Everything Is Illuminated (17 page)

We discovered many other people to inquire, but in truth, every person regarded us in the same manner. “Go away,” an old man uttered.

“Why now?” a woman in a yellow dress inquired. Not one of them knew where Trachimbrod was, and not one of them had ever heard of it, but all of them became angry or silent when I inquired. I wished that Grandfather would help me, but he refused to exit the car. We persevered to drive, now unto subordinate roads lacking any markings. The houses were less near to one another, and it was an abnormal thing to see anyone at all. “I have lived here my whole life,” one old man said without removing himself from his seat under a tree, “and I can inform you that there is no place called Trachimbrod.” Another old man, who was escorting a cow across the dirt road, said, “You should stop searching now.

I can promise you that you will not find anything.” I did not tell this to the hero. Perhaps this is because I am a good person. Perhaps it is because I am a bad one. As proxy for the truth, I told him that each person told us to drive more, and that if we drove more we would discover some person who knew where Trachimbrod was. We would drive until we found Trachimbrod, and drive until we found Augustine. So we drove more, because we were severely lost, and because we did not know what else to do. It was very difficult for the car to travel on some of the roads because there were so many rocks and holes. “Do not be distressed,” I told the hero. “We will find something. If we continue to drive, I am certain that we will find Trachimbrod, and then Augustine. Everything is in harmony with design.”

It was already after the center of the day. “What are we going to do?”

I inquired Grandfather. “We have been driving for many hours, and we are no more proximal than many hours yore.” “I do not know,” he said.

“Are you fatigued?” I inquired him. “No.” “Are you hungry?” “No.” We drove more, farther and farther in the same circles. The car became fixed in the ground many times, and the hero and I had to get out to impel it unencumbered. “It’s not easy,” the hero said. “No, it is not,” I yielded.

“But I guess we should keep driving. Don’t you think? If that’s what people have been telling us to do.” I saw that he kept filling his diary. The less we saw, the more he wrote. We drove beyond many of the towns that the hero named to the petrol man. Kovel. Sokeretchy. Kivertsy. But there were no people anywhere, and when there was a person, the person could not help us. “Go away.” “There is no Trachimbrod here.” “I do not know what you are speaking of.” “You are lost.” It was seeming as if we were in the wrong country, or the wrong century, or as if Trachimbrod had disappeared, and so had the memory of it.

We followed roads that we had already followed, we witnessed parts of the land that we had already witnessed, and both Grandfather and I were desiring that the hero was not aware of this. I remembered when I was a boy and Father would punch me, and after he would say, “It does not hurt. It does not hurt.” And the more he would utter it, the more it was faithful. I believed him, in some measure because he was Father, and in some measure because I too did not want it to hurt. This is how I felt with the hero as we persevered to drive. It was as if I was uttering to him, “We will find her. We will find her.” I was deceiving him, and I am certain that he desired to be deceived. So we painted more circles into the dirt roads.

“There,” Grandfather said, pointing his finger at a person roosting on the steps of a very diminutive house. It was the first person that we had viewed in many minutes. Had we witnessed this person before? Had we already inquired with no fruit? He stopped the car. “Go.” “Will you come?” I asked. “Go.” Because I did not know what else to say, I said,

“OK,” and because I did not know what else to do, I amputated myself from the car. “Come,” I said to the hero. There was no rejoinder.

“Come,” I said, and rotated. The hero was manufacturing Z’s, as still was Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior. There is no necessity for me to move them from sleep, I said to my brain. I took with me the duplicate photograph of Augustine, and was careful not to disturb them as I closed the car’s door.

