The 14th Day Read Free Page B

no better or worse than any other place,” Jory says and continues walking. Once again Vaniok is at a loss for something to talk about. They’ve now come to a neighborhood of old houses where students live. Vaniok, who prefers more modern accommodations, feels a heaviness setting in though he isn’t sure it’s caused by the surroundings as much as it is by Jory’s lack of communication. “Did you ever visit the Deep Lakes?” he asks at last. Only after he’s said it does he realize he’s doing the one thing he was determined not to do: talking about the other place.
    â€œYes,” Jory says. “I have some very pleasant memories of that region.” He mentions the names of several towns, places Vaniok knows well, names that sound strange on this quiet street in another country. He thinks of screened porches, rowboats bumping against the pilings of a dock, mayflies gathered thickly around streetlamps, the fishy smell of the air in the evening. He has only himself to blame for the pang he feels.
    For some time neither of them says anything and Vaniok looks intently at the street, the houses around them, trying to re-establish the authority of this place. An old brown station wagon goes by slowly, a nearby tree rustles in the breeze, a sweet smell rises from the hedges: they’re not in the Deep Lakes. All at once Jory declares, “The situation in the homeland won’t go on forever, you know. We’ll all be back some day soon.” Vaniok nods noncommittally and they walk on. At last Jory stops. “Here we are,” he says.
    It’s a big dark house no different from a dozen others in the neighborhood and when Jory points it out, they stop for a moment and look at it. Vaniok is glad he doesn’t live here. He hopes the other man’s rooms aren’t on the top floor, where the window set into the angle of the roof looks like a peephole. They cross the weedy sidewalk and climb to the porch. “Please,” Jory holds open the door and Vaniok enters, then follows Jory up a flight of stairs. The air inside is stale and musty; it’s even more so on the second floor. Vaniok is relieved when he sees they’re not going all the way to the top. Nevertheless, the apartment into which Jory leads him is dim and cramped. Vaniok wishes he were back in his own place with its large windows. He could be drinking a cold beer by himself, watching TV without paying attention—the fantasy sharpens his sense of discomfort. There’s something oppressive about this place, it makes him uneasy: he’s on his guard, he feels the need for vigilance, as if he’s in the presence of danger. The room smells dry, there’s a hint of something herbal. His nostrils twitch with recognition and he realizes that if he closed his eyes he could convince himself he was a boy again, in his grandmother’s house.
    When Jory leads him further into the apartment that’s filled with dark wood and heavy furniture, Vaniok can make out pictures of notable people from the old country, a map with the nation’s territory colored purple. On a desk against the wall he can pick out magazines and books that even from this distance he recognizes to be written in the language he learned as a child.
    â€œThis is my little corner of our country,” Jory laughs softly. “Wherever I travel, I take it with me.” Vaniok’s heart is suddenly beating faster, his breath comes quickly; the sense of danger he felt earlier has accelerated. He feels like a criminal who’s been brought back to the scene of the crime. But I’m not guilty of anything, he protests. Trying to recover his composure, he coughs loudly into his hand, then clears his throat. “There’s something in the air,” he says. “I may have caught a cold.”
    Jory smiles. “It looks like you need that drink.” He goes into the small kitchen and Vaniok hears the sound of