Выбрать главу

“The cup is red,” Michael said.

“The bowl is red and blue!” Stephanie replied.

It was a Level I tape—colors, meals, domesticated animals. Ilya had memorized it but still he liked to listen to it before bed. In it, Michael and Stephanie used only short, declarative sentences, each word a tiny, enthusiastic nail. They spoke slowly and never ventured out of the present tense.

Sometimes, Ilya had the feeling that the more English he learned the less Russian he spoke, as though the languages were worlds and he could only exist in one or the other. That night, he wanted that feeling, wanted very much to leave this world. That was why he’d chosen such an easy tape—so there would be no effort of translation, so that he could be transported—but Vladimir’s feet were stuffed under his pillow, and they smelled of mushrooms and sweat, and the ridge of one of his shins pressed against Ilya’s ribs, and he couldn’t conjure the feeling. Instead he found himself waiting for the swampy tide of Vladimir’s breath to wash over his face. He flipped the tape to the B-side and kept listening. Not long after eleven, when the Radeyevs’ clock tolled endlessly, the quality of Vladimir’s breathing changed, and Ilya realized that he was awake.

“Vlad,” he said.

“Ilya,” Vladimir said.

The refinery light was pouring through the windows, giving the ceiling the glow of the moon. Right over Ilya’s head, there was a smudge that looked like a footprint, and Ilya liked to pretend that the footprint was Yuri Gagarin’s, though he knew that Gagarin had never made it to the moon.

“What if I just stopped?” Ilya said.

“Stopped what?”

“Stopped studying. Stopped going to school.” Just saying it gave him a pain in his sternum like there was a shard of glass lodged there.

“Why would you do that?” Vladimir said. He was yawning as he said it. He didn’t understand Ilya’s point yet, couldn’t know that Ilya was remembering the two of them out on the balcony and the way Vladimir had held him and made him yell his first English words over the courtyard, or the way Vladimir had given the shopkeeper the extra money for Ilya’s books.

“Why would you?” Ilya said. “You think I don’t ever want to be lazy too?”

“No,” Vladimir said. “I don’t. I don’t think it’s possible for you to be lazy.” Then he propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at Ilya. The radiator in the corner began its nightly orchestra: a rattle like there was a whole pocket of change in its pipes. And Vladimir smiled. “Are you threatening me?” he said.

“Just tell me you’ll try,” Ilya said.

“Or what?” Vladimir said.

“Or I stop too.”

“What if I try?”

“Hollywood Boulevard. You and me. Vladimir and Ilya Van Damme.”

“You fucking punk,” Vladimir said, but his grin was huge. Each tooth lit up like a tiny candle. Ilya was joking, of course. In all the talk of Ilya’s future, with all of the English he’d learned, no one had ever mentioned America. America was a place that existed only in Michael & Stephanie, in the television, in the Cold War corners of their mother’s and Babushka’s minds.

“Fine,” Vladimir said. “I’ll try.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

That first morning in America, Ilya took the longest shower of his life in hot water that seemed as though it would never go cold. He used the toiletries that Mama Jamie had bought him—the toothbrush and toothpaste and deodorant—and then carefully returned each to its cardboard box.

“I do speak English,” he whispered to his reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” he said, getting his inflection just right.

When he was sure that they were awake, he climbed the stairs. They were all at the kitchen table except Sadie. Molly was wearing a miniature ball gown and crown and had an arm plunged into an enormous box of cereal.

“I ate every marshmallow,” she was saying. “Every single one.”

Marilee was staring at the TV, transfixed by a cartoon of what seemed to be Jesus lugging his cross through an unpleasant throng. Papa Cam was in a bathrobe. Hair stuck up from the back of his head, and at the sight of this vulnerability, Ilya wanted to slink back down into the basement, but he thought of Sadie saying that they would forgive him. Mama Jamie turned in her chair and saw him. Her face had been shellacked with makeup. She’d been up for hours, waiting for him, he realized, as she said, “He’s awake!”

Ilya took a step toward them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in English.

Papa Cam set a forkful of eggs down on his plate, and the eggs quivered in this way that made Ilya want to vomit.

“I do speak English,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was in grief. My brother died.” The Masons looked at each other across the length of the table. “I’m sorry,” Ilya said again.

“No,” Mama Jamie said, “you poor thing. Please don’t apologize. I’m so sorry about your brother. We had no idea.” She stood and opened her arms, and Ilya crossed the bit of carpet between them and hugged her. With her arms around him, she breathed deeply, as though her own calm might somehow osmose into Ilya, and Ilya felt each of her exhalations as a hot rush on his shoulder.

“What happened?” she said, when she released him. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“He was sick,” Ilya said. He thought of Vladimir in the clinic. He had not been sick exactly, but he certainly hadn’t been well. And if he was convicted he might as well be dead.

“Was it cancer?” Marilee whispered.

Ilya looked at her. Her eyes were huge. “No,” he said.

Next to her, Molly began to cry, and Mama Jamie scooped her up.

“Will his brother go to Heaven?” Molly managed. “If they’re not Christian, will his brother get to go to Heaven?”

“He’ll go to his own Heaven,” Mama Jamie said, and Ilya saw Vladimir with a needle in his arm.

“Amen,” Papa Cam said, and Ilya had no idea what the word meant. Papa Cam looked at him. Ilya expected to see mistrust in his eyes, but they were wet and shining with what looked to Ilya like a mix of pity and pride.

In the cartoon, Jesus had fallen under the weight of the cross, and the show ended with a preview of next week’s episode: the crucifixion. Mama Jamie fixed Ilya a plate and told him that they’d be leaving for church in a half hour. She had to go upstairs to wake Sadie, and when Sadie finally came down, her eyes were small and sleepy.

“Ilya found his voice,” Mama Jamie said. “The first miracle of the day.”

“How many are you expecting?”

“More than you, it seems.”

Sadie lifted the carafe of coffee up and sloshed it to gauge its fullness. “This is a miracle,” she said, emptying it into a mug.

“You know I don’t like you drinking that,” Mama Jamie said.

Sadie slurped it.

“You shouldn’t even need it. Lord knows you’re not waking up early,” Papa Cam said. “You don’t drink coffee, do you, Ilya?”

“I drink tea,” Ilya said. Sadie had changed into a pair of leggings that had a sheen to them and were printed with the galaxy. The Milky Way curved around her thighs, and the hubris of this was not lost on him. “Very strong tea,” he said. “It’s stronger than coffee.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mama Jamie said.