Love Is Never Past Tense... (24 page)

The experiment started. Serge intently stared at Janna’s nape. Yes, the head turned, but not so that he could get into her field of vision.

“So what, did you see?”

“I saw nothing.”

“But I noticed you.”

“That’s impossible! What are you, David Copperfield in a skirt?”

“What skirt? I’m wearing red pants!” (She had on training pants, red in color.) “You are so observant. Back then, you only looked at my butt.”

“Why bother looking at your covered butt? But it looked to me like your legs were sticking out from your ears. Now
this
phenomenon interested me …”

“Ah, a Young Naturalist! …
⁵²
I need to extend my legs.” She put both hands on the elastic band of her red exercise pants, and with a jump lifted them upward. Her legs really did become longer.

“Ha, ha, how did you like that method?”

“You need to change your profession—you will become a millionaire. Ladies and gentlemen, step right up! Now on center stage, the unique Janna Yeshanova nee Janna Yevgenia Gelvarg, stretching her legs up to her ears. A performance unmatched anywhere in our city! Only two soldo!”
⁵³

“Assisted by … uh … uh, just a passer-by, who happens to have the same last name …”

Serge approached, and grabbed her training pants.

“Where should I pull: up or down?”

“It’s too early for down: up, for now.”

But Serge could not contain himself, and embraced her and kissed her cheek that seemed to be burning with fire …

***

“I can make you a chicken chop, and add tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, and certainly, greens. What kind of sauce do you want? What kind of drink would you prefer?”

The waiter, who was also the cook and the assistant to the owner of the hotel, was a young guy with an open kind face, and seemed born to be the master of service. He did not forget to bring a small pillow for their seats, and afghans to warm them. He lit a candle on the table. After all these preparations, the little table became very cozy and romantic. Nearby, in view of the lights from the hotel, the now-black sea stirred. Somewhere in the distance, with flickering lights, a big ship floated. On the table, an uncorked bottle of wine materialized, and glasses. Andre—this was the name of the waiter—poured the wine into the glasses, and placed napkins and silverware on the table.

“My God, this is some kind of paradise,” Janna contentedly sighed. “Odessa, Lanzheron, wine, you beside me. Why didn’t we find a hotel like this earlier?”

“I repent.” Serge confessed. “But you must remember the time we arrived in Odessa. Almost at night. We didn’t have too many choices.”

“Ah, yes. Well, that was good too. I liked the deep leather armchairs in the restaurant.”

“And cuisine was quite good,” he pointed out.

“But here is an absolute fairy tale … When do we leave?”

“It would be good tomorrow.”

“Let’s stay for one more day.”

Serge looked pensive. His business in Moscow did not give him much time off. But he did not think for long, and nodded his head in assent. He became somewhat more relaxed and joyful from this decision. He drained his glass. Andre appeared like clockwork, holding in one hand two large fragrant dishes. During supper, there were no more trips into history. They actually talked about nothing; just light and nonchalant chatting. Serge thought about dumping the afghan, undressing, and diving into the dark, already cold autumn sea. But he remembered that the days of his youth had already passed, and instead he buried himself tighter in the afghan. He looked at Janna and felt very happy. He avoided thoughts of parting. Why think about the bad when it is possible to think about good?

“Oh, I ate too much.” Janna spoke with a full happy voice. “I wanted to lose weight. It is like two hells trying to lose weight, here with you!”

“Are you done? You know I love you the way you are. Relax …”

“And the kilograms?”

“Which ones?”

“Extra.”

“Where are they? I don’t see them. Hey, kilograms!?” Serge glanced under the table. “There are no kilograms there.”

