The Worlds We Think We Know Read online

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2017, Text by Dalia Rosenfeld

  © 2017, Lettering by Mary Austin Speaker

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

  (800) 520-6455

  milkweed.org

  Published 2017 by Milkweed Editions

  Cover design by Mary Austin Speaker

  Cover art: Migration: Copyright © Andrey Remnev 2009

  Author photo by Efrat Vital

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  First Edition

  Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Jerome Foundation; the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. Also, this activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit milkweed.org.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rosenfeld, Dalia, author.

  Title: The worlds we think we know: stories / Dalia Rosenfeld.

  Description: Minneapolis, Minnesota: Milkweed Editions, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016032464 | ISBN 9781571319562 (ebooks)

  Classification: LCC PS3618.O8348 A6 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016032464

  Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. The Worlds We Think We Know was printed on acid-free 100% postconsumer-waste paper by Edwards Brothers Malloy.

  For my parents

  Contents

  Swan Street

  The Worlds We Think We Know

  Flight

  A Foggy Day

  Thinking in Third Person

  The Other Air

  Amnon

  Daughters of Respectable Houses

  Contamination

  Invasions

  The Next Vilonsky

  Two Passions for Two People

  A Famine in the Land

  The Gown

  The Four Foods

  Liliana, Years Later

  Vignette of the North

  Floating on Water

  Bargabourg Remembers

  Naftali

  Acknowledgments

  SWAN STREET

  Wherever Misha goes, I follow him. He doesn’t know that he is being followed as he sets out each morning, a dirty tote bag slung across his shoulder for all his day’s needs. Even if he turned around he probably could not fathom me standing there, an extension of his own shadow, shrugging my shoulders and offering him an apple or a cigarette from the bottom of my purse. I suspect it would distress him to see me at such close range, unannounced, just as it distresses him now when, without turning around, he feels me two inches behind him, breathing on his neck. That’s when he starts second-guessing himself, like a peddler pushing a shopping cart in a supermarket, and heads for the nearest men’s room to shut himself in.

  He wanted to move to America to start a new life, though there was nothing wrong with our old one. Back home we had a garden, and neighbors who waved to us from open windows. We had asphalt streets and steel rails, fine wines and fast trains, and when those were not enough, we also had a small grove of trees in our backyard high enough to house a family of woodpeckers. The only thing our life lacked was a pretext to change it. But people are full of surprises. One morning Misha tripped over a freshly dug hole in the yard and declared he could no longer live in a country that revealed a permanent frost beneath the surface of its soil. I could not persuade him to stay.

  I would like to say that as a result of following Misha, my legs grew stronger and my waist slimmer, that my view of the world expanded to let in more light during the day and more darkness at night. But this would not have been a realistic outcome. Misha was like an autumn leaf caught in a swirl of wind: even on the most temperate of days he had only to turn a corner to find himself back at his point of departure, where he could set his bag down again and spill out its contents, pleased that they had survived his short journey, his new pocket dictionary still sheathed in protective plastic.

  The Swan Street Bed and Breakfast was a turn-of-the-century establishment fitted with twelve rooms and a dining area doubling as a smoking lounge. A steep, winding staircase led from the front door to a small carpeted foyer, where guests could leave their suitcases while their beds were being made and admire a cheap reproduction of a Schaffhausen grandfather clock standing against the wall, its pendulum swinging back and forth like the trunk of a tired elephant.

  From the moment Misha stepped in the door, I knew it would be hard to get him out again. Something about this place slowed him down, leadened his limbs to the point where he became, like the grandfather clock, a stationary fixture against the wall. The small store of energy he retained was at its most concentrated during breakfast, served every morning between seven and nine o’clock, the two hours that Misha used to dream his best dreams before crawling out of bed and putting on a pair of socks. Here, on Swan Street, he walked into the dining room at 6:30 a.m., showered and shaved, to sit with the manager while he emptied ashtrays into a cracked dustpan and arranged slices of cantaloupe on paper plates. At such an hour I was still sleeping, but my dreams had never been a source of much comfort to me, filled as they often were with smells and sounds rather than with visions.

  The inertia typically set in after breakfast, when Misha had scheduled most of his appointments. Today his first is with Carlos, a Realtor in the south end of the city, where laundry hangs limply outside apartment windows and where Misha clumsily drops his dictionary down the shaft of an open manhole.

  This is how I see him: On his way to Carlos’s office, Misha stops to watch a street musician perform a Bach fugue on a synthesizer. He is not interested in the music, only in the fingers that create it, racing across the keys as if trying to keep pace with the pedestrians hurrying by. At the end of the performance he tosses a dollar into the musician’s hat and recalls a time from his childhood when, upon spotting a foreigner, he and his friends would crowd around and ask to trade a coin from his country for one from their own. More often than not the foreigner would oblige, and the exchange would pass smoothly. But sometimes, after offering the boys a coin from his pocket, the man would continue on his way without accepting one in return, and Misha and his friends would throw it indignantly back at him, incensed at being taken for beggars.

