The Free World

by David Bezmozgis

  Now, in the telephone booth, with no place to hide, Emma cried openly. At first, she allowed only a few quiet tears, but after Samuil barked at her, she dropped her shoulders and covered her face with her hands.

  A long interval followed during which nobody moved. They remained in this awkward standoff until Polina rose, walked over to Emma, and gently placed a hand on her elbow.

  She leaned close to Emma and Alec heard her whisper, Emma Borisovna, come and let’s sit for a minute.

  Emma kept her hands over her face but allowed Polina to lead her to the seating area. Polina sat down and eased Emma into the chair beside her.

  —It’s nothing terrible, Polina said as she stroked Emma’s shoulder.

  The dramatics had attracted the attention of the phone operator and the Arab laborer, both of whom turned their heads to observe her—the phone operator with evident concern. Karl and Samuil, meanwhile, stood several paces away, in the neutral space between the seating area and the operator’s counter.

  —What are you crying for? Samuil demanded.

  —It hurts, so I cry, Emma said, lifting her eyes above her hands.

  —Cry, then. For all the good it will do.

  —It’s like a bad dream, Emma despaired. I can’t believe it has happened.

  —What’s not to believe? Samuil countered. It’s your own dream. You wanted it. You got it. So don’t complain.

  —Now we have nowhere to go, Emma said, wiping her cheeks with the base of her hand.

  —Why? On the contrary, now we can go anywhere, Alec said.

  —It’s possible, Karl said, that we could still get into Chicago. Anyone can apply. We could explain our situation to HIAS.

  —I will not live in the same city as those people, Samuil decreed.

  —Chicago is a big place, Karl said.

  —They have spat in our faces. I will not associate with them.

  —Oh, for fuck’s sake, Karl fumed.

  —Don’t you curse at me, Samuil thundered.

  —Louder, Alec said, they can’t hear us across the street.

  Samuil strode indignantly ahead on the return trip to the train station, where he announced that their straggling had cost them one train, with the next one not due for another forty-five minutes. At this rate, he assured them, they would miss dinner.

  To their mutual displeasure, he was correct.

  7

  In the morning, soon after Karl had departed for Ladispoli to renew the search for an apartment, a doctor from the Joint arrived with, to everyone’s surprise, a young Italian man who spoke a very passable Russian.

  —I am studying Russian at university, the young man said and added proudly, I am a Communist.

  —Then it may interest you to know, Alec said, that my father, the very man you see before you, once caught Molotov’s hat when it was blown from his head by a gust of wind. —I don’t need a doctor, Samuil said.

  —I’m sorry, comrade, the interpreter said, running his finger along a column in a file. It is mandatory for persons over sixty years of age or for those who have an illness.

  —What does it say there about me? Samuil asked. —It gives your year of birth as 1913 and your age as sixty-five. Is that correct?

  —You can tell your doctor that there is nothing wrong with my health, Samuil said. Tell him that I was already poked and prodded in Vienna.

  While the doctor examined Samuil, Polina and Alec left the room. With Chicago a dead issue, Rosa seized the moment to advocate for Israel, where, she did not need to remind them, her parents and brother were enjoying a comfortable life surrounded by their own people. And unlike Emma’s relatives, her family would not spurn them. How many times had they already extended invitations? The Israeli government would provide for their basic needs. They would not be guests in a foreign country, but rather valued citizens residing in their ancestral homeland. When Rosa uttered the words “ancestral homeland” she managed, pointedly, to avert her face completely from Polina.

  —The ancestral homeland will always be there, Karl said.

  —I wouldn’t be so sure, Rosa said.

  —Well, it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

  —No thanks to the likes of you or your brother, Rosa said.

  —Why bring me into this? Alec said. I said before that Polina and I were willing to go to Israel. Or at the very least Egypt. I hear good things about Cairo. Especially now that there will be friendship among nations.

  —Everything is a joke to you, Rosa said.

