Everything’s Coming Up Josey (14 page)

But Ephesians 1:5 is still embedded in my brain. Here for a purpose, by God's delight. To the praise of His glory. It sounds good, even if I don't fully grasp it.

I dress, and sneak out and take the subway, surfing until someone joins my compartment. I'm wearing my jeans and a pair of Birkenstocks and my short-sleeve lime-green T-shirt and I've pulled my unruly hair back into a headband. It's seen better days. But today is about me. It's my one-week anniversary of leaving my homeland and I'm going to Red Square. The landscape of revolutionary revolt, the parade ground of grand beginnings. It is here, under the shadow of the red, green and blue copulas of St. Basil's cathedral that the Bolsheviks spilled blood. Here, seventy years later, a generation revolted again, this time bringing glasnost (which means freedom, another new word—see, I'm going to be fluent soon!).

I exit the subway and hike to Red Square. The sun has burned off the fog hovering over the Volga and is drying the puddles of dew lining the cracks between bricks. I march through the relative quietness of the square, watch the changing of the guard at Lenin's Mausoleum. I hear there is a petition under way to bury his corpse, alongside Stalin and Brezhnev and Khrushchev. Another sign of change. I'm all in favor of burying the dead. Especially those who've been gone nearly eighty years.

I spot an artist setting up his stand, and stride over. Gesture what I hope is the phrase, “Are you open?”

He understands my pantomime, nods, and asks me to sit. I pose and listen to the morning—pigeons cooing as they stalk the pavement, the sounds of traffic snarling nearby, the clanking of bread kiosks opening—while he paints a caricature of my face. I hear that these artists pick one feature and accentuate. I'm thinking it'll be my hawklike nose, and I'm suddenly regretting this move.

But when he's finished, I'm surprised to see he's found my eyes, Blue. Shining. Huge. And a slight Mona Lisa smile, as if I'm not sure, yet, what to make of my new life.

“Spaceeba,”
I say and drop him a hundred ruble note. (Don't panic, that's only five bucks.)

I roll up the picture, put it in my bag, and wander into GYM—pronounced “Goom.” It's a two-story department-type store—once the state store—complete with fountains and nooks and crannies for Benetton, Lego, Hallmark, the Gap (yeah, Russia!) and a few other notable western shops. The center kiosks are closed, but I look in the windows, feeling a sense of courage, being here, alone, as if I own the place. I hear the
cha-ching
of store fronts opening as I exit onto the street.

This is my first excursion to the center of Moscow. Well, except for my transfers onto and off of the gold ring Metro line. I'm wondering what I'd discover if I got on the gold ring and just surfed from stop to stop, emerging to street level to explore the different opportunities. I check my map. Arbat Street. Lenin's Museum. The Bolshoi! I find a smile.

I glimpse a Golden Arches in the distance and my heart leaps. McDonald's? I turn toward it, pulse pounding. French fries would never taste so good.

Except,
there,
across the street from Oh Happy American Eatery is…a
bistro.
Little tables with green umbrellas tilted toward the sun. Early morning coffee—or most likely, tea—connoisseurs perusing menus. I wait for the light, then stalk toward it.

We have no bweestros in Russia.

Yeah, right. Well, guess what, Miss Turquoise?

God is smiling.

J
ust call me Vanna. Really. Because as I sit here, day fourteen of our class, collecting papers, and pointing to words that Matthew has written on the board, I know that I am simply window dressing. Oh, joy, I came a billion miles overseas, live with Tarzan's Jane and have been reduced to eating carrots for breakfast so I could point to
the
and
and
.

“Matthew, do you think I could prepare a lesson?” I ask as we hustle down the hall toward his office after class. And yes, I'm carrying the lesson books, as well as all the overhead transparencies. I mean, that's why I'm here, right?

“Maybe.” He turns, and I don't know what is wrong with me but all the anger that burned in my chest a second ago is doused with his white smile. “I just don't want to rush you.”

Rush me, rush me! And I'm only sorta talking about the teaching part. But I'm touched by his thoughtfulness. “I appreciate that, Matthew. But I think I could do it. I mean, we follow the ESL book, right, and the lessons are basically prepared? I think I could add some creative twists. Maybe a game or two.”

He considers me with those dark eyes, a half smile. I've decided that missionaries can be suave, as long as they do it chastely. That definition works for me as I lean against the doorframe of his office and offer my own version of a suave smile.

“Okay. Listen. I have to go out of town in a couple weeks. You plan the lessons and I'll let you handle the class while I'm gone.”

“Who were you going to have lead it?” I ask, feeling slightly betrayed.

He looks sheepish. “Larissa. She's filled in for me on occasion.”

Turquoise Larissa, Stalin's cousin? Over my cold and mutilated body. “I'll do it. I promise, I'll do a good job.”

He looks skeptical and I give him my best smile, the one I used on Dwight when I convinced him that I had a calling, really, a calling! “Okay. We'll go over it, say, a week from next Friday evening, right before I leave and then Monday you can have the reins.”

