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“I could disguise myself.”
I looked at him dubiously.
“I could, Evan.”
“As what? A tree? A mountain?”
“Evan, I ca
And then, because my cognac bottle was very nearly empty, and because what had been in the bottle was now in me, and because one’s inability to sleep does not preclude the possibility that alcohol, in sufficient quantity, will addle the brain, I said something very stupid.
What I said was, “Karlis, you are like a brother to me. And Karlis, my brother, I can do much more for you than deliver you into slavery in Latvia. I can go to Latvia, Karlis, and I can find your Sofija and I can bring her back to you, and the two of you can then live in Providence for the rest of your lives, and you can get married, and you can have children together, and you can grow old together, and you can have grandchildren together, and-”
“You could do that, Evan?”
“I could.”
“You could bring my Sofija to me?”
“I could. And I will.”
If there is truth in wine, then there is also abject stupidity in brandy. From that point on, the night went as it had to go. Karlis assured me over and over again that I was the finest man on earth, a prince, a hero, a true and pure Lett. And eventually he got foggy enough to pass out, and I roused him just enough to lead him through the fields to his sleeping bag, where I helped him off with his uniform and tucked him off to sleep.
Then I walked around for a while in the cool air until something vaguely approaching sobriety returned. And at that point I realized just how absurd had been my promise to Karlis. I had never before attempted to get into Russia. I had never even contemplated the problem, nor had I considered the even greater problem of getting out once I had gotten in.
And now I had given my word that I would do just that. Not merely by myself, but that I would bring an unsuccessful defector out with me. This was so obviously impossible that it was really not worth thinking about.
Perhaps, I thought, the cognac would cancel out its own excesses. Perhaps when morning came, a weakened and hung-over Karlis Mielovicius would have blacked out the memory of the conversation and the ridiculous promise I had made him. Perhaps he would forget the whole thing.
He didn’t.
We broke camp in the morning. I had a hangover, and Karlis had a hangover, and, as far as I could see, half the camp had a hangover. It seemed as though alcohol had flowed as freely at the folk dance as it had in our tent, although the mood there was jubilant, while ours had been maudlin.
But Karlis’s words came through the hangover to me. “Evan, you will not forget what you said last night. You will go to Latvia, eh?”
I could have said no. The hell I could. I had built him up and I had to find the right way to let him down gently. This wasn’t the time for it, or the place, or the mood.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “But it may take time-”
“I know, Evan.”
“I’ll have to do a great deal of pla
“My love can wait, Evan.”
I looked at that beaten blond giant and hated myself. By now, I thought, his girl was probably married to some petty commissar and enjoying the good life in revisionist Russia. Or, Lett that she was, she might still be torching for Karlis as he torched for her, consumed by this grand passion, with no hope of ever seeing him again.
I would stall him. What else could I do? I would stall him, and maybe someday he would forget about it. Or else, with time to let his hopes down slowly, he would simply realize that one could put little faith in the boasts and promises of a drunken Evan Ta
I went back to New York hating myself, and the hangover was only partially to blame.
Chapter 4
Back in New York, with my dark green Latvian uniform returned to storage for another year, and with the academic problems of a mixed bag of unscholarly scholars to occupy my time, Karlis and his love life assumed a bit less importance to me. I lived in a four-and-a-half-room apartment on the fifth floor of an elevatorless old building on 107th Street a few doors west of Broadway. The four rooms are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (the half room is a kitchenette, and there’s barely room to boil an egg in it), and the bookshelves are filled with books and pamphlets and magazines. There is a little-used bed in one room, and a dresser in another, and a desk in yet another, and there are chairs here and there.
I spend most of my time at the desk. My government pension barely covers the dues I pay to various organizations, let alone the cost of my magazine subscriptions, and I make up the difference by writing theses and term papers for graduate and undergraduate students who are (a) too lazy or (b) too stupid or (c) both of the above. I generally have more work available than I care to handle; my rates are reasonable and my work is good, with a B-minus guaranteed. For several years I also took examinations for unprepared students, but I’ve dropped this recently. The challenge it once held has gone out of it, and only the tedium remains. A good doctoral thesis, on the other hand, takes quite a bit of meticulous research, all of which I hugely enjoy.
I had cleaned up a thesis on Lenin’s views of the Paris Commune before heading upstate for the Latvian encampment and I took on two more assignments shortly after my return: a study of English class structure as represented in Jane Austen’s novels and a shorter paper on the causes of the First Balkan War. These were easy topics for me, so much so that almost all of my footnotes were legitimate. I usually invent a large portion of them, but in this case it was hardly necessary. I wrote the papers and took my money.
And, in the course of all of this, I ate my usual five meals a day, sorted and read my mail, went to various meetings and lectures, listened to a set of Siamese language records – a difficult tongue, by the way, and a positively mind-freezing alphabet – and generally went about the business of life. Part of the business of life was the careful task of ignoring Karlis Mielovicius and his true love in Latvia.
This would have been easier if Karlis had not kept reminding me of my promise. He wasn’t an absolute pest. On the contrary, he was so patient and understanding that I was soon consumed with guilt. But he filled my mailbox with little reminders – a picture of the girl, a letter he had received from someone who knew her, a variety of news clippings referring to Latvia, that sort of thing.
I suppose, with all of this gentle prodding, I would eventually have gone to Latvia anyway. It was senseless, certainly, but pure logic and reason make a bad foundation for a human life. One has to do idiot things from time to time, if only to assure oneself that one is a human being and not a robot.
So I probably would have gone anyway. But a couple of months after the encampment the Chief got in touch with me and ordered me to go to Colombia, and the next thing I knew I was on my way to Latvia.
I was heading home from an anarchist forum when the first contact was made. I left the subway at 103rd Street and walked north on Broadway, and at the corner of 106th a clean-cut young fellow tapped me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I think you dropped this.”
He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“I’m sure I saw you drop it,” he said. “It might be important.” And he pressed the piece of paper into my hand. Before I could say anything else he scurried off into the night.
I unfolded the scrap of paper. It was the wrapper from a piece of Juicy Fruit gum. I never chew gum and if I did I don’t think I would chew anything called Juicy Fruit and if I did I’m sure I wouldn’t save the wrappers. I dropped it in a little basket and went home.