Rhapsody (14 page)

She approached the information desk, where
she nervously awaited her turn in the short line. When it finally
came, she asked for Mariya Yakovlevna.

The attendant at the desk, twirling a strand
of her dirty, garishly dyed hair around a finger, consulted a large
registry. She seemed to take forever.

"Seven," she finally told Sonia. "The
elevator's down that corridor." She pointed with a chubby hand, a
finger with chipped orange nail polish extended.

"Thank you," Sonia said. She turned and
strode purposefully down the corridor to the elevator bank and
pushed the up button, grateful that here, at least, they appeared
to work. She tapped her foot impatiently on the tile floor, willing
the elevator to come. Within moments it arrived, and she entered
the crowded car. After stops on every floor, Sonia finally got out
on the seventh floor.

She spotted the nearest nurses station, just
down the hallway, and made a beeline for it. "Mariya Yakovlevna,"
she said without preamble.

The nurse sitting behind the desk didn't look
up or acknowledge her. Finally, Sonia repeated her request, a
little louder this time. "Mariya Yakovlevna? It's an
emergency."

The nurse continued to fill in blanks on the
sheet of paper set down in front of her. After a few more moments
she lifted her head and glared at Sonia.

"What do you want?" she asked in an angry
tone of voice.

"Mariya Yakovlevna," Sonia repeated. "What is
her room number, please?"

Why are so many of them so angry? she
wondered. And so rude? But she thought she knew the answer to that
question. In many of the hospitals and clinics, you had to bribe
the nurses and especially the
saniturki
, the nurses' aides,
with gifts or money in order to get decent treatment for your loved
ones.

The nurse looked down at her registry for a
moment, then back up at Sonia. "Room seven-twenty-two," she said,
sighing with exasperation. "But I think the doctors are in there
now."

Without thanking her, Sonia hurried down the
corridor, hoping she was headed in the right direction. She didn't
want to wait and take the chance that the nurse would tell her she
couldn't visit Mariya now.

As it was, she almost stumbled into room 722,
trying to avoid a gurney, farther down the corridor. When she saw
the numbers, she approached the door, which was ajar, with
trepidation.

Pushing the door open wide, she leaned in.
She could see that there were several patients in the small room,
probably sue, far too many for such a small space. She didn't see
Mariya Yakovlevna, but over in the corner a group of four or five
doctors and nurses surrounded one of the beds, hiding its patient
from view.

Mariya Yakovlevna, she thought. It must
be.

She started toward the group, but they were
already turning in her direction, apparently preparing to leave the
room. Behind them, she saw one of the saniturki pull a sheet up
over a body, which lay prone on the bed. The sheet was gray with
age and use.

Sonia cringed, then gasped. It can't be! she
thought. No, no, no! Oh, dear God, it can't be!

She grasped one of the doctors by a sleeve. A
woman, as nearly all of them were. "Mariya Yakovlevna?" she
whispered.

The doctor didn't speak, but her thick,
black-framed glasses nodded in the direction of the bed that they
had just left. The doctor moved on past, toward the door.

Sonia stood there immobile, the doctors and
nurses filing quietly out of the room around her. She felt rooted
to the floor. There's been a mistake, she told herself. Yes, a
mistake. It happens all the time in these big Moscow hospitals.

She squared her shoulders and walked over to
the bed. The saniturki, bent over at the bedside, was
lackadaisically throwing bloody bandages into a garbage can. She
looked up at Sonia, an utterly blank expression on her face.

Sonia gingerly picked up a corner of the gray
sheet and pulled it back, peering at the face that lay beneath
it.

She had to stifle the urge to scream.

It was Mariya Yakovlevna, but it wasn't. Her
little face with its parchmentlike skin was swollen purple and red
with cuts and bruises, her lips split and bloody, her eyes shut
from swelling before death. Her beautiful white hair was encrusted
with blood and grime.

Sonia let the sheet drop.

For a moment she thought that she was going
to be sick. She felt bile rise in her throat, and its nauseous
taste almost overwhelmed her. Cold beads of sweat broke out on her
face and her neck.

