The Free World (21 page)

The Gypsies brought them to a clearing set back behind one of the apartment sites. The ground was rife with weeds and strewn with windblown trash. Lodged in the middle of the field, like a dinosaur egg, was the rusted drum of a concrete mixer. There was a large shanty at one end of the clearing, and a larger structure at the rear edge, abutting a little wood. The Gypsies deposited them and their belongings in the shanty, and retired to the other building. They’d arrived in early evening and had only a few hours to adapt themselves to their quarters. The shanty was derelict and dark. It had two
windows, both thick with grime. The walls and floor were of plywood and infused with mold. Vodka and beer bottles were littered throughout the place, and along one wall were three stained mattresses, two of which were outfitted with crumpled, and equally stained, sheets. The place smelled heavily of rot, tobacco, urine, and debauch.

Where have you brought us?
Rosa asked Karl. A question he disregarded.
How do I put the children down in this place? They are wearing their good suits,
she persisted.
We have all of our shit with us,
Karl said.
We have sheets, pillows, blankets, all kinds of crap. You’re their mother. Improvise.

They all regarded the place with disgust. Nobody wanted to touch anything. Emma gaped in horror and spoke one word: “Taman.” Lermontov’s epitome of squalor.

By nightfall they managed to clear a quadrant of the space for themselves. In a discarded barrel, previously used for a similar purpose, Alec lit a fire. Through the walls they heard the sounds of the Gypsies across the field. When Alec and Karl stepped out to smoke, they saw the lights aglow in the Gypsies’ house.

At some point in the night, they fell asleep. Alec remembered drifting off beside Polina. He remembered saying,
A fitting way to spend our last night in the Soviet Union.
Then he’d been startled awake by Karl, in what felt like the middle of the night, but what was in fact was not even midnight. Karl hissed,
Zhenya’s gone. Get up.
Except for Rosa, who peered at them with blazing feral eyes, everyone else was still asleep.

They slipped from their shanty and out into the dark clearing. Across the way, the lights were still burning in the Gypsies’ house. Karl hunched forward, his body coiled for violence, as he strode toward the Gypsies’ house. Alec followed in step, and felt the same apprehension as when he’d feared that Karl’s schoolyard enemies might come to their street for a brawl.

Alec remembered passing the black outcropping of the cement mixer, and then standing with Karl at the lit window of the Gypsies’ house. The window granted a view of the living room. Inside, they saw mismatched furniture, a large ornate rug, and also the man
who’d brought them there, his fourteen-year-old son, an old woman, two middle-aged women, and three small children. Two of the children were girls, the other was a boy roughly Zhenya’s age. The boy, Alec was quick to note, was wearing Zhenya’s little suit. Everyone was smiling, in high spirits. But there was no sign of Zhenya himself. Then Alec felt his brother tense beside him. He turned to see what had caused Karl to react. Opposite the Gypsy children, at the edge of the rug, stood Zhenya. He was naked except for his underpants. In the lamplight, his pale skin was translucent. Alec could see the delicate web of blue veins in his chest. He didn’t look precisely frightened or upset. If anything, he looked confused. However, the scene was so bizarre that Alec didn’t know what it implied. He had no time to consider it because Karl leaped past him and barged through the door.

Alec felt that he’d been only seconds behind Karl, but somehow, in that span, Karl had managed to seize the Gypsy by the ear and bend him over backwards. The women and children started shrieking, and Zhenya, who hadn’t looked upset before, had burst into tears. Alec saw a trickle of blood at the Gypsy’s earlobe and he feared that Karl might tear the man’s ear off. He threatened to do as much if everyone didn’t quiet down. Between gasps, the Gypsy protested that they’d done nothing wrong. Zhenya had wandered over to their house. They had let him in. The Gypsy’s youngest son had admired Zhenya’s suit. The Gypsy’s wife had offered Zhenya a trade. For the suit, they would give something of theirs. His son was only trying the suit on to see how it would fit.

Karl said,
Enough.
He told the Gypsy’s little boy that if he preferred his father with two ears, he should be quick about removing the suit. Alec helped the sobbing Zhenya get dressed. When Zhenya was clothed, Karl released the Gypsy.
Tomorrow,
Karl said,
I expect you to be there with the donkey at eight. No surprises. Everything like we agreed.
Alec didn’t remember if the Gypsy said anything in compliance. The only sound in the room seemed to be Zhenya’s sobbing.

