Metronome, The (12 page)

When I get back, the organizer announces that it’s time to “visit the Red Square and then go to a restaurant.” We are told to stay together as we start walking to the square in a bitter cold. Snowflakes are dancing in the air like little dervishes. The two American girls are just in front of me, they are clearly freezing. I hear a whisper in my ear, “Pavel, let’s split. It’s too damn cold, I have a flat nearby, and I just cashed in the Kremlin store coupons.”

It’s Leonid Krasnov, usually known by the diminutive Lyonechka. He is a graduate student in my department, smart but much more interested in parties and girls than in physics. He can get away with pretty much anything because he comes from a pure lineage of old Bolsheviks: his great-grand-parents defended Moscow from the White armies, his grand-parents were Party’s stalwarts that managed to avoid Stalin’s purges and died from natural causes, rare case for the people of their time and position. Many nights they must have woken up in cold sweat, hearing noises and heavy steps, but there was no knocks on their door. Now his parents are important diplomats in the Foreign Service. They live abroad and Lyonechka has a free reign of their large three room apartment in the center of Moscow, making his friends indirect beneficiaries. By the Soviet standards, the apartment was richly, even over-the-top decorated: paintings, Persian rugs, crystal goblets, delicate jade vases, extensive collection of good books – all displayed as a sign of social prestige.

Foreigners don’t understand what having an apartment meant in the 1980’s Soviet Union, where privacy was at a great premium. Lyonechka, despite his slight stature and rather bland looks, was one of the most popular people in the University. Young lovers were always asking him for permission to use the apartment for their trysts. I admit to using the flat a few times with Anya. Rumors flew that even some of the faculty took advantage. To Lyonechka’s credit, he was generous with his favors and did not try to profit from his position beyond reason, although he’s been known to sleep with some of the girls that needed a place to stay for a few days. Lyonechka also threw great parties that featured alcohol and food from the Kremlin food store. One had to have special coupons to shop there, which Lyonechka’s parents had been receiving monthly. I’ve been to a few of these parties, they pretty much always ended up in general intoxication, sex, and women’s underwear disappearing – which Lyonechka was supposedly collecting. There was only one rule: Don’t break things. Two students that broke a vase by drunkenly tossing it back and forth had been permanently banned from the apartment.

In these circumstances, Lyonechka was trouble and I obviously should have known better. But the thought of delicacies and having a shot of vodka on a bitterly cold day clouds my judgment. I was not the only one seduced by Lyonechka’s offer: somehow six of us separate under the cover of falling snow – Lyonechka, me, Olga and Vadim, a couple from the theater department, and the two American girls that smiled at me in the library. Lyonechka quickly ducks into a back street, and we follow, giggling in a youthful excitement of doing something that we are not supposed to do. One of the American girls, the one I locked eyes with, puts her arm through mine. Despite the cold, my face gets hot again. I hope she does not see it. I did not get her name during the introductions, so I ask her in a stammering voice.

“Karen Baker,” she says.

“I am Pavel Rostin,” I reciprocate.

“I know, you are the brilliant physicist.” She laughs.

Her teeth are chattering. I free my arm and put it around her shoulders. She snuggles to me and puts her arm around my waist. Her touch feels natural and familiar, like we have gone together for years.

Lyonechka was telling the truth about cashing in his Kremlin store coupons. The kitchen has caviar, smoked salmon, sausages, meats, salads, fruits and plenty of vodka and champagne. I sit next to Karen Baker. The flat is warm, so we peel off our heavy overcoats, hats, jackets. Karen is almost as tall as I am, with straight blonde hair reaching half-way down her spine, a cute button nose, brown eyes, and a beautiful smile showing two rows of perfect white teeth. Her skirt is riding up, showing nice legs. I feel the heat of her body next to mine.

Karen is a senior in college, studying history. We are all having a great time trying to converse in a broken English. We drink for friendship between our countries, for world peace, for victory over the Nazi Germany, for beautiful women. In the back of my mind I think that someone must be looking for us and this will not end well, but I chase the worry away with a drink.

