“King David,” she said, wrapping herself around his knotted bones, reviving him like a cool wash of water.
“King David?” Perchik replied.
“Yes. From scripture. The salt covenant. Every time we kiss, I think of it. Papa always said salt signified permanence, fidelity. A symbol of unchanging, incorruptible purity.” She grinned and kissed his eyes.
“‘Should you not know that the Lord God gave the dominion over Israel to David forever, to him and his sons, by a covenant of salt?’” Perchik quoted. “From Chronicles.”
Hodel nodded.
“Every kiss is a salt covenant?” he asked, smiling.
Suddenly, she grew very serious. “For us. Yes. The unbreakable promise.”
He was overcome—all his life he had been waiting for the woman before him and had never even known it. This woman, who was a reflection of all he cherished. It was with her sense of life that he had fallen in love. Her way of seeing the world as reflected in her tiniest gestures, her distinct, irreplaceable self. He adored her. It was the greatest reward of his life.
It was this love that existed at the core of all his holiest thoughts. Love is not, in any way, a sacrifice, he thought. It is the transmission of life.
Yes, he thought, yes.
He clung to her for a lingering moment—his equal, his partner in life. Then he lifted her up and took her to bed.
The heart, you see, is a muscle; if you make no use of it, it atrophies.
Everything Perchik would do from here on was about love.
Perchik had always been driven by other forces, as when he stumbled into Moscow a few months before he met Hodel. So bitter was the wind outside that all inhabitants of the bar felt its sting as it whipped the ragged glass panes in the walls of the basement locale. The skins of the prostitutes were pimpled with chill; their still, predatory gaze only faintly unsettled. In an abrupt swirl of wind, a diminutive man entered. Shivering, he made his way to the bar—a cough from the depths of his lungs rang out as he moved toward the stool beside Perchik. The man sighed, eyes watering, and hands with curiously ink-stained fingers began clearing the cough-induced tears away from beneath the wire rims of his round spectacles. As he gained composure he brushed snow sharply off his long black coat, which hung loosely over his suit.
Perchik lifted his eyes. Light streamed down through the windows from the bustling street above, casting a kind of celestial glow behind the man as he settled. Flakes of snow were melting in the heat of the basement bar and reflecting the dingy gaslights affixed to the walls, glittering like stars all around them.
Without knowing why, Perchik signaled to the barkeep to bring two. When the drinks arrived he raised his in inquiry. “What brings you here tonight, comrade?”
“Comrade?” the stranger stated with recognition. “All the young people in the cities are using that word nowadays!” He laughed, nestling down farther into his long coat. “Ah, thank you for the drink, comrade.” He smiled. Perchik lifted his glass to the stranger and nodded before downing its contents in a single quaff.
“Love,” the man answered, chortling brightly.
“Love?”
“What brings me here tonight? Love. For every reason that is good and bad, love always seems to bring me to the bar!” He threw his head back and laughed, then smoothed his beard and adjusted the frames on his face. “I love this city; I love a woman in this city. What about you, comrade? What do you love?”
“The vodka, of course,” Perchik lied.
What a waste, he thought, slamming his glass down. I love nothing. I am nothing. He shook his head sharply, and requested another drink. “Tell me about your love.”
The man looked suddenly childlike. His gaze shifted from his ink-stained hands to the dancing lamps along the peeling walls.
“Well, I am no great lover, my friend. I have come to Moscow with a love letter of sorts, hoping I will see its potential realized.”
“A girl!”
“No—a young woman.”
“I see!”
“A real woman of such culture and refinement. She speaks several languages, plays piano. I have, thus far, loved her only through letters— which is how I know she is also a wonderful writer. Wonderful. Yes, I have loved her through these letters . . . and in my mind of course.” His eyes glimmered.
“I see,” replied Perchik, though he did not.