A Friday night? Is that a date, a
working
date? I glance past him, and see our students (doesn't that sound romantic?
Our
students. Like, our
children
) flood out of the classroom. We have twenty students, mostly college age, some my age and even a few in their fifties. I have to admire their spunk as they say words like
thank-you
(zank you) and
her
(kher). Of course, I must not sound any better, as I mangle the word hello. (
Dzrastvootya
—I mean, c'mon! How totally unfair is that?)

“Where?”

This is the sure test of a date. If it's someplace fun, like the Gray Pony (although I'm pretty sure that Matthew wouldn't step a foot in the Gray Pony, not even on Karen Carpenter night—he's too “missionary”), or even Venetsia (my bistro off Red Square!), then we'll know…date. If it's at his office…well then…yuck.

“There's a new restaurant opening in Moscow underground—the mall off Red Square. It's supposedly Italian. How about meeting me there, around seven?”

A date! It is a date! I smile, but can't help feel a twinge in my gut, something that feels a little like guilt.

Go away. I'm fair game. And Chase hasn't written to me. At all.

But he came to the airport.

Did I say go away?

“Sounds great. You won't be disappointed,” I say, about the lesson.

“I'm sure I won't,” and he has a glint in his eye that makes me warm down to my toes.

 

I admit that I didn't attend church my first two Sundays in country. I know, I know, that's a missionary sin, but for one, I knew I wouldn't be able to understand a word. For two, at the time I couldn't quite remember how to get to the Moscow Bible Church, having only visited once (with Larissa). And, I didn't have Caleb's telephone number.

I'm starting to miss him.

But I'm game for church today. I'm even looking forward to diving into this new cultural experience and fellowshipping with my brothers and sisters in Christ. I'm armed with my Super Deluxe Bible and my Russian/English Dictionary, and looking good in a pair of black suit pants (they're even loose on me, how about that?) and a sea-green cardigan set and a brand-new pair of black leather scuffs I found at Macy's on clearance. I leave in plenty of time, make my subway connections and surf with confidence to MBC. I open the door to the building, already hearing the buzz—

“Hey, is that the new missionary? Isn't she a cutie? I wonder how she's faring?”

“Oh, I hear that she's already taking over teaching Matthew's class. And her grasp of Russian is amazing. She'll be fluent by Christmas.”

“She'll probably lead a Bible study, too. Oh, I hope so! I want to be her class.”

I march into the MBC sanctuary with a triumphant smile.

I'm nearly flattened by a deacon. Or someone holding offering plates. And right behind him, the congregation is streaming out. Happy people in conversation. I am a salmon, swimming up-river. What?

I stand there for a long while, trying to get a grasp of why I'm standing in a quiet auditorium watching the sound crew coiling up cables. A large golden paper cross is pinned to the far end of the stage, on bloodred curtains. I look up, and the familiar webs of dust hang from the ceiling. This room could house a Garth Brooks concert.

“Josey?”

I turn, half expecting Matthew, and see instead my favorite Grunge Man.

“Caleb!” I barely restrain myself from hugging him. “How are you?”

“Glad to lay eyes on you. I was wondering if you'd gotten sucked up by the Metro.”

Oh, man, I'd forgotten what a great smile Caleb has. And he's dressed up for church today in a pair of cargo shorts, a tie-dyed shirt and a bandanna over all that hair. He's also wearing a leather necklace with a shark tooth tied in it.

“No,” I answer, laughing. “You'd be proud of me. I can surf, and I even found the McDonald's all by myself.” For some reason, I'm not telling him about Venetsia. It's my place. Where Chase finds me for the hour he arrives in Russia to declare his love for me. “I guess I still can't tell time, however.”

He laughs. “We changed our service time. Sorry. I should have told you. How about a ‘Big Mac With Fries' apology?”

I laugh, weighing the ramifications. It doesn't qualify for a date…which really shouldn't matter because Matthew and I are a non-item at the moment. But what if Matthew truly likes me? What if behind that white smile, soft eyes and pressed-khaki attire there lurks passion and adventure? What if he wants to sweep me off my feet, tour Arbat Street with me or even treat me to a night out at the Bolshoi? What if he's the guy I've come all the way to Russia to find…Okay, yes, I know that I haven't come to Russia to find a man, but what if that is a God-perk? A reward for a job well done? What if, with Matthew, I see fireworks? I can't have Grunge Man lingering on the outskirts, right?

But…McDonald's isn't a date, even in Russia. Moreover, it is food. This fact should never be dismissed, especially by a gal whose sum total of food in her cupboard consists of a bag of carrots, a hunk of scary yellow cheese, a few softening cucumbers, a piece of hard sausage, two apples and three bottles of a kind of lemonade (I know because there is a lemon on the label). Lest you think this is meager, I want to point out it took me a good two hours to gather these products as I “
eta
-ed” my way around the market. But, I had to focus on items that one does not have to cook. Because, well…I don't know how to work my stove. It's gas, but it doesn't seem to have an on switch. I fiddled with it for a couple days, but I haven't been able to ascertain the magic steps since Tracey doesn't eat, ever. (Except for her dwindling supply of Bubble Yum—yes, I've been checking. Hunger does that. And, I still owe her for the M&Ms, which she seemed pretty big about so far. But, who knows when PMS hits?)

