Broken Glass Park

by Alina Bronsky

  “But you’ve never been married,” says Felix.

  “How do you know?” I ask. “What do you know about me? Do you have any idea how awful I am? Let’s get out of this room—it’s too cramped. This is the living room. These are my mother’s books.”

  “Who hung up all these Chagall prints?” Volker asks.

  “She did,” I say. “They’re all hers. She loved his stuff.”

  “They’re weird-looking,” says Felix. “I don’t want to say they’re ugly, but they are weird. Why are the people flying around like that?”

  “They’re dreaming,” says Alissa from below his elbow.

  “Aha,” says Felix. “We brought a little present for you. Volker, where is it? The one for the little kid.”

  “I’m not little,” says Alissa. “I’m almost four.”

  “What is that?” I say, standing stiffly and squinting.

  “I believe they are called flowers,” says Felix. “In a vase. It really does take a while to recover from a blow to the head, eh?”

  “Felix!” says Volker. He sounds genuinely angry.

  “No,” I say. “Not that. Next to it.”

  This time the gurgling noise comes from Maria’s throat. Volker looks at her, worried.

  “What is that?” I repeat. I go over to the table. Next to the vase with the three sunflowers in it are some strange objects—something in a plastic bag that looks like a shaving kit and that brings uneasy thoughts creeping into my head, a notebook, pens, a leather briefcase.

  “Sascha,” says Maria meekly, “not now, Sascha . . . I . . . forgot to put it away . . . I’m an idiot . . . ”

  I shove Maria aside and reach for the notebook. Loose sheets fall out, dozens of them, all covered with sloppy, erratic writing. The pages slip through my fingers, giving off a strange odor that makes me nauseated.

  Felix gathers the sheets off the floor, looks at them, annoyed, and hands them on to Volker.

  I reach my hand out and open the leather briefcase.

  Newspaper clippings fall out—all of which I recognize—along with documents I’ve never seen before: a Russian birth certificate, an old union handbook, a gun certificate, notarized translations. I toss it all carelessly on the floor. I know whose scent is on it all.

  At the bottom are photos. Four photos.

  A big print. A red-headed woman in a tunic-like outfit, arms outstretched, eyes closed. On stage, in the spotlight.

  I turn the photo over and read the description written on the back in large uneven letters: My wife Marina in her theater.

  Another big one. A young blond boy with a school satchel. His eyes look nervous and he seems to be trying to hide behind the satchel.

  On the back: My son Anton’s first day of school.

  A smaller photo. A smiling baby in a high chair, both of the baby’s hands buried in the food on a plate.

  The back: My daughter Alissa tries solid food.

  An even smaller photo. A dark-haired girl on a bench with her feet pulled up onto the bench. Behind her the Emerald. On her knees an open book.

  It looks very familiar to me, but I can’t seem to place it. I don’t understand what this photo is doing here.

  Behind me everyone is silent.

  No, not entirely.

  Maria’s breathing is labored. Someone shuffles their feet. Another one coughs.

  “Bless you,” says Alissa loudly.

  I turn over the last photo and need a long time to read what it says.

  Despite the fact that there’s just one word: Sascha.

  I put the photos back in the briefcase, stack the newspaper clippings neatly on top of them, and close the case.

  “Maria,” I say. “Blueberry tore. Now.”

  Nobody notices when I get up and quietly walk to my room and close the door behind me.

  I straddle my chair and pick up the framed photo from my desk. If I close my eyes most of the way and gently move my head, it looks as if the faces in the photo are moving. Blinking your eyes really fast creates the same effect.

  Hello, you, and you, too, Harry, I say. We haven’t talked in a while. I hope you’re not mad I didn’t take you with me to the hospital. I was all alone there. I hardly thought of you. Only once, and I was glad you couldn’t see me. Or could you?

  And I also thought about how good it is that you two will have each other. Always. I’ll probably always be alone.

  I don’t believe in heaven or hell. But I know we’ll see each other again. There have been a few moments in the last few months when I thought that time was imminent.

  By the way, are you guys aware of the fact that Vadim is on his way? I hope he leaves you alone. Maybe someone there can show him how to behave properly. Either that or perhaps there he’ll be so small and you so big that the only trouble will be avoiding stepping on him.

  What a cowardly, rotten thing to do—just to take the shortest, easiest route to you. Don’t you agree?

  The problem is that I can’t get upset about it anymore. I’ve lost my fire. I’m sorry, but I’m sure you’ll understand. It’s just the way it is.