The house was white wood that was falling off of itself. There were four windows, and one of them was broken. As I walked more proximal, I could perceive that it was a woman roosting on the steps. She was very aged and peeling the skin off of corn. Many clothes were lying across her yard. I am certain that they were drying after a cleaning, but they were in abnormal arrangements, and they appeared like the clothes of unvisible dead bodies. I reasoned that there were many people in the white house, because there were men’s clothes and women’s clothes and clothes for children and even babies. “Leniency,” I said while I was still some amount distant. I said this so that I would not make her a terrified person. “I have a query for you.” She was donning a white shirt and a white dress, but they were covered with dirt and places where liquids had dried. I could perceive that she was a poor woman. All of the people in the small towns are poor, but she was more poor. This was clear-cut because of how svelte she was, and how broken all of her belongings were.

It must be expensive, I thought, to care for so many people as she did. I decided then that when I become a rich person in America, I would give some currency to this woman.

She smiled as I became proximal to her, and I could see that she did not have any teeth. Her hairs were white, her skin had brown marks, and her eyes were blue. She was not so much of a woman, and what I signify here is that she was very fragile, and appeared as if she could be obliterated with one finger. I could hear, as I approached, that she was humming. (This is called humming, yes?) “Leniency,” I said. “I do not want to pester you.” “How could anything pester me on such a beautiful day?”

“Yes, it is beautiful.” “Yes,” she said. “Where are you from?” she asked.

This shamed me. I rotated over in my head what to say, and ended with the truth. “Odessa.” She put down one piece of corn and picked up another. “I have never been to Odessa,” she said, and moved hairs that were in front of her face to behind her ear. It was not until this moment that I perceived how her hairs were as long as her. “You must go there,” I said.

“I know. I know I must. I am sure there are many things that I must do.”

“And many things that you must not do also.” I was trying to make her a sedate person, and I did. She laughed. “You are a sweet boy.” “Have you ever heard of a town dubbed Trachimbrod?” I inquired. “I was informed that someone proximal to here would know of it.” She put her corn on her lap and looked inquiring. “I do not want to pester you,” I said, “but have you ever heard of a town dubbed Trachimbrod?” “No,” she said, picking up her corn and removing its skin. “Have you ever heard of a town dubbed Sofiowka?” “I have never heard of that either.” “I am sorry to have stolen your time,” I said. “Have a good day.” She presented me with a sad smile, which was like when the ant in Yankel’s ring made to conceal its face — I knew it was a symbol, but I did not know what it was a symbol for.

I could hear her humming as I commenced to walk away. What would I inform the hero when he was no longer manufacturing Z’s?

What would I inform Grandfather? For how long could we fail until we surrendered? I felt as if all of the weight was residing on me. As with Father, there are only so many times that you can utter “It does not hurt”

before it begins to hurt even more than the hurt. You become enlightened of the feeling of feeling hurt, which is worse, I am certain, than the existent hurt. Not-truths hung in front of me like fruit. Which could I pick for the hero? Which could I pick for Grandfather? Which for myself? Which for Little Igor? Then I remembered that I had taken the photograph of Augustine, and although I do not know what it was that coerced me to feel that I should, I rotated back around and displayed the photograph to the woman.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in this photograph?”

She examined it for several moments. “No.”

I do not know why, but I inquired again.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in this photograph?”

“No,” she said again, although this second no did not seem like a parrot, but like a different variety of no.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in this photograph?” I inquired, and this time I held it very proximal to her face, like Grandfather held it to his face.

“No,” she said again, and this seemed like a third variety of no.

I put the photograph in her hands.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?”

“No,” she said, but in her no I was certain that I could hear, Please persevere. Inquire me again. So I did.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?”

She moved her thumbs over the faces, as if she were attempting to erase them. “No.”

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?”

“No,” she said, and she put the photograph on her lap.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?” I inquired.

“No,” she said, still examining it, but only from the angles of her eyes.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?”

“No.” She was humming again, with more volume.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?”

“No,” she said. “No.” I saw a tear descend to her white dress. It too would dry and leave a mark.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone in the photograph?” I inquired, and I felt cruel, I felt like an awful person, but I was certain that I was performing the right thing.

“No,” she said, “I have not. They all look like strangers.”

I periled everything.