After a third glass of vodka, I lose some of my inhibitions, stand up, and read my bad version of one of Pushkin’s poems:

My angel, perhaps my sins
Make me unworthy of your love.

But please pretend!
Your one look will easily deceive me,

And I am only too happy to be deceived!

Everyone laughs and applauds. I am not going to tell them that last year I worked with a tutor to improve my English by making translations of Pushkin’s poems. Of course, my translations are amateurish, and normally I would not dare to utter them in public, but vodka is a great equalizer.

In my mind, I see Anya’s image. We’ve been making out on this very couch not long ago. After three years of dating, her parents treated my as their son-in-law. Hot feeling of shame washes over me. I chase the thought away, I am here, I am free, I am excited. I don’t need the guilt. I have to understand the jolt of recollection that surged through my body when I locked eyes with Karen Baker.

Olga asks me to read more, and I oblige:

I love you, even though

I am mad at myself for this passion,

As I confess in despair at your feet.

Lyonechka enjoys watching me making a fool of myself, and he laughs. “Poetry in Russia is a serious business, especially with women.”

“Yes, poetry in Russia is respected, it gets people killed,” I reply. In response to puzzled looks, I explain, “It was not me who said it, it was Osip Mandelstam. He was killed by Stalin’s goons.”

Karen leans to me and whispers, “Read some poetry just for me.”

Her breast is hot against my side. She smells good. I whisper back:

I remember the magic moment

When you appeared before me,

A fleeting vision of perfect beauty.

Olga starts making out with Vadim, her boyfriend. I lean over to Karen and carefully kiss her lips. She swings her arm around my neck, and her tongue slips into my mouth. I touch her breast; we are still locked in a kiss and I feel how her breathing quickens and her other hand presses on the top of my leg. I never wanted someone this bad. The couple that was making out disappears. Now Lyonechka and the other American girl start kissing in the corner of the room. Karen pulls my hand, and we go to a bedroom, but it’s already occupied by the first couple, unmistakably having sex. We wander through a dark apartment and find another room. We are so excited, we can barely wait to close the door.

I wake up in the morning from the cold. Snow is still falling outside. Karen is quietly snoring next to me; we are covered by a thin blanket of unknown origin. I move her hair and uncover a small, delicate ear. I look at her and then shut my eyes from the wave of tenderness that spreads through my body. Her image is engraved in me as if we have known each other for hundreds of years. I suddenly can’t imagine the world without this girl that I’ve met only a few hours ago. She wakes up, looks at me, kisses me hard and whispers, “More poetry, please.”

I recite Akhmatova’s words about love:

Love is like a snake,

It coils, enchanting the heart.

“You are a strange physicist,” murmurs Karen. We warm each other up by making love again. Then the other two couples show up, wearing blankets. An argument ensues between Karen and the other American girl; we figure out that the other girl is concerned about being away from their group, which Karen does not want to go back to yet.

The other girl laughs, points at me, and says “She wants to marry you!” Everyone laughs, except for Karen and me. I realize that we’ll have to part soon and for a moment I can’t breathe. We find more food and stay in until the late morning. The snow stops, the sun makes an appearance, and we all venture outside and go to the Alexander Gardens by the Kremlin walls, fresh snow sparkling and crunching under our feet.

Karen holds on to my arm and starts crying. The other American girl says, “She does not want to leave,” and looks at me as if I am the one at fault here. At that, Lyonechka comes up with “We can get you married today.” We laugh because it’s ridiculous and completely impossible, but he insists: “I know a
refusenik
that lives not too far, he applied to emigrate back in 1978, never got the permission, so he became a rabbi. He can marry you.”

This makes no sense whatsoever, but we don’t want the adventure to end yet, so the four of us take the metro to
refusenik
’s flat. Olga and Vadim peel off, sensing trouble. The unfortunate
refusenik
is there and foolishly lets us in. We explain our purpose. His first question is, “Are you Jewish?” I am not. Turns out neither is Karen.