Oh, my God, she thought. I'm going to faint.
I'm going to faint right here on this filthy floor.

But she didn't faint. She steadied herself on
the bed's foot rail, taking deep breaths of air, trying to get her
thoughts in order. Then, reaching into her coat pocket, she took
out her little Moroccan leather change purse. She opened it and
extracted a few rubles. Turning to the saniturki, she extended the
rubles to her, and the woman took them, pocketing them quickly.
"Please," Sonia said. "A clean sheet for Mariya Yakovlevna."

She turned and left the room without looking
back, thinking: It can never get worse than this, she thought. Can
it?

She wasn't so sure anymore.

Rain, light but steady, plastered her hair to
her head. In her rush to the hospital, she'd forgotten to take her
umbrella, but it didn't really matter. Nothing much did
anymore.

Sonia thought: If only this rain could wash
away the ugliness that caused this senseless death....

She walked slowly, almost in a trance. A
mixture of bitter rage and anguish churned crazily inside her. In
all of her forty-five years, she didn't think she'd ever been as
angry, or as full of sorrow.

Sonia knew that the sight of Mariya's body
lying there, so still, so bruised, so heartbreaking, was burned
into her mind forever.

On she walked through the rainy streets, the
tears that periodically came to her eyes mixing with the spring
rain that spattered her cheeks.

How do I tell Arkady? she wondered over and
over. How on earth will he live through this?

She caught sight of their building rising up
ahead, more cheerless and unwelcoming than ever. It seemed to have
acquired a potent kind of malignancy in her absence.

I am a messenger of death.

I must be brave, she told herself. I must be
brave for Arkady. For Dmitri and Misha. No matter what anguish I
feel, no matter my own rage. I must be their rock.

Reaching the building, she pressed the
security code into the lobby door's lock. She climbed the stairs,
and when she reached their floor, she stopped to catch her breath.
At the apartment door she stopped again, filling her lungs with
more deep breaths, this time to prepare herself to tell Arkady
about Mariya. She took her keys from her coat pocket and inserted
the appropriate one, but the door pushed open before she could turn
the key.

What—?

Two men—strangers—stood just inside the
doorway, blocking her way into the apartment. Before she could ask
them to move, Dmitri called to her from over their shoulders.

"Sonia! Sonia!" he cried. "Hurry! Come in.
Come in!"

What is it? she wondered. Then she realized
that these men must have come to give Arkady the news. But so
soon?

Becoming aware of her behind them, the two
men moved aside to permit her entry. Her cursory glance at them
told her all she needed to know. She immediately recognized them
for the minor state bureaucrats that they were. Cut from the
identical mold as those who had come to force them out of their
home. The same badly made, drab, gray suits, the same leather
trench coats, the same battered leather briefcases. The same
vodka-bloated faces.

Why are they here? she asked herself again.
Their sort wouldn't be coming to see Arkady. Then she noticed them
shuffling official-looking documents, paying no attention to
her.

Sonia wanted to spit with disgust. At a time
like this, to have these idiots visited upon us! she thought. I
need peace and quiet to deliver my message, to take care of Arkady
and Dmitri and Misha.

Looking around their room, she saw that
neither Misha nor Arkady was here. She turned to Dmitri. "Where—?"
She suddenly stopped when she saw the look on her husband's
face.

My God, she thought. Dmitri's face is lit up
with a huge grin. It's as if nothing had happened. What's going
on?

"Dmitri," she said, a note of alarm in her
voice, "where are Arkady and Misha?"

Dmitri stepped around a chair to her side. He
put an arm around her shoulders, pressing her to him reassuringly.
"They're downstairs at Arkady's, playing chess, I guess."

"But—?" Sonia began.

"Calm down," her husband said. "Listen to me,
Sonia. These men are OVIR officers. The came just a little while
ago."

Sonia looked at him questioningly. She hadn't
really been listening, so absorbed was she in the task she had to
perform.

"Sonia," Dmitri said, shaking her lightly,
"listen. Don't you see? The OVIR police. The division that deals
with exit visas." Dmitri looked into her dark eyes. "Sonia, we've
been given permission to emigrate."

