He spent hours, days, looking for some sign of his correspondence with Irina’s father. He wanted desperately to find it, now more than ever. At the same time, he wanted to prove to himself that he could not. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t careless with a young woman’s last wish—that he wasn’t too absorbed with his own marriage and his own democracy to find the thing that counted. He wanted to know that the thing that counted was not really there. He went through countless stacks of the old pamphlets, the carbon copying bleeding into indecipherable bright blue rivulets. He went through his notes on strategy. He went through his old delivery routes and was surprised that he was ever fool enough to write them down. He found a diary entry about Elizabeta, but he could not give it to her now—not because he was embarrassed (although he was), but because confronting the shakiness of his writing, the exuberance of his love, made him want to weep.
He found nothing from Irina’s father. He sat for three days straight, scattering the apartment with paper that was as ancient and fragile as an old man’s skin. And then, finally, he told himself that he could stop looking. He told himself that Irina had already found whatever she came for.
It wasn’t until years later, when he was going through Elizabeta’s things, that Aleksandr would find the letter from Irina’s father. He remembered then Elizabeta’s attempted delivery of it in those weeks before her marriage to Mitya, and he remembered the way he’d rejected it while she stood in the doorway, young and alive and disappearing from him for the first time. He remembered the clawing grief at his chest during those days. He remembered how he’d thought that was the worst thing, and what a thin, marginal sadness it had been, comparatively. And then he sat on the ground, among Elizabeta’s boxes and books, and cried a little and laughed a little and stared a little, bemusedly, at the ceiling. And then, for the first time, he read the letter.
In the aftermath of the election, the world briefly takes an interest. Aleksandr is flown out to the States to explain everything on television. (This happened every so often—whenever there was an event that demanded translation by an English-speaking capitalist who could talk about enormously complicated political upheaval in terms easily recognizable by any high school civics student.) He rides in a limousine through the frenetic city; he watches the hallucinatory lights of Times Square. The taxi drivers all ask him where he is from, and then he asks them where they are from. He can go whole days in New York that feel as though nobody is a native—the city is a spaceship, and everyone in it is a refugee from some dying planet (second world, third world, middle America). The hysteria of the lights, the flagrancy of the money, the stridency of the music—there is an energy that could remind him of Moscow. On MSNBC, he is asked what he thinks of the future of Russia. “We are not looking to win elections,” he says. “We are looking to have elections.” For a foreign policy blog, he is asked whether Russia is ready for democracy. Might not years of repression, might not the sheer size, might eons of the systematic subversion of civil society—might all that leave the country unprepared for a democratic system? Each time Aleksandr says no, he points to North Korea and South Korea, he points to East Germany and West Germany. People aren’t born with a template for government; there is not an indisposition for democracy encoded on a human being’s DNA; there’s not a love for authoritarian abuse entangled in a nation’s soul. There are only individuals, and then there are the governments that serve or disserve them. Democracy is the least bad form of government, he says. It maximizes the liberty of the individual, and in this world—in this uncertain, claustrophobic, ever shrinking world, but really, in any world—is that not the highest good? Is there anything more important than writing what you think, and saying what you think, and walking along a river at night unsupervised? Maybe he doesn’t say that last part. And one day in Russia, he says. One day in Russia, too.
But sometimes, sometimes—if he’s honest with himself, which he’s working at, because who else can you expect to be honest with you?—he wonders. He really wonders.
He is asked to participate in a debate at the Institute of Politics at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, and he stays in a green triangle of a hotel above the water (duller, he thinks, less sleek and dramatic than his Neva). He spends the day in the colorful jumble of Cambridge. In Harvard Square, he watches the chessmen at their amateurish, faltering games and remembers that Irina played one of them. He did not know her well, and he did not know her for long, and it is not for her or for her country that he continues. And yet he thinks about her short life, and her unwillingness to spend the entirety of it as a spectator, and he knows that there is something to learn from that, if only he has the patience.
He turns toward the Charles and feels the uncomplicated joy of existing out in the world, where he probably won’t be found by all the people who are looking. He can believe sometimes that this is actually what Irina came to Russia to find. He can believe sometimes that this is actually a worthy endeavor.
Walking along the river, he is struck again by the nearness of the future. It’s just beyond his vision, but it’s there. He knows it is. Its presence follows him—along the green Charles, back to Boston’s underwhelming airport, up into the star-pocked sky and over the sea. He skims the oil-black Atlantic, the twinkling beacons of continental Europe. The future is with him, he thinks—at least as much as the past and all the people who live there. He can sense it, like the sketchy suggestion of an undiscovered country emerging from the mist, or the shape of an endgame materializing somewhere deep in his psyche. Below him, the lights of Petersburg shine like that future—cold and improbable and galaxy-bright, but closer with every moment of descent.
Maybe he will see it one day. Maybe he will not. It’s a big country. But, if you’re lucky, it’s a long life.
To Richard du Bois, who knew how to love life;
And to Carolyn du Bois, who knows how to live it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was made possible by the generous support of Stanford University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Thanks to all of my brilliant colleagues, in particular intrepid early readers Adam Krause, Chris Leslie-Hynan, and Keija Kaarina Parssinen. Thanks to all of my incredible teachers, especially Sandy Warren at the Smith College Campus School; Lisa Levchuk and Peter Gunn at the Williston Northampton School; Alan Lebowitz and Michael Downing at Tufts University; Ethan Canin, Sam Chang, Charlie D’Ambrosio, Elizabeth McCracken, Jim McPherson, and Marilynne Robinson at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop; and Elizabeth Tallent, Adam Johnson, Tobias Wolff, and John L’Heureux at Stanford. Many thanks also to Connie Brothers, Deb West, Jan Zenisek, Christina Ablaza, and Mary Popek, all of whom have endured a staggering number of confused emails from me over the years.
I am immensely grateful to my terrific editor, David Ebershoff, and my heroic agent, Henry Dunow, who have offered me astounding insight, generosity, and patience. Thanks also to everybody at Random House, including Evan Camfield, Susan Kamil, Jynne Martin, Maria Braeckel, Avideh Bashirrad, Erika Greber, Tom Nevins, Annette Trial-O’Neil, Richard Callison, and Clare Swanson.