Love Is Never Past Tense... (7 page)

“Don’t you know? I was on a business trip in the GDR.
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I became exhausted—what a horror. So, I am here on a cultural vacation. By the way, I am also going to marry—her.” Valera nodded in Mila’s direction. She modestly smiled and bashfully looked away.

“Why are you eating dry food?” he continued. “Really, don’t you have enough for a glass of wine? Well, I’ll treat you …”

After a while, on the table, there appeared bottles and every possible snack. Valera, probably, decided to impress everyone with his largesse. He pulled out a thick wallet and paid for the wine, for the steak, and for a tip for the waiter. He did all of this in such a way that it seemed that he would start to pay for the table next to them. He liked to be the center of attention and did not hide it. The conversation with Janna dove into Kishinev life like a spoon into porridge. There was little to understand, and to Serge, it was uninteresting. Mila did not participate in the conversation either, and slowly sipped from her glass. She was a very timid girl.

Her transparent eyes were gentle and tender. She could not bear direct eye contact and hastily lowered her eyelids. She tried to thank someone, when that person was only about to do a favor. It was the embodiment of femininity, charming, but still childish. She was studying at ballet school.

Exchanging short phrases with Mila, Serge secretly snuck a look at Janna. “Why did she talk about a groom? Did she simply say these words, or was there some deeper meaning behind it? This phrase could prevent unwanted attention from Valera. But what for? Valera is with a lady. Did her words just tumble out? Then she has it on her mind. She wanted me to think about it. So, she achieved what she wanted: I am thinking about it. Although nothing similar came into my head until now. The bride, hа! What nonsense!”

Janna and Valera debated with fervency about the behavior of a mutual friend. Janna often switched into English, which surprised and intrigued Serge. Knowledge of foreign languages by someone in the USSR was more often the exception, rather than the rule. Only lucky people were going abroad, but mostly to other socialist countries. About the capitalist countries, mere mortals did not even dream. To meet foreigners and make friends with them was not only welcomed, but was even pursued. Yet to do this was dangerous. Why would you study languages? Where is the incentive? In any case, the people who surrounded Serge, both at school and at the institute, had no desire to study English or German. French, Spanish and other languages, were considered exotic, in general.
Under these circumstances, a person knowing more than one language gained esteem with anyone who came in contact with them. The image of such a person automatically rose. And, as Serge discovered, his newly-made friend was such a person: without any effort, she spit out English phrases that Serge could not understand. An inexplicable feeling of pride was forming, but it was immediately superseded by the sensation of a growing abyss between him and this woman. “Who am I for her? Her future husband? Baloney! What a milk sucker, what a greenhorn. Kisses are the only thing that she will allow you. You are simply a toy. She enjoys the opportunity to possess a lad, drowning in his sexual saliva. Maybe, she will allow herself to be close with you, for the sake of novelty sensations. But with this, her interest will end. What kind of a groom? Why did she say that?”

In the café, the wine had gone to Valera’s head, and finding himself in the street, he became adventurous.

“So, let’s go to a wonderful place I know. Quiet, no objections.” He ran across the street, and reigned in a taxi like a lathered horse. Valera hoisted himself in the front seat, and in the voice of a minister named the address. In the car, he sat half-turned around, and entertained the ladies with secular chatter. Mila perched like a kitty cat between Serge and Janna, laughing at the tricks of her future groom, and Serge could not understand what attracted her to this boaster.

The taxi drove to the harbor. It is one of the architectural masterpieces of mature socialism. But it was not love of architecture that attracted the adventure seekers here. On the second floor, behind the windows covered with curtains, existed the world where our heroes aspired to go. It was a well-known restaurant of the harbor. Actually, it was well-known, because reservations were impossible to get. In each city, there are many such fashionable restaurants, with high demand because the public made them so popular.

Of course, there were no seats available. The forcefulness of Valera opening his wallet changed nothing. They could only reach one possible agreement: the door-keeper would bring them a couple bottles of wine. They had to be satisfied with only these, though Serge was not upset. He was only upset with the prolonged company of Valera.