There were, though, her legs tightly covered by the training pants, and her soft white sneakers. Serge straightened up, furtively looked at Janna, and felt that a
force majeure
attracted him to her. Why? He could not explain it to himself. He could not put it into words why it was so good now, even if he tried. It seemed to him that the long years of ridiculous separation had ended, and it would always be like this. There would always be the whisper of the sea, there would be a cool evening in a golden autumn, there would be an obliging waiter, and there would be a tasty meal. But the main thing, there would always be a room with his beloved from whom he never wanted to part, not ever …

***

… The hotel balcony overlooked the bend of the Dnestr River. Morning. The sun had crept out of its shelter. The banks of the river were densely overgrown by thickets of deciduous trees. They were decorated in green, yellow, red and claret. Above the quiet, almost immovable water rose a light fog. Silent and peaceful. There is no desire to move. You want to be suspended in the dense cool air, to be dissolved in it and to hang above the river. But you have to leave. Who needs it? Why is it needed? Why do you need to leave the place where you feel so good? … Serge looked at the smooth grey-green surface of the water by himself, and somehow fell into his memories.

“Many years ago my Odessan uncle—actually, not even an uncle, but a distant relative, more like a kissing cousin—took me, a teenager, to the Dnestr River to fish. We rode for a long time by bus over a potholed country road. Then we walked for a long time to the village which was sheltered on the coast. My uncle puttered for a while with the boat motor, and then we floated for a long time upstream, disappearing in narrow channels, leaving the smooth surface of the flat river. At last we reached the deserted coast where we set up our tent. We stayed for a week. Waited for the fish. But someone, higher up the river, opened the spillway of a dam. The water arrived and washed out the fish’s food source, so they left. The fish were not interested in our bait. And those, that did nibble, simply went crazy. We caught half a small bucket of these mad fish. To come back home with such a poor catch was simply indecent. My uncle and I went to the fish farm and bought two full strings of carp. At home, my grandmother salted the fish: she simply poured large salt crystals on the fish and hung them on a cord at the window. In two days the fish became rotten. Fat worms crept over them. They felt good from grandmother’s care. But soon, they went straight to the garbage pail. So my sortie to Dnestr ended. And here I am again. Strange. More than forty years have passed.”

The Hotel Tiraspol is in the Prednister territory—not a recognized republic. Who will recognize it, and when, is not clear. There was an uprising in the beginning of the nineties, when human passions boiled over. People for some reason beat each other, and even killed. And for what? In the Prednister region there was the 14th Russian army. And, General Lebed was restoring order. Now a small population lives here who sees rescue in its independence. They do not want to depend neither on Moldova, nor on the Ukraine. But their land sits directly between the two. The people living here thought up money that looks like candy wrappers from chocolates. They built their statehood, and opened their own cheap cafes. They even have a hotel with luxury rooms where they dragged in Jacuzzis, which made the room “heavier” up to fifty dollars a night. But Serge and Janna were not attracted by such comfort, and they hid away in their two-room suite. But, there was not enough furniture for two rooms. In one was a double bed. In another—for some reason, a single armchair. Probably, so one could sit and behold the naked walls.

They crossed the border of this small republic, late at night. And, in spite of the fact that they planned to leave it the next morning, the border guards sternly ordered them to register. The whole registration consisted of a stamp on an immigration card, but something awful and ridiculous is contained in this most ‘Important of State Services’ that was located God knows where, and all they could do was wander in the dark city and ask casual passersby for the address of the services.

Certainly, there was no opportunity to watch for traffic signs. Serge valiantly turned on a street with one-way traffic, and quickly rolled against the oncoming traffic. However, it was difficult to call it oncoming traffic, just, two or three cars passed by. And suddenly the joyful spark of a black and white striped police baton insisted in the darkness that it was necessary to stop … “They got me,” thought Serge.

“Comrades,” said the face, “you committed a violation.” (The Word comrades, not pronounced in Russia since the beginning of Perestroika, caressed the ear. Here, still, was the Soviet Union. Well, simply
The Lost World
!)

“Here it is expected …” droned the rejoicing keeper of order, secretly counting the profits that would pour from the wallets of these two dolts.

