Love Is Never Past Tense... (23 page)

In two days, after we already began to prepare for leaving, the woman with whom we have rented the apartment enters our small house and declares that she has invited her friends from Kiev to live there instead. “And you, beg your pardon, should look for another place.”

“But I actually found the apartment!” I shout in her face. “A guy approached me and guided us to the address of the rental.”

“So what?” she answers. “You should not have left that evening. That night, my friends and I agreed and gave them the money.”

“So why in the hell are you just now informing me about it?” I became enraged. My mom steps in, though: “Why worry? God spared us from living with such a neighbor.” She looks at the woman and says, “Go, dear, we do not want to detain you anymore!”

After a while I manage to rent a room in the resort city of Nettuno. It is a lovely small town with numerous hotels. The sea is close—in a word, not the worst place to wait for the visa to America. In one of the plazas of the city, emigrants gather and discuss various problems. Somehow by itself, the information filters down from different sources. Who leaves for America and releases a room; or who on the contrary, is looking for it. In short, it isn’t exactly a town hall meeting, but it is an emigrant meeting. I come every day …

The room where we moved to is empty. There is only one folding cot. We place our suitcases around this cot—and turn it into a bed.

The walls are covered in mold, and the door of the balcony is always ajar. It is January. When we moved in, a kind gentleman, who was about to leave for America, helps us move our things to this room. He offers to bring the rental fee to the landlord who lived across town. I am so thankful that someone is taking care of us. A few days later, he and his family left. That very day, the landlord says “Basta, immigrazione russa è finite!”
⁵⁰
and throws us out in the street for non-payment of the rent. Same cold. Same January. Same suitcases to drag in the streets. How I found another apartment, I don’t remember …

To help, or to be helped? That is the question.

***

Certainly, it would be silly to spend four months in Italy and not see some of the sights. Alla decides to show her dearest mom Florence and Venice. It was a three-day round trip tour, by bus. But it costs money. Where to get it? Definitely not from the organization which sponsors us, and which pays for the rental apartments.

Immigrants in Italy did not have permission to work. However, Alla learns that teenagers could earn additional money by washing the windows of cars at intersections. This “business” (to use the term loosely) began booming in the Soviet Union. Boys bought the workplaces, and each “spot” was protected by a young fledgling gangster. Racketeering already squeezed into all cracks of Soviet society.

The same scheme was transferred onto the Italian ground. Alla buys a sponge, a brush on a stick, and goes to the intersection. But it is only possible to take a spot which is released, and that only happens if someone left for America. Such a spot is not available. I go with my daughter, I worry. On the other side of the street there is a man who acts as though he protects the group of teenagers. Alla stands up at her ‘spot’ and starts to wash the windshields of passing cars.

“Hey,” the man approaches, “This spot should be purchased! And only then, when it’s available. Is that clear?” Here, I interfere.

“It is quite clear, that you give direct gangster orders. This girl will work here! Now, is that clear to you? And if you try to interfere, the police will be informed as to how you are occupying yourself, here in Italy. Do you understand, unfortunate racketeer? You do not know who you’re talking to …”

The man was taken aback and left, as though considering a method of struggle against me. But he did not struggle. Probably, being fairly clever, he guessed that he did not desire a conversation in a police station: in fact, he too was waiting for a visa to the USA. From that day forward, Alla went to her “spot”, as if going to work.

Using the money she earned, we really went to Florence and Venice. I will never forget this gift from my daughter, then a twelve-year old girl. She showed character and bravery, which she would use even more in her future life …

A month later, we were flying over the Atlantic …

***

Part Four

Return to the Future

The sleepless night spent at the restaurant tired both Serge and Janna. They only felt the weariness after the end of Janna’s story. She was very agitated. It seemed for her that the present became the future, and the past became the present. She dove deep into her memories, and they swallowed her. She did not see Serge, and only sometimes turned to him and asked: “Do you understand?” But more likely, it was a certain attribute of the story, rather than the desire to find out if he understood something or not. Serge only was ordering: wine, water, or ice cream. However, the last was only for him. Janna did not eat ice cream. For Serge, many questions gathered, but he did not break her monologue. What for? Somehow later he figured he would get the details. He knew that he would not hear a smoother and more consecutive version of the events of her story. And details can somehow be specified, without being imposing.

Janna broke off. She sat for a long time, almost not moving, still somewhere far away. “That’s it, Serge, my head hurts. Let’s go.”

It was almost five o’clock in the morning. There were almost no visitors. Night had ended, and the restaurant was closing. They paid up and went across the street—to the hotel room. The coolness of the morning refreshed them. They were standing at the entrance, enjoying the crystal air. Then they went up to their floor. Janna quickly took a shower and climbed under the blanket. She nestled next to Serge and closed her eyes. After a while, her easy breathing announced that she was already in the land of Morpheus. They slept long. Almost until noon. Just like a long time ago in Kishinev. Their stay in the hotel, they decided, should be extended or they should move to another place. Serge found a hotel directly on the coast, in Park Lanzheron. They dragged their belongings to the car and went to search for this hotel with the romantic name ‘Brigantina.’ Certainly, he was glad to have an opportunity to stay in the place where they once met. It was their dear Lanzheron.