On the way out the door, Karl slapped Zhenya sharply on the back of the head.
Keep quiet,
he said.
And not a word about this to anyone.
He looked over at Alec and said,
You, too.

O
n the thirty-sixth anniversary of the loss of his leg, Roidman came to visit, armed with a bottle of cognac.

—I call it my second birthday, Roidman said.

Samuil invited him in and joined him at the kitchen table to raise a toast.

—So, a happy occasion, Roidman said and smiled. One has to remember to rejoice—especially when everything is not going quite according to plan.

By “not going quite according to plan,” Roidman meant that, after nearly a year, and after all of his son’s machinations, and all of the letters written on his behalf by Jewish ladies in Winnipeg, the Canadians still had no interest in him. Roidman confided that he would continue to wait until one of two things happened: either Canada accepted him or he finished his opera about Fanny Kaplan. He found Ladispoli to be conducive for musical composition. There was the seashore, the mild climate, stimulating company, and few practical obligations. This was how he had always imagined the way creative people worked in their exclusive rest homes and union retreats. How engaging and fulfilling it was. He had been working in one trade or another since boyhood: finishing boots with his father, a sapper’s
duties in the Red Army, later his occupation in Kiev, tooling leather. He’d never objected to the work, but it had never felt like anything other than what it was: work. His time in Ladispoli confirmed what he had always suspected—that artists were indeed the most fortunate people. What a charmed life they led! What they did could not even be considered work—it was such a pleasure. When he sat down to compose, the music simply poured out of him.

In his opera, he had now reached the most stirring and hopeful part of the story. Up to this point, much has happened. Fanny Kaplan is no longer a girl of sixteen. She has long since left her family and their traditions. Seduced away by the anarchist Mika, she has joined a terrorist cell. In a hotel in Odessa, she has helped to fashion a bomb for a tsarist governor. By accident, this bomb has exploded in the hotel room, wounding her in the eyes. Injured, she is abandoned by Mika and arrested by the police. A trial follows and a life sentence in a Siberian prison.

For more than a decade, she is exiled and imprisoned. Because of her injury she is nearly blind. She expects no reprieve from the tsar, and her future seems as bleak as the taiga. She waits and waits, and her youth and idealism drain away with the passing years. The only comfort she finds is with the other prisoners—radical revolutionists of various stripes.

In their captivity, she and her fellow prisoners plot the revolution and dream of a just world.

Will we forever be the childless mothers of the revolution? Up on the frozen brow of the earth, our hearts and wombs burn to give birth to the future. Our hearts and wombs burn to forge a new world.

Then, miraculously, spontaneously, comes the February revolution. The divine eternal tsar, monarch of the Holy Russian Empire, abdicates his throne. All that Marxist rhetoric and doctrine—previously just compressed heat and air—takes solid form. Amnesty is granted.

As a show of gratitude, Fanny is sent to a clinic in Kharkov. A doctor performs surgery. It is the spring of 1917 and she can see
again. She is fit to take her place among the political workers. She is fit to instruct the masses.

—She is fit to shoot at Lenin, Samuil said.

—She is, Roidman said, but she has no mind to yet. This is still only the spring of 1917. The October Revolution needs to be waged. The Constituent Assembly dissolved. Armistice signed with the Germans at Brest. In the spring of 1917 Lenin has not yet become
Lenin.
There is no reason to shoot at him yet.

The spring of 1917 was as far as Roidman had progressed. He had arrived at the enchanted moment where, as in a fairy tale, the clouds part and the golden light streams in. In a fairy tale, this is where the story ends. Not so in life. But that doesn’t detract from the enchanted moment. The moment remains the moment. And that which comes later, comes later.

For the enchanted moment, Roidman envisioned a scene in the hospital ward. All is white. The iron beds painted white, the bedsheets white, the doctors and nurses in their coats white, shafts of white light through the windows, and Fanny in a white nightgown with white bandages over her eyes.

Carefully, a doctor bends down and removes the bandages, placing them in a white enamel bowl. Fanny’s dark eyelashes are revealed, her eyes still closed. Slowly, tentatively, like petals to the sun, her eyelids open.

