The Free World (23 page)

A
round midday, Alec opened his eyes. At first he felt immobile, as if he had been buried in sand. He turned his head and saw Polina’s indented pillow. The left side of his face ached. The ache had dimension and shape and it extended beyond the familiar plane of his face.

He willed himself out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The cold floor under his feet sobered him. Each step brought him closer to lucidity, until he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at his reflection—which dispelled any lingering doubts. He saw the bulbous purple swelling and the white plaster from which two sutures peeked out like insect legs. His face looked so gruesome and garish that the only reasonable response was to laugh. Alec stood in the bathroom and laughed, and a lunatic laughed back at him.

He dressed and went into the common room, where he found Lyova at the dining table sifting through a stack of documents. There were coffee cups on the table along with juice, bread, vegetables, cheese, and salami. Alec saw no sign of Polina.

—Have a seat, Chapayev. Your wife left you breakfast, Lyova said.

—Where did she go?

—To send a telegram to her sister.

Alec made himself a sandwich, and chewed delicately.

—She waited for you to wake up, but the telegram office was closing.

—I couldn’t go out like this anyway.

—Do you want to say what happened?

—I’d rather not.

—Whatever it is, is it finished?

—I think so.

They sat for a time without speaking. Alec nibbled his food and Lyova sorted his documents.

—Did I dream it, or did you say the Americans granted you a visa?

Lyova grinned and said, You didn’t dream it. I have a visa. Now all I need is a passport.

Alec didn’t pretend to understand.

—My Jewish luck. The Americans grant me a visa just as my Israeli passport expires. I didn’t even know it was due to expire. I haven’t looked at it in months.

—How hard is it to renew?

—Not hard if I go back to Israel. But if I go back to Israel, I’m cooked. The bureaucracy. And I don’t expect they’d let me travel. My American visa is only good for thirty days. The alternative is a temporary travel document from the embassy here. But it’s purely at their discretion, and the first question they ask is why you allowed your passport to expire abroad. And the second question is why you don’t return to Israel to renew it through the proper channels.

—Still, you should go. What do you have to lose?

—You’re right: nothing. I went yesterday.

—They turned you down.

—I had a very pleasant exchange. As a rule, the Israeli foreign service is stocked with the most rigid apparatchiks, but I drew a nice guy. He looked at my documents and we discovered that we had a lot in common. He was my age. Married with a kid. Served in the Sinai.
Lived near Netanya. And his wife had also been driving on the coastal highway when the PLO killed all those people on the bus last March. He was sincere in wanting to help, but he said he’d never get approval from above.

—So what does this mean?

—It means, I think, that I have one last card to play. In five days, I have an appointment with the Ufficio Stranieri. They could issue me a temporary travel document. Or, of course, once they discover that I’m in the country illegally, they could deport me. But, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose. Worst case, either the Italians ship me back to Israel or the Israelis do.

In the five days that remained before his appointment, Lyova worked to put his affairs in order. He mailed some of his belongings to Netanya, and tried to sell off the rest. For his books, he went to a secondhand bookseller in Trastevere. For his van, he thought of returning to Angelo and the garage in Ladispoli.

This was two days after the incident in Ostia Antica, and Alec’s face, if it was possible, looked even worse than it had before. Alec hadn’t ventured out of the apartment—not to go to his job at the briefing department, not even to go to the corner store for cigarettes. But when Lyova mentioned his plans to go to Ladispoli, Alec volunteered to come along.

When they were on that same road, a few streets shy of the garage—but past the neighborhood where his parents lived, and also past Masha’s building—Alec asked Lyova to let him out of the van. It seemed an arbitrary place to stop—there was nothing there apart from the highway and a street of nondescript residential houses. There was no restaurant, café, or even a bus stop. The only other features of the landscape were the occasional palm trees that lined the road. Alec pointed to the nearest one.

—I’ll wait for you there, Alec said.

When Lyova did not immediately drive off, Alec added, If you see my brother, don’t mention I’m here.

