—Who said I was worried? Alec said. What’s there to worry about? Just because it’s night, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know what the hell’s going on?
—This isn’t the middle of nowhere, Minka said. It’s a famous touristical destination.
—And what do you need to know, anyhow? said Dmitri. Are you some kind of child? You need to have everything explained to you? Wait one fucking minute and you’ll see.
Alec concluded that there was nothing more to say. He had no grounds to complain. He’d been sober when he signed up.
Snatching the briefcases from Alec’s hands, Dmitri said, Here, give me those fucking things so we can get down to work.
Minka said, Let’s step inside and do this.
Carrying his two briefcases, Minka lifted a leg, stepped over a low stone ledge, and effectively “entered” the ruin. Since there were no walls to speak of, everyone could still see him just the same as before. Where they were, the terms “inside” and “outside” were arbitrary. Even so, everybody filed in. All eight briefcases were lined up. Angelo and the Italian kid switched on the flashlights Alec hadn’t noticed they’d been carrying. They shone the beams on the briefcases and on the floor. The pale floor bounced the light back into their faces. It also roughed in the dimensions of the ruin and picked out details in the floor itself. Alec saw the vestiges of a crude mosaic. He discerned two objects composed of small black tiles—one looked like a lemon, the other like a candelabra.
—Let’s get to it, Dmitri said.
Iza Judo, who’d been standing next to Alec, stepped forward and released the clasps on one of the briefcases. He lifted the lid and Angelo turned the beam of his flashlight onto the contents. Alec saw dozens of slim objects, each wrapped in green felt. Iza reached inside, withdrew one of the objects, and unwrapped it for Angelo. Angelo fixed his light on it and Alec saw a glint of gold. Held this way, Alec was now able to identify it as an icon. He was far from an expert in icons, but to his eye it looked impressive, authentic, probably valuable, and certainly contraband. These were the sorts of things that could never have left the Soviet Union through legitimate channels. Somebody somewhere had bribed a whole legion of customs agents.
—Bene? Bellissimo? Iza asked.
—Benissimo, Angelo said, taking the icon in hand for closer inspection.
Alec looked around at the other men. Minka and Dmitri were opening the clasps on the other briefcases and examining the icons. The Italian kid also reached inside and took one. As he fixed his light on it, Iza eyed him apprehensively.
—Ei! Iza said. È Gesù Cristo. Molto caro.
Iza turned to Dmitri and warned, Watch he doesn’t damage that. That’s a fragile thing and he’s pawing it like a piece of ass.
Dmitri, unflappable, ignored Iza and made no move to caution the kid.
—Now this is more like it, Minka said, admiring the icons and clucking his tongue approvingly. You know who would have liked this?
He said this to everyone and no one in particular.
—Who’s that? Iza asked.
—My grandfather. A shame he didn’t live to see it. It would have warmed his heart. In Minsk, everyone knew of him. Isn’t that so, Dmitri?
—Sure.
—You remember him, right?
—Could be.
—Sure you remember. He did business with your late father.
—A big fat guy?
—Like a steamer. Twice as big as Angelo. Lived to be eighty-five. He used to tell stories about what it was like before the Revolution. His father traded, smuggled, made a good living. My grandfather learned from him. Those were some clever Yids. He told me, You know why the Bolsheviks closed the synagogues? Because they wanted to stop the trading. It had nothing to do with religion; it was because Jews made deals in the synagogue. All those musty Jews sitting in the dark, mumbling in their strange tongue—the tsar’s agents had no idea what was going on in there. But a lot of the Bolsheviks were Jews and they knew. So they turned the synagogues into theaters, stables, and warehouses. Oh, how my grandfather hated Soviet power. He missed the old days when a Jew could come to the synagogue and do some business.
Minka paused as though out of solemn respect for his departed grandfather.
—If he could look down and see us now. Just like our ancestors. Jews in a synagogue once again, doing business. That’s why we left that Soviet shit heap. Isn’t that so, Dimka?
Dmitri picked up another icon and didn’t bother to answer.
—You know how old this synagogue is? Minka asked.
Sensing a limited audience, he’d put the question to Alec.
—Old, Alec said.
—Very old, Minka said. Older than these icons. Maybe older than Christ himself.
The beating started soon after. Dmitri, Minka, and the Italian kid rained blows down on Iza Judo. They beat him savagely, the Italian kid even using his flashlight to strike Iza on his hands, shoulders, and back, after Iza curled up in a ball to protect himself. Briefly, Iza had put up valiant resistance. He’d hurled himself at Minka and wrenched Minka’s hand until he’d howled with pain. Beneath the howl, Alec had heard the crisp sound of a twig snapping. Minka fell back temporarily, but Iza hadn’t been able to seize the advantage. Dmitri and the Italian kid descended on him with insatiable ferocity and quickly overwhelmed him. They kicked and punched him indiscriminately until he sank to the ground, and they kept beating him as he curled up, grunting and moaning pitiably.
