“I’m too much in pain to think about sex,” said Ivan.
Misha looked around the room and moved to the window. “I think we may like it here,” he said.
“Misha?”
“I think I shall now be Casmir,” said Misha. “Who would you like to be?”
“Ivan. There are probably thousands of Ivans here. Do you think we will ever get back to Russia?”
“Do you want to go back?” asked Misha, sitting on the second bed.
“I don’t know. I can’t think beyond my pain. Tomorrow I’ll think. Maybe the day after. Maybe the week after. We are rather overtrained to be automobile mechanics.”
“Which means,” said Misha with a grin, “we will be the best automobile mechanics in Winnipeg. Think of it, Ivan. Perhaps in a few years we will have our own garage. Land of opportunity.”
“And no rubles,” said Ivan.
“And no rubles,” Misha agreed. “I’ll go get something for your wounds.”
Misha rose and started for the door.
“Will they come for us, here?” asked Ivan.
“I don’t know.”
“The one bent over like a
Nina searched through the gray-metal toolbox and held up the wrench.
“This one?” she asked.
Rostnikov looked down from the faucet on which he was working. Bending down to the toolbox was more than difficult, though he could have done it had it been necessary. The child, however, made the maneuver unnecessary. Nina handed the tool to Rostnikov, who smiled and looked at it as if she had handed him a wonderful treasure.
She was eight years old, a pleasant-looking child though no beauty. Yet her face, like that of her older sister, showed an intelligence and curiosity that made Rostnikov think they were capable of great things. No, neither he nor Sarah wanted Galina Panishkoya and her granddaughters to move to their own apartment. Sarah had suggested that with his recent promotion, somewhat higher salary, and his connections, they might all move to an apartment with two bedrooms.
Porfiry Petrovich had been giving this idea serious thought. At the moment, however, he was trying to ignore the irritating minor pain in his leg at the very point where it was inserted neatly into the prosthesis with which he had been trying to form a friendship.
They were in the apartment two floors down from that of the Rostnikovs. The apartment was being rented by an American journalist who was writing about Russia for several magazines. The journalist had been in the apartment for six months. He planned to remain for a year.
The journalist, whose name was Schwartz, had been pleased to find a neighbor who could both speak English and fix his badly leaking sink. Schwartz had heard of Porfiry Petrovich from another neighbor, a Rumanian, who lived next door, and it was the Rumanian who had come to see Rostnikov about the American’s problem.
This was the first time Rostnikov had been in the American’s apartment. He had taken it all in without letting his curiosity show, and now, as he worked on the sink, the American sat at his desk in the other room, working at his computer.
“Why do you fix toilets and sinks and drains?” Nina asked.
Rostnikov inserted the wrench in the pitted seat of the faucet. He had already used his seat cutter on the problem and now began working with the wrench.
“Because,” he told the eight year old, “plumbing presents a problem that always has a solution. During the day I must deal with people, and problems that almost never have a clear solution. Plumbing, on the other hand, can always, with the right tools, be taken care of. There is a satisfaction to this. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Nina, who was now seated on the closed toilet next to the sink. “Yes, I think so. Laura and I like to watch you fix plumbing and lift weights.”
“Ah, the lifting is another story,” Rostnikov said, removing the wrench and looking down at his work. “Lifting is a meditation. Plumbing presents problems. The weights are a friendly challenge. When I lift the weights I am absorbed by the challenge, and the world disappears so that there is only the action and the music. Do you understand?”
“No, but I am young. I will understand when I am older, older than Laura. Now, I just like watching.”
“Good,” he said, reaching over to touch the girl’s cheek.
He left a smudge of grease. He unrolled some toilet paper, moistened it with the water from the faucet on which he was not working, and removed the smudge from the little girl’s face. She giggled. When the girl and her sister had come to the Rostnikovs, their grandmother was in jail, their mother had left them, and they did not smile or talk. That had changed; gradually, that had changed.
Rostnikov had now repacked the faucet and replaced the washer. He put the handle back in place, tightened the screw, and tapped in the escutcheon.
“Finished,” he said, turning the handle.
Water rushed into the sink. The faucet was fixed.
The child helped Rostnikov put the tools back and clean the sink.
On the way out, Rostnikov would ask the American writer if he knew Ed McBain or had read his books. Perhaps he would ask the American if he played chess. He was an American. He probably played badly, which was what Rostnikov needed. Porfiry Petrovich was not a great player of chess, but he liked to play.
He picked up the closed toolbox as the girl stood up.
“Enough,” he said. “We have done enough this day.”
