Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Dirge without Music”
The rain, fitful, hesitant all day, has stopped now. A bruised-looking cloud is stretching across the horizon, darkening the bottom half of the sky. Above it a band of sun is visible, giving off an unsettling evening light. It slants across the grass, a misshapen willow tree, the gravestones, a small bird sitting on a branch. The bird hops sideways, jerks a black-and-white head, and ruffles its feathers, sending out a chipped, piercing call.
Underfoot, the grass is still wet, leaving a dark rim on her shoes. She stares at an ant crawling across one of them, watching it move from one side to the other. She should lift up her foot, shake the ant onto the grass, but she feels locked in position, as if every part of her body has become too heavy to move. Even her thoughts seem to be coming from a great distance, like weak radio signals. Faint and slow, drifting into her head, then out again.
All these people. From his bowling team, from the pub, neighbours. This left-handed, silent man. How did someone so guarded, so close-mouthed acquire so many friends? Perhaps they were people like her, people who had detected the dusty kindness he seemed to exude through his skin. Or perhaps he had given them a hand at some point — repaired a rotten floorboard, a drafty window. What will she do now with his shelf full of hammers and screwdrivers, his jars of washers and nails? These things were so much part of him, she is surprised that they are still there, that they have not disappeared as well.
She keeps stumbling across this fact, the fact that he is dead, forgetting about it for minutes at a time — it seems so ludicrous, so impossible — and then coming across it again with an agonizing jolt. How could this man, this living being, so full of personhood — decades of experiences, thoughts, memories lodged in him — be utterly, entirely extinguished, from one minute to the next?
Take this all away, she wants to say now. Rub it all out — the grass, this clump of people, the green tarpaulin on the ground. Take away the bird, take away the pile of dirt, the granite slabs. Pull the inky-purple cloud out of the sky, fill in the dark rectangle in the ground. Erase this picture, this is all terribly, hideously wrong.
But she has no say in it, in anything, she has wandered into a foreign territory, into the chilly landscape of grief. Desolate, a blasted-out area, a scattering of rocks, nothing living here.
Val, in a black blouse and skirt, looking paler than ever. She is reciting something in her small voice, something torn out from a magazine. They do not leave, they are not gone.
Standing beside her, Rudy seems crumpled, his fly-away hair forming a nimbus in the damp air.
Don’t faint, she says to him. Don’t faint.
Has she said it out loud?
He puts his hand out to steady himself, but there is nothing to grab, and the hand stays there, trembling a little, hanging in the air.
Next to him, Malcolm seems bewildered, his cockiness has deserted him. She looks for the third one, and then remembers again. In spite of her attempts to hold on to them, her efforts to keep them from vanishing, one of them has slipped through her careless hands. A naïve idea, anyway, keeping them safe, the idea of a six-year-old. A six-year-old who knew too little about death. And too much.
One of them has always been missing, though, lost even before she had begun to count. Was that her fault as well, her father, another person who dropped out of sight? Perhaps while she was busy thinking about something else, some childish thought. What do fish drink? Why are there stones?
This rumour of a father, this threadbare myth. A faint memory, and then hearsay. A tale of a tale. Now, a muddy, short-tempered man, knotted up in himself. If that was him.
This is your last chance, she says to him. Your very last chance. The prodigal brother. The prodigal father. What kind of un-ordinary life have you had? Chasing it like a distracted dog. Did you find what you were desperate to find? Was it worth it?
The blue-black cloud is spreading out, creeping farther across the horizon, the band of dreary light growing thinner.
Perhaps it had been worth it to her, though. She realizes this with a flicker of surprise, something that cuts through her wretchedness for a second. If he had stayed, would she have had Gus? Her aunt? Rudy. Even Malcolm.
His absence, then — an accidental legacy. A gap, with one person after another falling into it, becoming hers. Only on loan, these people, as it turns out. But hers for a while.
The wind rustles through the trees, a dull patter of raindrops from the branches. The air smells like the clay earth piled on the tarpaulin, the sodden grass. The bird gives another high cry, then abruptly flits away.
She shivers in her thin shirt — once again the weather has fooled her.
Someone from the bowling team is talking now, a man in a yellow and black windbreaker, looking uncomfortable.
He was a good man. A good bowler. He had a hook shot you could take to the bank.
A gravestone nearby, white marble, grey seams running through it. Morrison, it says. Who is this Morrison, this imposter, to be lying here next to Gus?
