The Free World

by David Bezmozgis

  But this was the way it was with any human endeavor, great or small: one had to be blessed with a skill for it. Some people were good with numbers, others never forgot a face, others still had perfect pitch—as for himself, he could usually find a decent, serviceable place to copulate. Naturally, if you had such a skill, you couldn’t simply turn it off. In this respect it was like being a thief or a spy, habitually taking stock of your surroundings. Even in the presence of Matilda Levy, Alec still couldn’t help but notice that there was, to the left of the mailboxes, a narrow hallway that branched off at an obtuse angle and led to only two apartments. In his estimation, at this time of day, that hallway represented better-than-average odds. And, like a thief or a spy, Alec felt the nagging temptation to try his luck just to see if his instincts were still sharp.

  Matilda Levy stepped to the elevator and pressed the call button. An instant later, a light blinked, and Matilda pulled open the iron accordion door. She waited imperiously for Alec to join her. Once he was inside, she dropped a coin into the mechanism and pressed a button for the fourth floor. The door glided back into place, clicked shut, and the elevator crept dramatically up. As it made its slow ascent, the compartment grew dense with Matilda Levy’s cosmetics and perfume. The air became constricting, intimate, and glandular. The elevator felt less like an elevator than like Matilda Levy’s laundry basket. Just standing there, Alec felt compromised. In his mind, in spite of himself, he began to envision it happening. He unclasped her necklace, unbuttoned her blouse, asked her to stand at a short remove, and watched her unzip her skirt and step clear in garters, nylons, and heels.

  At the fourth floor, the elevator lurched to a halt and Matilda Levy reached out and retracted the door.

  —Your hand, please, Matilda said at the threshold of the open door.

  The elevator had stopped some thirty centimeters short of the landing, creating a visible, though far from insurmountable, obstacle. It was, in actuality, no higher than a normal step, but Matilda Levy stood arrested before it, with one hand outstretched, awaiting assistance.

  Alec wondered if they had now reached the decisive point at which, in no uncertain terms, the sexual proposal was slapped down on the table like a fish. It was when one person asked the other to do something unnecessary. For instance, to leave a party, to climb a tree, to gratuitously lend a hand out of an elevator.

  But what to do? Alec thought. He couldn’t tell Matilda Levy that he believed she could get out of the elevator by herself.

  Alec gave her his hand.

  —The machine is not perfect, Matilda said, but what it lacks in function it makes up in character.

  Using Alec’s hand for support, Matilda Levy climbed out onto the landing and took several steps down the corridor and again waited for Alec.

  With every apartment they passed, Alec resigned himself more and more to the inevitability. It would be a charitable act, no crime against Polina. Behind the door of the first apartment, Alec heard the voice of an Italian broadcaster either on the radio or on television. The next apartment they passed was silent. Behind the door of the third, he heard the clink of plates. Matilda Levy stopped at the fourth door and withdrew her keys. From the beginning, Alec had considered it oddly coincidental that she would have her apartment so close to the HIAS offices. On the other hand, it was quite possible that this was not her primary apartment. Unlike Riga, Rome had no municipal commissions dictating how many residences a person could have. It was a free country. A person could have as many residences as he could afford. It was completely within the realm of possibility that Matilda Levy might keep an apartment across the road from HIAS for the sole purpose of conducting trysts with Russian émigrés.

  Matilda Levy turned the key and opened the door. Alec looked inside, expecting to see one thing, but saw, instead, several young Italian women reading documents, organizing files, and using a large photocopier. Among them were two middle-aged Russian men, one of whom wore impressively thick eyeglasses.

  —This is the briefing department, Matilda Levy said, responsible for intake and processing. The work done here is very important. Most people consider it a desirable position. But the last man we hired was very rude to the girls. He had some kind of complex. A very difficult character. I don’t tolerate rudeness to the girls. They are sweet girls and work very hard. But I don’t expect such a problem with you. I can see that already. A woman knows. Now, as for what you need to learn, ask Oleg in the glasses or Lucia in the white skirt.

