Moonlight in Odessa (11 page)

‘I already tried computer dating. It didn’t work. Besides, I’m still corresponding with one of Milla from Donetsk’s men.’

‘If you refer to him as Milla’s man, he must not have a place in your heart. I’m sure this time will be different – the technician promised a simple questionnaire with fool-proof results. I need you to do it. For me. For research purposes. I’ll give you a bonus,’ she smiled winningly. I could see why she’d been an effective Party leader. And why I was here five nights a week.

‘Fine. For you. I’ll try it,’ I said as one of the clients joined us.

‘Hello, I’m Robert,’ he said nervously and held out his right hand. I shook it. He was what Jane would call a geek – a sweet, intelligent guy. He was tall and thin, and boyishly handsome, though he needed a haircut and more flattering clothes. Why do men wear XXL shirts and scuffed shoes?

‘You seem a bit young,’ I commented.

‘People always say that. I’m actually thirty. Ready to settle down and start my life. I have a good job and a nice house. I want to share that with someone.’

I nodded. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘I’m not like most guys here. I can’t just pick a girl out of a hat. Or out of a room. I was hoping you could . . . help. I want someone who is smart, kind, and not too pretty.’

‘Not too beautiful?’ I asked. This was certainly a first.

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ he said.

‘When you work in this atmosphere you certainly forget that is true. Mostly, the prettiest girls find mates first.’ For the first time, I actually enjoyed conversing, even commiserating, with a client.

He nodded. ‘Ideally, she’d already speak English.’

‘What do you like to do in your free time?’ I asked.

‘I like to read, cook, and garden.’

I looked at Robert speculatively, and wondered if he could be the man for me. Then I remembered Will from Albuquerque and felt disloyal. The Grande Dame put the cherry on the cake when she chose that exact moment to say, ‘Daria, you’re my best interpreter – the only one who wouldn’t dream of keeping a client for herself. Thank you for your trustworthiness. You’re a good girl.’

Guilt and shame – two strong motivators.

I helped Robert find a shy, sweet English-speaking girl and left them to it. Valentina Borisovna reminded me to hurry so that I wouldn’t miss the last bus to my district. I needn’t have rushed. As always, it was late. When the woman standing beside me saw the bus arrive, she groaned. Nearly midnight, and it was packed. We made eye contact and shrugged, as if to say, what else? I’d ridden this bus for years and had never had a seat. I almost wished Vladimir Stanislavski would drive by and offer me a ride. He often did in the evening, but I always said no. I stared straight ahead so he wouldn’t know that I knew he followed me to the bus stop, then trailed the bus to make sure I got home safely. Once, when I’d wanted to sit on the seashore and watch the waves, I accepted his invitation. We drove to a deserted beach and sat on the sand, looking out at the horizon. He held my hand. I told no one.

I sighed. At my stop, I stood and looked at the tall buildings in the moonlight. If Will came, this is what he would see – tombstones sticking out of the earth. I didn’t want that. It occurred to me that between my jobs and the thank yous for helping get shipments through customs, I’d amassed nearly enough to buy a flat in the center. The thought excited me. I had come to hate our building. There were even moments I’d come to hate my life, though I suppressed these feelings deep, deep inside of me.

The parking lot was full. Harmon’s car was parked on the sidewalk right in front of the door. He’d mentioned that having Olga live with him would be convenient. There were even bets going on which day she would move in. Vita and Vera had picked next Friday. I’d picked two months hence. I looked up at her flat. The lights were still on. I sighed. And went into the gray tomb. And trudged up the stairs.

As always, Boba opened the last of the locks. She took my purse and slid my blazer off my shoulders. Jane told me that in America, there were many ‘latchkey kids’ who came home to an empty house. I felt sorry for these children, who did not know how it felt to be met by a loving grandmother.

‘Such a hardworking girl,’ she said with a smile. ‘I made you a special dish for dinner.’

‘You always spoil me, Boba. Thank you,’ I said and kissed her cheek.

‘It’s been ages since we’ve seen Olga.’