Alec had been stunned by the display; he’d stood and watched, unable to budge or to speak out. The whole thing had flared up so quickly and the scene itself seemed so unreal. Much of it transpired in the dark. He intuited what was happening mostly from the sounds. But then a car would pass on the road and its headlights momentarily illuminate the grisly scene. Or the beam of the Italian kid’s flashlight would slash across Dmitri’s face or Iza’s body as he beat him with the heavy metal barrel.
One minute, everything had been calm, even jovial, with Angelo approving the icons and Minka spouting his nonsense about his grandfather and the synagogues. If there had been any evidence of hostility, Alec had thought it was directed at him. But then Angelo had started to negotiate the terms with Iza. Angelo claimed that he’d expected a certain number of icons and that Iza had brought fewer than this number. Iza had objected, saying that he’d brought precisely the number they had agreed upon. Dmitri, speaking on Angelo’s behalf, offered Iza less money since he’d fallen short in the quantity.
—The hell I’m going to take less, Iza had said. I did my part. Don’t try to jerk me around.
—If Angelo says you’re short, then you’re short.
—Angelo can say whatever he likes. He can say the earth is flat. He can say day is night. That doesn’t make it so. We had a deal, and now he’s making up tales.
—Here’s how it stands: you should take what he’s offering, before you get nothing at all.
Alec had watched Iza swell with rage, his neck engorging, like a bullfrog’s.
—You say how it stands, Iza fumed. I say differently. If I don’t get the money I was promised, fuck this, the deal is off. This fat shit can go crawl back up his mother’s cunt. I got others who’ll pay what the icons are worth. Maybe more.
—Who’s going to carry the cases back, Iza? To what car? That’s not the way this works.
It was at this point that the situation crystallized. Everyone realized it. Including Iza, though evidently too late. Alec saw a hunted look enter his eyes. He lost the arrogance of the predator and took on the edginess of the prey.
—You think you can just do what you please? Iza demanded. You can’t do business like this. People will find out. I’ve got a witness.
—Who’s your witness? Dmitri asked, and motioned disparagingly to Alec. Him?
—That’s right, Iza said.
—First you get him out here so we can smack him around, and now he’s supposed to be your witness?
—Now don’t
you go making up tales, Iza said bitterly, and sought Alec’s eyes in solidarity. We’re friends from way back. He knows the truth. He knows nobody would dare touch him, because they’d have Karl to answer to. Everybody knows this.
—Is that right? Dmitri asked. Is that what everybody knows?
It was after this that the violence started.
When Iza fell silent, Dmitri, Minka, and the Italian kid stopped beating him. They stood panting from their exertions and the Italian kid trained his flashlight on Iza’s huddled form. Dmitri kneeled down and placed his hand on Iza’s neck to check for a pulse. He then frisked him, going into his pockets and pulling out loose change, his wallet and passport. The passport was the only thing that held his interest. Alec watched him open and study it.
—Stupid piece of trash, Dmitri said to Iza’s inert body. I should piss on your fucking Australian passport. A piece of trash like you gets out while I’m stuck in this shit.
He flung the passport down on top of Iza.
He then wheeled around and slugged Alec in the face. Alec felt the impact like black shards inside his head. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself on the ground next to Iza.
—So that you understand who you’re dealing with! Dmitri spat.
He peeled off a number of bills and threw them in Iza’s general direction.
—That should be enough for a taxi to the hospital.
Alec didn’t bother to get up as Dmitri, Minka, Angelo, and the Italian kid packed up the briefcases and took them away. Minka, with his broken hand, could carry only one case, so the Italian kid carried three. They stepped out of the ruin and into the field. Before too long, their flashlight beams were swallowed up by the dark streets of Ostia Antica.
7
At four in the morning, from a hospital in Ostia, Alec was finally able to call home. Polina picked up after one ring, and answered in a voice completely alert.
—I thought I’d have to apologize for waking you, Alec said.
—Where are you? she asked, her tone balanced on a point between anger and fear.
—In Ostia. In the Villa del Lido hospital.
—What happened to you?
—Nothing too terrible. It’s just my face. A few stitches over the eye. I think they’ll still let me into Canada.
—What’s the name of the hospital again?
Alec heard Polina turn from the phone and ask, Do you know where the Villa del Lido hospital is? She turned back and said, Lyova says he knows. We’ll be there soon.
