"What?"
"Tell me how he seduced you."
"I didn't say that--"
"But he did, Marilena, didn't he? I know he did."
"He put his arm around me and left it there, and during the most emotional scenes, he pulled me close."
"You spent the night, didn't you?"
Astonishing. Sorin had, in fact, sent her home for her things after they had made love.
"Not very chivalrous of him," Viviana said. "No wonder it hasn't lasted."
"It has lasted."
Viviana shook her head with obvious pity. "You coexist," she said. "And you know it. You're more like
9
brother and sister than husband and wife. And you don't sleep together anymore."
"We have only one bed."
"You know what I mean."
"But I never wanted that anyway. Really, I didn't. I was smitten by Sorin's mind. Truthfully, I still am. There is no one I'd rather converse with, argue with, discuss ideas with."
"You never loved him?"
"I never thought about it. His seduction, as you call it, gave me an inside track on what I really wanted: to stay in proximity to that mind. He never loved me either."
"How do you know?"
"He told me by never telling me."
"That he loved you."
Marilena nodded and a foreign emotion rose in her. What was this? Had that been what she wanted? Had she wanted Sorin to love her and to say so? She honestly believed she had never longed for that. "I must have been an awkward lover."
"He lost interest?"
"In that. We still spent hours together talking and reading and studying. We still do."
"But the romance died."
"Within months of his divorce and our marriage two years later," Marilena said. "Except for his occasional necessities. " She emphasized it the way he had. "And who knows where or to whom he goes now when necessary'}"
"You don't care?"
10
"I don't dwell on it. I didn't marry him for that. I am a born student, and I live with a born teacher. I am not a physically passionate person. I have all I need or want."
When they were on the street, Viviana walking Marilena to the bus, the older woman took her arm. "You're lying," she said, and Marilena felt her first rush of guilt since childhood. "We're getting close to your bitterness, aren't we? Your loneliness. Your emptiness. The hole in your soul."
Marilena was glad she had to keep her eyes forward to avoid tripping in the darkness. She could not have faced her new mentor. My soul, she thought. Until a few months before, she had not believed she even had a soul. Souls were for religious people. She was anything but that.
Marilena wished the bus would come and whisk her away. Even facing Sorin's bemusement at her newfound interest in what he--"and any thinking person, including you"--considered anti-intellectualism would be respite from the relentless searchlight of Viviana's prescience.
They sat on the bench at the bus stop, Marilena hoping a stranger would join them, anything to interrupt this. "You have discovered something within yourself beyond what I have been teaching," Viviana said.
It was true. So true.
"You pushed it from your mind the first several times the stirring came over you. You reminded yourself that you and Sorin had discussed this, had dismissed it. He'd already had a family. Besides, the apartment was too small. Your work could not be interrupted. It was out of the question."
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Marilena's jaw tightened, and she would not have been able to object had she chosen to. She pulled herself free of Viviana's arm and pressed her palms to her face. How long had it been since she had wept? This longing, this stirring, as the older woman referred to it, had nagged at her until she forced herself to push it away. Out of the question was an understatement. She did not want Sorin's child, especially one he would not want. And neither did she want to deceive him into producing a child within her. All of a sudden, after years of looking the other way when he took his "necessities" elsewhere, she would--what?--begin to be his lover again until hitting upon perfect timing?
The whine of the bus in the distance was a relief Marilena could barely embrace. She stood and fished in her shoulder bag for her transit card.
Viviana faced her and grabbed both shoulders. "We will talk next week," she said. "But let me tell you this: I have your answer, bitter one. I have your light."
Nine-year-old Ray Steele raced up the soccer field behind Belvidere Elementary, outflanking the defense and anticipating a pass from Bobby Stark. He cut across the field about twenty feet from the goalie box, and though the feed was behind him, he quickly adjusted, spun, and dribbled the ball with his feet. Juking two defenders, he drove toward the goal, the goalie angling out to meet him.
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"Go, Ray, go! Beautiful athlete!"
It was his father. Again. Truth was, Ray wished he would just shut up. It was bad enough his old man really was an old man. His parents were older than anyone else's and looked older than that. Once another father had seen Ray walking to the car with his dad and said, "Hey, isn't it nice your grandpa could be here to watch you play?"
"Grandpa's here?" Ray said before figuring it out. The man and Ray's dad found that hilarious. Ray had just jumped into his parents' beater car and hidden his head.
Even Ray's mistakes worked out. He faked left and went right, but the goalie was on to him. Ray reared back and drilled the ball off the goalie's chest. It came right back to him. With the goalie now out of position and the other defenders sprinting toward him, Ray calmly toed the ball into the left side of the net.
He shook off his teammates as they tried to lift him onto their shoulders. Why did everybody have to act so stupid? It wasn't like this was the championship, and it certainly wasn't a deciding goal. In fact it put Ray's team up 7-1, and the other team hadn't won a game all season. Big deal.