“I did not love her at first, you know; it took time. It took time to see that it was indeed this thing called love I was feeling. The feeling was foreign to me, but it was delicious and grand once I stumbled upon it and once I pulled myself together. So now, two years later, I cannot help myself! Better late than never, eh, comrade?” He laughed. “Would you believe I used to be a confirmed bachelor?”
“Ah, my friend.” Perchik chuckled wryly, eyeing the vultures in the corner. “I’m afraid I know all too well about that.”
“Indeed—as any good young man should. All I know is that I far preferred dalliances to any kind of meaningful intimacy. I did not like the irritation and discomfort of imperfect matches. I wanted a woman who was somewhat like the moon. I would miss her when she was away and appreciate her when she returned, but I did not want her around all the time!”
The man’s hearty laughter made way for a return of his terrible cough. He produced a handkerchief from within his breast pocket; it was large, soiled, and seemingly employed for this exact circumstance. Recovering, he wiped the corners of his mouth, crumpled the linen messily, and begged apology. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said, and then sipped his vodka, cleared his throat, sniffed sharply, and steadied himself before he went on, his voice now re-anchored. “I’ve had many professions in my life. Many friends, roles, jobs, obligations. But one role I never expected to play was the romantic lead. I’ve searched all my life for meaningful work. But I have found that love—for a cause, for an art, for another living soul, at times just for the sake of it—is purpose enough. It is more than enough. I’m so pleased to have discovered that at long last.
“I will find this woman and ask her to love me, and if she will, I hope we will share a life filled with the love of our work, our home, our causes, and each other. And then one day . . . that will be that.” The man fingered the crumpled linen in between his hands thoughtfully. “The heart, you see, is a muscle; if you make no use of it, it atrophies. And I would know,” he finished, smiling broadly. “I’m a doctor.”
The man was so earnest, Perchik could not help but smile. He hailed the bartender to bring two more glasses.
“Thank you,” said the man, running the tip of his finger over the top of his glass. “And you, my friend? You never really answered my question.”
Perchik winced. The man had displayed such admirable candor that Perchik felt obliged to be honest in some small way. But the thought of such honesty repulsed him.
“I suppose,” Perchik started, haltingly. “Well, I suppose I am a businessman.” He winced again faintly; so much feeling had already been numbed by the drink, but still it stung. “I was at university. Studying God knows what. . . .” He glanced over at the man, whose gaze was so keen, Perchik could feel it in his nerves. “In truth, I barely attended classes. I admit, I was mad. I was reckless. I tried to find meaning in the lessons—some form of kinship with other bright people. But it wasn’t there. I don’t even know how to describe the circumstance, my friend, but it’s safe to say I never advanced much. My professors joked that I would be stuck there forever, blessing me with the title of ‘perpetual student.’ They were not inaccurate, I suppose. I was always studying— but for what? I did not know then. I don’t know now. I do not, it would appear, know much at all. So much schooling and yet I don’t know anything.” With that, he finished the dregs of his drink and then slammed the glass down. “So, to your question: I have come to Moscow for what? To carve out my purpose? To shape and define my aspirations? I have many thoughts, comrade. Some have called them gifts. But to me, they seem to be curses. And dream
s, yes, I have those too—many of them. But as of yet, no actions, no calling . . .”
He drifted away on the stream of that thought, then after a moment, he spoke again quietly. “The truth is, I have been forsaken.”
There it was. Out loud at long last.
“I had to get away,” he continued. He welled up with feeling, which he choked back harshly. “There. I said it. The truth, that is.”
The man nodded, adjusting his glasses. He understood.
They sat in silence for a while, and when the man finally spoke, it was almost at a whisper.
“I have—” he started. “I have recently acquired a new property. A beautiful plot of land on the outskirts of Yalta. I have taken up agriculture and horticulture, tended an orchard and ponds and planted many trees. But I have been ill, my friend,” he said, indicating the handkerchief now inside his breast pocket. “Yes. I, the doctor, have been ill, and it is immensely interesting what happens when the doctor becomes the patient.” He paused, then chuckled. “It is funny. I do not tend to speak so openly about my feelings. You certainly have a way about you.”
