Love Is Never Past Tense... (11 page)

He did not take into account that as soon as he left the house of his cousin, she rushed off to the summer residence to tell his parents about Serge’s plans. He did not know that, during the trip back to Kishinev, his parents already visited the militia and asked for their assistance to find their stray son. They needed to rescue their son—this was the goal that was standing in front of them with its full height. But the militia did not do anything. Serge was not missing in action, he was not killed, and no one was harming him. He was legally an adult, and went to his bride. The case was obviously not criminal—“deal with it yourself, friends,” they said. For the poor parents, it only remained to wait, to see when and in what quality their offspring would again stand in front of their eyes.

***

“I already agreed. The application will be accepted, but there is a chance to marry as well,” said Janna.

Serge trusted poorly in this chance. The strict laws said: submit the application, think properly, and wait at least a month. Then, we will welcome you with Mendelssohn’s wedding march.

But Janna thought differently. Her irrepressible energy carried her away to somewhere every morning. And in the evenings, she said that some ‘channel’ misfired, but that there were still other options left. If these do not turn out, they would submit the application the last day before Serge leaves.

Two days remained. For Serge, there was no doubt that all efforts for the marriage were in vain. Therefore, he easily passed the days in a hammock, read books which Janna insistently recommended to him, and waited for his fate. In effect, he lost nothing. His desire to marry this energetic woman only became stronger. She not only gave herself to him, but also carried him away into a whirlwind life, saturated with events. Gradually he got closer to her friends, and many of them appeared to be very colorful, interesting figures.
They were intellectually developed people, knowledgeable and widely-read, and keen on world affairs. Around them, life was interesting.

The only thing that depressed Serge was that he could not support many conversations owing to his ignorance and the absence of the necessary knowledge. At school, he did not love literature. And who loved it—this state literature of the school program? Gorky’s
Mother
and Tolstoy’s
War and Peace
were inaccessible to the understanding of sixteen year-old kids. School literature beat off the desire to read. In due time, though, he consumed Hugo’s
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
and
The Man Who Laughs
; read some Zola and Maupassant, and certainly, was in ecstasy from
The Three Musketeers
. To this, it was possible to add adventure books by Jules Verne, and detective stories … this, perhaps, was his baggage. Who spoke about such books at parties? Nobody. They discussed authors about whom Serge didn’t even have a clue. They discussed novels and stories from thick literary magazines which he never held in his hands. What could he talk about? About theoretical mechanics, resistance of materials, higher mathematics—the subjects which he studied in the institute? Hardly. The initial courses of higher education were boring in the same way. Cheerful and uncomplicated parties had made up his previous life.

Serge hoped that with Janna’s help he would quickly liquidate his ignorance. And when she gave him the next book, he tried not simply to read through it, but also to understand the sense which the author wished to convey to the reader. So, she imparted to him a love of Hemingway, speaking of him as the outstanding writer of the 20
^th
century.

“Today you will read from here to here,” Janna told him, having counted out about a hundred pages, as she rushed to leave for the last resolute attempt to marry. One day remained. Tomorrow Serge needed to leave—the new semester was starting, indicating that his vacation was over.

Serge lay in the hammock under the arches of the turning yellow garden and held in his hands a volume of Hemingway. The snows of Kilimanjaro were far away, and real life was near. “Will she succeed or not?” thought Serge, sliding his eyes over the lines …

“Please don't talk that way. Couldn't I read to you?"

"Read what?"

"Anything in the book bag that we haven't read."

"I can't listen to it," he said. "Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the time pass."

"I don't quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Let's not quarrel any more. No matter how nervous we get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will come."

"I don't want to move," the man said. "There is no sense in moving now except to make it easier for you."

"That's cowardly."

"Can't you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names? What's the use of slanging me?"

"You're not going to die."

These were the words old man Hem wrote, though why he was called the old man was not clear. Having decided that in this world he already did his best, Hemingway died early, at only sixty-one, by thrusting a double-barreled gun into his mouth. “He was a strong person,” thought Serge, though in his school electives, the class teacher insisted that suicide shows weakness of the spirit.

From a whiff of wind, yellow leaves were strewn, baring the branches of trees. Through them, the dark blue sky, of the still not interrupted summer was seen.

“You are not ready yet? Put on your clothes, we don’t have much time.” Janna flew into the garden. “There is a car outside, they are waiting for us.” Like a tornado she slipped into the house. She ran out and threw Serge his clothes. Serge dropped out of the hammock, pulled on his trousers and put on a sleeveless jacket.

The car Janna hired was the latest creation of the masters of Tolyatti.
³²
Behind the wheel a man-bear, in some improbable way, found room for himself. “Bear” carried them to the restaurant where they were met by “the Grey Wolf”. Lean, hungry, with burning eyes, he furiously filled his stomach, washing down the food with vodka.

The ‘Wolf’ was a procurer. He knew the brother of some sister who knew all the secret passages of the Wedding Palace. After “Bear” filled his belly with a couple shots of vodka, he again sat down behind the wheel. For a few hours, the poor car drove around different places where there were people who knew someone, who tried to help and sent them somewhere else. With each kilometer, the marriage mechanism grew; the flywheel was spinning. It seemed to Serge that from all these efforts, something would turn up. Every little screw of this mechanism represented a problem solver, who was an expert in this kind of enterprise. Serge was touched by their ability to give kind words, to promise, to call by phone, to agree and so on … all without achieving the final result. This set of people was involved in the business campaign of Serge and Janna. With each person it was necessary to drink a glass of liquor—and one more, they said, for success. Serge with his natural adventurism started to like this process. He liked to get out of the car, with a purposeful and full of care look, talk in confidential meetings, open bottles, and end up with … pockets full of addresses to follow up with other leads. The mechanism puffed, snuffled, creaked gears, trying with all its might; it was already impossible to stop it.

