It was like being anesthetized. Suddenly there were no words.
It was as if language didn’t exist anymore.
He smiled and caressed my hair.
“If I were you,” he said seriously, “I would consider very carefully what I was actually doing, what I wanted out of life.”
I stared into those pale-blue eyes. A bell started to chime.
I wondered what he had actually said to me . . . if he’d said anything at all. Suddenly I was having trouble keeping track of everything.
“Honey trap,” I mumbled. “Honey trap.”
And before he could react, I raised my face a tiny bit farther and kissed him. His mouth was supple and tasted sweet.
I sucked on his lips. Sucked in all that sweetness, clarity, warmth.
Long enough that it was hard to separate again.
But in the end he took hold of both my arms and pushed me away.
“That,” he said, “wasn’t OK.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But you—”
A new bell started chiming for me right then, and Pretty Putin pulled me back down the hallway and into the auditorium, where Prince Igor was preparing to take back what was his.
29
It was not entirely clear to me whether it was due to the fever, the cough syrup, or my lack of familiarity with the culture, but the plot of the opera seemed completely incomprehensible. Thanks to the subtitles rolling across the screen at the bottom of the stage, I was able to tell that vodka played a big part as well as defiling women, and when it came to Prince Igor himself, I got that hubris was a major issue with him.
Because, like so many tragic heroes before him, Igor was totally out of step with his surroundings. Even though a solar eclipse took place right as he declared war against the Cumans, and even though the sobbing princess, Yaroslavna, pleaded with him to reconsider his plans and stay home, he pushed right on through with his plan. Naturally this resulted in his being taken captive immediately, which in turn led to famine and hardship throughout all of Russia.
That pretty much seemed to be the gist of it, but there were quite a few minor characters that I didn’t get the point of, not to mention that they all had names that made them sound like bad guys, like Ovlur, Skula, and Yeroshka. I felt dizzy and weird, and at one point I might have fallen asleep with my head on Pretty Putin’s shoulder.
During the intermission the others went to buy more wine, but I couldn’t face getting up. I was certain I had a fever. It was eating its way through my body, and the tickle in my throat kept compelling me to cough. I took another swig from the brown bottle and observed that no one had asked how I was doing or if I wanted to take a cab back to the hotel.
It was like that summer when I had pneumonia.
The nights were so long.
I lay there as quietly as I could, waiting for the rest of the family to wake up.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Seven thirty.
I could hear them moving around—the click of the coffee machine, the radio turning on, buttering their toast, reading the paper, mumbling to each other.
I wanted to call out to them. Yell that I missed them. That I didn’t have the strength to lie there all by myself. That I was scared. But it hurt to breathe. Talking was out of the question.
My memories of those weeks involved my mother poking her head in the bedroom doorway when they were ready to go.
“We’re leaving now,” she reported.
Thumbs-up.
“Hope you feel better soon.”
Nod.
When they came home, it was the same procedure. They set things on the kitchen counter, turned on the radio, got out pots and pans, set the table.
I couldn’t understand it.
Why didn’t they come check on me, say hello?
I recovered after a week, but the loneliness wouldn’t release its hold on me.
It had never released its hold.
The pneumonia didn’t cause it. It just put words to it.
I was alone.
“I have to go back to the hotel,” I said when Pretty Putin sat back down next to me.
“You have to see the last act,” he said firmly. “There’s only an hour and a half left.”
I moaned and tried to find a comfortable position, but all the stuff going on onstage kept bothering me. The last act was really a hot mess. The only unifying motif seemed to be an overfondness for bird metaphors. As far as I could tell, Khan Knichak was like a raven, who swooped down and brought the Russians grief. Igor for his part was more like a falcon. These allusions bordered on being understandable. No one likes ravens. They’re unreliable troublemakers devoid of self-discipline and integrity. Can’t do anything on their own, just scrounge off others.
Not like a falcon. A falcon is a leader.
You can’t capture a falcon.
I could picture it as I sat there. So high up that it couldn’t even hear the falconer.
The widening gyre turning.
Things falling apart. The center that cannot hold.
And mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
The bells rang.
The Cumans were approaching Putyvl.
But Igor came running on the stage and flung himself into the battle against the Cuman hordes with his sword in hand while Yaroslavna clutched at her heart.
After that I don’t remember anything.
I tried to find the hotel, but when I knocked on the doors at each building, a dog opened and explained that no one was home. And the landscape was so odd, so unrecognizable. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t find my way.
30
There was no way to know what time it was, but outside the window it appeared to be night, because the streets and the canal were shrouded in darkness. A lady in a babushka slowly made her way down the street before disappearing around a corner.
And then there was no one.
My head throbbed dully, and the veins in my temples were swelling. My sinuses ached.