“I am glad you think so, sir,” Perchik said.
The stranger continued, “Anyway, after all those years devoted to stalling death, it is the business of living life to which I now commit myself. Life—the most fundamental business of all. I suppose, in a way, that makes me a businessman myself!” He nudged the young man lightly with his elbow. “You understand?”
Perchik nodded. The man was delightful.
“I love Russia. I love her vast, stark body. Her ferocity. Her warmth. I wish to share this love with her and with all she looks after. I look at my trees, at the ponds and the plants, and dream of what they will be in five hundred years. Soon I will plant more; I shall keep dogs and tame cranes and, most of all, receive guests. Guests like yourself, comrade. For life must be shared. My friend—the perpetual student—you are welcome anytime.”
“I would like that, sir,” said Perchik. “Very much.”
The man coughed once again, this time less violently, but he still produced the hanky and covered his mouth before taking its corners and wiping his eyes underneath his spectacles.
“I only fear there will not be enough time to appreciate it. After all, life does not begin an hour from now.” The stranger stopped there, folding the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.
Fear, thought Perchik. Fear. There is no more time for it. How much time he had wasted with his paralyzing hesitations?
“Oh!” Perchik cried out suddenly. “Do not fear!” He found himself speaking loudly, as if the voice was not his own but came from a deeper place within him, possessing a far more emphatic tenor. He gripped the man’s shoulder with a passionate sincerity and looked him right in the eye.
“Soon this great and beautiful motherland will belong to us all,” Perchik told him. “Just as you have said—the beauties and glories of our spectacular motherland can and shall be shared in fairness with all men regardless of their import, their wealth, their status, or their social value. Someday—and soon I hope—we will see that every man has value, every man has purpose, and no one man shall tower over another with judgment or spite. There will be no money to poison us. No love withheld. Only that which is shared and free-flowing. One day quite soon—just think of it! We shall all value our land as you value your plot; we shall all share in your garden of life. Can you imagine it? I can, my friend; I see it and believe in it with all of me. Soon there will be hope. Soon all Russia will be our orchard.”
The man stared at Perchik for a moment. Then, blinking, he fumbled within his jacket and pulled out a small black book. He began to scribble.
“What are you doing?” asked Perchik.
“All . . . Russia . . . is . . . our . . . orchard,” the man said as he wrote. “That is a nice turn of phrase, my friend—a good line!”
“Thank you,” said Perchik, astonished.
“You should give speeches, my friend,” the man said. “Or perhaps teach. Go back to that university of yours. Use that lovely mind. But do not forget the heart! You speak with command, wisdom, and tremendous passion. Perhaps there is something to tend your purpose there. Believe me,” he said, his eyes glinting, “I would know.” He finished his scribbling and returned the small pencil to the center of the worn black book and the book to the folds of his long coat. “Inspiration is everywhere, my friend! I like to write such things down, you see. Ah! I am inspired tonight! That is hope, my friend. That is progress indeed. You have given me a great gift. A great gift. And I thank you.”
The stranger dropped his gaze and drew a circle around the rim of his vodka glass with a stained finger, creating a barely audible ringing. Perchik felt as if the man were conjuring a spell, drawing some kind of enchantment from a well of wisdom lurking deep within the darkness of his long black coat.
The lights of the bar flickered slightly as the man turned to Perchik, his formerly diminutive figure somehow appearing much larger now. When the man spoke again, there was a power in his voice Perchik hadn’t heard before.
“You are a young man, my friend. And, I sense, a good one. You speak with command, wisdom, and tremendous passion,” he said. “I do not know much, my friend. But I do not believe we are given gifts we are not prepared to realize. A way exists, if the longing is in earnest.” He stood and buttoned his coat. “I must go. I thank you, comrade.”
Perchik nodded, unable to speak.