A stampeding herd of rhinoceroses couldn't drag the request to teach me to use the stove from my mouth. Not to Tracey and especially not to Rick or Larissa. Food ranks below Internet in priorities.

Besides, I think I've lost a couple pounds.

Which means I can afford some French fry indulgence. “Yeah, sounds great,” I say to Caleb.

We surf down the red line to the ring and get off. The pigeons scatter as we stroll down the Garden Ring road toward the Golden Arches. Fine dining, ex-pat style.

“So, how's teaching going?”

I shrug. “Not the glamour job I thought, but I get to take the reins in a couple weeks, so I guess I'm excited.”

“Well, bear in mind that the people taking your class are depending on you to help them change their lives. They need you, and your help, if they want to get the education they need. After seminary, they'll return to Russia and go to work as missionaries or Christian workers in tiny communities. In a way, you're the first step toward the salvation of hundreds, maybe thousands.”

Stop it, Caleb, you're freaking me out. But a warm feeling has started in my heart at his words. Josey Berglund, seed-planter, equipper. “Thanks for that reminder, Caleb.”

“You missed a good sermon today. It was on Philippians 2:13. ‘For it is God in you who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.'”

Hey, that sounds a lot like the Ephesians stuff I've been reading. I'm up to verse eleven, by the way, which talks about God working out everything according to His will. A comforting thought. Sorta. I mean, if His will is going my direction. I mention this to Caleb.

“I love Ephesians,” Caleb responds with a chuckle. “I love how it starts with the basics—God choosing to reach out of heaven to love us and then to give us a purpose. In fact, the entire book is about God's grand picture, and how we fit into it.”

“I hope that is a good thing,” I say, remembering Chase, the way his hair tangles in the wind off Gull Lake, his particular Chase-scent after a round of catch. I mean, I
hope
God knows what He's doing in sending me here. Because, without a letter from Chase, I have to admit I'm slightly panicking.

“It's a good thing, Jose. God is for us, not against us. He is ultimately about showing Himself and His unbelievable love to us, and through us, as He takes us through life.”

I smile. I like to think of God giving purpose and being a part of the grand picture. And, it feels freeing to be walking along the streets of Moscow, strange words in stereo around us, the smell of street vendors' greasy fried sandwiches tingeing the air, and blue sky beyond the Yellow M…talking about God without hesitation. Caleb makes his faith feel easy. Something that is an extension of himself, that isn't confined to his attire, or his persona. Who woulda thunk it?

We pull into McDonald's and true to his word, Caleb treats me to a Big Mac and fries and even adds a vanilla shake. I could kiss him on the spot. The places is packed, and it feels weird to order a Big Mac in Russian (Beeg Maak). I decide to save my wrapper because it's written in Cyrillic. Maybe I'll send it to Jas.

Whom I miss. I haven't received one letter from her, and this bothers me nearly as much as not hearing from Chase. What, have I dropped off the planet? Good grief, I only moved to Russia!

Caleb and I spend the day walking through Gorky Park. From the Ferris wheel that overlooks the city, he points out the Kremlin—right off Red Square…now why didn't I figure that out?—and a few other landmarks. I especially take note of the U.S. Consulate. I imagine it's only a matter of time before they invite me to a ball or something. We eat ice cream on a bridge overlooking the Volga and feed the pigeons our soggy cones. And, as he walks me home, I tell him about Larissa (Turquoise Girl), Auntie Milla, Tracey and Rick. He asks me about home, but I don't mention much. It feels like the bistro information…too far into my world.

“Watch out for Totye Milla,” he says as we climb the stairs. (Again, elevator up? Stairs down? I need to get my rhythm right!) “She's probably after a visa.”

I frown at him.

“You marry her son and she's got a ticket to the states.”

Whoa back there, Bucko. “I never said I was going to marry him.”

He smirks and I'm not sure, suddenly, how to read him. “Russians can be…persuasive,” he adds.

Not sure how to take that. I give him an eyebrow up, but we're at my door so he jots his telephone number onto my hand. “Call me if you need a memory jog on what time the service starts.”

Then he's gone. My Grimy Hero.

I let myself in, interrupting something PG-13 on the sofa. I turn my back on Rick and Tracey and enter the kitchen, help myself to a carrot. I stare at the stove, feelings of longing welling inside as I hear Rick and Tracey murmur in the background.

Rick says nothing to me as he leaves.

Tracey thumps back to the family room, lands on the vinyl (yes, unfortunately) sofa. “Hey,” she says.