Devotion_Why I Write Page 3

  Irina was beautiful, like a film star, like Gene Tierney who I have seen in her movie magazines. Her overbite is the same, and the way she waved her hair. Martin took care of our papers, rations, and gave me his surname. He took care of everything. He was entranced by Irina’s beauty as someone with an object in a museum behind a wall of glass. She could be somewhat haughty but that seemed to amuse him and he bought her many presents.

  Martin took great interest in me as I grew. He bought me a doll and pretty dresses. I had ballet lessons and a tutor who assured him I was excelling academically. On my fifth birthday he took us to an ice pageant. I remember this most of all.

  After I saw the skaters I cried for three days and three nights. I cried as my mother cried. Perhaps I recognized my destiny but was too young to fully comprehend what that meant. Unable to resist tears, Martin soon bought me skates, and a white muff for my hands with a matching hat. When I first stepped onto the ice I faltered, not out of fear, but excitement, for something wonderful happened. Everything I needed was revealed to me in a split second, like suddenly knowing all the answers to a difficult test, or the exact route to an impossible destination.

  I saw it all before me, in an instant that instantly disappeared, yet made its mark. I intuited that when I was ready I held the key. I did so well that soon skating lessons were added to ballet, and not too long after, ballet slowly abandoned. I had what I needed from it. I would simply synthesize ballet and skating. After that it was the same with everything. Martin taught me to play chess. I was a worthy opponent but I didn’t care about winning. I was mostly interested in the moves and how I could incorporate them in a routine. I never spoke of this, for I was afraid he might insist I spend less time thinking of skating. Martin said I was gifted in science, but this gift gave me no tools to express the inexpressible. We spoke many languages together, even dead ones. Yet of all the languages I have known, skating is the one I know best. A language without words, where the mind must bow to instinct.

  And then everything changed. Martin died suddenly from a stroke of the heart. We weren’t allowed to go to the funeral. His solicitor sent Irina a check and the keys to the house on a small piece of land bordering the forest. We had to leave the apartment he had provided for us. With the money he left her, we lived comfortably, but nothing was ever as good as that time. Only when I found the secret pond did I understand why he had chosen this house. I was almost eleven. He must have known I would find it. But there was nothing there that made Irina happy, not until she met Frank. Before that she moved through the days as if a ghost.

  Irina has been gone for almost two months. I know she would be angry that I left school. But no one there will mind. My conflicting thoughts and questions have always made my teachers uncomfortable and I believe there is nothing more they can teach me. I understand why Irina left; there has never been much affection between us. I have been a responsibility that she was obliged to accept. Yet I have some misgivings about my behavior when she said goodbye. My heart was quite hard. I said nothing. Perhaps because I was afraid, for she is my only link with my family.

  Eugenia stopped reading for a moment and then added the words—She is my family. Laying down her pencil, she realized she truly regretted not helping Irina make their parting easier. Perhaps receiving the gift from the stranger somehow disarmed her, his unbidden generosity exposing her young heart unduly hardened. She glanced toward the window and noticed the rain had turned to a light snow. Closing her journal, she slipped on the coat, threw her skates over her shoulder and walked through the forest to the pond. She skated until the sun retreated. Afterward she sat on the flat boulder, taking her time to unlace the boots of her skates and examine the blades. She had no fear of returning home in the dark; she had trod the same path a thousand times and knew every stone underfoot.

  The moon rose, illuminating the pond. It was more miniature lake than pond, and surprisingly deep, her secret salvation from the oppressive atmosphere of the lonely little cottage, which had always seemed a prison to Irina. Until she met Frank, as handsome as she was beautiful, the one who finally made her happy, the one who took her away.

  The day Irina left she wore no makeup and was crying. It occurred to Eugenia how young she looked, and how she seemed like an actress playing out a scene rehearsed many times.

  —I have to leave. Frank is waiting for me. He gave me some money for you, it is on the dresser. Soon you will be sixteen. You will do fine, just as I did.

  Eugenia stood in silence. She wanted to reach out to her, thank her for all of her sacrifices, but she could not find the right words. Only a swirl of questions that would remain forever unanswered.

  —Don’t hate me, I did my best. I am already thirty-two; this is my chance to have something for myself.

  As she reached to open the door she stopped and looked at Eugenia in desperation.

  —I was born beautiful, she blurted, why should I have an ugly life?

  And then she was gone. Like mother and father, like Martin, like the washing on the line.

  The stars appeared as if shaken from a net. Eugenia sat beneath them, continuing to reflect. Each star plays its part; each has its own place. Everything I am, she was thinking, has been given to me by nature.

  3

  He was a solitary man, in his late thirties, of unusual control, hardy and virile, yet uniquely sensitive, having already negotiated the spectrum of academics, risk, art, and excess. A dealer in artifacts, rare manuscripts, and arms, he could easily identify the age and origin of an obscure ivory by feel, by the way it absorbed or reflected light. The valuable he delivered to museums; the exquisite he kept for himself. He had traveled extensively though not in leisurely fashion. His trunks contained a wealth of objects that when sold would add considerably to his fortune. He had done well, but the thrill of attainment had become hollow; he found himself uncharacteristically restless and short-tempered.