It took an hour, and Alec spent that hour sitting in the emergency waiting room, drifting off to sleep and then jolting awake when his hand made accidental contact with the plaster over his left eye. Dmitri’s punch had cut him for six stitches, and he’d done a considerable amount of bleeding before the Italian doctor had treated the wound. On the dark road on the outskirts of Ostia Antica, his swollen, bloody face hadn’t helped him to flag down a car. Several cars had slowed, only to speed away when they caught sight of his face. Add to that his poor command of Italian and then, worst of all, Iza—compared with whom Alec looked like the picture of health. Hours passed before an elderly couple picked them up, the old man even helping Alec to lift the unconscious Iza over the fence—no easy task—and put him in the car. Alec didn’t have the words to craft an explanation for their predicament, he managed only grazie and ospedale. It didn’t much matter since the man and his wife, though kind, were not naïve. They even declined the money Alec offered. As they drove, Alec’s main concern was that if Iza croaked, he’d have the courtesy to wait until they were out of these people’s car. As for himself, he tried his best not to bleed on their upholstery.
Polina and Lyova arrived just before dawn. Alec saw them from a distance and watched as Lyova detained a doctor who pointed them in two directions, neither of which was correct. Alec rose from his seat long enough for Polina to spot him. She walked briskly toward him, her expression becoming graver the closer she came. She stopped before him, regarded his injury, and then, almost as if she might cry, brought her hands up to cover her mouth.
—My God, who did this to you? she said.
—It doesn’t matter, Alec replied.
—Did you call the police?
—It wouldn’t do any good.
Lyova drew up and also appraised Alec’s eye.
—What did they do that with, a belt buckle?
—I think just a fist.
Lyova leaned in closer to inspect the wound. He clucked his tongue appreciatively.
—In the end it will be an improvement. You were too handsome for your own good.
—It’s not a joke, Polina said, reaching across to touch Alec’s cheek below the wound. It’s horrible.
—Have they discharged you? Lyova asked.
—I think so.
—In that case, you’d probably like to go home.
They left the hospital together and crossed the street to where Lyova had parked his van. Alec felt exhausted, but he made a point of walking under his own power. When they reached the vehicle, Lyova turned to Alec and said, I imagined telling you this under happier circumstances, but I’ve received some good news. I told Polina last night. The Americans gave me a visa.
Alec had been leaning on the van, but he straightened up and shook Lyova’s hand.
—Congratulations, you’re a free man.
—More or less, Lyova said.
—What’s the less? Alec asked, and stumbled back. He felt a dark wave wash over him. Lyova still had hold of his hand and prevented him from falling.
In the van, Polina cradled Alec’s head in her lap. They rode in silence. Alec’s mind cleared and he thought gratefully that Polina hadn’t brought up Iza Judo, and so spared him the trouble of getting into it. When they got back to Rome, he planned to contact Syomka. Syomka could assume responsibility for his idiot brother. One way or another, Alec was sure that Syomka would manage to get Iza on the plane to Melbourne. If his arms and legs were broken, he’d put him in a wheelchair and stick his passport in his mouth.
—What did you decide to tell Nadja? Alec asked.
—I decided to tell her what’s in my heart.
—To come?
—I can’t tell her not to come. She’s the dearest person to me. I want to see her. Besides, she would be hurt if I wrote her not to come. But I’ll tell her to choose for herself. I’m no longer there. I can’t help her. Not with our parents, and not once she leaves. And I’ll accept whatever she decides.
It was still very early when they returned to Trastevere. The neighborhood was only just beginning to stir. In the apartment, Polina asked Alec what he intended to do.
—Take a shower and sleep, Alec said. And you? You didn’t sleep either.
They went into the shower together and Polina washed the dust of Ostia Antica from Alec’s skin—also the blood: some of it his own, most of it Iza Judo’s.
In the bedroom they drew the shutters and slipped into bed, Polina resting her head between Alec’s shoulder blades.
—I’m to blame for last night, she said. I sent you out to him.
Her words reached him from the rim of sleep. His body felt like a bottomless cavity through which he plunged in glorious free-fall. The wound over his eye pulsed like a beacon, its round blue signal growing fainter the farther he descended. He tumbled into a dream in which he was pursued along the dark streets of Ostia Antica by large brown Roman dogs, a breed depicted in ancient mosaics. He heard them snarling and panting and felt their breath on the back of his neck. He sought vainly for a place to hide in the ruins, but the dogs kept coming. They would soon catch him and tear him to pieces. Up ahead, standing by the side of the road, Masha watched in impassive silence.
8
Around 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.
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