  Our apartment is full of people right now who are eating, talking, and laughing. There are two new ones among them. I never wanted them to come here, but they’ve come anyway. And it seems like they are enjoying it. I suspect this won’t be the last time they’re here.

  Of course I’m not crying. I just have something in my eye.

  Anton is showing Felix his Gameboy, and they seem to get along well. Felix can’t hide the fact that he loves being idolized. And Anton is walking on clouds because an older boy is paying attention to him.

  Alissa is showing Volker how to write his name in Cyrillic. He’s impressed by how smart she is. She’s also really cute—and cheeky. And he’s probably one of those guys who always wanted a daughter but never had one. It’s really idyllic and everything smells like cinnamon. Maria also put vanilla sugar in the whipped cream, so the scent of vanilla is everywhere, too.

  There’s nothing left for me to do here. I feel as if they will all be all right now even without me.

  You once told me that on your second day of first grade, you just got up and left because it wasn’t interesting enough for you. And that during school holidays and later between college semesters you would always go away somewhere. Take a train or hitchhike, just because you wanted to see the ocean or the mountains. And how you took a job selling magazine subscriptions because they sent you all over the place, to Siberia, to the far east. There was nothing you liked more than hitting the road.

  I don’t care about seeing the ocean or the mountains. I want to go someplace where there are lots of people and where nobody will notice the way I look at the moment.

  Your favorite city was Paris, a romantic holdover from Soviet days—“See Paris and die,” they used to say. We were there twice together. It was nice, but I don’t want to go there now. Its romance doesn’t suit me at the moment.

  And when we were in Rome once, I was overwhelmed by the heat and the dust and the rattling of all the mopeds. My nerves are too frayed for that right now.

  Berlin is cool, but I want to go someplace where I don’t understand everything around me for a change.

  Which is why, Marina, I’m going to see how fast I can get to Prague. It was your favorite city, too—you had nothing but favorite cities. All I can remember about Prague is having my first ever Irish coffee. You let me order it in a café. And I remember watching a painter on a bridge. You don’t get much out of traveling as a kid—all you remember are the pigeons and the ice cream and the time you got lost in a crowd.

  I haven’t done much with my summer vacation so far. You wouldn’t be very impressed.

  I put the framed photo back on my desk. It falls over. I stand it up again.

  The backpack I had at the hospital is on the floor, not yet unpacked. I open it and rummage through its contents. Then I zip it up again.

  I open the top drawer of my desk and take out the power cor
d for my mobile phone, a grubby baggie of marijuana—I can’t even remember where I got it anymore—two old rings that belonged to my mother, both of which are too big for all my fingers except my thumbs, along with my MP3 player, my passport, a couple of scrunchies, a half-empty jar of aspirin, and a stack of money. I’ve been throwing all my money in that drawer. I just never thought of anything I wanted to do with it.

  I stuff the money and the MP3 player into my pants pocket. The rest of the stuff goes into the backpack. Except the scrunchies, which I throw back into the drawer. I don’t need them anymore. They cut off most of my hair in the ambulance and the rest of it when they changed my bandages at the hospital.

  I look at myself in the mirror for quite a long time. Then I look for my old black baseball cap. There was a time when I was obsessed with it, but I think I may have given it to Anton in the meantime. Nope, here it is, under the bureau. I put it on and feel ready to venture out among people again.

  After having a look at my fingernails, I cut them with a pair of paper scissors.

  I fidget with a pen, unsure about whether to leave a note, and what to write in it. I put the pen back down.

  It would be an exaggeration to say I’m in a good mood. But something is singing inside me—and the words aren’t Eminem’s.

  In the foyer I stumble over my rollerblades—and then over Anton’s. I can’t imagine ever putting those things on again. I put on my sneakers and listen to the voices wafting in from the living room as I tie the laces.

  I’m a little worried someone is going to ask where I am.

  But it doesn’t happen.

  I step out and pull the door quietly closed behind me.

  It’s extremely quiet all through the Emerald. The only sound is a baby crying somewhere.

  The bench in front of the building is still empty.

  I throw my backpack over my shoulder, turn my baseball cap backwards, and head out into the sun.

  About the author

  Born in Ekaterinburg, Russia, in 1978, the author now lives in Frankfurt, Germany. Broken Glass Park, nominated for the prestigious Bachmann Prize, among others, is her first novel. Alina Bronsky is a pseudonym.

  Table of Contents

  Broken Glass Park

  About the author