He will have a raised marker — a pillow stone, they call it. Val proposed it, and they all agreed quickly, so that there would be no more talking about it. A pillow stone, as if it were soft and feathery, instead of a lump of granite. So many details to this business of death, this grim love affair with the unknown.
She swallows a sob in her throat.
The bowler has finished talking now. She knows she should say something, should talk about Gus. But when she opens her mouth, it seems to be full of nothingness, a nothingness so thick that it stifles everything else.
Don’t go, she thinks, as they lower the coffin into the ground. Don’t go, she thinks, as they shovel in dirt.
The sky splinters into pieces, fragments sliding away.
···
She is immensely tired. She is so exhausted she can barely breathe, pushing her lungs in and out. Face down on her bed, staring blankly at a seam unravelling in the coverlet, she wonders if she will ever have the energy again to move an arm, a leg. In her head, a low keening, a dirge. She has lost some crucial instructions for operation, for functioning. Perhaps if she lies there for long enough, she will remember them, perhaps they will come back to her in a rush.
In the meantime, she has a question.
What kind of lawyer are you? she says.
Rabbi Yitzchok turns his head.
My daughter, he says kindly.
What kind of a lawyer are you?
I do what all lawyers do. I argue. I plead, he says calmly. But I am not in charge here.
He holds out his hands, as if to touch her lightly.
Who is in charge? This crazy, tragic circus. Who?
The knife edge of grief is making her bones ache.
···
She pushes herself off the bed, forces herself into motion. Now she feels like a marionette, as if someone is working her limbs for her, making her walk, moving her arms, even her mouth when she talks.
Take some more time off, says Nate.
Take some more time off, says Louis.
Her stricken presence must be unnerving, must be making them uncomfortable. All that raw grief. They treat her gently, warily, but with a vague sense of self-righteousness, as if they are putting up with some breach of etiquette on her part. Look what a mess your sorrow is making, slopping all over the floor like that.
But she would rather be here than at home. Malcolm has been going to the racetrack, where he is spending money he doesn’t have in elaborate bets — exactas, trifectas, pick threes. Each time, he comes home in a temper, cursing the horses, the track conditions, the drivers, chain-smoking, littering the kitchen with rye and Scotch bottles — every so often, a moment of desolation in his eyes.
Rudy is worse, though — he sits in a chair, looking out the window, as if he is expecting Gus to arrive at any moment, as if he waits long enough, patiently enough, the world will somersault again, will turn back into something recognizable.
He should be working, he has a new commission, a reference book for eye, ear, nose, and throat specialists. He should be creating illustrations — a fawn-coloured retina, traced with delicate veins, a cutaway of a larynx, a cochlea curled behind a pale blue eardrum. But instead he sits there, looking out the window, the golden retriever lying mournfully at his feet.
At least at work she can think about other things.
We should speak to the witnesses directly, she says to Louis. We should ask them outright. We can do it over a video call.
The witnesses, the investigator are back in Minsk.
No, he says.
We can have Polina interpret, so that the investigator isn’t coaching them. Or at least coaching them at that very moment.
No, he says.
But we need to know. We could be suborning perjury.
No, he says.
She is too tired to say anything more.
···
Whereas the wicked, pernicious and abominable Crimes of Perjury and Subornation of Perjury have of late Time been so much practised, to the Subversion of common Truth and Justice that it is necessary, for the more effectual preventing of such enormous Offences, to inflect a more exemplary Punishment on such Offenders than by the Laws of this Realm can now be done.
But we don’t know, she thinks. We don’t know if it’s perjury.
You never know, says her aunt.
···
Turning lead into gold is quite possible, says Nate. Entirely possible. The problem is that the cost of the ingredients and the process is more than the value of the gold.
···
Drozd, awake. Staring up at the dark ceiling. He dislikes this part of the night, his head full of raging thoughts, his body feels as if he has grit under his skin. He knows that there will be no real sleep now for the rest of the night, he will only doze on and off.
These people. These vicious, stupid people. All their weaselly talk. How is it possible they can do this to him? How can such scum have so much power over his life?
But they will not stop. He can see that. And this judge — what does he think? He seems restless when his lawyer is speaking. Although, if the government wins, he will appeal. But if he wins, they will appeal. He is an old man, how much time does he have left? Is this what his old age will be?
By the way, his lawyer said casually. Was it you that phoned in the bomb threat?
