Unspeakable Things

With Robert Lowell and His Circle

A History of Yearning

Moments of Past Happiness

The Honeymoon

The Beds We Lie In

Swimmer in the Spreading Dawn

The Jane Poems

Flying Inland

Not Even the Smallest, the Most Tender

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright © 2016 by Kathleen Spivack

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd., Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Portions of this book appeared, in slightly different form, as “The Rat” in
The Chattahoochee Review
and “The Tolstoi String Quartet” in
Carpe Articulum.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Spivack, Kathleen, author.

Title: Unspeakable things : a novel / Kathleen Spivack.

Description: First Edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2015.

Identifiers:
LCCN
2015035393 |
ISBN
9780385353960 (hardcover) |
ISBN
9780385353977 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: Refugees—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Cultural Heritage.

Classification:
LCC
PS
3569.
P
56
U
96 2015 |
DDC
813/.54—dc23
LC
record available at
lccn.loc.gov/2015035393
.

eBook ISBN 9780385353977

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover images: (violin) © Florilegius/Mary Evans; (envelope) Subjug/E+/Getty Images

Cover design by Kelly Blair

v4.1

ep

To music, which forgives everything.

I
n the drafty reading room of the New York Public Library, Herbert opened his latest letter from the little Rat, his old friend Anna Zygorzka. Her letters were slow to arrive, and each one bore the marks of a censor, who dutifully opened and read and then indicated the readership before sending it on to New York. Even David, who worked in the war office somewhat connected with censorship and foreign mail, could not predict the letters that arrived occasionally, tattered and humble, addressed in fine, studied handwriting. Herbert smoothed the paper, which crackled as he spread it out in front of him. He fixed his spectacles more firmly onto his nose and bent down happily.
“J’arrive!”

Beside him on the bench, his grandchildren sat quietly. Philip studied his toes while he held a green balloon. And Maria, in her ruffled smocked dress and little sweater, bent over her English book as seriously as Herbert now bent over the handwriting of his letter. Maria’s lips did not even move as she read; she was concentrating. Although the first signs of spring were coming to New York, the interior of the library was cold and drafty. Herbert wrapped his coat more tightly around his shoulders, looking over to smile at the children. How good they were! So quiet and dear. He went back to the letter.

Herbert and Anna Zygorzka, second cousins, had been writing to each other for years. They corresponded in various languages, including Esperanto and French. Sometimes they alternated. Anna wrote to Herbert in German, and he answered in Russian. Then they corrected each other’s letters and started over again. And during that time, they also corresponded in chess.

Herbert smiled as he deciphered the numbers and letters. “Aha, now I have you!” Anna had written in large, distinctive handwriting. “Check to your queen!”

Herbert bent over the letter in delight. “We shall see,” he thought. “We shall see.” He looked more closely. Undoubtedly, he could find the loophole in this. Then he laughed. She had done it. He had taught her well. But this was not the end of this particular game. Herbert still had a few tricks up his sleeve. The Rat would regret challenging the old chess master. He smiled.

“Well, my dear friend,” he read in her large triumphant hand, “are you not proud of me? Guard your queen indeed, my old fox!”

Herbert imagined her nose twitching in triumph. That exquisite ugliness! Her dark, shiny eyes, peering at the chessboard—he had loved to watch her sniffing around the game. He imagined her little snort, a muted shriek of delight when she saw an opportunity for triumph. The Rat!

Underneath, Anna had written, in an equally exuberant scrawl, a few quick words. “The good news, my old dear friend, is that I am coming. I shall arrive soon. I cannot say more. Speak to David.” And then, as if to paraphrase her German, she wrote the same message hastily in French.
“J’arrive!”

Herbert put the letter aside for a moment. As if disbelieving the message written, he bent to it again.
“J’arrive!”
How could that be?

Anna’s image rose in his mind. The seaside. Summer holidays with his parents. The arrival of his second cousins from Hungary. The other side of the family. The two mysterious girls, slightly younger, both, than he and his brother. Anna and her younger sister.
The two girls.
The two boys who awaited their arrival; a mystery unfolding.

What a disappointment it had been when he had first seen the Rat. She was small, unprepossessing, with a long nose. And could it be? Whiskers growing out of the mole next to her nose. Well, three long hairs, to be exact. A Rat with severe curvature of the spine, which caused her to move in a painful, crablike way, hunched over, peering upward over spectacles.