I bent down to pull off my heels. ‘She’s busy.’

‘Probably found another pigeon to pluck,’ Boba muttered.

So she’d heard the rumors about Harmon.

She escorted me to the kitchen and turned on the water so I could wash before dinner. She pulled the dishcloth from her shoulder and I dried my hands. As I ate oven-roasted red peppers and kasha, Boba peppered me with questions. She was fascinated by the socials – we certainly didn’t have anything like them before perestroika. If someone had told me that in the future men would be able to choose a bride from a catalog, I would have told him to quit drinking so much home-made vodka.

Boba didn’t have any respect for Odessan guys, but in the evening while waiting for me to come home, watching American movies with their beautiful homes and happily-ever-afters, she got the impression that their men were hardworking and serious. She hoped a rich, cultured foreigner would fall in love with me and take me back to his American mansion by the sea.

‘
Nu
?’ she asked. ‘Did you meet anyone good?’

‘Boba, how many times have I told you that I am there to help other girls find husbands, not to find one for myself?’

‘It doesn’t hurt to look,’ she said.

I hugged her and said, ‘You know I have a boyfriend. We correspond by computer.’

‘Comb-poo-tair,’ she scoffed. ‘How could that possibly work?’

It could work quite well. Will in Albuquerque wrote that he couldn’t come after all and asked if I wanted to visit him.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
I wrote.
It’s my dream to go to America! I would love to meet you!

I buzzed around the office until Harmon tried to swat me like a fly.

Now that he no longer hounded me, I found myself missing our talks in the boardroom when the lights were out. No one had ever exasperated me as much as Harmon, but no one but Boba had ever trusted me as he did – I was the only person in Odessa who had the keys to our offices and to his flat. He’d given me both sets the first month. Even Olga didn’t have them. Though I hadn’t respected the initial agreement, he still had food from our ships delivered to my flat. Boba had never eaten so well in her entire life – even though we had a little money now, she refused to spend it on luxuries such as strawberries out of season. I was relieved that he was with Olga. That he left me alone. Yet I felt sad. Surely it was because I had lost Olga’s friendship.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

I heard something smash against the wall in Harmon’s office, then drop to the floor.

‘Why have a state-of-the-art phone if the telephone lines are shit? I can’t believe this place. I’m supposed to have a conference call and I can’t hear a goddamn thing!’

I tiptoed in to see the damage. The phone was in pieces on the parquet. Harmon sat at his desk, his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands. It scared me to see him like this. I backed out.

On a normal day, he seemed invincible. Maybe because his barrel chest made him appear commanding and strong. Maybe because his appearance – suits expensive, hands soft, thick hair perfectly coiffed – indicated that he was not one of us. Because unlike Odessans, who watched the bazaar prices climb and their salaries freeze, he didn’t have to worry whether he got paid on the thirtieth of this month or of the next, whether there was a sugar shortage, whether he could pay for medicine. Anything he wanted came on our ships. And like them, he could set sail.

What did he know about hardship?

‘Coffee?’ I yelled from my desk, then reentered and swept up the batteries and pieces of plastic.

He looked at me. His tie was crooked, his breathing ragged. The expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to yell. Or kill someone. Or bawl.

‘Better make it a double,’ he finally said. The words came out hoarsely, like a sigh.

I knew what that meant and poured a splash of cognac into both cups.

We sat in the boardroom like we used to. He took a sip and said, ‘The only good thing about living in Odessa is that you can drink at work and it’s totally understandable. In fact, it would be surprising if you
didn’t
drink.’

I laughed. ‘Surely it’s not the only thing.’

He looked at me. ‘No.’

His gaze was hot like it used to be. He closed his eyes and shook his head as if he were reminding himself of something. ‘That writer you recommended. Babel.’

‘What did you think?’ I asked, grateful to be back on safer ground.