No, he said, as convincingly as he could.
He has a glimpse of a bleak future — whatever there might be of it — filled with endless proceedings, the threat of deportation constantly hanging over his head. Watching his money dribble away, watching his life become poorer and more cramped. And the possibility that he may lose in the end, that he will be exiled to some place he barely knows now, some place where he has nothing, is nothing. Severed from everything he has, all the possessions he has built up, these trappings of his life.
This house, for one thing — solid, sturdy. These walls stuffed with insulation, pink glass wool. The floors of polished ash wood, the furnace rumbling away in the basement, a comforting sound. Above him, the black roofing tiles, the rain gutters, cleaned only last week of leaves and mud.
And the house is only the beginning. Inside, the house is filled with things, a collection he had never imagined, could not possibly have imagined. Lamps, cast iron pans, wool blankets, china plates, cushions, pictures on the walls. The oak chest of drawers in the bedroom, the white stove in the kitchen. The cupboards filled with jars and cans, sardines in mustard, currant jelly, oxtail soup. And in the garage, his car — dark green enamel, the leather-like seats. The thought of losing all this makes him feel airless.
He looks over at Sofija, sleeping heavily, her grey hair loose, some strands across the side of her face. She makes small purring noises in her sleep, not quite snoring. If he has to leave, it seems unthinkable that she would stay without him — that she could even exist without him. Without him, she is nothing, a shadow of a person. And he needs her, to cook his pork roasts, to wash and iron his shirts, to sweep and mop. She is a habit, his habit — the way she nods her head to herself, the almond smell of her soap, the way she fingers her thin silver necklace with the crucifix. But he is suspicious, too — he sees the way she looks at him sometimes, her face closed, hiding her thoughts. Does she think about the possibility of another life, away from him? Foolishly devoted to those grandchildren — she spends too much time making nut cookies for them, listening to them read to her, admiring their schoolwork.
Something he hadn’t realized, hadn’t understood with his own children — that they would grow up, establish other anchors for her. That she would no longer be so isolated, that the walls he had built around her would shrink. Too late, he understands that some shift has occurred, that his hold has been eroded. And he has been lax over the years — letting her join the church groups, the choir. He realizes now there is no end to her possible disloyalties. Would she take this chance to leave him? No, impossible. Impossible. Look what a good husband you have.
So dark in this room, even darker than before. Dark as a tunnel, a cavernous tunnel. He is standing in it, dirty water at his feet, a foul smell in the air. The other end is dim but lighter, he can see a figure, shrouded in grey mist, carrying something. A pail of ice water.
Stand up, shouts the man, the sound bouncing down the tunnel.
Who are you? he says.
Stand up, shouts the man again.
I am standing up.
Stand up. Stand up. Stand up.
Then the tunnel is empty, echoing with hollowness, a hollowness that bounces off the walls, that engulfs him, engulfs everything.
He is awake again, in a sweat, heart pounding.
Why has he been singled out for this — this humiliation, this punishment? Why are they pursuing him? There must be other people with worse to their names. This country. This preachy country, its ignorant, windy ideas of justice. Egged on by the Jewish groups.
So much self-pity, says the woman coming towards him, out of the grey mist. The lawyer. Do you have even a grain of compassion for the people you tortured, the people you killed?
He stands up, reaches towards her.
Sliucha. Whore.
···
The cellist’s bow is fraying, a few hairs swinging from the end as it moves back and forth. They shimmer faintly in the light on the small stage, the stage itself a glowing pocket in the dark evening air. Neither he nor the violinist seem to notice the hairs, although surely this is impossible, at least for the cellist.
The sun is gone, but in the distance, the sky over the lake is still not entirely black, still tinged with dark blue, traces of yellow. The air is warm, almost downy.
A distraction, Nate says.
He has been tender, carefully picking his way through her despair. But he is convinced that she needs to have her head filled with other thoughts, that new things will rouse her, stir her, will wake her from this numbness.
You need taking out of yourself, says her aunt.
Taking out of yourself. Is that possible, can one existence be pulled out of another?
She can see that Nate is becoming impatient with her grief, with its balkiness, its persistence. Yes, yes, this is sad, he seems to be saying, in his posture, his gestures, but dwelling on it is pointless.
So far they have hiked in a ravine, seen a sculpture exhibit — blue tentacles descending from the ceiling — gone to a greenhouse with a collection of bamboo and papyrus. Now an open air concert.
