Chapter 4.

Andre woke up to the sound of people speaking Russian. At first he was so disoriented that the words just hung in the air around him, the Cyrillic letters dancing in chains around his head. He had no idea what they meant. Slowly, slowly Andre unfurled his body from its seated sleeping position, stretching his numb legs out in front of him, his arms above his head. His mouth was dry and tasted slightly of onions. Something cracked – his neck? His back? And then he opened his eyes, rubbed them with his fists and turned to see who was speaking in the language of his childhood.

The Russian speakers were a pair of sunburned tourists sitting across the aisle from him, their vaguely military-looking strappy backpacks open on the floor at their feet. The man sitting closer to Andre was elbow deep in his pack, shaking his head at his friend’s words.

Their words began to unscramble in his head. The bigger Russian, a man with slightly shaggy hair, accused his friend of eating the last of the empanadas they’d bought at the train station. Why did he have to speak so loudly? There weren’t many other people in the train car but the few passengers scattered about were slumped in their seats, deep in sleep.

Most of the passengers Andre had boarded the train with in Santiago were gone. Andre and some of the others had changed trains early in the morning in Mendoza, Argentina and switched to the Buenos Aires-bound train.

In the Mendoza station, the passengers had to go through customs before they could transfer to their connecting trains. He’d been almost sleepwalking behind the other commuters, hadn’t realized what was going on until he was standing in front of the inspection desk, facing the acne-scarred, young custom’s agent. The boy looked even younger than his real age in an ill-fitting, too-loose olive green suit with red piping along the collar and cuffs of his jacket. The man spoke Spanish with an Italianate lilt. “Papers, please, sir.”

Andre momentarily forgot where he’d stashed his new passport. As he patted his pockets and finally dipped his hand into the interior pocket of his coat, the agent regarded him with suspicion. He handed the man his passport, hoping the agent didn’t notice the sweat Andre felt beginning to gather at his temples. Andre’s mouth felt dry and he wanted a glass of water. Badly. The agent thumbed through the passport.

“Is this your first trip out of Chile?” the agent asked.

Andre was about to say no – he’d traveled so many places, had the colorful stamps to prove it – but then he remembered that Abe Lewin’s passport was pristine. He had never traveled anywhere.

He cleared his throat, said, “Yes, my life hasn’t afforded me any international travel opportunities before.”

The agent nodded. “Very good, sir,” he said. He stamped the passport on the first page and handed it back to Andre with a polite, “Gracias, Señor Lewin.”

Andre didn’t reply. He walked quickly across the station and ran to catch the next train. He found himself sitting in a train car almost identical to the one he had just left, except that this train looked newer, with brighter paint and cushions that were not yet threadbare. He stowed his luggage and claimed a window seat by draping his coat across it. In the restroom at the end of the car Andre gulped handfuls of water from the tap. He was still bent over the sink when someone knocked on the door a few minutes later. “One minute,” he said. He drank a few more mouthfuls of water and then returned to his seat.

His encounter with the customs agent had unnerved him, though he didn’t know why. The passport looked good and if he hadn’t been able to find it he was confident he could have presented his new driver’s license instead. As long as the photo matched, why would anyone bother to question him? He wasn’t trying to impersonate the president or anyone else famous. If anything, it was the opposite.

Now, hours later, Andre blinked, looked around the dimly lit train. The mother and daughter must have disembarked at one of the sleepy mountain stations while Andre had been floating in and out of sleep.

The Russians were still barking and grumbling at each other. Even though they weren’t talking about anything of import, Andre still viewed them with a shred of suspicion. Since everything that had happened with his cousin Nicolai, Andre had kept his distance from anyone who reminded him of the man.

Andre had thought it nice when he learned that his cousin from Belarus had finally made it to the west. They’d never met but what the hell, family was family, right? He’d invited Nicolai to stay with him and Elsa and the kids. Busy with the final edits of Andre Levinsky esta perdido, Andre had neglected to tell Elsa about it. From then on, the whole Nicolai saga read like a bad novel.

Andre got the dates mixed up so that Nicolai had shown up at the door, expecting to see Andre and instead was greeted by Elsa and the kids, none of whom spoke a word of Russian. After a panicked phone call to Andre’s office at the University, Elsa finally let Nicolai, who had been sitting on the front stoop for the better part of an hour, into the apartment.

It fell to Elsa to do all of the things Andre had promised he’d help Nicolai with: she helped him look for a job in the classifieds, started to teach him some Spanish, had given him maps of the city and a tour so that he could begin to find his way around.

Andre and Nicolai spent late nights talking about relatives neither of them knew well, drinking pisco or sometimes vodka when Nicolai scraped up enough pesos to buy his preferred brand. Andre enjoyed his company. Maybe there was a book in there somewhere, some sort of modern-day collection of Chekhovian short stories, or a meditation on what it meant to be an exile. Hell if he knew.