  She had skated through his waking hours. He pictured her egocentrically spinning in her palace of ice. He imagined glimpsing her moving through crowds in faraway places, her thick dark hair, no hat or scarf, a battered pair of ice skates thrown over her small shoulder. The little witch, he was thinking, yet chided himself for attributing such power to an awkward schoolgirl.

  In a dream he sat at a table observing the vast grounds of an unfamiliar colonial estate. The ghost of her, fragile as a steeple of spun sugar, materialized in the bright green field. She turned slowly in a wispy red dress, accentuating her lanky frame. He watched her with pleasure as she accelerated spinning, her double-jointed arms bending easily in the light wind.

  —She will never be truly yours, whispered the woman serving him. He looked at her hard.

  —Did you speak? he asked somewhat irritably.

  —No, monsieur, she said, without a trace of emotion. He awoke feeling inexplicably hemmed in, a vague sense of rage. He threw on a robe and sat in the drawing room, lighting a cigar and losing himself in the blue whorls of smoke.

  Several days passed and he did not come. In truth she missed his presence, which seemed to have inexplicably inspired her. Once again she was skating solely for herself. It was still very cold, but with her coat, and a happy absence of wind, she was able to skate for great lengths of time. The pond was her home, the act of skating her lover. She gave herself completely, generating her own heat.

  Each year she dreaded the coming of spring, for soon the ice would vein underfoot and the surface of the pond would crack: like a hand mirror dropped on a marble floor. Just a little longer, she implored nature, just a week, a few days, a few more hours. She knelt on the ice. Not yet dangerous, but soon.

  She did not see him, but felt him, sensed he was drawing nearer, and then suddenly she saw his coat. He remained in view but maintained his distance, satisfied with their silent commune. She didn’t acknowledge his return yet accepted him without reproach. Crossing her arms over her heart she propelled herself, reaching a higher elevation than ever before. Emboldened
by his presence, she entered her third turn, extending an arm above her, fingertips brushing the breadth heaven. She cried out involuntarily. Would that I could die this moment. Just a folly, a teenage prayer, a moment exquisitely mastered.

  He withdrew, pierced.

  At dawn she had cold coffee, a bowl of berries, and some bread she had made the night before. The sun was already high, troubling her, as she was hoping winter would last a while longer. As she reached the pond, she saw that he was already there, waiting. She set down her skates and approached him without trepidation, accessing a natural arrogance. He greeted her cordially in Swiss-German, but detecting his accent, Eugenia answered him in Russian. He was taken aback, yet pleased.

  —Are you Russian? he asked.

  —I was born in Estonia.

  —You are a long way away.

  —I was brought here as an infant by my aunt during the war. The pond is my home.

  —How many languages do you speak?

  —Several, she answered smugly. More than the fingers of your hands.

  —Your Russian is very good.

  —Languages are like chess.

  —And words are like moves?

  They stood there in a silence that was not uncomfortable. She was thinking that they had only the experience of silence and the coat between them.

  —The coat, she began. But he waved it away.

  —The coat is nothing, little one. I can give you anything you could imagine.

  —I don’t care about such things. I only want to skate.

  —The ice will soon fail you.

  She lowered her eyes.

  —I have a friend who is an important trainer from Vienna. You could skate all you want, through spring and summer until your pond is ready for you.

  —What is the price of this privilege?

  He stared at her openly.

  —I only want to skate, she repeated.

  He extended his card. She watched him depart in his dark overcoat; he was not a big man but the coat gave the impression of strength.

  She waited until he disappeared down the path, then knelt down and pounded the ice with a rock. She could feel the vibration of water moving beneath the surface, layers of ice melting. She gazed unhappily at the sun as it filled the atmosphere with the warmth of its light. It was all so beautiful yet signaled the ushering of endless months without her greatest happiness. Her defining sense of self was completely entwined with the laces of her skates. Winter would melt into spring, into summer, and she would have no recourse but to wait for falling leaves to signal winters return. She felt for the card in her pocket. Stirred by a chorus of sensations, she was at once liberated and trapped.

  4

  It was the first day of spring. The light streamed into her window and spread across her coverlet. There were pictures of Eva Pawlik taped on the wall over her bed. Her skates were hanging from a hook beckoning, but the ice was already melting. She made herself some cocoa, then unfolded a small blanket she kept in a basket in the corner of her room. Irina had given it to her on the morning of her thirteenth birthday, having saved it through the years, waiting for the right moment. The blanket had been made for her by her mother, and pinned to it was a letter written by her father. At the time she could not read it, but she studied the language, translated it, and read it over and over. He wrote of lifting her in the air and delighting in the fact that she had his mother’s eyes, deep brown eyes that seemed to contain everything. The blanket was like a soft peach and had tiny flowers stitched on the edges.