She goes along with all this because she is too listless to object, and because he may be right. And even if he is wrong, this is what he wants, and what he wants means something more to her now. She is hungry for the feel of his skin against hers, lying against him in a way that brings the surface areas of their bodies into the most contact. Applying him to herself like a balm. Or sometimes her hands stray across his body, lost in a silent dialogue of their own. She inhales his clean breath — is it more powerful, more sustaining than hers? She is now entirely persuaded by his physical being, by how legible he has become.
At the moment, though, she is transfixed by the hairs on the cello bow, by the possibility that the hairs might fray through completely. One last stroke, a snicking sound, and the bittersweet, melancholy notes would come to an end. How likely is this? She doesn’t know. But if some of the hairs can break, why not all?
As she sits there listening, though, it is the notes that begin to fall apart, scattering over the grass, rolling towards her. They become distorted, jarring, the flow lost. She wonders if there is something she should be doing. Holding out her hands to catch them. Picking them up. Rolling them back.
She shakes her head hard, and the notes fall back into line.
The program is almost over, this piece Glière’s “Berceuse,” the haunting sound of the violin over the dusky cello. The music glides and soars and falls, drawing exquisite patterns in the night air. But she is fixed on the bow again, barely noticing the surroundings.
This park, where they are sitting, where the concert is taking place. Built to embody a piece of music itself, a Bach suite given physical shape, winding trails of greenery and boulders. Rolling, waving, the paths are in motion, filled with old rhythms — prelude, allemande. Beside the paths are tall grasses spilling over in waterfalls, long drifts of blue sage, the scent of lavender in the dark.
She has an odd, restless feeling in her chest, something that has been growing slowly — very slowly — all evening. What is it? Something elusive, just out of reach.
And then the piece is over. The cellist holds the bow up, suspended in the air for a second or two, the hairs swaying as the sound fades away.
Let’s walk, says Nate.
They wander through the park, along the spiralling paths — the dance movements in the suite. Courante, sarabande. Tall plumes float in the dark, their stems invisible, white phlox loom up suddenly and then disappear. The air is mild and fragrant now — earthy, coppery.
Nate is talking about a case, holding forth about the witless client, the judge’s crustiness.
He sounds like Louis, she thinks. Is this what we’re going to become?
She should be saying something, laughing at his descriptions, scoffing along with him, reassuring him. But summoning up thoughts, words is too hard — her brain is flat. He keeps on, though, working hard to carry both sides of the conversation.
A bed of irises, their petal tongues hanging down in the dark, as if they had just finished talking. The dizzying scent of the lilies. The paths curl and uncurl in their formal patterns — minuet, gigue. For a moment, she can almost see shadowy dancers in their satin dresses — ivory, pale grey — winding under the trees, pacing out the steps, their transparent bodies turning and bowing.
The feeling in her chest seems to be rising, expanding, hardening. What is it? A decision, she realizes with surprise. A decision she has made without knowing she was even considering it, the various parts of it gathering together silently. A decision so clear that there is no arguing with it.
She turns to Nate.
Have you lost your mind? he says a minute later, interrupting her. You have to let this go.
You have to let this go, says her aunt.
The case is in, finished, he says. Credibility is up to the judge.
I need to know, she says.
Now his voice is rough with irritation, with something else.
Louis will be furious.
A man brushes by them on the path.
Louis will know nothing about it unless I get the wrong answers. And if I get the wrong answers, he should know.
How can you possibly think he would agree with that? says Nate, his mouth tense. Look, your perspective is off right now. You’re not seeing things clearly. At least take more time to think about it.
No, she says. I’ll lose my nerve.
Please, he says in a lower voice, looking at her strangely. Don’t do this. You’ll ruin things for both of us.
She turns, a half-question on her face. Isn’t that a little excessive?
I don’t want this to end, he says.
He looks miserable, crossing his heavy arms tightly in front of his chest.
This? Could he possibly mean their soft, drunken sprawl of a relationship, this thing that envelops her, absorbs her? He would do that? She searches his eyes for something, something that isn’t there.
She is speechless, impaled on his words. Then she is angry. And then she is furious, the blood rushing into her head, her head tight.
I think I see things clearly now, she says.
···
She is lying on the bed, holding the pillow in her arms. Gus, the smell of his shaving soap, old sweat. The antiseptic for his incision. Cigarette smoke, even though he had stopped smoking for the operation. She inhales deeply. Perhaps the smoke had embedded itself in his fingers, his hair, over so many years. Something else he has left behind.
