Love Is Never Past Tense... (9 page)

***

Around ten o’clock in the evening the electric train brakes began to squeal in the capital of Moldavia.

The weather was excellent. Warm evening air filled the lungs, and the smell of summer was striking the nostrils. People tumbled out of the station, dragging backpacks and suitcases with different belongings inside. The crowd was forming lines, but the approaching trolley buses cut pieces off, and carried them into the city.

Janna certainly wished to go by taxi. But the line for a taxi was long too, and to wait for a long time could not be helped … until they noticed Valera. He stood at the front of a line. Janna, with her characteristic ability to never miss a moment, rushed towards him.

Valera, having seen Serge, was not as glad for this meeting. But, he gave them a lift to the house, naturally at his expense with undisguised arrogance.

“Isn’t Valera a sweetheart, even though he has some eccentricities?” Janna said when they left the car. But Serge didn’t care: Valera was uninteresting to him. Much later he learned of Valera’s untimely death from an overdose of drugs …

Janna’s habitation
²⁵
was a small one-story house on a scrap of ground. Small fruit trees, currant bushes, and some other vegetation grew around. However, no one tended to it, and it was given over to the arbitrariness of destiny. A lop-sided gate with a rattling chain closed the entrance to the yard. From the windows of her hut, light streamed, and with the clink of the chain, an elderly woman came out. Serge understood that this was Janna’s mother. Mom had a loud, hoarse voice. She was not able to speak quietly or slowly. As soon as she saw her daughter, the garden was filled with enthusiastic exclamations. From depths of the foyer came one more character—a thin girl. She began to jump around Janna (who towered above her), trying to hang on her neck. Serge appeared to be forgotten and, remaining in the shadow of the trees, observed the greeting scene. At last, it was his turn, and he was presented as George’s cousin—the inveterate tourist who needed to get familiar with the capital of Moldavia.

After that, Serge was forgotten again, and left to himself.

From nowhere visitors began to arrive. They came in pairs, or alone, and soon the small room became crowded. Not to cause a commotion, Serge nested in a corner. He put an absent look on his face, but kept an interested eye on everything. By their appearance, the way they behaved, and their conversations, the people were local bohemians. They were talking about the cinema, news, theatre, who arrived where, who they met, what was new in the philharmonic society, and so many other things. Serge didn’t have the slightest clue about what they were talking about and was afraid that they would ask his opinion.

Mother rattled saucepans in the kitchen, someone helped her, and from there fragments of phrases and laughter filled the air. This pandemonium worked unpleasantly on Serge. He had counted on silence, a wide bed, and Janna’s closeness. He felt tired, broken, and terribly hungry.

At last, in the chaos, some organization started to loom. On the table, products of culinary art began to appear: fried eggs with bacon, cut sausage, bread, and … a decanter with vodka. Serge was not attracted to the vodka, but he could eat all the food by himself. He became gloomy that he needed to share with everyone. However, the bohemians considered eating a lot of food plebeian and Serge had an opportunity to snatch a bigger piece, but the alcohol (in the bottle there was pure, high-proof alcohol) was gloriously consumed by them.

They also poured for Serge. The alcohol burned his mucous membranes, choked his throat, and the company became repugnant to him. He swallowed often, trying to rescue his throat, but nothing helped, and tears welled up in his eyes. To hide his indisposition, he left for the porch and lit a cigarette. A thin chatterbox ran out to him, and started to shower him with questions: “Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you with Janna? What is your relationship?” Serge answered evasively. He had a devilish desire to send her to hell, but did not want to insult her. However, all this receded into the background, because as the nausea was driving up his throat, his language dried up, and his only thought was how to keep from vomiting.

It was already late. The “high society” poured into the courtyard and intended to leave for their homes. Janna spun among them. She listened and spread compliments, and kissed everyone at parting. When the crowd was past the gate, Serge looked with disgust at the narrow-shouldered, deformed figures of the "patrons of art” and spit between his legs. Janna stood at the gate and exchanged a few last sentimental phrases. Serge switched his view to her bronze legs which had been snatched out from the darkness by a shaft of door light, and with a malicious greed wanted her. He imagined how he would sadistically seize her, but immediately dropped this idea because her mother appeared on the threshold.

“Janna, are you smoking?” she cried out.

“No, Mom.”

“Watch it, do not smoke. I am going to sleep.” At last, Janna remembered about Serge and sat down on his lap.

“Give me a cigarette.”

“Take one.” Serge leaned on the warm wall of the house. Janna took a drag.

“How do you like my friends?”

“So-so, I didn’t get a taste.”

“They are charming. True?”

“Maybe.”

“Kiss me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Kiss me, I said!” She imperiously looked at him and pouted with her lush lips.

Serge touched them.

“You are able to kiss better.” She tenderly leaned towards him.

“Well kiss me; your lips are so soft.” Serge felt like some narcotic substance went to his legs, and rose up higher, into his head. He embraced her …

“Behind the house, in the garden, there is a bed. I will go and get a mattress …” Janna whispered to his face.

“Here it comes. She is mine. Now she does not lie, she really wants it.” It seemed to Serge, that this already happened some time ago, and that it occurs every day, and here again he would be in bed with a woman, so close and so familiar …

Janna came out, covered by a mattress, a blanket and pillows.