  —Who’s joking? I expect Sadat and Begin, arm in arm, to personally greet us at the airport, Alec said.

  Throughout the discussion—Zionists!—Samuil’s unspoken epithet swelled above them like dark wrath.

  —What do you think, Polina? Rosa asked. Alec does all the talking. We never hear from you.

  —I don’t know enough to feel strongly one way or another, Polina said.

  —You understand that you’re talking about your own life, your own future, Rosa persisted.

  —Thank you, I understand that, Polina said.

  Nothing was resolved. The word “Queens” was uttered and New Jersey was referred to several times. A fledgling community of acquaintances from Riga had settled in a town called Fehr-lon. If all else failed, they could say “Fehr-lon” and be no worse off than anyone else. Nobody expected an answer today, tomorrow, or the next day. More pressing was getting out of the pensione and finding an apartment, Karl said. Or two apartments, Alec offered, and received no argument.

  There had been signs up at the pensione, and, evading the Krasnansky surveillance ring, Alec had also taken down the phone number of the listing at the Joint offices. Before the family conclave he had descended to the lobby and called the number. Another refugee had been in the phone booth ahead of him and, out of the goodness of his heart, he had shared with Alec his gettone. The man had drilled a tiny hole at the top of the gettone and tied it to a length of black thread. To make a phone call, he dropped the coin into the slot, listened for the click, and then—like toying with a cat—yanked it free of its grasp. He had performed the same operation on another coin, he explained, which he used in elevators.

  The phone moaned twice before a man said, Pronto.

  —Buonasera, Alec said, consulting a slip of paper on which he had copied out words from a phrasebook.

  —Buonasera, the man said.

  —Luigi? Alec inquired.

  —Si, sono Luigi.

  —Appartamento, Alec began, and then attempted to string his words together.

  The man listened to him for a few moments before he interrupted, chattered very quickly in Italian, and then fell silent. Disoriented and intimidated, Alec stared at the telephone booth’s scarred wooden panel. Gathering himself, he tried again. A-ppar-ta-men-to. There was another pause, after which the man laughed. His laughter was ringing and hysterical, as if Alec had just told him the greatest joke. Still laughing, the man said, in what Alec was almost certain was a mocking tone, Appartamento?

  —Si, appartamento, Alec said, now angry and humiliated.

  —What kind of apartment are you looking for? the man asked, this time in fluent Russian.

  Only seconds earlier, Alec had wanted nothing other than for the man to miraculously speak Russian, but now that he had, Alec had to restrain himself from hanging up in fury.

  —I was calling for Luigi, Alec said.

  —I’m Luigi, the man said.

  —You’re Luigi? Alec asked.

  —In Kishinev I was Lyova. In Netanya I was Arieh. Here I’m Luigi.

  —And you have an apartment, Luigi?

  —Si, the man said, and laughed again.

  —Listen, just because I’m desperate for a place doesn’t mean I’ll deal with any lunatic, Alec said.

  —Take it easy, Lyova-Luigi said. It’s a miserable world. Can’t a man amuse himself?

  The price Lyova-Luigi quoted was almost reasonable and, speaking in the Soviet conspiratorial tone, he suggested they could
possibly negotiate once they met in person. Alec considered this sufficient to propel him and Polina through the labyrinth of Rome. Wide, reassuring boulevards gave way to serpentine streets that seemed to double back on themselves or to terminate at the steps of gloomy churches. Sometimes teeming streets led to teeming squares, other times to courtyards occupied only by laundry and flower boxes. Often Alec suspected that a tiny street they had accidentally stumbled upon was a shortcut known only to locals, though, his being lost, the discovery was naturally of no use. Different blocks bore the marks of different centuries. Neighborhoods changed, but he could not interpret the changes. He could not have said with any conviction what kind of people lived where, or when a place should be visited or avoided.