Hiding behind the palm tree, so that he could not be easily seen from the highway, Alec tried to formulate a plan. He tried to envision
different scenarios and how he might best behave in each. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, his thoughts became diffuse and drifted apart. It was impossible to plan without a clear objective, and he didn’t have one. He didn’t know what outcome he wanted.

After a time, Alec saw Lyova returning. This time on foot. Alec didn’t step out to meet him, but continued to wait behind the tree. When Lyova reached him, his face bore a sly smile.

—You look unharmed, Alec said.

—Sometimes it’s easier to deal with thieves.

—Tell me, Alec said, who was in the garage?

—I think the same crew as before.

—Can you be more specific?

—Angelo, the fat Italian who bought the van. I caught a glimpse of your brother, though he didn’t come out. Valera, who fixed the van last time. And one young Russian hood. Dark hair, tattoos on his arms—he was painting a car.

—All right, Alec said, and stepped out from behind the tree.

They walked back the way they had come, following the highway north. The road wasn’t meant for pedestrians and so they had to skirt the edge to avoid passing cars. As they neared the more residential section of Ladispoli, a sidewalk appeared. They followed it until they came to the front of Masha’s building, where Alec paused.

—Can I ask a favor?

—What’s that?

—Could you wait here a few minutes while I go inside?

Lyova looked at him with faint amusement, as at an impetuous child.

—A girl? Lyova asked.

—I won’t be long, Alec said.

Alec went into the building and rode the elevator, the same as he had when he’d visited in the past. He padded through the corridor and faced the door to Masha’s apartment—straining his ears to detect movement inside. He knocked and waited, straining still for any sound, as if his entire being were concentrated in his ears. As he prepared to knock again, he heard footsteps come toward the door
and stop. He felt the weight of another human presence on the other side.

—Who is there? Riva Davidovna asked.

—Alec.

He believed he heard the sound of another set of footsteps withdrawing.

After a short moment, Riva Davidovna opened the door. He saw her stern face study him, though not unkindly. Her eyes passed fleetingly over his brow.

—Somebody hit you.

—It will heal.

—I am the mother of a son, you don’t need to tell me.

They remained for a few seconds without speaking. Riva continued to calmly study him, while Alec tried to glance subtly beyond her into the apartment.

—I feel like we haven’t seen you in a long time, Riva said. I just recently remarked this to Masha.

—Masha isn’t home?

—No, I’m afraid she’s not, Riva said. I would invite you in, but I don’t expect her until later.

—Of course, Alec said. Tell her I’m sorry to have missed her.

—I will, Riva said, and started to slowly shut the door.

As Alec took his first step toward the elevator, he heard the door swing open again. His pulse leaped and he turned back to find Riva Davidovna in the door frame, looking like she had reconsidered something she had said or failed to say. She hesitated, as if weighing her words, then said, The best thing for your eye is a vinegar compress.

W
hen the time came for Lyova’s appointment at the Ufficio Stranieri, they said their provisional farewells in the apartment. Alec offered to escort him to the ministry, but Lyova didn’t see the point.

—If they detain me, you’ll just end up waiting in the street.

Before Lyova departed, Polina surprised him by producing a small gift, a leather wallet from her store, which she had wrapped neatly in butcher paper.

—Something for your American documents and dollars, she said.

—And if they send me back to Israel?

—I hope you can use it there, too.

Alec and Polina watched him walk out the door and Alec was quite certain they would never see him again. The thought wasn’t pessimistic, only empirical. In the emigration, when somebody left, he left for good.

With Lyova’s departure, the sound of his footfalls receding to nothing on the stairs, Alec and Polina were left in a pristine silence. It felt as if they were being reintroduced after a lengthy separation—a jail term or a sea voyage. The place seemed suddenly too quiet and
too big. Without Lyova’s mediating presence, Alec felt as if they had each been made transparent and their hidden thoughts exposed.

—I don’t think people were made to live like this, Polina said.

—Like what? Alec asked, fearing something devastating.

—To form attachments only to have them broken.