Ray Steele was good at soccer, but he hated it. Too much effort for too little result. He couldn't stand watching it on TV. All that racing up and down the field and the incredible skills of international stars, usually resulting in a scoreless tie that had to be decided by a shootout.
He played only to keep in shape for his favorite sports: football, basketball, and baseball. In reality, however, Ray
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was better than good. He was the best player in the soccer league, the top scorer, and one of the best defenders. Young as he was, the attention of the cheerleaders wasn't lost on him. He wasn't much for talking with girls though. Didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he was going to do less than his best so people would leave him alone. He had to admit, if only to himself, that the attention wasn't all bad. But usually it was just embarrassing.
Ray was taller than the other kids and an anomaly. First, he could outrun anyone his age and even a little older at long distances. When the team took a couple of laps around the field, he sprinted to the front and led the whole way. And when they finished and everyone else was red-faced, bent over, hands on their knees, gasping, he recovered quickly and chatted with his coach. If only the coach hadn't told his father, "That son of yours is a beautiful athlete. Beautiful."
Second, Ray was faster than anyone in short races too. That was unusual for someone his height at his age. Longdistance runners weren't supposed to also be fast in the dashes. What could he say? His dad claimed to have been a great athlete when he was a kid, but how long ago must that have been?
Third, Ray was an anomaly because he knew what anomaly meant. How many other fourth graders had a clue? Being known as the cutest kid in the class made him self-conscious too, but he had to admit he'd rather deal with that than the opposite. He sure didn't envy the fat kid, the ugly girl, or the nerd. He had it all. Smartest, best athlete, fastest, cutest.
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That didn't change the fact that he was ashamed of his parents. And their car. No one kept a car as long as Ray's dad. Oh, the plastic polymer still shone. It was designed that way. Cars sim
ply weren't supposed to look like they aged anymore. But everybody knew, because the auto manufacturers now had only two ways to make cars look new: they changed styles every year, and color schemes changed every three or four years.
When his dad first got the yellow Chevy, it was already used. "Don't knock it," his dad said. "It's got low mileage, and I know cars. It's been taken care of, and it should give us lots of years."
That's what Ray was afraid of. It seemed his friends' families were getting the latest models all the time, and they were forever bragging about all the features. There was the silver and platinum phase when cars were designed to look like classics from the first decade of the new century. Then came the primary colors, which didn't last long--except for that Chevy. According to Ray's dad it was going to last as long as he could make it last.
Ray wished it would get stolen or burn or get smashed. He'd made the mistake of saying so.
"Why, Rayford!" his mother said. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Come on, Ma! Everybody knows that rattletrap is at least six years old."
"In real years, maybe," Mr. Steele said. "But the way it's been maintained and the way I take care of it, it's almost good as new."
"Shakes, rattles, squeaks," Ray mumbled.
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"Important thing is the engine. It's plenty good for the likes of us."
That was one of his dad's favorite phrases, and while Ray knew what it meant, he could have gone the rest of his life without hearing it again. He knew what came next. "We're just plain and simple, hardworking people."
There was certainly nothing wrong with being hardworking. Ray himself worked hard, studied, wanted to get good grades. He wanted to be the first in his family to go to college, and nowadays even scholarship athletes had to have good grades. He was a double threat. One of those major sports he loved so much should get him into some real college, and if he also had a good grade point average and class-leadership resume, he couldn't miss. As much as his parents embarrassed him, he secretly wanted to make them proud.
"We're plain and simple, all right," he had said at the dinner table that evening. He was having more and more trouble keeping his mouth shut. And all that did was cause his parents to jump on him more.
"And what's wrong with plain and simple?" his father thundered.
"Your dad built his tool and die business into something that puts food on this table--"
"--and clothes on my back, yeah, I know."
"And it paid--"
"--for this house too, yeah, I know. I got it, all right?"
"I don't know what's gotten into you, Rayford," his mother said. "All of a sudden we're not good enough for you. Who do you think you are?"
IS
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Ray knew he should apologize. He felt like the brat he was. But what good was being the coolest kid in fourth grade if you lived in the seediest house in the neighborhood? He didn't want to get into that. It would just bring out all the stuff about how at least it was paid for and his dad wasn't in debt, and yeah, we may live paycheck to paycheck, but there are people a lot worse off than we are in this world.
Ray just wished he knew some of them. He was top man on the totem pole in lots of areas, but he had to hang his head when he got in and out of that car, and the last thing he wanted was to invite a friend home. When he visited other kids' houses, he saw the possibilities. Someday. Someday.
"May I be excused?" he said.
His mother looked startled. "Well, to tell you the truth, young man, I was about to send you to your room for sassing your father, but--"
"Don't fight my battles for me," his dad said. "If he crosses the line, I'll--"
"But what, Ma?" Ray said.
"But I made your favorite dessert, and I thought--"
"Lime delight? Yes!"
"He doesn't deserve it," his dad said.
"--and I thought since you had such a great game ..."
"I'll have it later," Ray said, bolting for his room. He kept expecting his dad to make him come back; when he glanced their way from the stairs, his mom and dad were shaking their heads and looking at each other with such despair that he nearly went back on his own.