  Thank you mother, she whispered, thank you father. Eugenia mended Irina’s old knit sweater, finding a long strand of her hair, and wondered if she would ever come back. Irina had raised her and harbored all there was to know of their history. It had always been difficult to draw anything out of her, though sometimes, when she had too much vodka, she would speak about the song of the wolves, the ice-covered trees, or the scent of the pink-and-white flowers that covered everything in spring. But nothing of her mother and father. Eugenia often searched for answers in the cold eyes of Irina.

  —Don’t look for your mother in me, she would say. You must find her in yourself.

  —Do I look like her?

  —I really couldn’t say, she would answer impatiently, applying her lipstick.

  —But have I her hair.

  —Yes, yes.

  —Do I have eyes like my father?

  —Don’t look back, Eugenia, she would counsel, slipping on her fox stole. Everything is before us.

  Now I have a coat finer than hers, she thought ruefully. But she would have given it gladly for just one new piece of the puzzle. She had nothing save a recurring dream, like a moving still from a grainy film—her mother shading her eyes from the sun and sheets unfurling on a line. Though separated too young for it to be a true memory, she clung to it as if it were. She stitched together any passing reference, simple recollection, new facet of an old story, entreating Irina to offer up some new small patch for the fragile quilt that added up to herself. She never asked for love, nor longed for affection, had no experience with boys, not even adolescent kisses. She only wished to know who she was, and to skate. That was all she desired.

  Eugenia took the card from her coat pocket. He had offered her everything. Her own trainer, fine skates, a place to practice as much as she wanted. She laid the card on the table, tracing her finger over his name, Aleksandr Rifa, embossed in bold script, with an address written in hand beneath. His name was Alexander but to her he would always be Him.

  That afternoon, he had opened the door and found her before him, small and defiant.

  —Today is my birthday, she said. I am sixteen.

  He welcomed her into a suite of rooms, displaying his worldly goods, precious icons, ivory crucifixes, heavy strands of pearls, trunks brimming with embroidered silks and rare manuscripts. He offered her anything she desired.

  —I don’t care about your fortune.

  —Perhaps a token for your birthday.

  —I only want to skate. That is why I am here.

  He paused before a glass case housing an elaborately enameled egg. In spite of herself she was drawn to it, and he unlocked the case and set it before her.

  —Open it, he said. It was a gift from a Czar to an Empress.

  Inside was a tiny Imperial coach perfectly wrought in gold. He placed the coach in her hand, watching her reaction.

  —Guess my name, she said.

  —There are many names.

  —But I have the name of a queen.

  —There are many queens.

  She followed him into the bedroom. She stood in silence as he slowly removed her clothes; but he could feel her pulse quicken. He took her slowly, surprisingly gentle, comforting her as she cried out in pain. He took her again in the night, arousing in her an unexpressed and startling appetite for pleasure.

  In the morning he removed the sheet, spread with a blood-moth stain.

  —This room will be yours, if you wish it. I will have someone buy you new sheets.

  —No. I will buy my own sheets.

  He made her breakfast as she washed. She approached him expectantly.

  —I knew you were trouble when I saw you walking toward me, he said, I felt you as you brushed against my coat.

  —I did not see you then.

  —Perhaps you felt me, as I felt you.

  —No. I felt nothing.

  Youth can be cruel, he mused, but he also knew how to make her suffer. He pressed against her and told her he had to go, whispering the name he has given her. Philadelphia.

  —Why Philadelphia?

  —Because, he breathed into her ear, it was once a hotbed for freedom.

  She leaned against the wall.

  —I want the contents of the little pouch you wear around your neck, she said suddenly as if in retaliation.

  Startled, he hesitated, but could not refuse her.

  —They are worthless souvenirs, just small screws and the firing pin
of an old rifle.

  —It must be important.

  —It was the rifle of a poet.

  —Where is it?

  —It is somewhere safe, faraway. I removed the screws so no one could use it. Without them it’s useless as a weapon. The pouch is stitched.

  —Give it to me.

  —That’s what you want?

  —Yes.

  —Are you certain?

  —Yes, she said unflinchingly.

  —Then I must one day give you the rifle as well.

  —As you wish.

  —You’re killing me, he said.

  —You’re killing me, she returned.

  He left a large sum of money on a slip of paper. Go to this address and buy new sheets, this kind, and he wrote the name on the back and kissed her again. It took her a while to find the shop. There were long shelves with every kind of sheet imagined but she gravitated toward a glass case filled with robes and pajamas in flesh-colored silk. Instead of sheets, she chose a simple chemise from the case, using half the money, and then took a trolley to an entirely different sector. There was a small resale shop that sold bedding from various Chinese laundries. After a long search she found a slightly worn set of sheets with the name he had written on a tag. Italian sheets, slightly frayed, but they were much nicer than any sheets she had known.

  After buying the sheets she stopped at a small restaurant and ordered her own steak, a big one, and a large mug of coffee. Every so often she would touch the little sack just below the hollow of her throat. It cost me a lot, she was thinking, not with regret, but with pride. That is how I became Philadelphia, she wrote later in her journal. Like the city of freedom. Yet I was not free. Hunger is its own warden.

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