The stranger raised his glass to Perchik. “Na zdorovie .”He drank the last of it, took a long look at Reb Perchik, then left and was swallowed up by the darkness and mist of the night and the wind and the unknown city.
“Congratulations, Reb Perchik,” said The Gentleman. “We feel you are absolved.”
The Gentleman was seated behind a wide desk. Across the room was a Mongol girl with a heart-shaped face.
“Your conduct has been without fault,” The Gentleman said, his words clipped with mannered, perfect enunciation. He nodded to the girl, who crossed the room with a document ready for signature. “Thank you, Irina,” he said, and she sat beside The Gentleman, ink pen in hand. It was clear, seeing them next to each other, that this must be his daughter.
“We have decided you have labored long enough.” His mouth was as tight as his voice.
“It is the accounting house for you.”
The posts in the accounting office of the processing factory were especially desirable to those who had any form of education, and the prisoners who occupied these positions were envied. But all were alike in the eyes of the law, and at the flippant whim of an officer one might be “removed to other functions” at any moment.
It was an unnaturally early hour. Perchik, thanks to the ingenuity of his wife, was as well-groomed and tidy as any prisoner could be. He stood before The Gentleman, bowing his head to show respect before replying, “No, thank you, sir.” He stated it calmly. “I would not care for the reassignment. At least not in accounts.”
The Gentleman eyed him blankly. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps the general office. But not accounts. I would quite prefer to labor, sir.”
The Gentleman blinked. “Very well.” He arranged the papers before him and handed them back to Irina, who silently prepared them for redrafting. “Make ready the next reassignment case,” he called to the overseer at the back of the room, who instantly went out and escorted a young man inside.
“Tenderov, Andrey,” announced the overseer.
The golden-haired youth held his head up and caught Irina’s gaze; she returned his stare and did not flinch. He moved toward her, as if she had left a scented trail, then after a moment, he flashed a smile so broad, so clean and white and blinding, it made Perchik’s insides palpitate.
“Here we go . . .” Tenderov whispered as the overseer shoved him forward, bellowing “Off with you!” to Perchik as he passed.
“Oh, and Reb Perchik,” The Gentleman called after him. “Before you go. Do send m
y regards to your lovely wife.”
Perchik looked back unblinkingly for a moment. Then he simply nodded and turned to go, returning to the mines once more.
BOOK THREE
Mine
If he come in by himself, he shall go out by himself:
if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him.
—Exodus
thirty
HODEL LOOKED OUT ACROSS THE VAST GRAY LAND OF NERCHINSK.
Where she had come from, Siberia was synonymous with wasteland, an eternal winter of colorless turbulence. But for all its violence, Hodel knew Nerchinsk to be a land of great memory, a land that reached back centuries.
That day, as Hodel gazed at Nerchinsk, its great recollections all unfolded before her: in the ever-watchful hills laced with precious metals, in the dignity of its native beasts. It revealed its mystery in the first slip of the moon blessing the land with its soft glow, and in the worn roads that had held the feet of many a journeyman.
Her eyes feasted on the wild beauty of Siberia’s landscape. Every day, it looked different.
The sky, once heavy as eyelids fighting sleep, was now a luminescent blue. Where once there had been only threads of smoke fading into night, now clouds came belching up from chimneys in great billows. The barrack sheds and village shacks, once only smudges of blackened wood, now displayed shocks of color—window shutters, painted doors, and makeshift murals. The old silence was now punctuated by sounds of picks and carts and heavy hammers, cows and chickens, and, above it all, the wailing whistle of the ever-growing railway.
The eastern winds that once wafted smells from deepest Asia now blew minerals from the ever-expanding mines: the sour sickness of sulfur, the sharpness of silver, and the harshly cleansing scorch of salt that burned the nostrils as you searched to define it further.
Hodel’s yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows might fall away, yet her memories did not exist in time, but in her soul, and their riches nourished her, revealed a limitless depth within.
After Anatevka Page 16
