more shocked had it been Jesus Christ himself. It had been so long since I’d seen him last and I was amazed by the coincidence. The bus wasn’t very full and so there was no way we could avoid seeing each other. But he said nothing to me and so I said nothing to him. All I could think about was whether or not he knew that you had left the previous day. I was so uncomfortable being on the same bus with him that I got off three stops early. Since we’d not said hello to each other, we also didn’t say goodbye. Not that it matters, but he looked well. It seemed like he’d gained some weight and, if I’m not mistaken, I think he was wearing a new shirt.

In other matters, the weather is fine. I go to Jurmala when I
can. I’ve become friendly with your mailman, who is very courteous, funny, and energetic. I’d always thought someone in his position would be depressed, but he seems to be in better spirits than most. It could be that he’s just a happy idiot.

Mama and Papa are about the same. Papa spends more time reading the newspapers and has taken to clipping certain articles. He leaves these lying around the apartment for me to find, as a precaution, to discourage me from also committing a terrible mistake. Mama is as before, except that she’s started going on long walks in the morning. In short, we are managing. There isn’t too much more I can say on this subject …

A
t six o’clock on Sunday morning Alec and Polina walked briskly along the Lungotevere. The morning was cool and clear. Across the opposite bank, the rising sun spread more color than heat as it crept above the marble and terra-cotta of the Palatine Hill. Traffic was almost nonexistent on the Lungotevere, and down below, on the paved paths that ran along the river and under the vaults of bridges, Alec saw the slumped forms of drunks and heroin addicts, stirring groggily.

It was a great morning for a stroll. The sort of morning where he and Polina could walk linked arm in arm, but in this instance both of Alec’s arms were weighed down by merchandise. In one hand he held the notorious plywood suitcase that contained stereo LPs of Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Beethoven—pressed by the Melodiya label in Leningrad, an “All-Soviet Gramophone Record Firm.” In his other hand he carried a satchel filled with the Latvian tooled leather goods, lacquered boxes, ballet shoes, and various toys and plastic knickknacks meant to appeal to children and imbeciles. Polina was similarly encumbered. With both hands she clutched the handles of a duffel bag packed with linens. Alec had tried to dissuade her from
loading herself down this way, and from making this early-morning hike in general, but Polina had been resolute.

As Lyova had said, their apartment put them in ideal striking distance of the Americana market. While others were racing down from Ostia and Ladispoli, rushing to catch trains, loading and unloading their wares, then sprinting from Trastevere Station, Alec and Polina were a short walk away. They could stop and rest when they chose, knowing that they would still be among the first to arrive. Karl had set them the task of claiming two well-situated tables in the Russian section of the market.

Alec and Polina arrived at the market at half past six as the first vendors were starting to unload their goods onto the broad wooden tables. Most traded in clothing, either new or used: jackets and sweaters, pants and hats, shoes and bikinis, formalwear and army surplus. The vendors were mainly Italian, although there were also Arabs, assorted Bulgarians or Romanians, and Gypsies, who laid their miscellanies on blankets on the ground. More arrived with every passing minute, turning in from Viale Trastevere in trucks, sedans, motorized rickshawlike contraptions, bicycles, and scooters—many loaded to excess with goods lashed into place by methods that ranged from ingenious to hazardous.

For a long time, as the market took shape around them, they saw nobody who could have been confused with a Russian. Vendors went about the mundane business of preparations, like actors before a performance, talking little, working automatically, making silent calculations. Alec thought to study them for pointers. It was possible that good looks and charisma were not enough. Or a disadvantage, even. In Riga, the most successful black marketeer he knew was a seventy-year-old Jew named Alter Schlamm, a head shorter than Alec and with the face of a dour picture-book dwarf. He’d seen Schlamm on occasion at the apartment Karl shared with his in-laws. Schlamm dealt in various commodities, and Rosa’s father, though timid in business, would now and again buy fabric from him. Alec had seen him arrive one evening and remove his oversize raincoat. Underneath, he’d wrapped himself in several meters of fabric.

—This here could make a nice dress. Short at the hem, how they’re wearing it now. And here could be a dandy little suit for the big brother with still enough left over for the baby.

It was said of Schlamm that he had an iron pail full of gold coins. It was said he had a woolen sock stuffed with rubies and diamonds. It was said he’d anticipated the last currency devaluation and made a million dollars.

Alec saw in the eyes of the vendors at the market the same thing he had seen in the eyes of Alter Schlamm: the fire of inventory.

When they had walked nearly the length of the market, Alec noted the first, unmistakable Russian. A wide-shouldered, bearded man was building a pyramid out of packs of Soviet cigarettes. Laid out beside these were the familiar linens and, strangely, cans of Soviet coffee.

—I take it we’ve found the place, Alec said.

—You’ve found it, all right, the man replied. I’ve got these two tables.

Alec put his records down on the nearest table but one. The other bag he set as a placeholder for Karl. Polina dropped her duffel bag behind the first table and started to unpack.

—Can I ask you, Alec said to the man, does the coffee sell?

—I have three customers. Italians. They come every week. Don’t ask me what they do with it.