The bed was narrow, rusty, and had a sagging grid. They sat down on the edge, not daring to start for the sake of what they came here to do. Through the half-naked garden the street was visible, and shadows of passers-by occasionally flashed. Serge wearily tumbled down on the pillows and closed his eyes. He was not rushing. But weariness prevailed. Falling asleep, he felt a descending weight. The bed took the form of a hammock, and it became very uncomfortable. Serge tried to move, but the bed was too narrow. Janna seemed to be very heavy and inappropriate in the hanging space. He wanted to push her out from here and plunge into a sweet dream. But his desire from all the previous days woke up his body. Serge took off his shirt, threw off his trousers and covered himself with a thick blanket. Janna immediately pressed him to herself. She had wide hips, and she accepted him. She quietly and languidly waited, for the time when he would do what he so aspired to all these days. Serge tried to stir her, to excite reciprocal passion, but he lost control. From his throat, a hoarse groan was pulled out. The delightful wave lifted him, with a violent forceful whirlwind, immersing him in an abyss, and then rolled away leaving him, soft, exhausted, and barely trembling …

The breeze rustled through the leaves. On the ground the first yellow leaflets silently fell. Autumn was coming …

***

Time flew imperceptibly. They left behind not only three days, but ten days. It was difficult for Serge to watch the days fly by, and he didn’t even want to do this—he did not want to leave this carefree life, and there was no reason to speed it up.

Every morning, half asleep, but pretending to be deeply sleeping, Serge waited, laying on his folding bed until the time when her mother would leave the house and go to work. The gate chain was a signal: as soon as its clanking became silent, Janna’s imperious voice called to the sleeper and Serge moved from the narrow creaking folding bed to Janna’s wide and soft bed. They seldom rose until lunch. Only the unique force of famine was able to unclench their embrace. Getting up was always difficult and undesirable. Janna usually rose first, and spent a long time in the house, flaunting Eve's suit, unwillingly leaving Serge’s warmth, but also his sight.

She usually finished putting on makeup and getting ready in about an hour, dressed in clothes, and only then was allowed in the street. At that point, the idea of a meal completely owned Serge. He hastened to put on his clothes, and together, they went out to dine. Sitting down at a convenient little table, they ordered so much food that to eat it all was practically impossible. They became drowsy from the meal and carried their bodies to a small park where they sat full and happy, gradually talking about everything.

By the evening, they again found the ability to move and went to the lake, or to the cinema, or simply wandered on the streets depending on their mood.

Their stormy life began later, closer to the night when a normal Soviet worker gets in a hurry to depart to a dream. The nightlife of our heroes was filled with table-talks with Janna's friends about literature and art. When the attraction to beauty was increased by doses of strong drink, Serge would lose the context of the discussions. But he felt some falseness when everyone sitting around had such smart looks on their faces; it was a disgrace to look that clever when everyone considered themselves an expert in almost everything and with full competence expressed their thoughts on things when they didn’t have the foggiest notion.

Once they were invited by a musician for a cup of coffee and a pair of jazz records. The coffee was tasteless, the equipment magnificent, and the records incomprehensible. In a small room about ten people were placed—all of them passionate music fans. In the corners were hanging speakers. On the floor multi-colored wires that looked like worms crept about, and next to a window stood a second-hand Yennika
²⁶
electronic piano. On the old shabby sofa sat the owner, thin and long. His head was moderately shaking to the music on a lean neck. His eyes were closed and he rose into the world of sharps and flats, scales and chords, and from his temple the treble clef spread. His coffee cooled down—he had no time for coffee. It seemed that only he understood this set of sounds and derived pleasure. The others glanced at him with the same spiritualized look, but they did not forget to sip from their coffee cups.

Serge listened to the first side of the record, trying to get into its essence. The end of the second side—he waited with impatience. Brought up on heavy rock rising in popularity at that time, Serge did not care for any other music, just like his many peers—twenty-year-old playboys. All his friends were raised on Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and Slade, and none dared miss the rock opera
Jesus Christ Superstar
.

When the player started spinning one more record, Serge felt a loss of energy. Jazz—is a complex genre, and its circle of fans are able to hear something special that is not given to anyone else. It seemed, out of all the company, that only the host could be considered that type of person.

Serge caught Janna's eye, and they began to play ‘viewers’: the one who blinks first—loses. It seems, Janna won. After the click of the record player’s self-locking device, she called everyone to judge who had longer lips, Serge or her. A school ruler appeared, and they began to measure. Janna’s lips appeared to be longer.

The musician was praised for a miraculously spent evening, and the whole company moved to visit one more representative of beauty, a well-known sculpture artist. In her studio, there was a set of hand-made articles from clay, plaster, and stone. Everyone admired her talent, and admired the reproductions of painters, hanging on the walls. But, the table layout was the most interesting …

Here too were fans of music, but as they had only started to love it, they only had one record. Through hissing and a crash the voice of Adamo reached them. It was discovered that everyone loved to dance, and Adamo had to work very hard, and for this everyone loved him too. Serge did not remember how he reached his folding bed. But he reached it, and this happened at daybreak … the next day.

***

Serge woke up from conversation in an adjacent room.

“Janna, it seems to me that Serge is not George’s cousin,” said her mother. “He doesn’t look like him at all.”

Serge never even looked his ‘cousin’ in the eyes, but thought that her mother was absolutely right—Serge could not resemble George in any way.

“Who is he, Janna?”

“Yes, Mom, he is not George’s cousin. But I love him and that makes it a good enough reason for him to be here.”

“Is he a good person?”

“Yes, very much.”

“You sure?”

“Mom, you ask too many questions. I want to sleep. I will tell you everything later.”

“All right, I have to go. Today I will go to my sister’s. Don’t wait for me.”

“That’s good. When will you return?”

“Tomorrow evening or the day after tomorrow.”

“All right, do not worry, Mom. Everything will be ОК!”