  Eventually they came to the river and crossed a bridge to the opposite bank. More stumbling and they began to see the names of streets Lyova-Luigi had mentioned. Trastevere, what the neighborhood was called, bore a distinct resemblance to Old Riga: dignified and ramshackle; three-story buildings; medieval streets, narrow and constricted, conducive to the spread of plague.

  On Via Salumi they found the designated house: green shutters and a tangerine, peeling stucco exterior. Beside the frame of a wooden door, built to withstand marauders, was a line of buzzers. Alec depressed the little black nipple on the uppermost buzzer and then, through the door, heard the bolt and hinges of another door opening above and within, and then rapid footfalls beating the rhythm of staircase, landing, staircase, landing, staircase, landing. The door was pulled open; Lyova-Luigi stood before them and extended a long freckled hand.

  —Lyova, he said. Welcome.

  He was at least a head taller than Alec. His red hair and sideburns were chaos. His features were a series of conflicting planes: sharp, skeletal cheekbones; his nose a high, thin ridge; an Adam’s apple that was like a second nose in his neck. He wore steel, largeframed eyeglasses that magnified his blue eyes and their pink rims. When he spoke or smiled he exposed long teeth and the flesh of his upper gums. He was the kind of ugly man women found attractive. Alec had often seen very beautiful women clinging to men like Lyova. Speaking as if under the influence of some narcotic, women described these men as “interesting.” What the women meant was that they had faces that made you want to keep looking—which, for all practical purposes, was the same as handsome.

  Alec and Polina followed him up the marble steps. On the third floor they went through the door which Lyova had left ajar. From the entrance, and to their right, they could see one large room that had been divided in half by a brocade curtain of green leaves on a black background. The far half of the room had windows, a single bed, an armoire, and a small television; the near half had a simple walnut table, four chairs, and a bookshelf with books and a telephone. To their left was a small kitchen, a door to the bathroom, and a third door, which was closed. Lyova walked ahead and opened it to reveal a larger bed with a headboard, a window, and a closet.

  —I sleep here, Lyova said, and indicated the single bed behind the curtain. The other room would be yours. The table, the kitchen, and the washroom are shared. As you can see, it is clean. Everything works.

  With a chivalrous gesture, Lyova invited Polina to inspect the place.

  —Open anything you like, Lyova said.

  When Alec didn’t give any sign to the contrary, Polina stepped into the kitchen and glanced at the cupboards and the stove.

  —Where are you from? Lyova asked.

  —Riga, Alec said.

  —And where are you going?

  —We’re still deciding, Alec said, and offered a summary of their recent reversal.

  —It’s difficult to travel with a large Jewish family, Lyova said. Too many opinions. Like the joke about the couple that has sex on the street in Israel. Everyone who passes by tells them they’re doing it wrong.

  —And what about you? Alec asked.

  —Me? Lyova said.

  —Where are you going?

  Lyova raised his palms and exhaled contempt mixed with resignation mixed with despair.

  —You’ve heard of Prisoners of Zion? Jews punished for Zionism? I’m the other kind of Prisoner of Zion. No country will take me. I lived in Israel, so I’m no longer a refugee. There is only one option: back to Israel.

  —How long have you been here?

  —Fifteen months.

  —You won’t go back?

  —I haven’t yet given up on the idea that I’m a free man in the free world. I lived in Israel. I worked. I paid taxes. I served in the army. I repaid my debt. Now I’d like to try somewhere else. Why not?

  Polina moved from the kitchen to the bathroom. From the doorway, she peered into the bedroom.

  —What do you think? Lyova asked.

  —It’s fine, Polina said.

  —You haven’t seen anything else yet, right? Lyova said. I understand, you have nothing to compare it to. But let me say, you won’t find a better arrangement in Rome. Within walking distance are cathedrals, parks, monuments, galleries. Also the Porta Portese, the Americana market. I never have trouble renting the space. Normally, tenants leave, I know in advance and the day they leave I have already replaced them. This time, I was giving a tour of Florence, Venice, and Milan, and so the place has been vacant three days. But already I have had seven calls. I try to be selective. I live here, after all, when I am not giving tours. Generally, I can spot an honest face. Your wife, for instance, has an honest face.