Just before seven o’clock, as Polina was putting the final touches on their display, Alec saw the unmistakable figure of his brother lumbering up the path. He carried two large duffel bags, immensely heavy, their canvas skins stretched taut. He plodded ahead, betraying no hint of struggle or pain. He’d always been like this. They had lived in Teika, not far from VEF, a predominantly blue-collar area with few Jews. While Alec had been sent to the Number 40 School, specializing in English and located in the center of the city, Karl had been enrolled at the local school. If somebody said
Yid,
Karl went after him. Though sometimes he also went after people who said
Hey, you,
or who, he felt, had looked at him the wrong way. There were many afternoons when Alec returned home to find their mother
patching Karl up, her doctor’s bag agape on the kitchen table. Karl never cried or complained, only sat broodingly and tolerated their mother’s lectures and ministrations. At night, in their room, he recounted the details of the fights and methodically planned his strategies for attack and revenge. Alec had been thrilled by the stories, and amazed by Karl’s fearlessness, or his ability to suppress his fear. Secretly, though, he worried that Karl’s battles would spill over from the schoolyard and follow him home.

Not surprisingly, Karl earned the respect of his foes, who then became his friends. Up until his graduation, Karl preferred them to people whom he hadn’t punched in the face. They drank together, played soccer, beat up other people, and in the winter went on marathon cross-country ski excursions. Later, Karl became infatuated with physical culture, and started doing push-ups and sit-ups by the hundreds. That led to Roman Berman’s bodybuilding class at the Dynamo gym and Karl’s pride in developing a neck almost fifty centimeters around for which he had trouble finding suitable shirts. Since the official Party line on bodybuilding was that it was a vain and decadent bourgeois activity, their father condemned it. But Karl, who loved dumbbells more than the Party, continued to train until marriage and fatherhood put an end to it. Alec naturally assumed that such a love never completely died.

He thought something along these lines as he watched his brother come to a stop and lower the bags in the middle of the path. Karl was still some twenty-five meters shy of their tables, but he remained in place, his expression incredulous and sour.

—Unbelievable, Karl said when Alec came over.

—What? Alec asked.

Karl kicked one of the duffel bags, which received the blow inertly, like a fat, sleeping drunk.

—What? Karl sneered. You’d think I was carrying them for your amusement.

—You carried them this far, I thought you’d want to finish.

Karl shook his head disparagingly.

—When they make it an Olympic event, I’ll finish. For now, give a hand.

Alec nodded casually and heaved the bag onto his back. He followed Karl to his table and slid the bag onto it. Karl did the same.

Relieved of the bag, Karl’s mood improved.

—I dreamed of shit last night, Karl declared. Means we’re due to come into money.

In short order he unpacked his bags and spread out his almost identical wares. By nine o’clock all the stalls were filled and buyers congested the paths. From every side came the calls that Alec immediately learned and imitated:
Una pezza, una lira!
and
Per bambino! Per bambina!

Early in the day, Alec fell in among the crowd to see what prices others were charging for comparable goods. Nobody was eager to reveal their prices to competitors, but it didn’t take much to realize that the prices didn’t vary greatly. The trick, Alec saw, was to use any possible means to attract a buyer to your stall. A man selling Soviet cameras—Kiev, Zorki, and Mir—demonstrated his products by pretending to snap a photo of the buyer and then, with primitive sleight of hand, producing a small photograph of Stalin. If he received a cool reaction, he shook the photograph as if to erase and develop it anew. He then showed the customer the corrected photo: Mussolini. If that failed to please them, he shook it again until it bore the likeness of Sophia Loren. Another Russian, selling pantyhose, waved a cardboard cutout of a shapely woman’s leg. A good-looking young man from Kaunas, in a smiling courtly manner, lavished his Italian customers with Yiddish curses.
Ale tsores vos ikh hob, zoln oysgeyn tsu dayn kop!
He was very popular. His customers smiled resplendently as they handed over their money.

There was every kind of distraction at the market. Gypsy women with small children roamed through the thick crowd begging and clasping on to people. Shoppers batted the children’s hands away like gnats. Alec saw a Gypsy woman pinch her infant to make it wail, then look imploringly at passing tourists. Like rocks in a stream,
some vendors planted themselves in the middle of the path and brandished small items for sale: wristwatches, utility knives, cigarette lighters, batteries. At intervals, trucks were stationed from which sausages and pizza could be bought. More humble operators roasted corn on the embers of blackened iron grills. Lugging big aluminum coolers, boys sold ice cream and soda. Where a lane intersected the main path, a heavyset man with a gourd-shaped head, wider at the jaw than at the temples, presided over a shell game.

When Alec returned to their stall, Polina was calmly watching people sift through their goods. It seemed to Alec that there was a lot of touching but not a lot of buying. At Karl’s table, Karl was clapping his hands and boisterously calling out to every passing
signore
and
signora.

—Anything so far? Alec asked.

Polina smiled a sketch of a smile.

—You sold something? Alec said.

—You can’t tell? Polina replied.

Alec scanned the table to take stock but he couldn’t identify what might have been sold.

—Three windup plastic chicks, Polina said proudly. A woman bought them for her grandchildren.

Polina reached into her pocket and drew out several bills.

—Our first sale, Alec said. We should spend it on something memorable.

—It’s only six
mila
lire, Polina said. I didn’t know how much to ask. Karl said ask for five and you’ll get two. So that’s what I did.

—Not bad, Alec said. Next we should try to unload something heavier.

As the day wore on, Alec discovered that he could concentrate on selling only for short periods before his mind wandered. There was so much activity, so much curious human traffic to contemplate. There were also many girls and housewives demanding to be noticed and admired. Even standing beside Polina didn’t deter him or inoculate him against a consuming interest in other women. Each time a new one appeared she temporarily obliterated the rest of the world.
Everything blurred and receded, leaving only the tantalizing possibility. If she walked away unknown, mystery and regret trailed after her like the tail of a comet. The consolation was that she was almost immediately replaced by another woman. Who vanished trailing mystery and regret. And then again and again. It was repetitive but never dull. However, it made it hard to focus on selling windup toys, linens, and hand-tooled leather goods.