Anna and Herbert had looked at each other. Could this be the fabled cousin, so long awaited? Anna’s younger sister was normal in every way. Only, she was too young to do anything more than tag after the Rat and Herbert and his brother, whining to be included. So he was stuck, summer after summer, with the Rat for a companion. And a deformed Rat at that. A Rat who had to spend most of every day lying on a sofa, a Rat who could not stand straight when she walked, who moved slowly, painfully, with a little cane. A Rat with the most beautiful eyes, the most seraphic smile. A Rat with the face of an angel, made more beautiful by the imperfections that called attention to her beauty. This Rat had the power to enchant. She trembled inadvertently from time to time, as if this power were far too great for her little body to bear.

One day, the Rat dared to intrude upon Herbert’s silent avoidance of her. It was during one of her little slow-paced promenades. Herbert hated to watch her progress down along the sea; it was so slow and cramped. The Rat came right up to him, to the rock on which Herbert sat, thinking drearily of the meaninglessness of his life. He didn’t look at her directly, though he had covertly observed her approach.

Anna took a deep breath, gasping as she came to a halt beside him. “Why do you avoid me?” she asked without any preamble. “Is it the way I look?”

“No,” Herbert lied. He yawned.

“Come.” Anna held out her hand. “We can still be friends.” She touched his sleeve. A fine vibration was coming off Anna and it flowed from her hand through his body. Anna was shaking, her breath coming quickly in little gasps. She pressed her knees together and turned her head away.

Herbert took her arm and, still not looking at her, accompanied her back to the house. He was furious with himself.

“You know why they call me the Rat?” Anna said, still trembling, peering at him with deep, beautiful eyes. “Do I not resemble one?” Herbert tried to be polite. “It’s true, isn’t it?” persisted Anna. Herbert wanted to tear off her shawl, gaze at the nape of her neck, her twisted spine.

Anna shuffled beside him, bent over at a strange angle, leaning on Herbert. “You know,” she said forthrightly, “it’s lucky Papa has money. For I will probably never marry. And then,” she added sadly, “who would want to marry me?” Herbert felt her resignation. He said nothing, walking beside his cousin, a girl already burdened by rejection. Her little pawlike hands pressed his elbow. “It’s true.”

Herbert searched for something to comfort her. “But, Anna, you are intelligent, educated. Don’t give up hope. A young lady like yourself has a long life ahead.” He repeated platitudes.

“Do you really think so? Oh, Herbert!” Anna turned her face to his, looking upward. “Do you really think so? Do you think anyone will ever want to marry me?”

“Of course,” replied Herbert. “Plenty of gentlemen will want to.”

“Oh!” Anna’s lovely eyes misted over with joy, and her face crinkled into a smile.

Herbert was delighted with the effect his words had on her, although he noticed that she looked more like a rat than ever—a happy rat. Then inspiration hit him. “Anna, do you know how to play chess?” he asked.

She looked suddenly downcast again. “No, Cousin Herbert,” she said.

“Well then, I shall teach you,” said Herbert, feeling important. “We must not be idle just because it is summer.”

Soon Herbert found himself spending time with the Rat as she lay on her sofa. All summer Herbert and Anna played chess together, and the Rat was happy to follow his lead in other things as well. When Herbert read philosophy, the Rat read every book he recommended. She listened when he read aloud to her—poetry, drama—and Herbert was delighted to have an audience for his developing interests and adolescent self-importance. The Rat had a passionate intelligence and was not afraid to debate with him. A willing pupil, her pleasure in learning was intense. Herbert found he liked to spend time with her, liked to watch her long nose quiver at an idea, sniffing out the exact meaning of each phrase. Her little hands trembled with excitement; her whiskers vibrated with joy.

At the end of the summer, the Rat was disconsolate. Her eyes were magnified with the tears that fell, unwiped, on the chessboard between them. She was more hunched than ever. They took a last walk together, their intensity augmented to the point where neither of them could stand it. “Let me,” whispered Herbert softly. “Let me touch you just one time.” Anna squeezed his hand. Gently, Herbert pulled back her collar and exposed the top of her spine. “I just want to look at you,” he murmured. Anna held his other hand all the while, squeezing tightly as she trembled, her body pressed in upon itself. He let his mouth graze her queerly shaped body. Neither of them said a word; this was to be their secret. When Herbert had finished letting his lips travel the length of her deformity, Anna swooned. She would have permitted him everything, but he caught himself.

