Exiles in America(5)

up with his faults as a husband because I love him so much as an artist.”

Abbas glanced sideways at his wife. “You must forgive our way of speak-

ing,” he said. “English is not our first or even our second language. So we say

things more bluntly than is proper. And not always accurate.”

“Nonsense!” said Elena. “I am as blunt in Russian or French as in En-

glish.” And she laughed, tossing an imaginary handful of bluntness over her

shoulder. She pointed down at her food. “Your grilled squashes are deli-

cious.”

All was not right in this household. It was confusing to stumble so soon

into another couple’s private trouble. Nevertheless, Daniel couldn’t help

thinking: Zack never praised my work like that.

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

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Zack was watching Elena. “Are you an artist yourself?” He often picked

up on such things more quickly than Daniel.

“No, I am not a painter. But I am a poet.”

“A wonderful poet,” said Abbas.

“But you don’t know,” she told him. “I am wonderful only in Russian and

you do not know Russian.”

He took a deep breath, then shrugged. “No,” he admitted.

“But I am a good translator,” she told the others. “From other languages

into Russian. I comprehend English better than I speak it. There you must

trust me. I am a wild speaker, I know.”

“You’ll teach classes while you’re here?” asked Ross.

“It is not necessary. Our house is paid for. We do not need the money. So

I can take care of the children. Work on my English. And do all I can for my

artist. Because he is my true job. I write to the dealers and send out the slides

and inspect the contracts and prepare the press statements. He gives my life

purpose.”

Her English was too shaky for Daniel to tell if this last statement was sar-

castic or not. It sounded sincere.

Abbas turned to Daniel. “You paint, yes?”

Perhaps he only wanted to change the subject, but his attention pleased

Daniel. His squinty black glasses might look mean, but his eyes seemed

friendly enough.

“When I have time for it. I’m more teacher than painter now.”

“He’s a terrific painter,” said Ross. “And a great cartoonist. He’s done

some clever things for the ads and posters for my theater.”

Zack nodded in agreement but said nothing. He watched Daniel, as if

waiting for permission to praise him. Because praise, in fact, often annoyed

Daniel. He feared he didn’t deserve it. But tonight he wanted Abbas Rohani

to hear other people celebrate his work.

“These are not your things on the wall?” said Abbas, pointing into the liv-

ing room.

“Oh no, they’re all by friends. I keep my stuff downstairs. I have a studio

in the basement.”

“Oh?” said Abbas. “When we finish dinner, can I see?”

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

“Uh, if you like.” Daniel was suddenly very nervous, very excited. Which

was stupid. Why should he care what this Euro-trash Muslim thought of his

work?

“And you are a shrink?” Elena asked Zack. If Abbas got Daniel, she got

Zack—or so it seemed. “We can say shrink? Or is it an insult?”

“Oh no. Shrink is perfectly acceptable,” said Zack.

“Are you the kind who gives drugs or do you only talk?”

“I do both. But I prefer talk to medication. Which I couldn’t always do in

New York. My caseload was too heavy. But here I see fewer patients and I can

talk more.”

“There are fewer crazy people here?” she asked.

Zack smiled. “No. Just fewer who know that they’re crazy.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” interrupted Abbas, “but this is an American

thing, yes? In other countries we are happy when we are happy, and sad when

we are sad, and there is nothing more to say. But in America people want to

be happy all the time. And so they go to psychiatrists.”

Zack did not take offense—Daniel knew he got this kind of criticism all the

time. “But it’s only human to want to be happy,” he said gently. “There’s noth-

ing frivolous about it. Although many of the people I see are too wounded or

paralyzed by other issues to even begin to think about happiness.”

Elena abruptly turned to Ross—it was as if Abbas had spoiled Zack for her

just by talking to him. “How is it for the homosexuals here? Are you perse-

cuted or do they leave you alone?”

Ross let out a friendly laugh. “You’ll have to ask them, not me. I’m

straight, sorry to say.”