It’s too late, thought Pasha. These conversations are like seeing the light from a star that hasn’t existed for a century (because that’s how poets think). Two years ago it was too late, and now the matter’s dead. There’s no tiptoeing around a corpse, and neither would bulldozing be of much use. His decision to stay in Odessa had been made long ago, only why hadn’t he realized until now? The lag!
His son losing patience, Robert needed to forge ahead, no more beating around the bush. What about the book? he practically screamed. Any news?
What news?
Reviews, remarks… My God, Pasha, absolutely anything!
Here and there. Nothing substantial.
What’s here, what’s there?
I got a letter.
From?
Massachusetts.
Who?
Some academic.
Why?
Wants to translate my poems.
Robert tried to fight off the glow. You must write back, Pasha! Don’t miss out on such an opportunity. Maybe you can arrange to meet while you’re here? Did he say where exactly?
Cambridge.
But Pasha, Cambridge, that’s where—
Shhh! Did you hear that? said Pasha.
What?
Suddenly, in an amplified yet familiar voice distorted by distance, their names were called. Caught! It was as if they’d committed some petty crime and were about to be uncovered. The terror pulsed through their thighs. The voice was shrill, blaring. Was it too late to disassociate from their names and hide behind the mirror of the lake? A boat soon came into view. Levik sat in back with widespread arms. Marina perched in front. A lightning-shaped vein throbbed down the length of her forehead, and her neck was double its usual size, engorged with blood. An outstanding feature was her stillness. She seemed to have been frozen as she raged. A large, open sky was the background to this disquieted woman, who appeared manipulated by a force of which she wasn’t aware (like the mute button on TV). Levik’s discarded National Geographic had contained a photo spread of tornadoes, or killer wind tunnels as the magazine referred to them, in the act of destruction. One of the images particularly confused the senses. The left half of the photo was an intact shed and an automobile whose rear end was beginning to lift, and the right half was exploded debris, pixels in chaos. The image was highly polished, colors vibrant and provocative. Now Pasha’s senses were similarly confused. An implicit contradictory quality detached the moment from the present, exposing time’s scaffolding.
Marina’s stillness was concentration. She’d been putting off a visit to the ophthalmologist and was having difficulty ascertaining whether the objects in her purview were father blob and brother blob. Once this was confirmed, her spine turned to string.
Marina! yelled Robert. Are you OK?
OK, OK, OK, echoed the lake.
We lost our oar, Pasha said as Levik drew level.
Levik’s cough sounded a lot like idiots, but this wasn’t the time to interpret the coughs of heroes. Levik was prepared to give up an oar. He began by inspecting the oarlocks, ended by attempting to rip the oars out of them. Neither stick came loose. How’d you — cough — manage? He regrouped. In three spasmodic strokes, he docked the boat. With a grunt he dove into the lake and bored a trail of froth up to Robert and Pasha’s feet. He thrust his weight upward like a flying whale (propelled by sheer mania), grabbed the oar from Robert’s hands, and docked their boat alongside. A finger pointed. Robert and Pasha, unsteady on their feet, got out of their boat and into the one where Marina lay with wide, unblinking eyes, looking rather peaceful. Levik got in and pushed off. The boat wasn’t meant to hold this much weight. They were sitting below water level, in a ditch. Pasha resumed his project of ladling out the water with his cap. Robert assisted with his hands.
But they made it back and weren’t even charged — a measly victory, insignificant when faced with Esther, who blamed them for the fact that she’d originally found humor in their enterprise. Laughter had been the wrong response. None of this was funny, because they were idiots. Nothing was wrong with Esther’s throat. They were also to blame for the worrying she’d been obliged to do, when the doctor had specifically ordered her to manage the stress, and for the fuss she and Marina had been obliged to make. They’d bothered the lifeguards, harassed two suntanned and dazed park rangers, thrown a fit at the rental station, threatened the adolescent staff, requested to speak to managers, who turned out to be the ultimate in suntanned and dazed. No one was inclined to go on a search for two grown men in a rowboat after an hour and a half. That’s because no one could imagine what sort of grown men these were! But Esther could. Image retrieved, she began to quiver.
• • •
A CEREMONIOUS BIRTHDAY breakfast had been mentioned, not a ceremonious time. Quarter to seven probably wasn’t what had been meant. It could still be hours before the others awoke, but stomachs were antisocial and had no regard for ceremony. The fridge’s purr drew the early birds near. Pasha and the birthday girl eyed the steely beast with desperation, avoiding coming irrevocably close but not letting it out of sight. Did Marina’s enforced fantasy of a lazy Sunday start, a phrase she’d been repeating these past few days like a mantra, mean a breakfast time of nine, which was a reasonable duration to make their grumbling stomachs wait, or some preposterous hour like noon?
To hell with it, said Esther, and charged. Pasha disengaged her from the cold cuts. They set out on a nice morning stroll to break the fridge’s spell.
Directly behind their cabin was a road, more of a highway, and in front was a scorched field, twigs scattered in loose clusters and patterns, as if a giant bird’s nest had exploded. Just past the field, a few interspersed willows seemed promising; they had no choice but to. Amazing that a human could cover distances. Tread in place long enough and the earth turned underneath. A time curtain fell over the field. Hopscotching from willow to willow, they kept hoping they were not only getting farther but deeper, about to hit wild country at any moment, but the density of flora refused to increase. They thought they’d at least find a creek. Instead they found that the highway curved. They saw no option but to hike along the shoulder. Cars were few and far between. When they did fly by, it was rather thrilling. And hilarious — every blur of solid color that shot past, honking at their pedestrian recklessness, made them wheeze with delight. The tension in Pasha’s shoulders released as he realized that Esther didn’t intend to torture him with questions. He’d braced for another interrogation, but her mind was elsewhere. Too much so. Pasha almost wished she’d intrude. He was ready. Defenses, disclaimers, diversions, open-ended promises, even jokes — by now he’d worked out a repertoire. Instead they focused on breath, following the highway’s turns, its snaking white line, until coming to a broken stoplight. All three colors flashed in confusion. The earth grew sidewalk. A defaced street sign cast a cactus’s fat shadow. Sluggish humanity had entered the atmosphere. In the distance Pasha spotted a steeple. He gently guided them toward it.
Trying to kill your mother on her birthday, said Esther, catching wind.
Ten minutes, no more, said Pasha.
A Jew has no business in there. Not even a second’s worth.
Think of it as sightseeing.
Esther’s ears perked. She looked up, considering the architecture.
No, she said. It’s only sightseeing when there are stained-glass windows.
Often they hide in the back, over the altar. Sightseeing involves going inside.
Esther’s veiny hand was resting on the railing. A swollen foot had been raised onto a step for elevation. Sounds issued from the depths, and she was once again alarmed. It’s alive, she said. It’s not sightseeing when the sight’s alive. It’s attending.