With a contented grin, Roidman said: Our day will also come, Samuil Leyzerovich. I am certain of that. Our patience will be rewarded and we, too, will be released.

My dearest Lola,

Prepare yourself, because I have some big news …

Alec had collected the envelope from the mail slot and, as was their habit, he’d left it on the kitchen table for Polina to discover when she came home. He then went out to the corner store for groceries and cigarettes. When he returned, Polina was at the table with the letter spread out before her. At the sound of his entrance, Polina raised her head and gave him a tentative, perplexed look.

Alec asked, What is it? and joined her at the table.

—Arik Farberman got his visa, Polina said.

—Imagine that, Alec said. They’re really cleaning house.

Polina paused.

—He’s proposed to Nadja, she said.

—You don’t say.

—She asks me what I think she should do.

—Arik is a real Zionist, down to the bone, Alec said. Or at least he was when we left.

—He still is, Polina said.

—And is there more going on between them than just the visa?

—There is.

—A lot? Alec asked.

—How much does there need to be? Polina asked dryly.

In response, Alec could only smile.

—If Arik is the same as when we left, he won’t go to Canada or America. Only Israel. Is she ready for that?

—She says she is, but he’s filled her head with ideas and you know how she can be.

—What are you going to say?

—She’s my sister; I love her, and I want to see her.

—So then tell her.

—Is that reason enough, that I want to see her? It’s not like I’ll be next door.

—You think she’ll be worse off in Israel than in Latvia?

Alec had asked the question almost without thinking, as if it could have only one plausible answer. But in the way Polina received it, in the flash of acrimony in her eyes, he saw himself reflected as a dullard and a fool.

—She is asking if she should leave her home and abandon our parents in their old age to follow a man she hardly knows to a strange country: What would you have me tell her?

—If you put it like that, then of course, Alec said, feeling a swell of anger. You must write to her immediately and keep her from making this terrible mistake.

Polina continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

—And she’d be going to Israel, with its wars, its terrorist attacks. Where she would never be completely accepted.

—Into the lair of the Zionist aggressor, Alec said, now surprising himself with this upsurge of patriotic indignation.

—Don’t twist my words, Polina said. I’m not saying anything I haven’t heard you or Lyova say.

—Fine, so what are we debating? It seems we are all in agreement. You, me, Lyova.

Alec found that Polina’s invocation of Lyova also irritated him. He thought: What is Lyova doing in our private conversation?

Polina looked at him coldly and said, I see that I was wrong to say anything to you.

It felt to Alec like a storm had blown in out of nowhere. He couldn’t understand what had given rise to this strange disagreement. Why was he being attacked? He hadn’t designed the Soviet Union. He hadn’t founded the state of Israel.

They sat locked in this stalemate when the intercom buzzed and Alec got up to go to the device. Through the speaker, swirling with electric clicks and pops, a man’s voice burbled out. The voice wasn’t one Alec could place immediately. Who’s asking? Alec said, and the response came back: It’s me, Iza. Iza Judo.

—It’s not a good time, Iza. Come back later.

—Would I bother you for no reason? Iza said.

—Later.

—Five minutes, Iza said. I’ll come up.

Alec looked ruefully at Polina.

—Go, I’m not keeping you.

—Wonderful, Alec said, and trudged down the stairs.

When Alec opened the door, he came face-to-face with Iza, who wore an overeager expression, as if he’d been wound up like a child’s toy. Or, more precisely, wound himself up.

Since the day Iza had propositioned him in front of the briefing department, Alec had seen him only in passing, now and again, usually at one of the pensiones, where Iza would be accosting a batch of new arrivals. But it had been weeks since he’d seen him last. If Syomka hadn’t still been employed by the briefing department, Alec would have assumed that the brothers Bender were safely naturalized in Australia. Instead, here was Iza, emitting urgency and venality.

Over Iza’s shoulder, the late afternoon sun had ripened and saturated the pastel colors of the buildings down to their grains. Iza’s close-cropped head was rimmed in ocher. His tan vinyl jacket, the sleeves pushed up over his thick forearms, had a warm translucence.

Assessing the building and the street, Iza mused, I don’t think I know anyone else who lives around here.