  The office looked fine, and the prospect of working with ten Italian girls was pleasing, but mainly Alec felt like a man reprieved. The day’s report would remain unblemished. What happened today? Nothing bad. Which was the way of the world, between misunderstandings, bankruptcies, and stomach cancers.

  —Matilda is right, Oleg said later, peering through the ophthalmological achievement of his glasses, the job is desirable. It also presents certain opportunities. But I do not advise pursuing them. At least not without great circumspection.

  It was these very opportunities that precipitated Iza Judo’s appearance outside the briefing department building two days later. When Alec bounded out the door, Iza reacted as if he were the unsuspecting beneficiary of a happy accident. The look on his face was intended to convey simple, good-natured incredulity: there he’d been, Iza Judo, innocently taking a break from the heat in front of some random building, when who should emerge but his old pal Alec Krasnansky!

  —You wouldn’t believe it, Iza said.

  —Is that right? Alec said.

  —Not five minutes ago, I was telling Minka here about you, Iza said, motioning to a young man leaning against the wall. The man was very fair, practically, if not clinically, an albino. His gray T-shirt exposed arms that were liberally adorned with prison tattoos.

  —I believe it, Alec said smiling.

  —He believes it. What a guy! Iza crowed. Minka, didn’t I tell you he was sharp?

  —That’s what you said, Minka affirmed, looking up and shielding his eyes from the sun.

  —The sun’s murder, Iza said, how about we find a shady place for a drink?

  —I’m expected across the street, Alec said.

  —Your job, right? Iza said. I understand. But what’s fifteen minutes here or there? Carter won’t change the immigration policy because you stopped for a coffee with a friend.

  —And for a beer? Alec said.

  —He won’t change it for a beer either, Iza said, putting his arm around Alec’s shoulders and propelling him down the street toward a place with an awning.

  Minka edged himself away from the wall and fell into step just behind them.

  —Crazy heat, Minka muttered.

  —It’s hot like this in Israel, Iza said.

  —All the more reason to stay out of Israel, Minka said.

  —Minka’s having a hard time getting into America.

  —I’m a qualified mechanic, Minka said. Specialize in diesel engines. You tell me America can’t use another mechanic. All those highways. All those trucks.

  They walked into the café, where Iza ordered three beers at the bar.

  —You don’t want to sit? Alec asked.

  —It costs extra to sit, Iza said.

  —Is that so? Alec asked.

  —It’s their system. The entire country. Go figure why.

  —The best is in the mornings, Minka said, when they’re all crowded like cattle around the bar, drinking their coffees, empty tables everywhere, not one single ass in a chair.

  —So who are the tables for? Alec asked.

  —Tourists, Iza said.

  He raised his beer and toasted l’chaim.

  —Next year in Los Angeles, Minka drawled, lifting his beer in his tattooed hand.

  As a boy, Alec had had a friend whose older brother, Vanya, had spent time in jail and returned home proudly displaying his prison tattoos. He seemed at the time like a heroic and exotic character, even though he was really just a petty crook who enjoyed the sound o
f his own voice. Later, he got into more trouble and was shipped to a prison where he was cruelly disfigured. The rumor went that his attackers held him down and nailed his tongue to the floor. But while his tongue was still intact, he’d taught Alec and the other neighborhood boys how to decipher the arcane symbols of criminal tattoos. The initiation cost a pack of cigarettes, which each boy was supposed to acquire by dishonest means. For his part, Alec stole the money from his grandmother’s purse while she napped. Scrupulous about such things, his grandmother noticed, and fretted terribly about her absentmindedness. She never thought to accuse Alec, but Samuil wasn’t so easily deceived.

  In the days after his beating, Alec swaggered around, streetwise and cocky. He felt as if he had drawn nearer to the ranks of men. On buses, in streets, cafeterias, and kiosks, he read the coded biographies inked on people’s skin. This one’s a thief. This one’s a highranking thief. This one’s a common hooligan. This one served eight years. This one’s a lackey, an errand boy, a “sixer.” This one was booked for a military crime. This one did solitary. This one’s a “waffle eater,” a cocksucker.