It was late morning, and they busied themselves tidying the apartment, as if it were a compulsory act, the period at the end of the sentence. Lyova had left his remaining possessions stacked up in one corner, the easier for them to ship to Netanya in case he didn’t return. Alec watched Polina sweep carefully around the stack, as around a household shrine.

When they had finished, Polina considered the contents of the refrigerator and said, I should go to the market.

—Would you like me to come with you?

—You’re no longer worried about frightening the neighborhood children?

—I’d thought it was getting better.

Polina crossed from the kitchen to the dining room table, where Alec was sitting, and lightly traced the perimeter of his bruise with her fingertips.

—Alec, if you’d like to come, come. But only if you want. I don’t plan to pick up more than a few things.

—Well, maybe for the sake of the neighborhood children, I’ll give it another day.

Once Polina had gone, Alec lit a cigarette and sat by the window that overlooked the street. He picked up a copy of the
Herald-Tribune
left behind by Lyova and he read about some kind of reverse pogrom where a mob of Orthodox Jews stormed a Brooklyn police station and injured sixty policemen. He read articles about the civil war in Beirut and the revolutions in Rhodesia and Iran. He read an article about Soviet workers being conscripted for the annual potato harvest. From his perch at the window, an Italian cigarette between his lips, Alec felt a momentary tranquillity—as though, like a lord, he was gazing down at the grubby idiocy of the world. For that moment, his own grubby idiocy seemed trivial.

Alec finished his cigarette and prepared to flick the butt out the window and into the street. As he did so, he saw a familiar figure walking briskly along Via Salumi. He leaned his head out the window for a better look, to make absolutely sure. But there was the loose-jointed, storklike gait and the wild conflagration of hair. Lyova spotted Alec in the window, broke into a wide grin, and raised a triumphant fist in the air.

Upstairs, Lyova showed Alec the dark green, clothbound little booklet: his temporary Italian passport. His picture had been affixed, his American visa stapled, and the pages bore the official stamps and signatures.

—So tell me, Alec said.

—There’s almost nothing to tell. After all this time, I didn’t have to plead or weep. I showed my papers, Carmela said she deplored the way the Israelis were treating the poor Palestinians, and I said I did too. What the hell? This way, at least one of us gets to go free.

—Mazel tov,
Alec said, and fetched a bottle of grappa.

When Polina came through the door, grocery bags in hand, Alec and Lyova were still at the table. They looked up and watched her rein in her delight.

—Don’t be afraid, Alec said. He’s an American, not a ghost.

Polina smiled and came over to the table.

—Congratulations, she said. I’m happy to see you again.

—Thank you, Lyova replied.

Polina looked down at the grocery bags in her hands.

—I’m sorry, I didn’t get nearly enough. I didn’t think you’d be back.

—No need to apologize, Lyova said. I didn’t think I’d be back either.

To celebrate, Lyova went down for a bottle of Chianti and a box of chocolates. Polina threw together a mongrel dinner of boiled potatoes, white Italian bread, cottage cheese with sour cream, green onions, cucumbers, prosciutto, figs, and a wedge of parmesan.

They sat at the table and drank in honor of friendship, Rome, health, wives, fortitude, prosperity, and the future. Polina nursed the
same glass of wine, while Alec and Lyova polished off the grappa and most of the Chianti as well.

The sky darkened as Lyova talked about what he expected from America. He’d lived abroad for nearly a decade, and so he didn’t think he’d suffer the shock of the new Soviet transplant. He had taken pains to learn English and to stay current on American affairs. His son had received some English instruction in school. The boy had a good ear for languages and Lyova thought he’d have little trouble adapting. His wife was a different story. Since she neither wanted to leave Israel nor believed that Lyova would succeed in getting them out, she had stubbornly refused to study English. Consequently, she would arrive in New York resentful and ill prepared—not a good combination. But Lyova hoped that once she inhaled American air it would trigger a chemical reaction and her outlook would change.

—What did she say when she found out? Polina asked.

