Then he must respond, said the man from Cambridge. I’ve read his book and sent him a long letter introducing myself and extolling the virtues of his poetry, going through a few of the poems in significant detail. It’s not every day that a collection by an unknown Russian poet moves me to propose a translation. There’s no money in it for me, you understand that, I hope. And I’m not dying for an additional project — as is, I’m drowned in deadlines. The point being I’ve done all that I can.
Robert thought long and hard. Being forthright would be foolish. Pasha wouldn’t respond positively to news that his father had been conspiring with the man from Cambridge. But if Pasha complied, he was essentially a step away from fame in America and a respectable position that would leave him time to write. This was a matter of objective significance. Much was at stake, and Robert couldn’t afford a careless approach. He needed to be strategic. But Robert had no sense of strategy. Shameful as it may be to admit, he avoided chess. And he invested too much trust in a higher system, underestimating contingency. He believed that if you put everything down at once, the veracity magnets of the universe would sort through the mess, set it in its right order, and see through to the correct outcome — hence Robert’s characteristic sloppiness. Suddenly he heard the lock turn and footsteps. Esther let out a groan, rolled onto her side, and began to snore.
Robert sat up, electrified. An epiphany: Pasha had the letter. He may have been obstinate, but he was also a Nasmertov, which meant that he came equipped with a reserve of relentless, pestering doubt. If he didn’t leave a bit of space for a change of opinion, he’d get claustrophobic. Robert imagined Pasha opening the mystery letter from Cambridge and devouring it in a gulp, then deciding for whatever insane reason that it must be ignored. Pasha would’ve put it away and spent the following days trying to forget its existence, until realizing that he was only driving himself to the point of having to reply. He needed the space to rethink his decision in order to not have to rethink it. So he retrieved the letter and took it to New York, figuring that if he did decide to call or write, he’d want to reread the thing first. Robert clutched the blanket, breathing hard. He looked over at Esther to see if she was hearing his thoughts, but she was asleep, head cocked back and mouth agape, screaming breath. He looked at the clock — quarter to three. He lay down, now convinced that Pasha had the man’s full contact information with him. But Pasha was going back to Odessa tomorrow evening, and if he hadn’t contacted the man yet, he wasn’t about to. Robert had the sensation of flight. He was weightless, the wind under him pumped in powerful rhythmic bursts. He was exhilarated — these were real developments, though confined to his throbbing brain. But no more new developments were coming. A small rock rolled onto Robert’s chest, and its weight pinned him to the mattress. So Pasha had the letter with him. What exactly was Robert supposed to do with this knowledge? He remembered the semi-lucid dream that had led to the breakthrough: He was in a canoe with no oars. He began to search for something to paddle with, up to this point a recurring dream, but this time he found under his seat a suitcase that crumbled to dust the moment he touched it.
• • •
IN ACCORDANCE WITH THEIR WISHES, Pasha had filled out over the course of the visit (he’d developed an addiction to Ritz crackers, keeping an amber stack torn at the seam in his pocket at all times — so everybody’s happy, said Esther, the roaches and the mice). His grooming had improved, he’d acquired a healthy dose of color, and the result was that he no longer looked like a poet but a computer programmer, which possibly had something to do with his wearing Levik’s clothes, sitting on Levik’s couch, getting tended to by Levik’s barber, using Levik’s toiletries and, unintentionally, Levik’s toothbrush (neither used it very regularly). Pasha was a stable poet of even temperament, Levik a tortured coder. Pasha slept soundly, had a calm demeanor and steady output not widely ranging in quality (on his off days he was great, on his good days he was excellent, and his genius needed no equivalent). Levik was volatile and moody and regularly stayed up into the wee hours, staring into the screen. He muttered, gnawed his fingernails, tugged out fistfuls of hair that needed no help in disappearing, shut himself in the bedroom for hours; cursed when he was failing, cried if he ever broke through to a solution; hid jars of unidentifiable liquid around the house; bought vast quantities of Febreze products in compulsive splurges. Passing him in the corridor, you never knew whether he’d ignore you or try to dance with you, as he was the type of man occasionally so stirred he could express himself only through dance, though an impartial observer would hardly know to call it that. This reaction to his work was odd, since the only scripting language he knew was Visual Basic. Don’t let the name fool you, said Levik. What about the fact that it had been created for beginner programmers? Levik held an entry-level position he’d secured because he’d lied on his CV and had twenty friends vouch for his credentials and because Americans refused to believe that a Russian might not be proficient in technology. A nerdy eighth-grader with too much time on his hands could’ve done Levik’s job, but looking at Levik at four in the morning in front of a massive black screen with an arrangement of code on it and a cursor blinking in the same spot for hours, you’d think he was making an effort to decipher the secrets of the universe.
Pasha poring over a lined page was a far cry from Levik’s impassioned computer sessions. Face expressionless, equanimity unruffled. Marina composing a shopping list seemed more inspired. And he worked so early in the morning he was essentially still asleep. The only other person awake at the time was Esther, which had been a source of much bristling. Dawn was a very particular time, unlike dusk, when a million things could be happening. At dawn there were silent missions, at dusk pre-dinner drinks. Esther and Pasha didn’t like to share their precious matutinal commodity. But Esther set up base in the kitchen and bathroom, two places difficult to avoid for long. She’d fix Pasha with a piercing gaze, judging every food and drink decision he made. Why take three spoonfuls of instant coffee when one sufficed? The wafer should go on a plate, but why should he care about that if Mama’s there to wipe away the crumbs? Today wasn’t just any morning, however, but Pasha’s last. She’d made a fresh batch of cottage cheese for the occasion, and he wasn’t being shy with helpings. She felt an urge to hug a little boy to her breast. Instead, finding herself behind her pasty giant, she pinched his back fat (the drawstring of Levik’s pajama pants cut into Pasha’s skin, creating convenient bulges).
How’s the writing going? she asked, eyes ablaze.
Fine, said Pasha, on guard. The question came out of the blue; it was, in fact, the first time his mother had mentioned his writing. She’d never been the most supportive of the poetic endeavor. But maybe, Pasha thought, she’s come around. Perhaps the question constituted a gesture; she was reaching out. Actually, he said, it’s been a little rough — they say the second book is where it gets difficult. Why do you ask?
You’ve been eating a lot.
Not any more than usual.
More frequently than usual.
What’s that got to do with my writing?
Maybe you’re compensating.
Do you think it’s been easy to get anything done in this house?
We manage.
You make soup.