‘Ferocious. My God. “Just forget for a minute that you have spectacles on your nose and autumn in your heart. Stop being tough at your desk and stuttering when you’re out in the world. Imagine for one second that you raise hell in public places and stammer on paper . . . If rings had been fastened to the earth and sky, you’d have seized those rings and pulled the sky down to earth. And your papa . . . What’s a papa like him think about? He thinks about gulping down a glass of vodka, slugging someone in their ugly mug, and his horses – nothing else. You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you do?”’

I just looked at him. This is how we Odessans entertain ourselves – a clever joke, a snippet of poetry, a passage of prose. It’s easy and natural for us. Reciting texts in front of an impatient class is a learning technique. I still remember poems I memorized when I was eight. But I never expected my boss to quote Babel.

‘“You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day.” That’s Dad.’ Harmon sounded bitter. And looked disheartened. Like a real Odessan.

After a year of working for Harmon and saving nearly every kopeck, I finally earned enough to buy a flat in the center for Boba and me, after selling ours in the sleeping district. It wasn’t difficult to find one with so many Jews emigrating to Germany and Israel. Most were happy to leave their lives and their homes in Odessa behind. Our new flat had a bedroom, parquet flooring, high ceilings, and large windows. A person feels better when she lives amidst beauty.

I loved being closer to Park Shevchenko and the sea, and it was liberating to be able to walk to work rather than taking public transport. Some of our buses came from the West, where they’d been retired because of gas leaks and mechanical problems. Often passengers vomited or passed out because fumes seeped inside. Asphyxiated by the misery. The decrepit buses lumbered down streets that hadn’t been maintained. Travel time was long. But the commute wasn’t the only reason I was glad to leave our building. I was glad because I would no longer hope Olga would visit. Here I knew she wasn’t coming.

Boba and I had packed my mother’s fashion magazines, thin towels, a brush with her hair nestled in the bristles. Basically, everything Mama had ever touched. We had so few photos of her. I put them in my purse so that they wouldn’t be lost. I pulled the small canvases Olga had given me from the wall and wrapped them in bed sheets. I followed the course of her development – from drawings in high school to neo-classic surrealism to gothic kitsch. I found a book I’d given her five years ago. As usual, we had exchanged presents a day before New Year’s Eve. She gave me a two-inch by two-inch painting. I gave her a book filled with photos of Albania. She took one look at it and threw it at my head. I ducked. It ricocheted off the chair and onto the floor.

‘Quit giving me fucking books!’

Who could blame her? Growing up in the Soviet Union, every New Year’s, every birthday, every International Women’s Day, I gave and received books. If you had no money and lived in a country where the shop shelves were empty, what else could you buy? Books were cheap and plentiful.

If you couldn’t leave your country, no matter how you longed to escape, what could you do? How could you travel? Through books. This is why Odessans start nearly every sentence with, ‘I read that’ or ‘Apparently . . .’ We couldn’t go anywhere, but we could read.
I read that the Bible is a translation of a translation of a translation, so no one can be sure that the stories are accurate. Apparently, Sofia will soon be the new Paris. According to one poll, Edgar Allan Poe is the most famous dead poet of all time
. Yet our shelves were filled with novels we didn’t have time to read set in countries we would never see. The only state we could travel to was the state of irony. To remove ourselves from the office of wanderlust and longing, we made jokes. We made Odessa the humor capital of the former Soviet Union.

I packed the book on Albania. And so many other things I should have left behind.

In our new neighborhood the buildings were only five stories high. Ours was painted Tuscan yellow. This warm color, in addition to the wisteria vines and small wishing well, made the courtyard feel inviting. The new flat was closer to everything – my job, the main bazaar, the polyclinic, the beach, Boba’s friends. Perhaps I was unconsciously planning my departure by making things easier for my grandmother to get along without me. I wondered how things would work out with Will. We had a bedroom for him if he changed his mind about coming to Odessa. I didn’t tell Boba that he wanted me to visit. I didn’t tell anyone. How I missed Olga. I wanted to tell her all about Will, that I was going to America. To ask her advice about redecorating our new flat. To share my happiness with a friend. I’d been so wrong to introduce her to Harmon. Without Olga, there was no one to tell.