And she could not muster up any pity for the Pakistani—he was too frightened to take any money, not a cent, well, too bad, he wasn’t he only one who had a bad day… She fell asleep at Ron and Martha’s with that same idiotic smile still attached to her face like cookie crumbs: well-well, it occurred to her as she fell asleep, my darling’s on his way, he sure is—the catastrophes have begun raining down! So it’s small wonder that her first reaction at the sight of her beloved man at Kennedy—he was standing against a wall, chattering away with fellow travelers on the Kyiv flight in the most innocent way, jeans jacket, the familiar gray spiky hair, she saw him before he saw her, how many times had she played out this scene in her mind!—was an involuntary prickle of hostility—whereas he, look at him, scampered toward her as fast as he could, planted a kiss on her cheek as though nothing much had happened, as though this half year of devastating waiting had never occurred, this futile burning of oil in the vessel of a vestal virgin, and there was no need for any explanations, behind him Mark bobbed up and down like an obedient penguin, his round belly protruding forward, well, true, this wasn’t the time for long explanations, I’d like you to meet… —how dumb and inappropriate all this turns out to be, rumpled, chewed up, I’m simply tired, I have to rest, catch up on sleep, and he, too, has had a long flight, I’ll figure it out later, later—and “later,” once we got home, alone and face to face with each other, suitcases half-unpacked, it appeared—peeking out as if from afar, not quite yet accessing the still deadened, seared, gnawing instincts—that thought which she blurted out to him without thinking, brought it forward and laid it at his feet, like a dog retrieves a stick—you know, it seems to me that you’re open to evil. He jumped back like someone stabbed him with a knife; that malevolent flame in his eyes was strange, she had seen it before—on the edge of a bared grin with sharply protruding incisors from under the upper lip, like it was something else that peered out for a moment through his narrow eyelids, red-rimmed and swollen from lack of sleep—it was late at night, they had stepped out for their first walk at the new place, to have a look at the neighborhood that mysteriously glimmered with colored lights in the yards and gardens; from the half-open doors of the single-story buildings bursts of music and laughter escaped from time to time, white T-shirts passed by in the gentle brown darkness, disappearing into its depths, the town was awake, in the throes of anticipation of a holiday: the annual arts festival would take place soon, look at that house straight out of Andersen’s fairy tale, look at that interesting spire!—a new beginning, we will have a new beginning, I still have to go light a candle in church—to thank God for helping me come here to be with you, yes, yes, she nodded, all the horrors are behind us, all those fires, crushed cars and bodies, crazy flights, quite a story! there’s only one thing to mention to keep in mind for later—you know? Just don’t misunderstand me, don’t be offended: it seems to me that you’re open to evil. She was aiming, in the habit of a professional lecturing bore, to examine this issue further: it’s not that the evil is actually lodged within you, but that you, in some fashion, manage to attract it—but there was no explaining: he flashed a wild, otherworldly glare, just as they came out to an intersection—looked both ways and decidedly shook both his head and forefinger: that way!
And from that moment they were hopelessly lost.
Before that they had spent an hour wandering around their own, not-yet-accustomed-to abode (he was saying “our little house” as she was filled with the warmth of an inner smile)—time after time they would return to it and then set off in a different direction—when suddenly the whole neighborhood became unrecognizable, and they could not figure out which direction was home. Knocked off their bearings, they passed intersection after intersection, stoplight after stoplight, all their orientation points—the pseudo-Gothic spire, the hedge, the square with the trash bins, which they had walked by each time—vanished like into another dimension and after a few times she began asking directions (at least she remembered the address) from every passerby who crossed her path, of which there were fewer and fewer because it was already past midnight, tipsy students partying on the lawn of one of the yards simply shrugged their shoulders unable to say anything comprehensible but at the same time still managing to get into a fight discussing whether it should be left or right, and for quite some time after they had stupidly-smiling-sorry-apologized and taken off, they could still hear behind them the strident clamor of a female voice sliding over consonant clusters not very soberly—giving some Jerry hell for, as usual, not having a “damn clue” and naming the wrong street—they had obviously wandered off too far, it was actually quite funny—amused, she was translating the girl’s scolding for him, poor Jerry—he, on the other hand, clammed up, demonstrating no such childish enthusiasm, but she still kept making fun of it, see, you should have listened to me, I’ve got a perfect sense of direction, it has never led me astray—yup, that much is true, sweetness, it’s just that this time it was another one of your instincts that led you astray, fa-a-ar more important than mere direction. Did it ever.
This went on for about an hour—and then suddenly he stood stock-still and pointed: the hedge! They had been circling not more than several dozen yards away the whole time. Again the neighborhood “switched on,” all the familiar landmarks bobbed up. How could they have been so blind, she wondered. That’s right, “good question,” as they are prone to saying around here. How could you have been so blind, you poor fool? So blinded at a time when everything around you was screaming, howling at you in direct speech? What’s the panic, you would have tossed your head, no-oh, you would not have let it stop you, even if a fiery hand had appeared out of thin air and sketched a written warning on the wall right under your nose, you were in love, oh yes, you were sure that you could do it (“I can do anything!”), do what not a single person can do on their own for another—it can’t be done, luv. It can’t be done. Unless—and here, as they say in newspaper ads, different options are available—unless you exchange your own life for another’s: exchange destinies. No, thank you very much, I had somewhat different plans for my life.