Realization dawned, and the full impact of
his words nearly swept her off her feet. "Dmitri?" she asked, a
quaver in her voice. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," he said. "But we don't have much time.
We'll be leaving right away, so we must start getting ready."

"Oh, my God," she said, covering her face
with her hands. She was afraid that she was going to cry. "I can
hardly believe it." Then she abruptly lowered her hands, and
questions came tumbling out of her. "Why is Misha not here. And
Arkady? Why are they downstairs? Do they know?"

"Yes, yes," Dmitri said. "They know. Arkady
took him downstairs the minute we found out. He said he wanted to
play a last game of chess with Misha, but my guess is that Arkady
is down there having a nice long chat with him about—who knows
what?"

"But what about Mariya?" Sonia blurted. "My
God, Dmitri—"

One of the men from OVIR interrupted. He
flourished a pen on one of the many documents he was handling, then
snapped a folder shut. "You have all of your papers now, Levin," he
said. "We will be going. Remember, your date and time of departure
are on the forms. Don't miss it."

"No," Dmitri said, "we won't."

The men gathered up their briefcases and
turned to the door.

"There may not be a second chance," one of
them snapped. With that, they let themselves out, slamming the door
behind them.

Dmitri grabbed Sonia and threw his arms
around her, giving her a long, joyous kiss. She laughed and drew
back after a moment.

"Dmitri," she said, "this is the greatest
news in our lives. But I have to tell you something." Then she
quickly told him what had happened to Mariya Yakovlevna.

Dmitri sat down, his head in his hands, not
speaking, unmoving. When he finally looked up at Sonia, there were
tears in his eyes, tears that subdued the joy that had been there
only moments before.

"Arkady thought that she must be all right
since he hadn't heard anything. He thought . . ." Dmitri suddenly
choked.

Tears came to Soma's eyes as well, and she
put a hand on Dmitri's head, patting it tenderly.

"Sonia," he rasped throatily, "I'll tell
Arkady. Let's give him a little more time with Misha, then I'll go
down and talk to him."

"No," Sonia said, "we'll both talk to him,
but it must be right away. We must see him before the authorities
get here to tell him."

"Yes. You're right, of course," Dmitri said.
He got to his feet and took one of her hands in his. "Shall we
go?"

Misha, holding the cylindrical gold object in
his hand, turned it around and around, studying it with intense
curiosity. It was about five inches long and roughly the
circumference of a pencil, and its filigree had been worn smooth by
generations of people touching it. It was exquisite and beautifully
ornate, like an exotic piece of jewelry. Only, he didn't quite know
what to make of it. Arkady had retrieved it from an old, locked
wooden box under the bed, and was explaining to Misha what it
was.

"It's a mezuzah," he said "Inside it is a
tiny, rolled-up piece of parchment. Printed on one side is
Deuteronomy 6:4 to 9 and 11:13 to 21, from the Bible. Deuteronomy
is the fifth book of the Pentateuch, and it contains the second
statement of the Mosaic law."

He paused, watching the boy handle the
mezuzah.

"All this you will understand better
someday," Arkady said.

"You said one side is printed with
Deuteronomy," Misha said. "What about the other side?"

Arkady smiled. "On that side is printed the
word
Shaddai
. That is a Jewish word for God."

He took the mezuzah from Misha for a moment.
Holding it up to the light, he pointed. "See? Look through the
aperture.
Shaddai
."

"
Shaddai
," Misha repeated in an awed
whisper.

"Yes," Arkady nodded. "
Shaddai
There,
where you can always see it."

The old man sat back and took a deep breath.
"Many of our people put them up at their doorways. One day you can,
too, if you choose to do so."

He patted Misha on the head. "It's been in my
family for generations, Misha," Arkady said. "And I want you to
have it as a going-away present. For good luck in your new home. It
will be a secret between us. Okay?"

"Okay," Misha said. "Thank you very much,
Arkady." He looked over at the old man. "I will always think of you
when I look at it."

"And I will think of you, Misha, every time I
hear beautiful music," Arkady said.

There was a soft knock at the door, and they
both looked over at it.