Late at night, after his relatives had wandered off to their respective quarters, Bob would read emails from his family and friends back home.
“Dear Bob,” his dad wrote, “never come back to this godforsaken city, no matter what! Do everything in your power to stay in the country of enduring democracy and stick by that brother of mine, life’s really run him into the ground. This city doesn’t deserve to be loved and remembered by you. It’s already kicked me around enough. It’s taken my faith, hope, and Party card away from me. Don’t ever come back here again! But if you do decide to come back, please see if there are any Chinese guys down at the market that can get you some cheap blades for my lawnmower.” His mom’s emails didn’t have the same degree of pathos, but they were just as troubling. There was talk of a default and another planned power outage.
“Supposedly, the ATMs only dispense large bills with some mysterious markings on them. Apparently, some mutated strain of E. coli was found in the city’s reservoir. I don’t know, Bobby—the government has been consecrating the water and all, but what’s the use? What was the point of all that social upheaval of theirs? I’ve heard the city fathers have all gotten Chinese passports, so it’s only a matter of time before they hand the keys to the city over to the Communist Party of China. Rumor has it that there will be a sugar and flour shortage soon. Life is chock-full of mirages and mysteries, and you have to have nerves of steel and a cool head just to get through the morning news—the things going on chill you to the heart. Anyway, your family and your ever-hospitable homeland wait eagerly to embrace you once more.”
Zhora, his other cousin, who was employed at a 24-hour pharmacy, wrote the most interesting emails, giving him the full rundown. As a fully qualified practitioner of medicine, Zhora wrote in an eloquent and didactic tone, and he didn’t turn up his nose at the opportunity for the occasional lyrical digression. He told Bob that their neighbor Thomas had started dating a girl who used to be a prostitute. Everyone in the whole apartment building was concerned. Well, and it looked like Mark, a distant relative of theirs through Aunt Maria, was doin’ his cousin.
“You never know what unexpected turn fate will take next,” Zhora wrote, referring to these odd relationships. “Just don’t let it rattle you, and you’ll be all right. Make sure to say hello to Lilith for me. She’s such a sweetheart.”
There was no need whatsoever to remind Bob about his cousin, though. Lilith had taken up residence in his heart and wreaked havoc. She’d be on his mind when he got up in the morning and she’d be on his mind when he turned in at night. In the morning, he’d lie there on his air mattress and listen to her getting out of bed and rushing to get ready for school, searching frantically for her clothes and phone and putting on her makeup. At night, as he lay there listening to her blabbing away on Skype and falling soundly asleep, his broken heart would nearly stop. He’d listen to her pajamas rustling and the movie stars and pro soccer players talking in her dreams. He saw her come out of her room, scantily clad, a few times. One time she asked him to do up her bra in the back, but he wasn’t up to the task. Also, Aunt Amalia happened to be walking down the hallway right then, so they all felt a bit awkward. He’d occasionally see her panties hanging in the kitchen, which he took as proof that God and all the saints really did exist. Sometimes she wouldn’t get back from hanging out with her friends until early morning. Aunt Amalia would start scolding her, and Bob would lie there on his mattress, mad with jealousy and boundless sympathy. They had a small Fourth of July celebration, just for the family. Lilith wasn’t really into it—she hardly even spoke to Bob and outright ignored her parents. Bob was hitting the dry California wine hard, engaging Uncle Alex in a discussion of how the American democratic system affects the stability of the oil market. Aunt Amalia had been drinking since she got up, so she was definitely on Bob’s side. That’s how it was that summer. Aunt Amalia would back Bob, but Lilith wasn’t coming around. Bob slipped into a serious funk. He stopped in at the Ukrainian Cultural Center a few days later. They took him for an Irishman once again, but this time they beat him up instead of singing with him. The sun hung high, seemingly detached from the city of Philadelphia. The air was saturated with utter hopelessness. He wanted to hang himself, preferably in her room, preferably not for long. He tried writing her love notes and camping out by her door at night. But all his efforts were in vain—summer was trickling by, dragging all his hopes and dreams away. Lilith was out sowing her wild oats, only coming home when she needed some fresh clothes.
Somewhere near the beginning of August, with a mere four days remaining before his flight back, Aunt Amalia suggested they throw Bob a going-away party. She and Bob were the only ones in attendance. Lilith blatantly snubbed them, while Uncle Alex got held up at work. He did call, though, telling them to start the festivities without him. Amalia drank and griped about the trials of family life—the callousness of men and the ingratitude of children. Bob backed her up as best he could, saying, “Yeah, yeah, callousness, ingratitude, and God knows what else.” Amalia decided to call her daughter a little before midnight; she immediately threw a fit, yelling, crying, and making empty threats. Suddenly, she passed the phone to Bob.
“What’s going on back there?” He heard Lilith’s serene and slightly cold voice. Bob looked around the room. Amalia was crying in the corner, her fingers clinging to her menthol cigarette. An empty serving dish crowned the table.
“We’re having a party,” he told his cousin.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You put her to bed. Then you go to bed, too. I’ll be home shortly.” Her voice didn’t sound as metallic, and, moreover, Bob understood what she was getting at. “Of course,” he thought. “This is it. She’s planned everything out; she’s thought everything through. She means, ‘Go to bed, but don’t fall asleep. I’ll be home shortly. I just can’t wait.’ Did she actually say ‘I just can’t wait?’ Obviously she did. I heard it with my own two ears.” Bob helped Amalia ascend the steps to the second floor, and as soon as she collapsed on her bed, without even taking off her housecoat, he raced over to his room and started getting ready for Lilith. He put his dirty laundry away, took some dishes to the kitchen, lit a candle—setting some magazines on fire in the process—soused everything with water, hastily tried to air out the room, struggled to close the window (he just couldn’t figure it out), and then finally lay down in his drafty room. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then forty. Despair was gradually tightening its grip on him. His eyes grew tired of staring into the dark. Suddenly, something squeaked in the hallway. “The door! The front door!” he thought, immediately recognizing the sound. It was her. Timid steps pattered down the hallway; somebody bumped into the wall a few times, the door to his room squeaked open too, and a warm, female figure slid through the gloom and landed next to him. Before he could launch into his rehearsed speech about the insurmountable thirst for love and about temptation which, once yielded to, could not be renounced, he caught a glimpse of slightly faded curls, Aunt Amalia’s curls—he was truly horrified when he noticed the menthol cigarette in her right hand, overcome with despair when he felt her left hand creeping down his stomach. But before Aunt Amalia managed to do anything nice or anything that would be of any use to him, his nerves snapped, breaking like guitar strings, and all the wistfulness and penitence that had been accumulating in him for the past few months came bursting out, severing all of Aunt Amalia’s hopes for a long, sleepless night, severing all of Bob’s aspirations to dig down to some golden intimacy. To her credit, Amalia didn’t say a word. She merely settled in next to him, pulled yet another cigarette from the pocket of her housecoat, and started waiting. Bob talked the whole time, trying to adopt a flat and self-assured tone—not making any excuses, yet explaining everything to her, trying not to look silly, but still aiming to have them laugh it off.