The thing is, some of their joking was genuinely funny. Ruth felt disloyal to laugh at such crude talk about her future husband's private parts, but wasn't it his own fault? She had done everything but strip naked and hide in his bed, and he just laughed and kissed her and said, "Plenty of time for that when we're married."
Here's a news flash, Ivan. The reason I wanted to sleep with you was not because I thought we were going to run out of time later!
But it was also kind of sweet. After all the boys who had tried to get into her pants from the time she was eleven, or at least so it seemed in retrospect, Ivan was an entirely different creature.
No, he couldn't be gay. Damn them for making her wonder.
If Mrs. Smetski had only been willing to talk, Ruth wouldn't have been thinking about all these negatives. About how Ivan's letters grew rarer and rarer as the months went by. How he wrote romantically at first, but more perfunctorily later. You'd think he'd be getting hornier, wouldn't you? Unless he found somebody else.
Somebody Russian. Somebody from his childhood. Some woman who'd set her cap for him the moment he arrived, since he represented a ticket to the States. Long walks along the river—there was a river in Kiev, wasn't there?—talking in his beloved Russian, discussing Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy or—who was that poet? Eugene Onegin? No, that was the name of the poem. Pushcart? Pushpin?
Pushkin!
Or maybe he was just into his research and there was no woman. This was Ivan, after all. Not the ordinary man. She wouldn't have fallen in love with him if he were the kind of man who couldn't keep his word to the woman he loved. Not that he'd actually given his word. Ruth could imagine that conversation. "No getting laid in Ukraine, my love." "Oh, really? That would bother you? All right, my pet." "No kissing either." "But in Russia, we kiss for greeting!" "No tongue." "Definitely no tongue. Thank you for providing me with moral guidelines for traveling fiancés! You think of everything!"
"Good flying weather," said Professor Smetski as they got out of the car at the airport.
"A clear day," said Ruth.
"I mean, no wind," said the professor. "Safer for landing."
"The USAir terminal is this way," said Mrs. Smetski. Then she took off, and Ruth and Professor Smetski had to make their way as best they could.
So there they stood, making small talk—smaller even than usual—watching the gate to see him the moment he appeared. Like a contest—I caught first glimpse of him, so I love him more! And then he appears, bearded, suntanned—definitely a scholarly look! Oh, he was hard at the books, wasn't he!—and he was helping a woman up the ramp, wasn't he? How nice.
Only she didn't leave him when they reached the door. In fact, his arm was around her waist, guiding her along. She was... she was with him.
Ruth felt sick. The woman was Russian, but not in that exaggerated wide-faced almost-Mongolian way that gave you a pretty good idea what the Golden Horde was doing all those years they ruled the steppe. She wasn't Nordic, either. Something else. But one thing was certain: Definitely not Jewish. Not that Ruthie was politically incorrect, of course; it was her duty to pretend that you couldn't tell a Russian Jew just by looking. But in this case, you could certainly tell that she was not a Jew. In fact, if she had been born to a Jewish mother, this girl would constitute proof of adultery.
Someone he met. That's all. Some scholarly woman who was coming to America anyway and he accompanied her because... because... her English wasn't good!
Surely he wouldn't bring her home, though, as a guest. Well, what if he did? This stranger wasn't Ivan's fiancée, Ruth was—and Ruth would make sure that Ivan had very little time to lounge around home with this shiksa princess. If the girl wanted to speak Russian, Ivan's parents would be excellent company for her. While Ruth would make sure that she was Ivan's constant companion.
They came closer, and there was something in the way that Ivan looked. A shiftiness. He saw Ruth, smiled at her sheepishly, but then he looked down, looked away. Looked at his mother and father. Anywhere but at the girl. Pretending that he didn't know she was there. But still, his arm around her waist. Ushering, sheltering, protecting. That is not her place, you bastard. You let somebody else into my place.
Don't get angry. You don't know yet.
Yes you do.
Katerina? Oh, what a pleasure, says Professor Smetski.
And back comes a string of Russian.
Only it isn't Russian, is it? Or if it is, it's some weird accent, anyway, because Professor Smetski asks her to repeat what she said, and when he answers her it's with a different tone from the way he usually speaks. And his eyes are wide and he's absolutely fascinated with her language.
But Mrs. Smetski, she's completely wacked out. Smiling. Like a kid who won the prize. Doesn't try to talk to the shiksa, but just loves her. Hug hug, kiss kiss kiss, hug again. Can't take her eyes off this goyishe princess.
And princess is right. The way the girl holds herself. As if the space around her for about six blocks belongs to her. As if Ivan belongs to her. And not like a man, either, but like a... servant. She thinks she owns him. Like Nancy Reagan, that's what she looks like, beaming because this man is hers. Defiant, arrogant.
And all the time Ruth was thinking this, Ivan was talking. "I met her near Cousin Marek's place. She wanted to visit in America, but she never studied English, so I volunteered."
Ruth wanted to scream at him, "That's a lie, you moron! She's obviously more than some neighbor girl you're doing a favor for! Tell the truth, tell it right away, and have done with it!"
Instead, Ruth went hug hug, kiss kiss kiss, and hug again. "What a lovely girl," she said. "Are you Ivan's niece?"
Ivan laughed awkwardly and translated.
Only when the translation was complete did Katerina's full attention turn to Ruth. And the look on her face—what was that look?
Pity.
She thinks she's got him. She thinks she's already won, and she's feeling sorry for me.
Well, save your little pity-eyes for somebody who gives up easily. Maybe Ivan got all gooey-eyed over you there in Kiev, but I can hold my own, thanks a lot. I can definitely outdress you, you poor thing. Where did you get those clothes? Hand-me-downs from some farmer's daughter?
"I must take her shopping," said Ruth to Ivan. "Please tell her—we must spend an afternoon together at the mall."
"Oh, definitely not," said Mrs. Smetski, intervening before Ivan could even translate. "You and Vanya will be together all the time. I find American clothings for Katerina."
If Mrs. Smetski had ever looked at me the way she's looking at this shiksa, I would never have had a moment's worry.
And then it dawned on her. Mrs. Smetski always wanted a shiksa for her boy. For her Russian boy. She was one of those self-hating, anti-Semitic Jews! Hadn't Ivan told her that it was entirely his father's idea to become serious Jews and emigrate from Russia on a visa to Israel? Mrs. Smetski never wanted Ivan to become serious about his Jewish identity. She wanted him to marry a nice Russian girl, and... he-e-e-e-ere's Katerina!
They were speaking Russian together, all of them, as if Ruth did not exist, as if courtesy were an old legend that no one believed in anymore.