  A block away from his appointment, Misha stops at a phone booth and dials the real estate agency. “Hello, Carlos? It is Misha, from Swan Street,” he announces. “I am afraid I cannot meet with you today. It seems I have misplaced something very dear to me and must try to retrieve it before it is too late. I am sorry for the inconvenience.” Hanging up the phone, he glances at his watch; then he returns to the spot where he has lost his dictionary, and for five minutes stands over the
manhole like a mourner at a grave site.

  I do not scold Misha for missing his appointment. Instead I write him a note reminding him to contact Dr. Gutman as soon as possible to inquire about employment possibilities for the fall. Without Dr. Gutman’s assistance, Misha would probably still be digging holes in our garden back home, searching for dry land. I do not know how to feel about that, or about the message he leaves with Dr. Gutman’s secretary when he finally does call, backing out of the very project he had proposed only a month before. The next day Misha comes down with the flu, a bad case requiring a cold compress of raw potatoes and beets. When Dr. Gutman returns his call, it is all Misha can do not to retch into the receiver.

  Walter, the proprietor on Swan Street, brings Misha hot tea and invites him to watch as he prepares to dye his beard from gray to red. “This is how I get my women,” he explains, removing a small bottle of liquid from a paper bag and setting it down on the nightstand next to Misha. “Not with ice, but with fire.”

  In his feverish state, Misha feels me mop his brow with a damp cloth. “I got my woman also with fire,” he says. “We were watching arcs of volcanic islands form in midocean on television. I have never seen so much lava and ash on a single channel.”

  Misha closes his eyes and falls asleep. I would not be so hard on him about finding an apartment if he were dreaming about me, or even about the volcano that lit the flame for our first kiss, ten years before. But it is Swan Street that ignites his imagination, leading him back even further in time, twenty years or more, when his one goal in life was to have enough hair on his chin to be able to look in the mirror and say, There is no other man in this mirror but me. In his dream, Walter stands at the sink, his full red beard sending streams of brown water spiraling down the drain. “I used to provide disposable razors for my guests,” he says in a muffled tone. “But you don’t look like you need one.”

  When Misha wakes up, Walter is washing his hands. “I’ve still got a stock of shower caps in the closet for the ladies, but they never ask for them anymore,” Misha hears him say. “My wife wore a shower cap in the shower, a hairnet to work, and curlers to bed. In the three years that we were married, I never saw her completely naked.”

  Misha stares uncomprehendingly at Walter’s back, dizzy from the chemical fumes rising out of the drain. For a moment his head fills with numbers and when he looks up at the mirror, he sees not two faces, but twenty, all lined up like ducks at a shooting gallery. “With your red hair, the women will think that you are from Ireland, and that I am from America,” he says, eliminating one face at a time with a carefully aimed blink. “That is the beauty of this country.”

  In my own quest for beauty I persuaded Misha, a few days before the flight to New York, to take a short trip to the coast, where we spent an afternoon walking along the water and discussing our plans for the future. As the sun began to set, Misha’s attention shifted inland, to the crowds of people populating the beach, many calling it a day and packing up their umbrellas and empty picnic baskets to take back home.

  Something about the sight of so many people leaving disturbed him, and when I expressed an interest in heading back myself, he sat down in the sand and refused to budge.

  “For three or four hours we stare at the sea, and the water delights us,” he reflected. “We spread out blankets that have never felt softer, eat hastily prepared sandwiches that have never tasted better, and soak up the sun like flowers in an open field. Then, at a certain moment between the third and fourth hours, the blanket starts to feel scratchy and we shake it out and roll it up. The picnic baskets that have provided our sustenance for the day lie overturned in the sand, and our stomachs crave a steaming bowl of soup, straight from the stove. Before closing our umbrellas we take one last look at the water and smile at the sun still reflected on its surface. But if we were asked to stay an hour longer, the mere sight of a seashell would make us sick, and at home we would fall asleep and dream that the sea was nothing but a big bathtub of dirty water.”

  Fortunately, Misha did not ask me to stay longer. As if roused from a nap by a cold wind, he rubbed his arms and looked blankly at the sky. “Let’s go,” he said simply, rising to his knees. Trailing him by a few feet all the way back to the car, I felt for the first time what it would be like to follow him, and it was a miserable feeling. There he was, my husband, almost within arm’s reach, and yet as distant as the water we were leaving behind. His thoughts, his fears, the hopes that clung to him like the sand on his feet—I could not grab hold of any of them. It was like trying to enter someone else’s dream and being turned away at the door. Reaching out to take Misha’s arm, I closed the space between us and vowed never to follow him in that way again.