  Judging from what he saw on Minka, the man had done his share of time. A barbed-wire tattoo on his forearm gave 1962 as the date of his first incarceration. A ring tattoo of a black diamond with a white stripe attested that he’d moved from a juvenile to an adult offender. A grinning cat on the back of his hand identified him as a member of the brotherhood of thieves. A second ring tattoo spelled the acronym MIR: “Shooting will reform me.” Another ring tattoo, a tiger’s head at the intersection of two strands of barbed wire, meant that he’d committed a crime while in prison.

  —Not as good as what we had in Riga, but not bad, Iza said, setting his bottle on the bar.

  —I’d drink horse piss to get out of this heat, Minka said.

  —Minka’s had enough of Rome, Iza said.

  —If only the Yid sons of bitches let me, I’d get on a plane tomorrow, Minka said.

  —Syomka tried and talked to someone at HIAS on Minka’s behalf, Iza said, but of course he can’t help everybody.

  —Shitocracy, you know, Minka said. Put a guy behind a desk and he starts looking down his nose.

  —He doesn’t mean you, Iza said.

  —Naturally, Alec said.

  —Iza claims you’re a good guy, Minka said and wagged a cautionary finger. Don’t let them turn you into a shitocrat, is what I’m saying. Don’t become insensitive to human beings.

  —I’ll keep it in mind, Alec said.

  —That’s good. You do that. Minka nodded. A man in a position to help people should help people.

  —The immigration puts people under a terrible strain, Iza said. I don’t have to tell you, you’ve seen. And not everyone is equipped to handle it. Old people. Sick people. Virtuous people. They need to be protected.

  —Iza, you know what my job is? Alec said. I go with a few others and we give the welcome speech and help people fill out their forms. Sometimes we suggest, “Write this; don’t write that.” Then we pass the forms to another department. From there I assume they go to the embassies. But I’ve been on the job three days. I know next to nothing. I’m still deciding if it’s for me.

  —Of course, Iza said. I hope you didn’t misunderstand me. I know what the briefing department does. This isn’t about Minka’s case. This isn’t for me or for Minka.

  —No? Alec asked. Who, then?

  Fleetingly, he wondered if Iza might have been gripped by some altruistic impulse.

  —It’s known that the briefing department is informed in advance about the new arrivals—how many and when. But then what happens? Almost as soon as the people arrive, before they can get their bearings, the vultures descend and try to exploit them. This isn’t right, is it?

  —No, Alec replied, knowing that it was completely immaterial what he said: No, Yes, Tomato.

  —Someone should protect them. But who?

  —You? Alec ventured.

  —Me? No, not me, Iza said. You.

  —Me?

  —Sure, why not? Iza said. Why couldn’t you protect them? You think it would be hard? It would be easy.

  From there Iza outlined the standard scheme. It deviated in no significant way from what Oleg had described. In exchange for giving Iza advance notice of the arrivals and their location, Alec would receive a certain retainer. With advance notice, Iza and Minka could be the first to solicit the new arrivals. They would pay them fair prices for their goods, and thus protect the weak and innocent from the venal and corrupt.

  —I’ll think about it, Alec said.

  —What’s there to think about? Minka asked.

  —If HIAS found out, it could be more than my job. It could be real trouble. Maybe a negative report to the Canadian embassy?

  —For trying to help people? Minka said.

  —You said yourself. Shitocrats. Not everyone is sympathetic like you.

  —That’s true, said Minka with surprising delicacy, there are a lot of nasty people in the world.

  It then occurred to Alec that everybody had a rough time in the emigration, including a thief like Minka. He too was vulnerable and confused. He too had been cast into alien surroundings and was now obliged to compete with thieves and hoodlums from the disparate corners of the Soviet Union. He was no longer a boy, and he would have to start from scratch to establish himself like anybody else. You’d think that a thief could prosper anywhere, but Alec saw that thieves suffered too. And if it was true that the emigration turned honest men into thieves, why not the reverse? Looking at Minka, it seemed that he was not immune; he mourned the loss of his old, familiar larcenous life.