  —I’ve always felt that, Alec said.

  —About you I’m not so sure, Lyova said and smiled.

  —She will vouch for me, Alec said.

  —In that case, Lyova said.

  8

  My dear Brigitte,

  I hope you received my last letters. I sent two from Vienna. I send this one from Rome. I am writing it at the table of our new apartment. When I look out the window I have a view of the street. Actually, it is a view across the street of another building. I can see into the window of an apartment where a bald Italian man is reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee. Not very exciting, I suppose. I realize I could have looked out the window and seen essentially the same thing in Riga, and it certainly wouldn’t have interested me or seemed like the sort of thing to include in a letter. But already I’ve looked up half a dozen times to see what he is doing. He’s caught me looking twice and smiled. He may think I’m in love with him, or he may be used to this sort of thing. The apartment that we’re living in has been rented by a continuous stream of émigrés. There must be different Russians staring at him each month. In New York and Melbourne and Miami there are people from Leningrad and Baku and Kiev whose memories of Rome include this man drinking coffee. Now mine will too. Wherever I end up.

  This is what I wanted to tell you. It appears that we are not going to Chicago. Zoya’s cousin can no longer sponsor us. They have to take her husband’s brother instead. That was the reason she gave, in any case. There’s a joke that if you want to make an enemy for life just sponsor a relative. So maybe it’s for the best?

  Now we must decide on some other city or country. Igor’s family can’t agree. I don’t see that it matters, wherever we go we will be among strangers.

  So you see, I do not know how long we will be in Rome. Even if we are here a short while it will allow enough time for this letter to reach you and for your reply to get back to me. But you will have to write quickly. I’m eager to hear from you. It would make me so happy to receive a letter from you. It’s already been nearly a month since we last saw each other. I think about you every day and wonder how you are getting along and about how Mama and Papa are behaving toward you. So write to me and don’t go off daydreaming and delay. Your sister misses you.

  There was more I wanted to tell you, too. I wanted to describe the new apartment—although there isn’t all that much to describe. It’s really just two rooms that we share with a man from Kishinev who has trapped himself in Rome because he doesn’t want to go back to Israel and no other government will take him. In
Israel he has his parents, his wife, and a young son. He has been in Rome for more than a year. I don’t entirely understand why he won’t return, but I couldn’t even begin to list all the things I haven’t understood about some of the people we’ve met. But our roommate is otherwise perfectly fine. I think you would like him. We have been warned many times to be wary of people, but he seems honest. Or at least as honest as a person can be under the circumstances …

  9

  It was bad enough, Samuil thought, that he’d been forced to listen to Alec voice his decision to take an apartment separate from the rest of the family; it was worse that Emma, after acceding to Alec, underwent a complete and total conversion that manifested itself in a pressing need to see this new apartment. That was the way it was with his wife. She was a simple creature. He had always known this. She had been simple when he married her, but he had attributed her simplicity to the fact that she was hardly more than a girl. However, over the years, rather than acquire shadings and complexities, she had become simpler still. Her brain was in her womb. But if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t sought much more in a wife. He had believed that a household should have one head. When Samuil’s division had been driving the Germans from villages around Minsk there had been a woman partisan who had mounted an ammunition crate and harangued the soldiers. You fight as if you fear death more than you love your country! People said such things then. She was a bold and electric woman. In the ensuing battle Samuil had seen her charge a self-propelled gun and not die. But what sane man would want such a woman for a wife? Better Emma, one moment treating their grown son like a boy leaving Mama for the first time, the next gushing as if he were establishing a new home for himself and his bride.

  —Of course, while the tsar and tsarina cozy up in their apartment we stay in the pensione, Rosa said during dinner.

  —We leave the day after tomorrow, Karl said, not bothering to look up from his plate.