“Open the window, quickly,” said Janna resolutely, pulling out from her purse her American navy-skinned passport as if it was the ID of Queen Victoria.

The speech that followed poured out with such speed that to reproduce it is possible only by strongly straining the memory: “Listen, guys! It is so good that we found you!” (Duh, like we were looking for them!) “I am a correspondent for the American newspaper
Columbus Pictures
. I am collecting material about border guards, and guards of order in your young surprising republic. In short, about those who are looking after the tranquility of this country. Help us, please …” Janna had already run out from the car and came close to the thin youth, who had probably received his police uniform only yesterday. He even recoiled. Certainly, he in no way expected that, out of the dusty car with Moscow tags, the representative of a terrifying American publishing house would creep into the bright light. “How are you doing here with the crime sprees?" Janna pressed.

“Oh, it’s OK, it is quiet …” mumbled the sergeant.

“Can I have your ID? And your surname, your first name, is it possible to learn your ID number?” He answers, but Janna does not hear and does not write it down. “I will definitely write about you!” she promises solemnly.

The second, the little bit older one, asks Serge, “What, what newspaper?” Serge shifts his glasses on his nose and with a strong American accent, which he never had since the day he was born, said, “Buffalo Rangers.”

“Yes, guys,” shares Janna. “We urgently need to get to the hotel, and still have to register. Where all this is, we have no idea. And tomorrow, we have a meeting with the local press. We need to gather textures—in a word; we have business up to our necks.” Serge imagines, how tomorrow morning, lying in bed, they would gather full bags of texture—it would be good to know, what kind of rubbish this is …

In the meantime, the peacefully tuned guards of order have hospitably agreed to help, and asked them to follow their car. The jalopy with blinking lights, which was most likely a trophy from the time of World War II, gave them confidence, and the cortège quickly reached the place where the sacrament of registration was performed. The small window was covered by iron rods, coming out directly on the street. In it was an almost young woman with tousled dirty hair and a stupid—to a degree beyond sickness to your stomach—physiognomy.

It was the dead of night. The brain, already-asleep, seemed incapable to resolve the problem of two pieces of paper, on which the same last names were written in two different alphabets. “What the hell is this? These are our guests from America, don’t linger,” insistently recommended the oldest one. Serge wanted to add, that they have to gather a lot of texture … but knew he couldn’t possibly suppress the neighing of a young stallion.

Her sight passed from one passport to the other, then back to the first … The lady disappears somewhere in the depths of the passport sanctuary: her butt expressing complete bewilderment. At last she returns and demands money for her activities. Such money is simply not present, and there is no place to exchange the currency. Then the compassionate policeman pays her off himself. Janna says that the article would still go into the
Washington Post
. The policeman stands up even straighter and adjusts his uniform …

Again, with their honorable escort, the car moved along the sleeping city. “Here is the hotel.” A naked government building. The woman-manager simply melts from such visitors and wishes to thrust the newly made journalist and her companion into a Jacuzzi post haste. But the visitors eventually negotiated for a different empty room. Serge offered the policeman a few dollars. But that one refuses with pride. He salutes and disappears.

“Do you want to know what ‘texture’ is?” asks Serge.

“Na-uh, but what is it?”

“I think, it is the pattern of a tree when it’s cut down …”

Janna fell down on all fours, writhing in laughter.

***

The Dnestr smoothly moves its waters. It couldn’t care less what is happening on the banks. It didn’t care less one hundred, or two hundred years ago. It won’t care less for a thousand more. What is its business with two people who are standing on the balcony and finishing their morning coffee? In a few minutes these people will go downstairs, sit down in different cars, and go: one to the West, and one to the East. The desire to scream is unbearable: there is no more time for partings and travels in different directions? But circumstances are beyond their power. They cannot control them so far. Therefore the suitcases snapped shut, announcing that this wonderful summit, after so many years, is over.