—I haven’t told her yet.

—You didn’t call?

—No. Not her and not my parents.

—You do intend to tell them.

—I intend to tell them, but not over the phone. I don’t need to pay to hear their disappointment. They can read it in a telegram.

—What will you say?

—I haven’t decided.

—How about: “Pack your bags,” Alec said.

—Yes, Lyova said. “The voice of America is calling.”

—You might want to consider having a woman write it, Polina said.

—That’s a marvelous idea, Lyova said. You’d be doing me a great favor. There are some things men aren’t suited for.

—The favor is for your poor wife and son, Polina chided, and began to clear the table.

As she carried the cups and plates to the kitchen, the intercom buzzed. Polina looked over her shoulder at Lyova and Alec and, the hour being late, the three of them exchanged inquiring glances.

The buzzer sounded again—a longer, more insistent note.

—Maybe the Italians have reconsidered, Lyova said.

Alec rose from his chair and went to answer the intercom. He tried to give the impression of lightheartedness. An infinite number of people could be at the buzzer, including delinquents, junkies, and stray tourists—but nothing felt as plausible as the thing he feared. As he approached the intercom, he tried to read Polina’s and Lyova’s faces. If either of them harbored fears akin to his, their faces didn’t show it.

Alec pressed the button and spoke. Masha’s voice surged up in response. She said, It’s me, Masha, her voice pouring into the apartment like a swarm of bees, peevish and severe.

Alec turned from the intercom and looked at Lyova and Polina. Neither of them had moved. They looked at him stiffly, Polina with a keen edge of disgust. From below, Masha pressed and pressed the buzzer relentlessly, sending jagged currents through the silent apartment.

Alec pressed the button again and said angrily, Have you lost your mind?

—Let me up, Masha replied.

Alec removed his finger from the button again and stared at the intercom as it shrieked at him. He didn’t turn to face Lyova or Polina, but he felt their eyes upon him. Though he knew he had no right to, he resented them for bearing witness to his scandal and compounding it by the simple fact of their presence. Still, he had no intention of letting Masha up. Go home, Masha, he said, this is not the way.

—Let me up, you bastard, or I’ll scream, came her reply.

From behind him, Alec heard Polina say, in a firm, steady voice, Let her up.

Alec pressed the button that released the downstairs lock and opened the door to their apartment, letting it swing wide. He stepped back and leaned against the wall in the vestibule. Polina set the dishes she’d been holding on the kitchen counter, wiped her hands on a towel, and took her stand at the mouth of the kitchen. Lyova remained at the dining room table. They listened as the echo of
Masha’s steps spiraled up the stairway, and waited for the article in its spectacular detail.

Masha did not disappoint. She appeared in the doorway irradiant, her dark eyes burning and her color high from the climb up the stairs. She wore her peach cotton dress, short-sleeved and hemmed above the knee, exposing the soft tan flesh of her arms and her strong, smooth legs. Her black hair, its generous brushstrokes, framed her face to striking effect. But for all this, the focal point was at her mouth: her upper lip was split and swollen.

Masha took two steps beyond the threshold and let her eyes roam around the apartment, taking in the surroundings and the principals. Alec watched her glance at Lyova and then look defiantly at Polina. Him, she studied last, and Alec sensed something fleeting, like a silent gasp, as though the condition of his face had unnerved her. But just as quickly, she seemed to regroup.

—It looks like I interrupted a party, Masha said.

—What did you come for, Masha? Alec asked.

—You’re not happy I came?

—Say what you came to say.

Masha gazed once more around the apartment and settled on Polina.

—Such a lovely apartment, and such a lovely wife. How nice to finally meet you.

—I can imagine, Polina said.

—And this here, Masha said, directing herself at Lyova, this is your housemate? The one you helped go to America?

—That’s right, Carter came for tea and signed his visa in the kitchen.

Masha looked at him with hatred. A hatred mostly, Alec sensed, at being mocked. Like a self-serious child who has not been taken seriously. He watched her fumble for an instant, as from a loss of confidence, and what anger he felt toward her drained away.