The apartment was cramped with Nicolai there. He slept on the sofa and while he didn’t have more than a suitcase worth of belongings evidence of his tenancy was everywhere. He shopped at the Jewish market and came home with all sorts of vinegary, pickled things to eat that Andre hadn’t thought about since his childhood. The earthy smell of borsht, the overwhelming, offensive stink of tinned herring. He’s our guest, Elsa would remind Andre. He’s your cousin. She’d accepted Nicolai into their family so easily and for that, Andre was grateful.

Nicolai moved to the YMCA after six months but he still came over every now and then for supper or to watch TV. Life went back to normal then. At least for a while.

Andre stood up and walked past the Russians without acknowledging them. He made his way through two train cars, steadying himself by running his hands along the wooden grab bars attached to the underside of the luggage compartments, until he found the canteen.

Bleary-eyed passengers sat at the few tables lining the sides of the canteen car. Some were sipping coffee. Others sucked yerba mate infusions out of tarnished silver gourds. They picked at paper-wrapped canteen purchases or at tasty homemade offerings they’d packed for the journey.

A woman who looked to be about Elsa’s age sat alone, looking out the window and smoking a cigarette. Her hair was flat, as though she’d slept on it and hadn’t had time or the inclination to fix it. Elsa would always make time to fix her hair. She wouldn’t be caught out in public looking less than her best. Andre pictured Elsa pinning her hair up with her favorite tortoiseshell comb. She’d had the comb since before they first met. He had never divined how exactly the small, delicate object managed to hold up Elsa’s thick curly mane. Now he never would.

The woman sipped black tea from a ceramic mug. There was a smudge of plum-colored lipstick on the edge of the cup. On the table in front of her was a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle. A metal tin held a couple of lumpy homemade butter cookies and a scattering of crumbs. Her thin, delicate wrists were pale where they poked out from under her pushed-up sweater sleeves. For a moment Andre longed to join her. He’d mooch a cigarette, say something charming and make her laugh. She’d say, Andre Levinsky, where have I heard that name before? and he would do his best to play humble, shrug off any compliments she sent his way. Oh, that’s too kind. You’re sweet to say so. Maybe she’d ask if he was working on his next book. He’d shake his head slowly, say something self-deprecating, plead writer’s block. I’m looking for inspiration, maybe I’ve found it. Why not? It had worked before.

You’re not Andre Levinsky anymore, he remembered. You’re Abe Lewin. But who exactly was Abe Lewin? So far, Abe Lewin was a quiet man, a man of inaction.

Andre joined the queue in front of the canteen. Looking at the items on display he saw that they sold cold empanadas de pino, soft drinks, tea and coffee alongside chocolate bars and foil-wrapped sandwiches. Andre didn’t think he could stomach the mystery meat inside the empanadas. He returned to his seat with an armful of snacks and a steaming cup of coffee that had already sloshed over the rim several times in transit, staining the cuffs of his shirt and making his hand burn. The coffee did little to quench his thirst.

The Russians had stopped arguing and were now poring over a thick guidebook. Andre wondered what kind of Russians could afford to go on holiday in South America. Then again, perhaps they were what he had been thirty years ago, what Nicolai had been two years earlier; exiles.

Andre came home from work early one afternoon, the faculty meeting he’d been planning to attend rescheduled for later in the week. The kids were still at school and he expected to find Elsa out as well, doing whatever she did during the day, but her shoes were on the mat beside the door. There was another pair of shoes there, too, battered men’s boots with the laces frayed and broken.

It only took seconds for Andre to yank open the unlocked bedroom door, to find his cousin in his bed with his wife. Andre flew at them, hauling a blue-pale, naked Nicolai from the bed. Before Nicolai could grab his clothes from the bedside chair, Andre kneed him in the groin, hard, leaving Nicolai whimpering and writhing on the floor.

“Get dressed,” Andre hissed at Elsa. He snatched her discarded dress from the bedroom floor and flung it at her. He expected her to say something inane – you weren’t supposed to be here, stop it you’ll hurt him, but instead she just stared at Andre and tried to button on her dress while her hands shook.

He’d never felt this kind of all-consuming rage before. After welcoming Nicolai to Chile, inviting him into his home, this was how Nicolai repaid him? He was disgusting Russian peasant trash, how in hell had he managed to seduce Elsa? He watched Nicolai scrabble around on the floor, trying to get up. Andre thought he looked like a crab. He bent down and hoisted Nicolai up under his armpits. He dragged him out the front door to the landing. Elsa ran after them. She grabbed the telephone handset and shook it. She yelled, “I’m calling the police!”

“Do it,” Andre said. His voice sounded almost affectless to him, strange considering he was boiling inside. He adjusted his grip on Nicolai and moved closer to the top of the stairs. “You come back and I’ll report you for not having papers,” he said. Nicolai didn’t say a word. Why wasn’t he trying to defend himself? It wouldn’t do any good, but Andre expected more from the man.