***

The story of the meeting of a young man and a girl, though, was only an instant in the history of Lanzheron, a park founded by Count Alexander Fedorovich Lanzheron. This legendary person participated in many fights, battling for Russia and its interests. In 1815, he was appointed as the town governor of Odessa, and managed to leave a kind memory of himself. His tenure brought about the first city newspaper (Le Messager de la Rus Meridional), the establishment of mineral water in the city park, and the layout of the botanical gardens which gave rise to gardening for all of Odessa. In 1817, he opened the Richelieu Lyceum, the second in Russia after Tsarskoselski. His house, with the famous cannons at the entrance, gave its name to Lanzheronivska Street, and served for a long time as one of Odessa’s brightest sights. Up to now, the towering Triumphal Arch leading to the dacha of the Count, called by Odessans the Arch of Lanzheron, opens on the road to a beach of the same name.

Lanzheron Park was extolled by many Russian poets and writers, such as Jury Olesha, Vladimir Glazyrin, Konstantin Paustovsky, and Valentine Kataev.

First, the dryness and wildness of the neglected park

Then the road down, and a stone arch,

Absolutely Italy.

A curvy, olive trunk

Hanging in emptiness,

Glowing in brightness,

And the sea flat, like a table.

I knew, I felt, that later or early

I will return to my homeland …

This is how at a mature age, Kataev described it.

In short, the Arch Lanzheron, the park descending to the sea, and the beach itself—are all symbols of Odessa.

An inexplicable nervousness filled Serge when he taxied up to the Triumphal Arch. From here he started to watch the girl in far away 1973. But today, she sat near him on the front seat of the car, and he was touching her when he shifted the lever of the transmission gears. He could stretch out his arm and embrace her, and he really did embrace her when the car stopped to park right near the arch … He was very excited and did not get out of the car for a long time.

He learned that cars were not permitted in the park: you could walk by foot or wait for the special tourist bus which carried interested persons to the hotels standing near the sea. Dragging the suitcases was inconvenient, so they decided to wait …

Going down in the minibus took about five minutes. The hotel was private, and it immediately expressed its character of service. The suitcases were delivered to the room. Serge and Janna were offered a supper and soft drinks, but they refused everything and decided to walk in the park. First, they walked the asphalt path alongside the sea. Waves crawled softly over the coast and made the sand rustle. The seagulls soared in the air, and shouted something to each other—then easily sat down on the water. They had their own business. They didn’t need to rent a room in the hotel. Their house was the sky and water. However, somewhere on the coast they built their nests. There they hatched nestlings and again headed to the sea.

The water was light green. Who decided to name it the Black Sea—is not clear. He truly, was a color-blind person. Then again, in the Red Sea the water is not red either. And the White Sea—not white. To hell with it, thought Serge, becoming tired of reflecting on the geographical oddities. A velvet September evening shrouded their walk. They went upwards along an alley, arguing about what falls from trees—buckeyes or nuts. Both were great experts in botany. So it was necessary to ask a man, who stood at a booth and selling some knickknacks.

“It is a nut,” he said seriously. But he immediately understood that he would not receive any benefit from this.

“But this clip is for your wonderful ears!” He handed Janna some cheap costume jewelry: it looked like two cockleshells smeared by a varnish.

“How much?” Janna asked, simply to keep up the conversation.

“Only twenty-five grivnas.
⁵¹

“And in dollars?” The American understood only one currency.

“Five dollars,” another dealer shouted next to them.

“And what, we wouldn’t understand without the help of a snot-nosed kid, or what?” cut off the first dealer, looking with disdain at his colleague.

“And how will you count the dollars without this old Jew?” said the man, referring to himself.

“Yes, we will figure it out, ‘arithmetician.’ Do you like to count someone else’s money, huh?”

“But did you ever see a Jew who did not count another's money? Do you need it in shekels, young lady?”

“No, that’s fine,” Janna answered with a laugh.

“Well then, try some dried smelts and shrimp. What is the point of wandering without business?”

Janna, with a smile, turned and went down the hill. And Serge bought shrimp, most likely as a tribute of gratitude for the gratis performance. But when he crunched the shells,—1973 grew before him, like a rock from a fog. Then they also walked along the quay. He chewed the shrimp and spit out the chitinous tails. She went behind him, or beside him, or in front of him … And here, everything repeats … The magical cocktail of sadness and delight poured through his body. He can stretch out his hand and touch her. He can embrace her. He can kiss; everything is like in 1973. She turned: “I saw you back then, when you walked behind me!”

“You could not see me. You did not turn around.”

“I turned around. You did not notice.”

“I could not
not
notice. I looked at you all the time.”

“Let’s check this out: I will go ahead, you don’t take your eyes off of me, and I bet, you will not notice when I look at you.”