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Why did he have to be this way? He didn't really feel too good for them. It just hurt to be such a popular kid and not have all the stuff that should go along with it. Well, if it was true that hard work and brains could get you where you wanted to go in this world, he was going places.
Ray's teacher told him not to be self-conscious about towering over his classmates. That was a laugh. He loved being tall. But she said, "It's just a phase, and the rest will catch up. By junior high you won't likely be the tallest. Some of the girls might even catch you."
That was hardly what Ray wanted to hear. He hadn't decided yet which sport would be his ticket to college, but he hoped it might be basketball. He already gave the lie to the adage that white guys can't jump. If he could just keep growing, he'd be well over six feet by high school. He didn't have to be the tallest guy on the team, but being one of the tallest would be great.
Ray rushed into his room and closed the door, as if shutting out the muffled sound of his parents would take them off his mind. Small and nondescript as the house was, he had made something of his room. Extended from nylon fishing lines all over the ceiling were model planes, from ancient props to tiny fighter jets to massive modern supersonic transports.
Whenever he was asked, in person or in writing, what he wanted to be when he grew up, he invariably answered, "Pilot or pro athlete." He despised the condescending smiles of adults, which only made him recommit himself to his goals. Ray had heard enough that a professional
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athletic career--in any of his favorite sports--was as likely as being struck by lightning. And expressing his pilot dream always triggered teachers and counselors to remind him how hard he would have to work in math and science.
He knew. He knew. At least the aviation thing didn't draw benevolent, sympathetic smiles. It was actually an achievable goal. His dad was good with engineering stuff, manufacturing, figuring things out. And while Ray excelled in all subjects, it happened that he liked math and science best.
Ray would do whatever he had to do to realize one of his dreams, because either one of them could bring him what he really wanted. Money. That was the bottom line. That was what set people apart. People with nice cars--the latest models--had more money than his dad. He was convinced of that. His dad claimed that those people were probably in debt, and Ray decided maybe a little debt wouldn't be all bad, if for no other reason than to make it look like you had money.
But he would go one better. If he couldn't be a pro athlete and make tens of millions, he'd be a commercial pilot and make millions. He'd look like he had money because he really had it and wouldn't have to go into debt at all.
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TWO
marilena normally found the bus drafty, but as it slowly pulled away from the curb, she loosened her coat and tugged her collar away from her neck. It was her custom to lose herself in one of several thick paperbacks in her shoulder bag, but she would not be able to concentrate now. Not on the literary novel in French. Not on the history of the Hungarian revolution of the twentieth century. Not on King Lear, which she so enjoyed in its original English.
She sat staring out the window as the shadowy Bucharest cityscape glided past, lit every few feet by amber halogen lamps. Her grandfather used to recall aloud when Communism was an empty promise and how one could walk more than two kilometers in the dark, hoping for one flickering vapor streetlight. "Like the old Soviet Union, we were a paper tiger, no threat to the
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international community. We would not have been able to engage our weapons. We had our finger on a button that did not work."
Democracy and technology may have revolutionized Romania, but Marilena considered herself a throwback. She and Sorin were the only couple she knew who still owned a television receiv
er that did not hang from the wall. That happened to be another subject on which she and her husband agreed. "It's a tool," Sorin said, "not an object of worship. And it is the enemy of scholarship."
Their boxy old set made colleagues chuckle. "You know," Sorin's department vice-chair, Baduna Marius, informed them one night, "the world has come a long way since your flat-screen."
Marilena had settled back to enjoy the spectacle as Sorin warmed to the topic. The vice-chair--a tall, dashing blond--kept insisting he was only joking, but once Sorin sank his teeth into an argument, his passion would not allow him to let it go until he had spent himself. He would gesture, rise, sit, run his hand through his hair. His fair skin would flush, his aging freckles darken. There had been times, Marilena had to admit, when she provoked him just to see him roll into action.
Ah, Sorin. Such a mind. Such enthusiasm for scholarship. Did she love him? In her own way. Certainly not romantically. No, never. And she was persuaded he had never seen her in that light either. How could he? He had taken advantage of her youthful devotion to satisfy his urges, yes, but as she matured perhaps he respected
21
her enough to quit expecting acquiescence. Young and inexperienced, she had to have been clumsy. Surely she had never given him cause to see her as sexually appealing. She didn't feel that way, didn't see him that way, and could not pretend. In the end, she could not blame him for seeking physical--what? not love--satisfaction elsewhere.
They didn't clash over it, didn't argue, didn't blame, didn't seem to worry about it. It was something they never discussed. The quaint idea of the marriage bed simply disappeared from their lives. She didn't miss it. Not really. She still cared for Sorin in a sisterly way. He was a dear friend, an admired mind. She worried after him, took care of him when he fell ill, as he did for her. They were familiar enough with each other, living in such close proximity, that they touched occasionally as friends might. If she amused him, he seemed not averse to briefly embracing her. When her parents died he even cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.