The Free World by David Bezmozgis

ancestral homeland. When Rosa uttered the words “ancestral homeland” she managed, pointedly, to avert her face completely from Polina.
    —The ancestral homeland will always be there, Karl said.
    —I wouldn’t be so sure, Rosa said.
    —Well, it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
    —No thanks to the likes of you or your brother, Rosa said.
    —Why bring me into this? Alec said. I said before that Polina and I were willing to go to Israel. Or at the very least Egypt. I hear good things about Cairo. Especially now that there will be friendship among nations.
    —Everything is a joke to you, Rosa said.
    —Who’s joking? I expect Sadat and Begin, arm in arm, to personally greet us at the airport, Alec said.
    Throughout the discussion—
Zionists!
—Samuil’s unspoken epithet swelled above them like dark wrath.
    —What do you think, Polina? Rosa asked. Alec does all the talking. We never hear from you.
    —I don’t know enough to feel strongly one way or another, Polina said.
    —You understand that you’re talking about your own life, your own future, Rosa persisted.
    —Thank you, I understand that, Polina said.
    Nothing was resolved. The word “Queens” was uttered and New Jersey was referred to several times. A fledgling community of acquaintances from Riga had settled in a town called
Fehr-lon.
If all else failed, they could say “Fehr-lon” and be no worse off than anyoneelse. Nobody expected an answer today, tomorrow, or the next day. More pressing was getting out of the pensione and finding an apartment, Karl said. Or two apartments, Alec offered, and received no argument.
    There had been signs up at the pensione, and, evading the Krasnansky surveillance ring, Alec had also taken down the phone number of the listing at the Joint offices. Before the family conclave he had descended to the lobby and called the number. Another refugee had been in the phone booth ahead of him and, out of the goodness of his heart, he had shared with Alec his
gettone.
The man had drilled a tiny hole at the top of the
gettone
and tied it to a length of black thread. To make a phone call, he dropped the coin into the slot, listened for the click, and then—like toying with a cat—yanked it free of its grasp. He had performed the same operation on another coin, he explained, which he used in elevators.
    The phone moaned twice before a man said,
Pronto.
    —Buonasera,
Alec said, consulting a slip of paper on which he had copied out words from a phrasebook.
    —Buonasera,
the man said.
    —Luigi? Alec inquired.
    —Si, sono Luigi.
    —Appartamento,
Alec began, and then attempted to string his words together.
    The man listened to him for a few moments before he interrupted, chattered very quickly in Italian, and then fell silent. Disoriented and intimidated, Alec stared at the telephone booth’s scarred wooden panel. Gathering himself, he tried again.
A-ppar-ta-men-to.
There was another pause, after which the man laughed. His laughter was ringing and hysterical, as if Alec had just told him the greatest joke. Still laughing, the man said, in what Alec was almost certain was a mocking tone,
Appartamento?
    —Si, appartamento,
Alec said, now angry and humiliated.
    —What kind of apartment are you looking for? the man asked, this time in fluent Russian.
    Only seconds earlier, Alec had wanted nothing other than for the man to miraculously speak Russian, but now that he had, Alec had to restrain himself from hanging up in fury.
    —I was calling for Luigi, Alec said.
    —I’m Luigi, the man said.
    —You’re Luigi? Alec asked.
    —In Kishinev I was Lyova. In Netanya I was Arieh. Here I’m Luigi.
    —And you have an apartment, Luigi?
    —Si,
the man said, and laughed again.
    —Listen, just because I’m desperate for a place doesn’t mean I’ll deal with any lunatic, Alec said.
    —Take it easy, Lyova-Luigi said. It’s a miserable world. Can’t a man amuse himself?
    The price Lyova-Luigi quoted was almost reasonable and,