They went down to the pier. The night was warm and quiet. It smelled of the sea, with anchor ropes, and crude oil. Cutters, barges, tugboats, walking ships—the small and big fleet shone with signal lights, and the long light beams bounced above the water, as they shuddered and vibrated from the ripples. The lungs greedily sucked in the damp air. One’s chest breathed easily and freely, enjoying the smells of a powerful port.

“Hey, Serge, have a drink.” Valera pushed him sideways and handed him the uncorked bottle. Serge took a couple of swigs and started the jug around the circle. In a minute, the bottle came around again and appeared in his hands. He took a sip and put it down on the still warm stones of the pier. He became tired of standing and sat down on the pilings. It seemed Janna and Valera had not seen each other since the birth of the Christ. They briskly discussed everything. Mila stood at some distance, and then joined Serge. He silently handed her the bottle. She tasted it and gave the wine back. Serge turned the bottle towards himself, and understood that there was nothing left to share. He poured the warm contents into his stomach.

Suddenly, a sharp noise came from above them. On the terrace of the restaurant, a carousing couple ran out. The woman, tearing the silence with squeaky laughter, tried to be rescued from a guffawing drunken hog. He opened his arms, and tried to catch his naughty girl. At last, he succeeded. Perhaps because his inhibitions had been replaced by vodka or because he had a lot of passion for her, he leaned on her with all his mass, pushed her to the handrail, and began to squeeze and slobber on her with such impatience, that soon her dress split, and the seam of her sleeve tore apart. This abruptly changed her mood. She pulled away and delivered a weighty slap in the face. The slap resounded like an echo, and she hurried to disappear through the doors. The man pondered what happened for a minute or two, leaned on the rails and began to spit in the water. Then he noticed the group of people on the pier and whistled.

“Hey you, on the pier, treat me with a cigarette.” And he came downstairs, reeling from side-to-side.

“Don’t bother. We don’t have more cigarettes,” shouted Valera.

“Ayyyy, I don’t believe you. People like you can’t be out of cigarettes. Let’s have a drink.” The man was almost next to them. Valera took a step towards him and started barking at him like a pug dog, wanting to prove that the guy didn’t need to drink any more. He told him, “Go back to your company.”

“I will still be in good time for my company,” the good-natured lout put his weighty hand on Valera’s shoulder. But suddenly, with a wrestling move, Valera removed the hog’s hand and jumped aside, holding his fists at the ready.

The drunkard began to blink rapidly and said, “Hey dude, you shouldn't have done that. Now you fucked up.” The man got ready to pound Valera, who was half his size. This business was taking an unpleasant turn. Serge got up, took an empty bottle, and broke it on the asphalt between the two fighters.

“This is over, guys! Hey buddy, people are getting tired of waiting for you. And we have some business to do too.” Serge turned Valera around and nudged his back between his shoulders. Not looking back, the four trudged away.

Soon they forgot about the incident. They came close to Potemkin’s Stairs.
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Here Valera had a brainstorm. He picked up Janna and carried her up the stairs. On the first platform, he stopped and shouted:

“Hey, who wants to go higher? Get her!” He nodded towards Mila. One must be an idiot to walk up the stairs, particularly Potemkin’s Stairs, and particularly with a woman in his arms and on cotton legs, tired out from the whole day. But the intoxicated mind can barely think, and Serge swept up Mila. She was really light, like a ballerina, but this was enough. His wine-weakened muscles behaved horribly. Serge walked a flight with difficulty and, afraid that his heart would jump out of his chest, he lowered Mila down. Valera, in the meantime, ascended another two flights and guffawed victoriously.

Mila rose on tiptoe and touched Serge’s hot cheek with her lips. “Thank you,” she said, and easily climbed upward. They climbed to the platform where Valera and Janna stood.

“I knew you would lose,” said Valera. “When you carried Janna over the road, your spine was caved in, and I understood that you are not as strong as you seem …”

“Valera, when you went to the GDR did you hit your head somewhere?” asked Serge, and he moved further up the stairs.