—It’s not popular with Russians.

—How’s the rent?

—Not too bad.

—A lot of drug addicts?

—They keep to themselves. And, besides, we don’t have anything to steal.

—It’s all right here. Very Italian. If you like that sort of thing.

Iza grinned and interrupted his patter long enough for Alec to take note of a white Fiat 500 parked half on the sidewalk just at the edge of the building. The driver’s window was rolled down and Dmitri was leaning out, watching them. Beside him in the passenger seat, white as a bulb, was Minka the thief. Neither of them twitched a muscle in greeting.

Iza glanced at the Fiat and back at Alec.

—Something big is going down, Iza said conspiratorially.

—What’s that?

—A serious deal. High stakes.

—Great, Iza, but what’s it got to do with me?

—Your brother’s involved.

—I’m sure it’s not the first time. But I don’t meddle in his affairs. Which is how he likes it. Me, too.

—Not this time.

—Not this time, what?

—This time he wants you along.

—Why’s that?

—I couldn’t say. Those were his words. I didn’t think to ask why. You know him. He doesn’t like to be questioned.

—It doesn’t seem a little strange to you, Iza? This is how you prepare for a big deal? Karl wants me along but I don’t know anything about it? Instead he sends you over without any warning? Let’s say I wasn’t here.

—But you are here.

—What if I wasn’t?

—What if? What if? Look, if Grandpa had tits he’d be Grandma.

Alec considered Iza to be a dolt and he wasn’t thrilled about the
prospect of going anywhere with him, or with tight-lipped Dmitri or with Minka the thief, but at the same time he felt a masochistic urge to spite Polina—to punish her by going on this rash, dubious adventure.

—Where’s this happening?

—Ostia.

—And how long will it take? Alec asked.

—No time, Iza said and grinned, tasting victory and enamored of his powers of persuasion.

He spun himself around and headed toward the car.

—And what about getting home? Alec called.

—Don’t worry about it, Iza said, glancing backwards.

—I’m not interested in taking the train, Alec said.

At this, Iza turned dramatically, a pained expression on his face, as if Alec had just uttered something petty and outlandish.

—What train? Iza said. Who said anything about a train? We do this and you go home in a taxi.

On the way to Ostia, Dmitri drove without uttering a syllable, the back of his neck a truculent pillar. Minka the thief gazed out the window and smoked indolently. Iza was the only one to do any talking. The other men’s silence did nothing to inhibit him. He was full of energy, twitchy and garrulous. As they jounced together in the back of the Fiat, Iza announced to Alec that his and Syomka’s documents had finally been approved for Australia. In six days, they would be on the plane to Melbourne.

—Eleven months of chasing my tail in Rome, Iza said, but that’s all over now. No more HIAS, no more Joint. No more groveling like a schlepper from one office to another begging for handouts. That’s it. We finally go and live like free men in a free country. Over there, you have money in your pocket, you do as you please. No more of this bullshit where some bureaucrat with a pike up his ass goes:
Not for you; unavailable; off-limits; forbidden.
Twenty-nine years of that was enough. I think about my mother, who nearly died giving birth to me and Syomka. Did she go through all that so we could live our lives like neutered dogs? You can be sure, I’m kissing all that shit goodbye.
The glorious Soviet Union, the refugee caravan. Let me ask you, by the way, when you leave here, how many bags will you have?

—Leave Rome?

—That’s right.

—I couldn’t say.

—I’ve got none, Iza said. A round zero. You know why?

—Why? Alec obliged.

—Because there’s not three things worth keeping from the entire Soviet Union. And everything I bought in Italy is also crap. The only thing worth bringing from here is capital. Dollars. For which you don’t need a suitcase. So that’s what I’ll be leaving with. Capital and my Australian passport. And fuck everything else in the eye. You get what I mean? Iza asked.

—Sure, Alec said.

—That’s why I’m doing this deal. My last deal in Italy. A serious deal with real money on the table. Not like the Americana and the pensiones. That was crumbs; this is the loaf. I do the deal, I take my profit, and
arrivederci Roma.