  4

  Samuil had not sought a friend or confidant in Josef Roidman, but Roidman was an irresistible force. Samuil discovered that when he approached Club Kadima to read his newspaper he wondered if Roidman would be there. In fact, he came to look forward to seeing him. He was a man to whom one could speak in a forthright way. Between Samuil and his family there was no longer a subject that remained unbarbed. Roidman may have suffered from an excess of Jewish irony, and he entertained some misconceptions about the Soviet Union, but at heart he was not a subversive or a reactionary. And even his operatic tribute to the terrorist Fanny Kaplan—portions of which Roidman periodically foisted upon Samuil—could be excused as little more than dilettantism and sentimentality.

  (Outside the doors of Club Kadima, Josef Roidman flourished an introduction on his violin.

  —Imagine: The year is 1905 and I am Mika, a young anarchist, nineteen years of age. Rakishly handsome. A recruiter and provocateur. In your mind, Samuil Leyzerovich, pretend that it is not me that you see and hear but a strong and striking tenor. Now, as for the set, picture that we are in the shtetl. Here, Mika approaches the modest house of Chaim Roidman, a melamed, a humble Jewish teacher. This Mika lights a cigarette, and a pretty, dark-haired maiden emerges from the house. She is a girl of sixteen. She is shy as young village girls are shy. And yet, that is not the whole story. Behind this shyness lurks a keen intelligence and a bold and courageous heart. With soft, almost soundless steps, she approaches.

  Here Roidman played a new theme.

  Kind sir, please forgive me, but do you not know that you transgress? Today is the Sabbath. One should not kindle a light.

  Roidman alternated the pitch of his voice, high and low, to assume the different roles.

  Girl, do you wish that I extinguish this light?

  Once you have lighted it, to extinguish it is also a sin.

  Girl, do you know whereof you speak?

  I speak of the Sabbath.

  No, my dear, you speak of the Revolution.)

  Josef had a son in Winnipeg. The son, with a wife and two children, had emigrated from Kiev two years earlier. Josef had remained behind with his late wife, who was at the time gravely ill with a female condition. The surgeons had cut out all there was to cut out. It was all very dismal. His son didn’t want to abandon his mother at such a time, but there w
as the danger that his visa would expire. It was only when Josef’s wife commanded him that he consented to go. The living should not arrange their lives around the dying, she had said.

  —I do not need to describe for you the parting scene, Josef said. How to put it into words? I watched my son kiss his mother goodbye. It was like he buried her. Then, four months later, I buried her again. Like with all things, the second time was easier.

  After his wife died, Josef applied for a visa. He traveled alone, carrying only his violin case and one other bag. He had already been in Italy for three months and there was still no telling when Canada might accept him. Letters were being sent; well-intentioned Jewish ladies were placing phone calls to Canadian ministers. As for how effective all this was, Josef had his doubts. But, if you listened to his son, you were liable to believe that Pierre Trudeau’s greatest concerns were what to do about Quebec and what to do about Roidman.

  —By the way, Josef said, did you know that the Soviet Union was financing the Quebec separatists?

  —That’s nonsense, Samuil said.

  —During the Montreal Olympics they held secret meetings. Members of the Soviet contingent arrived with briefcases packed with money. They also revealed classified information, of an intimate nature, about various Canadian politicians.

  —Where did you hear this? Samuil asked.

  —Here. From a man from Moscow. He said he had it on good authority. To be honest, I feel as if I have learned more about the Soviet Union during my three months in Italy than in my sixty-three years in the Ukraine.

  —What you’re learning is capitalist slander, Samuil said.

  —Also a possibility. Still, one can see how it could make sense. Strategically speaking. This Quebec could become the “Cuba of the North.”

  Waiting in Italy, on the seashore, in the summer, was not exactly a tragedy. Josef was prepared to wait a while longer, a few more months—but if nothing transpired he would apply to the United States. In New York, they accepted everybody. One leg, no legs, three arms: they took you anyway. His son could come to New York in his car and then simply drive him across the border. Once he was in the country Josef doubted the Canadians would notice that they’d gained another elderly invalid.