“Maybe we will fight!” shouted Valera, but Serge did not stop. There was no rage in him, and there was no desire to fight. “So, the friends have showed up,” he thought. “Some George, not from this world. And this one, looking like someone hit him from around the corner with a big sack. I wonder, are all her friends like this?”

The Stairs, at last, ended. Valera and Janna passed by, and Janna tried to calm her friend who had behaved like a rooster in a henhouse. Mila caught up with Serge, and they walked together. Serge was silent. Mila was also silent. Mila was lamb-like and quietly walked along the side, as if she was afraid to remind anyone of her presence. Serge did not care for this type of woman, but now she seemed pleasant to him. He discreetly looked at her. She smoothly moved her tiny legs, and occasionally slid her finger against the glass of shop-windows. In this moment, there was so much charm in her that Serge could not bear it; he stepped towards her, put his hands on her shoulders and touched her damp lips. She shuddered with unexpectedness, but when Serge tried to kiss her once again, she moved her palm in front of her mouth and whispered, "It is not necessary." She gave a look in the direction of Valera and noticed the significant distance. Serge wanted to embrace Mila, to pull her around a corner and join hands and quicken their pace without turning back, washing off these adult and complex beings who were somewhere ahead solving world problems.

On one of streets, the couples separated. Valera kissed Janna on the cheek and in exchange received the same ritual kiss. He did not even look at Serge. Having put his wide palm with short fingers on Mila’s back, he walked away. From behind, it seemed that he carried her, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck. Mila next to him was a thing, a jacket thrown over an arm: when it is needed, he will put it on, but for the moment, he lets it dangle …

Serge sourly watched them leave, turned away, and sighed deeply. He thought that he had the same role in their relationship with Janna. He turned and point-blank looked at his sputnik. She lowered her eyes.

“You know, I do not love such characters either. His father is a big shot, so he raised him that way … You understand. He even sent him to the GDR, for an internship.”

“That’s all right, enough of Valera. However, you were talking so affably with him.”

“But he is always really nice to me. By the way, he has a lot of opportunities. His daddy paves the way for him.”

“That means his daddy is
nuzhnik
.
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Understood. Well, where shall we go?”

“For the moment, nowhere. Kiss me!” They kissed, then once again, and again. Valera, and Mila with him, promptly dissolved into nonexistence …

It was long past midnight, after they’d wandered the streets of the falling-asleep Odessa, when they sat down on a small narrow bench on a lonely side street. The dark green mass of the trees completely hid them from the light of the lanterns. Janna stretched her legs, playing with the tips of her shoes. Her feet were small, not matching her height, which gave an aristocratic flair to the line of her foot. The miniature shoe and thin ankle would look graceful from under the folds of a long dress at some ball, a hundred and fifty years ago. A tall, shapely figure with a deep décolleté would be irresistible. Languid eyes and a wide, white-toothed smile would battle any suitor on the spot. Serge imagined himself as the duelist shooting away each contender. The right to possess such a woman is not cheap, and it is necessary to work hard to receive this right.

“This is my groom!” The phrase rung like a bell and was echoing in his brain. What drivel! The thin young man with long yellow hair looked like a chick that just hatched from an egg. He jumped a little bit around and landed in the embrace of a magnificent lady. And turned into her husband! It was simply a fairy tale about Ivanushka-Durachok.
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Serge clapped his knees, then got up and started walking back and forth. He was going to tell her that he felt very good with her, and that he had no desire to separate from her now, or in the future. He considered that spending two days with such a girl was already a great success in his life. He was glad and, maybe even happy, though he imagined poorly what it meant to be happy with a woman. He was grateful to her … But instead of telling her all this, he told an absurd joke about a flock of metal files which flew to the South, and one did not make it because it had no handles. Then he told her about the crocodile that crept over the railroad tracks. A train ran over him and the crocodile ascertained that his butt already arrived. Then Serge understood that he would not say anything about his confused feelings to her. And what for? The night was young, and he could kiss the chic young lady next to him if he wanted to—and if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t. Enjoy the moment—it may disappear. Why stir yourself up with vast reflections? Are you feeling good?—Good!