“Has anyone in this photograph ever witnessed you?”

Another tear descended.

“I have been waiting for you for so long.”

I pointed to the car. “We are searching for Trachimbrod.”

“Oh,” she said, and she released a river of tears. “You are here. I am it.”

She used her thumbs to pull the lace panties from her waist, allowing her engorged genitalia the teasing satisfaction of the humid summer updrafts, which brought with them the smells of burdock, birch, burning rubber, and beef broth, and would now pass on her particular animal scent to northward noses, like a message transmitted through a line of schoolchildren in a childish game, so that the final one to smell might lift his head and say, Borsht? She eased them off her ankles with extraordinary deliberateness, as if that action alone could have justified her birth, every hour of her parents’ labors, and the oxygen she consumed with every breath. As if it could have justified the tears that her children would have shed at her proper death, had she not died in the water with the rest of the shtetl — too young, like the rest of the shtetl — before having children. She folded the panties over themselves six times into a teardrop shape and slid them into the pocket of his black nuptial suit, halfway under the lapel, blossoming in petal folds at the top like a good kerchief should.

This is so you will think about me, she said, until —

I don’t need reminders, he said, kissing the moist divot above her upper lip.

Hurry, she giggled, straightening his tie with one hand and the rope between his legs with the other. You’ll be late. Now run to the Dial.

She silenced with a kiss whatever he was about to say, and pushed him to go.

It was summer already. The ivy that clung to the synagogue’s crumbling portico was darkening at the lobes. The soil had recovered its rich coffee blush, and was again soft enough for tomatoes and mint. The lilac bushes had flirted halfway up the veranda railings, the railings were beginning to splinter, and the splinters were chipping off into the summer breezes. The shtetl men were already crowded around the Dial when my grandfather arrived, panting and damp with sweat.

Safran is here! the Upright Rabbi announced, to the cheers of those packed in the square. The bridegroom has arrived! A septet of violins began the traditional Dial Waltz, with the elders of the shtetl clapping their hands on every downbeat and the children whistling every ta-ta.

The Chorus of The Dial Waltz Song for Soon-to-Be-Married Men

Ohhhhhhh, gather group, [insert groom’s name]’s here, Well groomed he’d better be, his wedding’s near.

One great hand he’s been dealt,

[insert bride’s name]’s a girl to make you loosen your belt.

Sooooooo kiss his lips, smell his knees,

Beg please for prolific birds and bees.

May you be happily

Wed, then off to bed, for ohhhhhhh . . .

[Repeat from beginning, indefinitely]

My grandfather regained his composure, felt to make sure the zipper of his slacks was indeed zippered, and marched into the Dial’s long shadow. He was to fulfill the sacred ritual that had been fulfilled by every married man in Trachimbrod since his great-great-great-grandfather’s tragic flour mill accident. He was about to throw his bachelorhood and, in theory, his sexual exploits to the wind. But what struck him as he approached the Dial (with long, deliberate steps) was not the beauty of ceremony, or the inherent insincerity of organized rites of passage, or even how much he wished the Gypsy girl could be with him now so his true love could experience his wedding with him, but that he was no longer a boy. He was growing older, had begun to look like his great-great-great-grandfather: the furrowed brow shadowing his delicate, softly feminine eyes, the similar protrusion at the bridge of his nose, the way his lips met in a sideways U at one end and in a V at the other. Safety and profound sadness: he was growing into his place in the family; he looked unmistak-ably like his father’s father’s father’s father’s father, and because of that, because his cleft chin spoke of the same mongrel gene-stew (stirred by the chefs of war, disease, opportunity, love, and false love), he was granted a place in a long line — certain assurances of being and permanence, but also a burdensome restriction of movement. He was not alto-gether free.

He was also aware of his place among married men, all of whom had given their vows of fidelity with their knees planted on the same ground on which his now were. Each had prayed for the blessings of sound mind, good health, handsome sons, inflated wages, and deflated libido.