There must be other things — skin flakes, oils, microbes, hairs on towels, sheets, clothes. His DNA, his genetic essence, on his glass on the bedside table, on door handles, light switches. Forensic evidence of his own, of his existence. But slowly this will disappear too, the sheets will be washed, the handles wiped, his imprint gradually erased. Some residue might stay for longer — on the things he touched, the things he handled that are personal, that are only his — reading glasses, belts, shoes.
The things he touched.
A massive sob erupts deep inside her chest, and then a spate of other sobs come bursting out of it, primitive sounds buried inside her body. She clutches the pillow convulsively, unable to bear this torrent of despair, but unable to stop it, her body shaking. She sobs wildly, harshly. On and on it goes, until her lungs are aching, her body exhausted, her throat hoarse.
An eon later. The spasms are weaker, further apart, and her clenched hands begin to loosen. And then a narrow opening, an old understanding, an understanding that begins spreading through her. The very last thing she wants to know, a brutal, queasy truth. That there is no life she can live that will not be pierced with agonizing losses, that these losses are not avoidable, not negotiable. That she will not be able to prevent them by keeping her head down, by asking for too little, by clinging to the rules. By summoning up enough fears in advance to ward them off.
And running through this, another truth: that her only chance is to go out to meet these losses, these casualties. To go out to them unarmed, crooning hopeless songs to them to save herself from despair. Only this will allow her to throw herself into her own life, into the chaos of living, to wrestle with its risks, its scarred beauty. Only this will allow her to summon up the perverse courage necessary for existence, for living with the ruthless edge of happenstance.
She is unable to move for a second or two, unable to think. But then she is overwhelmed by a sense of coherence, a growing symmetry, something that holds the possibility of other ways of being.
In a single sideways moment, she realizes that if she, too, has a damaged, obstinate heart, she might still survive it.
···
The future becomes a snake, straightening itself out from a cramped position.
···
Come in, come in, she says to them. What a night, so much rain, although at least the thunder has subsided. Let me give you a drink. Go ahead, dry yourselves off by the fire. How are you? Look, the candles are on the mantel. See, the barley porridge, the honey, the eggs are on the table. Sit down, take a break from your shadowy labours. I’m curious about them, I admit, but this is your night. A night to settle down, to be at rest, if only for a while, to sit here in quiet company. Near, but not too near, close enough to feel the touch of hazy fingers, to hear the rustle of limbs, to feel the sighing of sweet dead breath. Close enough that we can even hum a scrap of a song together, a few bars of something low.
But take your time, there is no urgency, no rush. Linger as much as you like, take all the solace as you can find here, let yourself be soothed by this rare truce between the living and the dead. Take all the time you want, all the time you need. Take all the time in the world.
···
The music teacher first. There he is, on the screen, his creased face, his mischievous smile, pulling at one of his ears, scratching his neck. Polina is beside him, her dark hair shorter, a sleek, angular cut against her white skin. They seem delighted to be in each other’s company again, although they are still soundless at the moment.
Fifteen hundred rubles.
Polina is fiddling with one of the microphones, her bitten fingernails painted dark blue. She is working on the sound problem, going through the settings, checking the signal, the connection. Sorry, she mouths to the screen.
Leah waits as patiently as she can, willing herself to be calm, to ignore her heart beating rapidly, one small thud threatening to overrun the next.
It’s not too late, says Nate. You don’t have to do this.
He is leaning against the side of the door with deliberate casualness, his hands in his pockets, head freshly shaven.
Yes, I do, she says.
For a moment, his face changes, the casualness slips, she can see the expression underneath — angry, forlorn. Then it is back, fixed firmly in place.
Now they are both watching Polina try one thing and then another, looking puzzled. Still no sound, nothing.
Why are you still here? she says to Nate.
No answer.
Finally, Polina holds up the unplugged end of the microphone cable and laughs, a soundless laugh, and then the music teacher laughs, bobbing his head, still scratching his neck.
And then, surprisingly, a small laugh erupts in her own throat — rusty, a little painful, almost unrecognizable.
We’re starting, she says to Nate. Time for you to go.
Not yet, he says. He takes his hands out of his pockets. Not yet.
The sound comes on abruptly. Polina’s cool, clear voice fills the office.
Ready? she says.