Vladimir(11)

“Please get off my desk,” I told him, and he backed away, straightened up and addressed me as though I had been the unprofessional one.

“Did you see Florence’s email about the language of the department goals?”

“No,” I said.

“Did you see Tamilla’s response?”

“No,” I said.

“Did you see Andre’s response?”

“No,” I said.

“Have you checked your email today?”

“No,” I said. “I was prepping, and then I was teaching, and then I was researching.” He and I had long arguments about how available academics should be. He loved to answer all inquiries immediately, I couldn’t stand it.

“Well can you straighten it out? They need some diplomacy.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Unless you want to come to the gym with me?” He dangled his gym bag in front of me.

In years past, we had gone to the campus gym together from one to two thirty most lunchtimes—cardio on the elliptical, then a weight program given to us by a physical trainer we went to for a few sessions because we had won them in an auction. In Japan, there is the word nakama, which is most often translated as “friend” but, as a Japanese colleague once explained to me, is more accurately defined as “close people who do things together.” We used to value that idea and talk about it—companionship in marriage: doing things together—not necessarily having to connect, but giving our company. Our regular stints at the campus gym were that, as were our disciplined traveling and our attempts at cultural responsibility.

“No thank you,” I said. I now belonged to the YMCA in town. John knew I no longer felt comfortable parading in front of my students in stretch pants, hefting and sweating and bending in full view of their appraising eyes.

He nodded, determined to be amused by my firmness. Just before leaving he paused at the door.

“Listen, I know we aren’t really doing the entertaining thing these days.”

“We’re not, no.”

“Right, but I wanted to ask Vladimir and his wife and their daughter over to swim in the pool before the weather gets too cold. They don’t know anybody—they’re living over on Route 29 in some shitty condo, and I was curious if you wanted to be a part of it, or if I should ask them when you’re planning on being out of the house.”

I couldn’t tell what game he was playing at, if he was playing at a game. I had mentioned that Vladimir had come by in passing because of the book, but I didn’t know if John perceived the jolt that he had given me those nights before. Still, imagining the afternoon filled me with elation. The thought of seeing Vladimir Vladinski in my backyard, even with his wife and daughter, of seeing him shy and embarrassed taking his shirt off to reveal his slightly flabby stomach, to see him clad in some hastily bought swim trunks, to pass him a sweating beer or, even better, to serve him a beer as he lay in a cabana chair, to see him bouncing on the diving board, not yet ready to jump in the pool, to see him lifting his daughter into the sky, to observe him in moments of banality—rubbing zinc sunscreen in on his face or hesitating at the door because of wet feet—filled me with yearning. A succession of images, each more tender and intimate, flashed through my mind.

“It would be nice of us to entertain them,” I said, hoping that John wouldn’t notice anything off about the way I spoke. “Better do it soon though. This weekend, or else it will be too cold. Saturday is supposed to be warm.”

“Fine with me,” he said, maybe with suspicion, or maybe simply pleased that I had given in so easily.

“There are a few things I’d want you to do in the yard first,” I said.

“Jesus,” he said. “Fine. Make a list.”

“That compost bin has got to go.”

“Make a list,” he repeated. “I’ll do them if I can—”

“Then I’ll just hire someone to do them.”

“I’ll do them. I should have known this would result in my doing labor for you.” But he was pleased with me, I could tell.

“When you ask them, give Cynthia my number and we’ll coordinate on food.”

He nodded. He said my name and I looked up at him. “I miss you,” he said, and then turned to leave.

In the doorway he passed Aaron—our lanky, earnest, English Department assistant—bringing me some copies I had requested. At the sight of my husband, Aaron bowed his head and placed the stack of manuscripts on my desk with an unintelligible murmur. I thanked him and asked him how he was. I liked Aaron, he was a sweet senior boy who wrote lengthy, baroque poems about the cosmologies of invented fantasy realms. He didn’t answer, and exited wordlessly, his chin pressed to his chest, breathing heavily through his nose, as though he had caught John and me half-dressed, amid some illicit act of concupiscent commingling.





III.


Vladimir agreed that they would come on Saturday and then texted to ask me what they could bring. I felt ashamed. Clearly John had mentioned for Cynthia to text me about food, and Vladimir had responded because he and his wife didn’t occupy the same outdated gender roles that John and I did. I asked if they had dietary restrictions. He said none, which was a relief, I had gone through a nervous set of hours when I wondered if he would say something like vegetarian, and I would have to find the time to test out recipes. I told him they could bring something sweet if they liked—that we would have everything else—that we would grill if that was all right with him, and would it be okay if we had lemonade on hand for his daughter, and did she need floaties, we could borrow them, and what did Cynthia like to drink? He said yes to the lemonade, no to the floaties, and said that Cynthia didn’t drink but didn’t mind everyone else drinking. Then he sent a follow-up text: