ONE: THE CRIME
At the trial, I learned the exact charge: “rubata aggravata”, or aggravated robbery. Now Google tells me that my received grammar was all wrong, but that’s how I remember it. For a while I saved the tiny piece of paper that testified that “Signore such-and-such was found not guilty of such-and-such charge”, but I had moved too many times since.
This is what happened: like most Russki emigres waiting to be cleared for entry in the US, I found a place to live in Ostia, a seaside village outside Rome. I was to share a two-bedroom apartment with three fellow Russkis whom I had just met on the main piazza. This was where Russians came to mill about at all times and discuss everything, from how much you can get for a Soviet-made FED camera at Rome’s Open Market to what is Cleveland as a destination and whether it is superior to Pittsburgh.
The four of us were sort of a socio-geographical cross-section of emigration: one from Odessa, one from Moscow, one from Minsk, and one I don’t remember. Two had engineering degrees and two were just layabouts – the Odessa guy had vague ideas of “hooking up” with “the guys” and then who knows? I had no plans, period; living was enough for me, and there had to be a female Bobbie McGee around the corner.
The first night was celebration. Much was drunk in the atmosphere of utter euphoria: Fucking Bolsheviks could kiss our Jewish asses. Vienna had been great, Rome was greater, and Brooklyn was to beat them all. I passed out at the table and somehow crawled to the other room. En route I saw the lanky frame of “Odessa” stepping out on the terrace and climbing over the divider onto the terrace next door. It seemed weird, but my eyelids weighed a ton, and getting to bed was far too important.
I didn’t wake up on my own.