The rabbi walks out of the room and comes back with a bottle of vodka. “I am sorry, I am not experienced. This requires some thinking.” He drinks and deliberates out loud. “I don’t think there is anything in the Jewish tradition that forbids me from officiating at non-Jewish marriages. It will not be a valid wedding under Jewish law, 
halachah
, but since you are non-Jews, it does not matter to you. As long as you make a commitment to each other in good times and bad, yes, I think I can marry you.”

In good times and bad…That’s the tough part, is not it?

Karen and I walked out of the
refusenik
’s flat with a handwritten marriage certificate drawn on a piece of lined notebook paper, still treating this as an adventure, not quite comprehending what just happened. Lyonechka and I took Karen and her friend to the hotel they were staying in. Karen threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, giving rise to lewd smiles of a small assortment of KGB and “Intourist” personnel around. As she was about to enter the hotel, Karen turned back to look at me, her eyes full of blame: “How can you let me go?” An overweight woman from the delegation grabbed her arm and gave me an angry stare. I almost screamed: “Don’t touch her! Let her come back!”

Less than a block away, I am stopped by two plain-clothed officers. I expect to be taken to the infamous Lubyanka, but they just question me in their car. I am given a dressing down, reminding me how I did not behave in a manner appropriate to the Soviet standards. Turns out there was a major commotion about the American tourists that disappeared, and our chaperones contacted the university. According to the
propiska
, the Soviet system of residence permits, both Lyonechka and I lived in the dormitory. It was only this morning that someone at the university figured out where we were given Lyonechka’s involvement – but they must have missed us by a few minutes.

Before they let me out, one of the officers asks conspiratorially, “So, how was it fucking an American? Did she have any special tricks?”

They both laugh. I grind my teeth and say nothing.

The second officer adds, “Well, she was probably curious to see if the Russian dick is any different. She’ll have stories to tell for her American friends. Don’t worry, you won’t hear from her again.”

From time to time, I looked at the handwritten marriage certificate, reminding me that this really happened and wondering whether it’ll mean anything or just remain a piece of paper that will gather dust in a drawer of my desk. The life went back to its normal routine, I had research to do, courses to teach. Lyonechka got in trouble, but his parents bailed him out. Except that Anya and I were awkwardly avoiding each other. Except for that moment when I woke up and could not imagine the world without Karen kept coming back to me in the early morning hours.

Sometime later, I received a visit from two different officers. They again asked me about Karen Baker, I admitted to the events but blamed the vodka. After nodding in understanding, one of the officers said, “Do you know who Sam Baker is?” I had no idea. Turns out Karen’s father was a U.S congressman. And then the other officer added, “And she is pregnant.” U.S. newspapers picked up the story, making it sound like the Soviet government was preventing me from re-uniting with my pregnant wife. “Let Pavel Rostin Go!” headline was smack on the front page. Star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet, you name it – every cliché had been dragged out and splashed on newspapers’ pages and TV screens. Partly out of those early mornings’ memories, partly due to guilt – what kind of a man abandons his child? – I requested the permission to be reunited with my wife.

In a bizarre development, the local army office,
voenkomat
, had called me in. Generally, the mandatory service in the glorious Soviet Army would be deferred while one was in college, often indefinitely if you are doing some work of importance. But there I was, requesting a permission to unite with some capitalist adventuress. I looked like a perfect target for three years of psychological and physical abuse in the army. But when I dutifully appeared as summoned, the colonel in the recruitment department was confused. Technically, I was an officer by virtue of going through years of ROTC-like service in college. The logical thing would have been to strip me of my lieutenant’s rank and ship me off to some remote and dangerous location where no U.S. congressman would find me. The war in Afghanistan was still going on. But the Soviet Union was one massive, centrally managed bureaucratic state, and the bureaucracy does not easily deal with exceptions. The wheels of the military due process had ground to a halt; they did not want to take me as an officer, but they also could not strip me of my rank just because I got an American pregnant while being a civilian.