Read Online PU-239 and Other Russian Fantasies by Ken Kalfus - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken Kalfus
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had fallen a little in love with Israel. Perhaps more than a little—supposing, as Israel did (though he wouldn’t own up to it, in precisely those terms), that it was possible to fall in love with another person after a single encounter. Rachel descended into her bed as if into an embrace. But it was her romanticism and fearlessness that persuaded her that Larissa was the proper target of Israel’s affections, and it would make her Israel’s critical ally in the coming campaign. The newsprint flowers were soon followed by invitations to rallies, plays, political lectures,
and gallery openings. Rachel congratulated Larissa on the arrival of each and encouraged their acceptance.
At first Larissa was flattered by the attention and, despite herself, pleased by the approval conferred by her dormitory girlfriends. They insisted upon putting the origami in a vase. One of them, a Russian country girl from beyond the Urals, asked if flowers made from newspapers were something Jewish. For her part, Larissa voiced the hope that this gesture would be the last and, as the invitations and humorous notes continued to arrive in the post during the next several weeks, she told Rachel, “What does he think? That I sit around all day attending to suitors?”
“You should write back. Tell him what you do.”
“I’ll send him a report on my last dissection. I’ll send him the dissection.”
But then the invitations ceased. No letter warned that he was surrendering to her resistance. She was surprised to find herself annoyed. Where was his determination? Men characteristically failed to persevere; it was proof of their insincerity. But what had she expected? That the invitations would continue indefinitely? She didn’t mention her disappointment to Rachel. Nor did Rachel mention her own. And then late one afternoon at the precise minute of the day when Larissa had begun to wonder at her closed-mindedness and timidity, another student arrived to say that Israel had presented himself downstairs at the dormitory reception and had demanded to see her.
She didn’t hurry, but neither did she primp before the mirror. She was wearing the same plain olive dress
that she had worn to her lectures that day. At the foot of the stairs, at the place where the shoe boxes had been assembled, Israel now kept vigil, fashionably dressed in a pressed shirt and vest beneath his open wool coat, a fedora in his hands. He bowed at her arrival. The guard who had been there the first night monitored their exchange.
“I received your invitations,” Larissa said, by way of a greeting.
“And the flowers?”
“The flowers too. They’ve become something of a fire hazard. You seem surprised to see me,” she observed. “You did call on me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, many times. This is only the first I’ve been able to persuade someone to give you a message. You’d think this was a convent.”
She replied stiffly, “The working people of this country have paid with their blood so that I may attend university. I didn’t come to Moscow to dance in nightclubs.”
This time she was fully sincere. She added, “I’m the first in my family to receive a higher education.”
“Who said anything about nightclubs?” Israel shook his head, frowning. “I’m a former commissar in the Red Army. My unit fought in Belorussia and Bashkiria. I never received a higher education, but, you’re correct, among the things we fought for was for the right of peasants, workers, and Jews to attend university.”
She bit her lip. “Sorry.”
“And we also fought for the right of the people of this country to produce the world’s first example of proletarian high culture, free of bourgeois cant and chauvinism.
Look, I have two tickets to a concert tonight. Will you join me?”
“I need to study.”
“Then why aren’t you at the library?”
“What kind of concert is it?” she asked suspiciously.
“If I give the wrong answer, you won’t come? It’s music.
and gallery openings. Rachel congratulated Larissa on the arrival of each and encouraged their acceptance.
At first Larissa was flattered by the attention and, despite herself, pleased by the approval conferred by her dormitory girlfriends. They insisted upon putting the origami in a vase. One of them, a Russian country girl from beyond the Urals, asked if flowers made from newspapers were something Jewish. For her part, Larissa voiced the hope that this gesture would be the last and, as the invitations and humorous notes continued to arrive in the post during the next several weeks, she told Rachel, “What does he think? That I sit around all day attending to suitors?”
“You should write back. Tell him what you do.”
“I’ll send him a report on my last dissection. I’ll send him the dissection.”
But then the invitations ceased. No letter warned that he was surrendering to her resistance. She was surprised to find herself annoyed. Where was his determination? Men characteristically failed to persevere; it was proof of their insincerity. But what had she expected? That the invitations would continue indefinitely? She didn’t mention her disappointment to Rachel. Nor did Rachel mention her own. And then late one afternoon at the precise minute of the day when Larissa had begun to wonder at her closed-mindedness and timidity, another student arrived to say that Israel had presented himself downstairs at the dormitory reception and had demanded to see her.
She didn’t hurry, but neither did she primp before the mirror. She was wearing the same plain olive dress
that she had worn to her lectures that day. At the foot of the stairs, at the place where the shoe boxes had been assembled, Israel now kept vigil, fashionably dressed in a pressed shirt and vest beneath his open wool coat, a fedora in his hands. He bowed at her arrival. The guard who had been there the first night monitored their exchange.
“I received your invitations,” Larissa said, by way of a greeting.
“And the flowers?”
“The flowers too. They’ve become something of a fire hazard. You seem surprised to see me,” she observed. “You did call on me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, many times. This is only the first I’ve been able to persuade someone to give you a message. You’d think this was a convent.”
She replied stiffly, “The working people of this country have paid with their blood so that I may attend university. I didn’t come to Moscow to dance in nightclubs.”
This time she was fully sincere. She added, “I’m the first in my family to receive a higher education.”
“Who said anything about nightclubs?” Israel shook his head, frowning. “I’m a former commissar in the Red Army. My unit fought in Belorussia and Bashkiria. I never received a higher education, but, you’re correct, among the things we fought for was for the right of peasants, workers, and Jews to attend university.”
She bit her lip. “Sorry.”
“And we also fought for the right of the people of this country to produce the world’s first example of proletarian high culture, free of bourgeois cant and chauvinism.
Look, I have two tickets to a concert tonight. Will you join me?”
“I need to study.”
“Then why aren’t you at the library?”
“What kind of concert is it?” she asked suspiciously.
“If I give the wrong answer, you won’t come? It’s music.
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