The car drove down a side street. The building of the bureau of the Registry Office flaunted itself on the right. On the left there was a strong point—the bunker—the house of an old school friend of Janna’s, where everyone tumbled in, drunk from the drinks consumed that day. Serge was already slightly tipsy.

In the house they were celebrating a jubilee—the fifth birthday of the daughter of the school friend. The little girl had many adult admirers, and all of them tried to drink to the health of the child by which the child was quite satisfied. To Serge it seemed that it was just another party, and the closeness of the Registry Office was just a coincidence. Evening was coming. You could hardly expect that something would happen today. Serge relaxed, and sat down on a sofa. He leaned on the back of it and closed his eyes. He was covered at once by the wine drowsiness. The noise of the feast was fading …

Suddenly he was seized by the shoulders, and someone shook him like a guilty schoolboy.

Serge regained consciousness; in front of him stood Janna. “They will call us now. Put yourself in order.”

“Where will they call?”

“You will see, let’s go.”

They went down to the street, crossed the road, and stood at the locked door of the opposite building. Suddenly Janna thought about something and ran back. Serge remained in a shadow of a huge poplar tree. The street was empty. The wind fingered the branches, and the ground was decorated with yellow-red leaves. On the bark of the tree, a beetle crept along tending to his affairs. The armor on it was black and gleamed with an emerald color. It came across the edge of the bark and waved its short antennae, not knowing where to move.

Serge’s cheeks burned; his temples pounded. Someone invisible sat inside him and whispered, “Don’t go to that door, you will still be in time, do not hurry …” In effect, he understood that if he would resist, no one could force him to step over the threshold of this institution. But on the other hand, what kind of idiot would he look like? In fact, he could insist right at the beginning of “we apply for the license”—and there would be no more body movements. Had he behaved this way? No. He actually gave the agreement to marry now, without any delay. To run was cowardice and boyishness. Serge stood, similar to the beetle, not knowing what to undertake …

Janna jumped out of the entrance. She was excited and solemn. Tall and athletic, she always moved easily and quickly, and in a second, she stood near Serge. Her hair was a little messy and her eyes burned. In them there was no hint of doubt: she decided to become a wife—in fact his, Serge’s, wife. It was difficult to imagine that someone now could dissuade her from it. She was very beautiful in her aspiration to belong to the person standing next to her, a little tipsy, and bleary eyed from the expectation of the forthcoming action. The door opened, and an elderly, portly man invited the groom and the bride inside …

In a long narrow room, there was another couple, likewise getting an ‘underground’ marriage. A woman in red sat at a green table, and offered them chairs opposite her. Her face was dissatisfied, as if she stood at the conveyor and stamped an approaching newly-married couple. This monotonous work rather bothered her.

Serge became very tired while he was waiting to have all the papers completed. From far away the tired voice resounded from the registrar of marriages. Serge raised his eyelids, and in front of him was laying Janna’s passport. Looking at her picture he thought, “My God, how very young she looks at sixteen.” Serge tried to understand something, but he was called and asked to give his signature. The woman got up, and with an official voice congratulated them. They left. Nothing changed outside, or in the world. But Serge and Janna now were in a different state. Serge turned, poked a finger into Janna’s stomach and asked: “So, now are you my wife?” She answered, “Yes!” and hung on his neck. From the windows of the bunker curious eyes watched. Serge lifted her in his arms and carried her across the road.

In the house many people desired to kiss the newly-weds. Janna was running around the room, pointing at Serge and shouting at the top of her lungs, “Look, this is my husband!” Then they began to drink everything that was lying around, and when it became dark the guests started to leave. Janna and Serge took a taxi and left too. But not home: they went to a friend who had mercy on the young couple and gave them both a house, and a marriage bed …

There too, they could not avoid a large gathering. They made Janna a veil of napkins. They shouted "Gorko! Gorko!”
³³
persistently and often. Janna and Serge kissed long, and crazily, so that their lips became red and out of shape.

About midnight, everyone departed, and Serge fell into bed. He drank too much and did not remember his first marriage night. At daybreak he woke up, gripped a pillow with his teeth and thought long about the turn of his destiny.

The same afternoon he left Kishinev. It seemed to him that all this was a dream. But it was reality, the huge half-page marriage stamp on his passport weighed down his pocket.

***

He arrived in Moscow early in the morning. He entered the house, changed his clothes, and then glanced in his parents’ room. They lay with open eyes and looked at the ceiling. “I got married,” said Serge, but silence was his only answer. Hesitating, he silently left and locked the door to his room. Certainly, his parents’ opinion was different from his own. First of all, they considered his behavior simply swinish in relation to them. They could not recognize this marriage as lawful. Everything was done “‘not like other people do.” They rejected his bride, whom they never saw in their life—and now she was his wife? Their rejection was untenable. A lot of time would need to pass until somehow, everything would calm down.