They drove west toward Ostia. Ahead of them, beyond the horizon, the orange sun eased itself gently into the sea. Everything went orange in the expiring light. Orange-hued cars barreled along the orange-hued Ostiense until Dmitri pulled up and veered off onto a side road. The road led to a paved parking lot, with posted signs from the tourist bureau and a ticket booth. But for their car, the lot was empty and the ticket booth closed.

—I thought we were going to Ostia, Alec said.

—We’re in Ostia, said Minka.

—Ostia Antica, Iza elaborated.

Dmitri turned off the ignition and got out of the car. Minka and Iza followed suit. Alec, observing the others, did the same. Dmitri went around to the rear of the Fiat and opened the trunk. He reached inside and retrieved two identical brown leather briefcases. He handed them to Minka and bent down to get two more. These he gave to Iza. He repeated the process once again and extended the next two briefcases to Alec. When Alec didn’t immediately reach for
them, Dmitri snapped, What are you waiting for? We don’t have all night. Dmitri bent one last time into the trunk and collected the final two cases. He slammed the trunk closed and started in the direction of the ticket booth. Minka fell in step, and Iza followed only slightly behind. Alec picked up his pace and joined Iza.

They walked past the unattended ticket booth and along a dusty path that led to the entrance to the ruins of Ostia Antica. As they advanced, nobody spoke. They went with single-minded purpose past the jagged wrecks and orphaned columns. Dmitri led the way with practiced, confident strides. From the main road, he cut to the left and went through a complex of redbrick walls and stone foundations. Fragments of bricks and loose stones crunched underfoot. Lizards darted through the coarse grasses and scampered up the walls. Set into these walls were niches, meant for funerary urns.

Dmitri led them out of the necropolis, past a statue of a headless, armless man in a toga, and along a street of bleached stone ruins, with their exposed floors mutely resigned to the whims of sky. They passed an amphitheater, remarkably well preserved, with curved stone benches and, upon the stage, stone masks mounted atop marble columns—their petrified mouths laughing, leering, and grimacing.

Dmitri pressed ahead. The evening light began to fade. Alec thought for sure that in a matter of minutes they’d be stumbling around these ruins in the dark. So far as he knew, nobody had bothered to bring a flashlight. And he didn’t expect to find any in the briefcases. What there was in the briefcases, he could only speculate. His appeared to be packed tightly, with nothing shifting about. Both cases were of equal weight. They had a heft, a solidity. Alec guessed at something between books and cigar boxes. Though for such a caper, Alec presumed something more substantial. Swiss watches in velvet cases or stacks of dollar bills. The one thing he couldn’t understand, though, was his role. So far as he could see, he seemed to have been brought along because they needed another pair of arms.

Following after Dmitri, it seemed to Alec like they covered the entire length of Ostia Antica, passing through all manner of squares,
temples, and interchangeable ruins. But Dmitri kept going, leading them beyond the heart of the settlement, through a field, and toward the lights and sounds of an adjacent road. He finally came to a stop not far from a fence that separated the ancient site from the intermittent traffic. Where he stopped, there was one last ruin, not unlike the others—collapsed walls, jutting columns—only it was essentially isolated, set apart.

The headlights of passing cars flashed between the pillars. Silhouetted in the headlights, Alec saw the form of a large fat man. The man came toward them and, in a booming, gregarious voice, greeted them in Italian. At his side was a second man. Backlit, their faces were obscure, but as they drew near Alec was able to identify them. The larger man was Angelo, owner of the garage, and the smaller one was the Italian kid who’d been playing ball outside the garage when he and Lyova had first pulled up.

As Angelo approached, Dmitri set his cases on the ground and shook hands with the Italian. Angelo, looking jovial, grinned broadly at everyone.

—È un piacere vedere tutti i miei amici Russi,
he said.

Dmitri, not one to accommodate to social graces, kept his face blank, but Alec saw that Minka and Iza Judo bared their teeth and made obliging noises.

—Where’s Karl? Alec asked.

—Looks like he’s not here, Dmitri said.

—Looks like, Alec said. Is he coming?

—How should I know? Dmitri said.

—Iza said he’d be here. That’s why I came.

—Looks like Iza was mistaken, Dmitri said. Karl’s not here. And you are. Looks like that’s the way things stand.

—Cosa c’è?
Angelo inquired.

—Cerca Karl. Ma Karl non c’è,
Dmitri replied.