He rearranged the shawl about her shoulders, helped her straighten her dress. She was still trembling. “Come,” said Herbert. He was overcome with the emotion of the situation; he wanted her, would always want her in a desperate way. “We will write each other during the year. And we will see each other next summer.” The Rat lifted her head, her eyes shining. “Yes,” said Herbert. “And we will correspond in different languages, we will write our thoughts and feelings and what we are reading, and we will continue our chess. Yes!” he continued, inspired by his own brilliance, and by the happy compliance of this Hungarian girl. “And next summer, we shall pick up again. For this must only be au revoir, not good-bye.” He put his hand on her little paw, and her trembling stopped. She brushed a tear from her whiskers.

“Oh, Herbert, what will happen to me?”

During the school year, they continued their separate lives, he in Vienna, she in Budapest. Their friendship grew through correspondence. Anna shared his passion for literature and language. Ever since that first summer, while they had continued to correspond during their absences from each other, Herbert thought about her incessantly: her deformity, her eyes. Yet on the surface he was getting to know other young ladies. It was as if Anna existed in a secret compartment, a delight to be pulled out and played with only during the summers. Their meetings each summer holiday were filled with joy. Always she approached him with shining eyes that drew him toward her secret. He loved to caress her hump. More was forbidden, and when he tried more, she tightened her legs and shook her head. Then the next minute she was welcoming him, and it was Herbert who had to draw the line. He did not know if he hated or loved her; he was fascinated, and yet there was something forbidden in the skirts of her dresses, something that he both sought and shunned. “Let me look at you,” he said. “I just want to look.”

Herbert, of course, was to make a proper marriage, a proper
Christian
marriage, as was appropriate to his career in the Austrian government. His mother had found him Adeline, and Herbert fell dutifully, romantically in love with the beautiful pianist.

The Rat was unable to attend the wedding. Anna, the emblem of his youth, was far away at that point. Her family had achieved the unimaginable. They had managed to buy for Anna and themselves a Russian count. A penniless Russian count, but a count nevertheless. The terms of this marriage were, among others, that the Rat was to leave immediately for Saint Petersburg, taking her fortune with her.

“And so, dearest cousin,” the Rat wrote, “what choice do I have? They do not explain to us the need for such a rush. But I am only a lady Rat after all, and so I go to meet my husband happily.”

Now, so many years later, in this suburb of war-torn Europe named New York, the Rat’s letters began to reach Herbert again. “Our last game, do you remember?” she wrote. “I was so stupid not to cover my bishop. I lost the whole game on that. Well, now we begin again.” Herbert smiled at her resolute handwriting and decisive approach. “I shall go first, my friend. Do not think you can so easily win now. I have been studying, yes, studying chess. And other things as well!” And then, as if there had been no break ever in their correspondence, Anna, choosing the first black pawn, opened the game again.

Of the intervening years, she wrote not one word. And Herbert, hardly knowing where to begin on his and Adeline’s life and experiences, also wrote not one personal word in response, except to mention that he was living now in New York with David and Ilse and their dear children. Herbert had decided that it was no use writing anything too personal, especially as he was now writing to a
poste restante
in Leningrad rather than to a real address. Who knew who might be reading, in fact, might even be writing, these letters concerning chess?

“And so, my dear lady, we will write of books. Literature. Yes, the literature we are reading and what is new and what is happening and what we both think about it,” Herbert decreed. “I have just discovered a new Italian writer,” he appended hastily to one letter to Anna, in which he had successfully avoided a threat to his last remaining knight. “His name is Leopardi. Do you know him?” Herbert then proceeded into a quick discussion of Leopardi. “Perhaps I shall find a copy and send it to you,” he suggested at the end of the postscript, knowing it was a futilely generous suggestion.

Anna’s response came six months later. “Leopardi, no, I have not heard of him. But then, I do not hear of many writers here….” The words were faint and wistful. “Now, dearest Herbert, watch out for my bishop,” she wrote more insistently.

Try as he might through his many connections, Herbert could not locate the actual whereabouts of the Rat. Perhaps she was a spy. Always the letters bore the return address of the central post office. He was careful to write very little of importance in his letters—not even in invisible ink.

At first, it had been a surprise when her notes had started to come to him in New York. He had been waiting in the Public Library for a meeting with a member of a committee for refugees, when a shabby man had jostled him. “I beg your pardon, Herr Doktor,” the man had muttered, showing bad teeth. “But I believe this is for you.” He had shoved the small envelope into Herbert’s hand, and then, just as furtively, disappeared somewhere into the stacks again.

“Who is that man?” Herbert later asked some of his committee members. But no one, of course, knew. “Who are you?” Herbert demanded the second time this happened.