“Alyosha, switch that thing off, Alik’s dead,” Fima said quietly to the young man, so quietly that nobody heard him. “Hey everyone, Alik’s dead,” he repeated, still very quietly.
The lift clanged, and Irina came in.
“Alik’s dead,” he told her, and at last everyone heard.
“Already?” Valentina burst out in anguish, as though Alik had promised her that he would live for ever, and had broken this promise with his untimely death.
“Oh shit!” Maika said, throwing aside her book and running to the lift, almost knocking her mother off her feet as she went.
Irina stood by the door, rubbing her hurt shoulder. Maybe I’ll visit Russia for a week, she thought, I’ll look up the Kazantsevs, Gisya (Gisya was Alik’s older sister). She must be an old woman now, she’s fourteen years older than him. She always loved me.
Gioia dropped her cards and wept.
For some reason everyone started putting on clothes. Valentina dived head-first into a long Indian skirt. Lyuda found her sandals. They all made for the bedroom. Fima stopped them. “Wait, Nina doesn’t know yet, we must tell her.”
“You tell her,” Libin begged. He and Fima hadn’t been talking to each other for three years, and now he didn’t even notice himself asking.
Fima opened the bedroom door; everything was exactly the same. Alik lay with the orange sheet pulled up to his chin, Nina sat on the floor rubbing her narrow feet with their long toes, repeating over and over again: “They’re good herbs, Alik, they have immense power.”
Kipling was there too, resting his forepaws and his sad, wise face on the bed.
How stupid it is to think that dogs are afraid of dead people, Fima thought.
He pulled Nina up, picked her soaked kimono off the floor and threw it over her shoulders. She didn’t resist.
“He’s dead,” Fima said again, and felt as though he had already lived for a long time in this new world in which Alik was no longer around.
Nina looked at him with watchful, transparent eyes, and smiled; her face was tired but cunning. “Alik’s better, you know.”
He led her out of the bedroom. Valentina was already bringing her her drink. She drank and smiled a worldly smile at no one in particular: “Do you know, Alik’s better! He told me himself!”
Gioia made a sound like a laugh and ran into the kitchen with her hand over her mouth. From below, somebody buzzed the intercom. Nina sat in the armchair with a bright, distracted face, pushing the ice around her glass with a cocktail-stick.
This was how Ophelia must have looked. Her defence, like a good boxer’s, was to refuse to know anything. Everything was all right. Alik couldn’t leave her; she had always lived outside reality and he had covered for her madness.
There was method in this madness, Irina thought. She had nothing more to do here; she must leave now, without delay.
She went down in the lift. Maika wasn’t waiting by the door; her daughter had gone.
Dodging through the slow stream of traffic, she went into the café opposite.
“Whiskey?” the shrewd black barman asked, pouring her a glass.
Of course, he’s Alik’s friend, she thought. Pointing to the house opposite she said: “He’s dead.”
The man knew at once who she was talking about. He raised his sculpted hands with their silver rings and bracelets, and wrinkled his Jamaican face. “Oh Lord, why do you take the best from us?” he said.
He splashed himself something from a thick bottle, drank quickly and said to Irina, “Listen girl, how’s Nina? I want to give her some money.”
No one had called Irina “girl” for a very long time. And suddenly she realized it was as if Alik had never emigrated. He had built his Russia around him, a Russia which hadn’t existed for a long time and perhaps never had. He was carefree and irresponsible, people didn’t live like that here, they didn’t live like it anywhere, dammit. How to define this charm, which had captivated even her little girl? He hadn’t done anything special for anyone, yet they would all have gone through fire for him. No, she didn’t understand, she didn’t understand.
She went to the phone-booth at the back of the café, inserted her card and keyed in a long number. At Harris’ home, the machine picked up her call. At his office his old secretary, who reminded Irina of a monkey, told her he was busy. “Put me through,” Irina said, giving her name.
Harris was instantly on the line.
“I’m free this weekend,” she said.
“Ring me from the airport and I’ll meet you.” His voice was cool, but Irina could tell he was happy.
His dry, ruddy face and neat moustache, his mirror-like bald patch, a sofa, a glass and a slice of lemon, eleven minutes of love—you could count them on your watch—and a feeling of total security as she rested her head on his broad, hairy chest. It was all very serious, and must be taken to its logical conclusion …
SEVENTEEN
Irina had done her last performance in Boston, and without going back to the hotel she had gone straight to the airport. There she bought herself a ticket, and two hours later she was in New York. The year was 1975. After paying for her ticket she had forty dollars left, which she had brought from Russia in the pocket of her trousers. It was a good thing she had, because the troupe had not been given any cash; they had been promised some money on their last day for shopping, but Irina couldn’t wait any longer.
As she sat in the plane, she looked at her watch and imagined the scandal that would break next morning. This evening the sweaty managers would rush through the sleazy boarding-house banging on doors and asking people when they had last seen her. There would be curses and anathemas, the head of personnel would get fired for sure. Her retired father would try to wriggle out of it and do deals, but her wise mother would be pleased. I’ll ring her tomorrow, Irina thought; I’ll tell her everything’s worked out brilliantly, there’s no need for her to worry.
In New York she called Pereira, the circus manager, who had promised to help her. He wasn’t in; it turned out that he had left town and forgotten to tell her. The other number she had on her belonged to Ray, a clown she had met three years earlier at a circus festival in Prague. He was at home. She explained to him with some difficulty who she was. Her name clearly meant nothing to him, but he invited her over.
Her first night in New York passed in a dream. Ray lived in a tiny apartment in the Village with his friend, a graceful young man who opened the door to her in a lady’s swimsuit. They proved to be extraordinarily good young men and did everything they could to help her. Later, Ray admitted that he had had no memory of her, and wasn’t even sure if he had been in Prague.
Butane—Irina wasn’t sure if this was the flatmate’s surname, his first name or a nickname—had already lived illegally in America for five years, so her insane step didn’t seem so insane to them. They had no work or money at the time, and no idea how they were going to pay the rent. Next morning they paid it with Irina’s money, then they all set off to perform for the summer visitors in Central Park. Here too, according to them, Irina brought them luck. For the next few days she contorted her body on a mat, then she sewed five cloth puppets, which she put on her hands, feet and head, and their earnings became entirely satisfactory. Irina slept modestly on three sofa cushions in the room next to Ray’s, trying not to inhibit his sexual freedom. But before long Butane started getting close to her and Ray grew jealous. For a while their triple alliance hung in the balance. Irina still went out to work with them, but she realized she must find another way of living here. They were great boys though, and completely reconciled her to casting off her old skin: it turned out that half of America was made up of people like her.