Andre pushed him with all of his strength and Nicolai tumbled down the stairs, one steep flight, to the lobby.

Andre went back inside the apartment and took the phone from Elsa’s hand. “He’s here illegally so go ahead and phone them,” he said.

Elsa shook her head and stared at him. He waited for her to say something, to hit him even, but she didn’t. Instead she slipped on her shoes and slammed her way out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Andre didn’t think he’d ever see Nicolai again after that. He wasn’t dead, Elsa informed him when she came home two days later, but he had been seriously injured.

“We’re not talking about him in this house again,” Andre told her.

He watched Elsa closely from then on, wondered what about her, what about him, had driven her into Nicolai’s arms. She never spoke about it, not even the handful of times Andre had tried to ask her. It was her way of punishing him – her first attempt. The ultimate punishment, her asking for a divorce and taking the kids away, happened soon thereafter.

The next time Andre saw Nicolai was months later, after Elsa and the kids were gone. Nicolai limped past him while Andre was browsing a bookstall near Plaza de Armas. Nicolai walked with an odd limp, his gait crooked as though his legs were different lengths. Andre ducked behind the bookstall and watched Nicolai’s progress as he lurched down the sidewalk.

Andre felt a knot in the center of his stomach. Jesus. Had he done that to Nicolai? He didn’t think a fall down a flight of stairs would do so much damage. Maybe Nicolai had gotten into fights or other trouble in the intervening months.

Andre followed him – he needed to see if Nicolai was staying with Elsa and the children. Even though her letter said she’d taken the kids back to Fortunato, Andre felt a twinge of doubt that it was true. He stayed a half block behind Nicolai for the duration of Nicolai’s slow, hobbled trek. The bustle of Plaza de Armas gave way to the stench of the trash-strewn Mapocho river and the shady marketplace on the other side of the bridge. Andre bowed his head and tried to make himself invisible to the down-and-out men gathered around a trash can fire on the bank of the river. Andre scurried after Nicolai, who had quickened his awkward pace. Nicolai skirted the edge of the marketplace and soon walked up the front steps of the Unión de Inmigrantes Judíos, the Jewish Immigrant’s Union Shelter. He knocked on the front door and a moment later disappeared inside.

Andre waited for a few minutes to see if Nicolai emerged, but when he didn’t Andre felt satisfied that this was Nicolai’s home. Andre hurried away from the shelter and headed home to his solitary room in the Barrio Peruano.

The train whistled, announcing its arrival at another mountainous station. They were high up in the Andes now, the clouds hovering just a few feet above the train. Andre opened the window and took a deep breath of crisp frosty air. The cold felt good after so many hours cooped up in the train.

Some time tonight they would arrive in Buenos Aires. Andre had only a vague idea of what he would do when he got there. A room in a hotel, a hot bath, that was as much as he had planned so far. He patted his breast pocket to make sure his passport and ticket were still there. Outside, a troupe of grey-suited porters carried luggage from the train. A tall, regal-looking woman in a fur coat stopped one of the porters and they had a quick conversation. She towered over the man. Andre thought the woman looked too blonde, too sophisticated to be at this backcountry station. She tipped the porter and swanned off out of view. Andre wondered what her story was.

Shouting interrupted the train car’s early morning stillness. Across the aisle the Russians were arguing again. The bigger man was certain they had arrived in Los Andes already. Andre fought off the urge to break in to their conversation and tell him that no, they had a ways to go yet, that maybe he should look at the map on the wall by the lavatory. Andre Levinsky would do it. But Abe Lewin wouldn’t. Abe, Andre thought, was a watcher, someone always on the periphery, a master of holding his tongue. Abe would have known his wife was cheating on him. He would have noticed the signs, would have seen the looks between Elsa and Nicolai.

Andre spent the rest of the journey reading a pocket size edition of a collection of Salinger stories. He’d picked up a stack of English books the last time he’d been in the States but he hadn’t gotten around to reading most of them yet. It always took him twice as long to read in English than it did to read in Spanish. He had just finished the last story when Buenos Aires came in to view. They passed neighborhoods of tin shacks that gave way to more modern apartment complexes, and then there was the sky-high obelisk in the center of the Plaza de la República, visible from almost anywhere across the city.

Buenos Aires. Andre had been here a half-dozen times before but never for more than a few days of conferences at the University or lectures at the Feria de libros. Now this was a real city. He loved the wide boulevards and the café culture, the glitzy theaters and dozens of bookstalls on Corrientes. The silence of the Recoleta cemetery, feral cats winding their way between the crypts. The tango. The tangueros themselves, from the sharpest dressed to the shiny-suited. The milongas, the mournful accordion music that seemed to worm its way into the pit of one’s soul. Buenos Aires was Europe without the baggage. And so much bigger than Santiago, pulsing with life, a place where Andre Levinsky could disappear. The kind of place where Abe Lewin could build a new life.