  “The beauty of this country,” Walter repeats, still rinsing his hands at the sink, “has just moved into room 10, right above yours. An architect. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’ll drop in to say hello.”

  Misha lifts his eyes up to the ceiling; a single crack, short and slightly curved, like a wrinkle in a brow, meets his glance. “Thank you for the information,” he says. “I will brace myself for the fall.”

  The next morning he enters the dining room to find the woman from room 10 sitting at the table, reading a book.

  “Good morning,” Misha says, surprised she is alone. “I hear you are living above me.”

  The woman looks up from her book, marking her place with a piece of torn napkin. “And do you hear me living above you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That is the hallmark of a well-built house.”

  Eileen stays at the hotel for seven nights, a long time by most standards but regrettably short for Misha, who likens the color of her eyes to that of the frond of a fern and the slenderness of her neck to the tendril of a Peruvian lily. For the first three nights Misha falls asleep staring at the ceiling. On the fourth night Eileen knocks on the door with a signed copy of the book she has come to the city to promote, a three-hundred-page critique of an early proposal for the construction of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It is she who finally persuades Misha to meet with a Realtor.

  “You need to live in a building with a solid foundation, like an old flax-spinning mill, or a high-rise with a helicopter landing pad on the roof,” she advises him on the sixth morning, as they walk through three empty rooms of a house flanked by vinyl siding. “You need ceilings that can’t be reached with a stepladder.”

  Misha walks into the bathroom and runs his finger along the edge of the sink. “Yes, you are right,” he agrees. “A low ceiling is like having someone reading over your shoulder twenty-four hours a day. No matter how hard you try to ignore him, you always see him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for you to turn the page. This is not the way I want to live in America.”

  It was my presence, of course, that Misha was trying to ignore, my profile that obstructed his view of Eileen, turning her luminous face into a haze of incongruous parts. I’d had no intention of accompanying my husband on this particular outing; it was enough that his voice was always buzzing in my ear, singing the praises of Swan Street. But before I could change my course, there I was, hot on his trail, sniffing furiously like a bloodhound in pursuit of its own master. That it was Misha himself who was holding the leash only made his footsteps harder to rub out.

  The real estate agent waits outside the bathroom for her client to finish his conversation. “The owner is thinking about installing a hot tub,” she says from the hallway. “Should I tell him you two would be interested?”

  Misha peeks his head out the open door. “Thank you, I think we have seen enough,” he says, speaking only for himself. “My wife will join me soon, and I do not want to show her America from a basin of boiling water.”

  The grandfather clock in the foyer has stopped working, but Misha does not notice. He has spent the morning at a used furniture store, looking for something that will give him more space for his underwear and socks and allow him to return the Bible to the nightstand drawer. In the
past, Misha had all the space he wanted and always complained that it was not enough. But in America, in a room in which he can barely move, he breathes in the air around him like a claustrophobe coming out of a closet. He is quick to forget that smoking has left him with weak lungs.

  When the saleswoman approaches, Misha becomes acutely aware of his accent. “Yes,” “Thank you,” “Over there,” “Too large,” he stutters, responding to her inquiries in as few words as possible. He observes the woman studying him and follows the trajectory of her eyes as they try to determine the provenance of his shoes, pants, shirt. I live on Swan Street, he reminds himself, named after the constellation Cygnus, a cluster of stars far beyond the reaches of our galaxy. Clearing his throat, he mutters a few more words and wonders in which direction his accent will take her next—to the overpriced dresser in the corner, its tapered legs cut from seasoned mahogany, or to the cheap chest of drawers nearby. Unwilling to find out, he declines additional assistance and settles for a bookcase in the back room, whose widely spaced boards he estimates can hold a week’s worth of laundry.

  Back on Swan Street, Walter meets him in the foyer, shaking his head. “If the mainspring goes, the pendulum goes with it,” he says, pointing to the empty space behind him. “That clock was like a second heart to me.”

  Misha looks at the indentation in the carpet where the grandfather clock used to stand. “The clock is gone? I will miss it.”

  Continuing down the hallway, he hugs the bookcase close to his chest. Walter follows. “That looks like it would make a pretty piece of firewood,” he says, banging one of the boards with his fist.

  “I think I will put it against the wall, next to my night table.” Misha unlocks his door and sets the shelf down in front of it. “That would give me enough room to still climb out of bed in the morning and not stub my toe.”

  When Misha and I moved into our first apartment together, he wanted to keep it sparse. We furnished the rooms with only the bare necessities and dwelled in our new home like peasants living off the land. One day I came home with a shoe rack to mount behind the bedroom door and Misha, disapproving, told me about a Bulgarian perfume expressed from rose petals that used two hundred pounds of blossoms to make a single ounce of oil. “If twenty pairs of shoes suspended in the air would help bring out the essence of a woman’s foot, you would be the talk of Europe,” he said cynically.