—We’ll see how you joke when I tell people what you did to me.

—What did I do to you, Masha?

—This, Masha spat, and motioned sharply to her swollen lip.

—I did no such thing, Masha, and you know it.

Masha turned the force of her fury on Polina.

—He took advantage of me. Got me into a state. And when I wouldn’t agree to an abortion, he did this.

She pointed again to the violence that had been done to her, but Alec was no longer looking at her but at Polina, who stood as if holding her breath.

—Nothing she says is true, Alec vainly declared.

—Believe what you like, Masha said. But I’m here to tell you that if he thought he could get away without consequences, he’s very mistaken. There will be consequences, I can promise you that!

Masha stared at Polina as if to evoke a reaction. Polina held her gaze for a moment before she turned to Alec and said with cold precision,
Get her out of my sight.

Masha didn’t protest, but with a small, satisfied smile, she left of her own accord. Alec stole a glance at Lyova, who sat solemnly at the table, before he pursued her down the stairs. Alec reached the bottom just in time to catch the front door as it was swinging shut. He sprang out into the street only a few steps behind Masha and called her name. She spun to face him and, in the darkness, they studied each other, each other’s wounds.

—What did you do this for, Masha?

—You helped your friend go to America, but you did nothing for us, she said, now with flagging conviction.

—You know I never raised a hand to you. I’ve never raised a hand to any woman.

—So what? You did worse. You caused all of this to happen.

She said nothing more, and turned back to the street, where Alec now noticed the white Fiat 500, with Dmitri at the wheel. He watched Masha climb into the passenger seat and the two of them drive off.

Alec stood on the dark street and contemplated what he might do. He thought to walk around the neighborhood for a while, to allow
them all some time to recover, but he couldn’t even do that. In his haste to catch Masha, he had left the apartment without any shoes. He felt the rough, cold pavement through his stocking feet.

The front door to the building had locked behind him, and so he had no choice but to ring the buzzer. Nobody answered, but Alec heard, just as when he and Polina had first come to inspect the apartment, the sound of a door opening inside the vault of the building and the descending pattern of Lyova’s footsteps. Presently, the lock clicked and Lyova opened the door—though he remained in the door frame, a forlorn smile on his face.

—I have no shoes, Lyova, Alec said. I’d like to get my shoes.

—I’ll get you your shoes.

—Is that so?

—Alec, don’t be dim. You think I like any of this?

—You’ll forgive me if I say that I’m not particularly concerned right now with what you like or don’t like.

—I’ll bring you your shoes, Alec. What else do you need?

—My wallet. My jacket. My keys.

Lyova balked at “keys.”

—I need my HIAS keys, Lyova, or I’m sleeping in the street tonight.

—You’re going to sleep in the briefing department?

—Unless you have a better idea, Alec said. By the way, where are you going to sleep tonight?

Lyova drew the door shut behind him and returned a few minutes later with Alec’s shoes, jacket, wallet, keys—and toothbrush for good measure.

—Things will be brighter in the morning, Lyova said.

Alec gathered himself and walked the nighttime streets to Viale Regina Margherita and the briefing department. He had never been inside the building at that hour. There was a light switch on the wall in the entryway but he elected not to press it for fear of attracting attention. He rode the elevator and walked the darkened corridor feeling like an intruder, apt to be arrested. Quietly, he inserted his key into the lock and slipped inside the office. Light from the street-lamps
spilled through the windows, casting shadows. He picked his way between desks and chairs to where the large photocopier stood against a wall. Beside the machine were stacks of folders, fat with émigré case files. Alec slid these out of the way to clear a bare patch of floor. He lowered himself onto this patch and lay staring up at the ceiling. He’d kept his jacket on for warmth, so he had nothing to cushion his skull from the hard marble. With his left hand, he reached out and took hold of several file folders and placed them under his head. Like this he tried to sleep, shivering a little from the cold, the Persecution Stories of a half dozen émigrés for his pillow.