The Suitcase

Instead of an Afterword

THE SUITCASE IS ON THE KITCHEN TABLE: a rectangular plywood box, covered with green fabric, with rusted reinforcements on the corners.

My Soviet rags lie around it. The old-fashioned double-breasted suit with wide trouser cuffs. A poplin shirt the colour of a faded nasturtium. Low shoes shaped like a boat. A corduroy jacket still redolent of someone else’s tobacco. A winter hat of sealskin. Crêpe socks with an electric sheen. Gloves that are good if you need to cut a hungry Newfoundland hound’s hair. A belt with a heavy buckle, slightly bigger than the scar on my forehead…

So what had I acquired in all those years in my homeland? What had I earned? This pile of rubbish? A suitcase of memories?…

I’ve been living in America for ten years. I have jeans, sneakers, moccasins, camouflage T-shirts from the Banana Republic. Enough clothing.

But the voyage isn’t over. And at the end of my allotted time I will appear at another gate. And I will have a cheap American suitcase in my hand. And I will hear: “What have you brought with you?”

“Here,” I’ll say. “Take a look.”

And I’ll also say, “There’s a reason that every book, even one that isn’t very serious, is shaped like a suitcase.”