A few minutes later, the same guy comes back, with another five yobbos of the same age, holding cudgels. They approach the couple too quickly for Lena and Michel to realise that they are in trouble. They punch Michel without any warning, throwing him onto the pavement and kicking him with their boots. Then one of them starts searching Michel’s pockets and pulls out his wallet and passport. Lena begs them not to take his passport and credit cards, hysterically explaining that they would not be able to use them anyway. The one who asked for a cigarette, probably the ‘big brother’, pulls a knife, points it at her and threatens, ‘Shut up bitch! Let’s see what you’ve got in your purse?’ They take all their cash, their watches and my sister’s gold earrings, but they listen to what Lena said and throw the passport and the cards back onto the ground. The one with the knife directs again, ‘Come on guys, let’s get out of here.’ Before they disappear, he scornfully utters, ‘Don’t cry, baby, your fuck will not grow poor; in the meantime, we also need to eat.’
Lena helps Michel off the ground and they both hobble to the hotel’s lobby, where she calls a cab and they go to the nearest hospital. The doctor in the emergency room checks Michel and X-rays the parts of his body that hurt the most. Turns out that he has a small crack in his rib, minor bruises all over his body, and broken glasses. He also twisted his wrist when they knocked him down onto the pavement.
The doctor gives Michel some painkillers, a sling for his arm and a written report for the police. Lena calls another cab and they go to the police station.
It is late, and the station is empty and quiet. When the officer on duty shows up, he looks at the couple as if they’ve disturbed his slumber. He tries to put some interest and concern onto his face while Lena tells their story, but he still can’t hide his testiness. When she finishes, he smirks, narrows his eyes and looks at my sister.
‘What is your working nickname, miss?’ he asks knowingly, staring at her.
Lena, thrown off balance, lifts her eyebrows. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, miss, what I see here is a slightly different version of the story you have just told me. It’s obvious to me that you are just some local prostitute, who works that area to hook up with the hotel guests. First, you wormed yourself into the confidence of this Mr Rich Foreigner, then you gave him away to the gang of young yobbos you work with. Am I right, miss?’ He pauses condescendingly, looking very satisfied with his deduction skills, and continues.
‘Would you still like to proceed with your statement and with letting us investigate this robbery? Or maybe you should go back to the hotel and fuck your client as you are supposed to, and stop wasting my time and the taxpayers’ money?’
Freaking Hercule Poirot!
The words shove Lena into shock and she can’t find words to answer him. Her face goes pale and her eyes fill with tears. ‘Lena, sweetheart, what is he saying? Why are you upset?’ Michel is so confused.
She looks at him and whispers, ‘I think we are done here, Michel. Let’s go back to the hotel …’
Totally mixed up, he gets up off his chair and mutters, ‘Of course … let’s go. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what he said to you?’
Lena shakes her head and they leave.
The next day, Michel leaves. Lena decides to accompany him all the way to Kiev, to Borispol International. Michel’s cracked rib and injured arm make it really difficult for him to manage his luggage. Also, Lena still believes that he’s keeping his surprise proposal until the last moment, that right there in the airport he will go down on one knee, pull a little red velvet box from nowhere and make her the happiest woman in the world …
Seriously … what’s wrong with this woman?
Michel does get onto one knee when they arrive at the airport, but only to tie his shoelace. And the only vow he gives her is to call her when he gets home. When she comprehends that there will be no proposal, the tears blur her eyes.
‘Oh, don’t cry, baby. I will see you soon. Right?’
She nods her head, grateful for his not-so-piercing nature.
Another heartbreaking drama for Lena, which I very much doubt teaches her anything – again. She cries all the way back to Kherson. She has nothing left but to find a justification for why he didn’t propose to her (‘He is not ready yet’, or ‘He is just too scared of his strong feelings for me’).
She pulls herself together and concentrates on the trip to France.
30
Having lost the opportunity to buy the flat in Kiev, Natalia decisively jumps into research about how else she and Lena can lay out their money. This is one thing I guess I’ve always admired about my big sister – even though she is still angry with me for ruining that perfect investment opportunity that we could pull off only if all three of us threw money in, she never wasted a minute of her time on blame or regret, looking straight away for ways to solve the problem.
Since our return from Luxembourg, she’s been checking the local newspapers every day and spending hours at the Internet café digging for any tips or clues about what would work best for the amount of money she and Lena had.
A few days ago she overheard two old gossiping neighbours talking about one of their mutual friends, who was moving to Moscow to live with her boyfriend and was selling her business …
‘Can you believe it? Our bourgeoise madam peroxided her hair to a noxious white. She thinks it makes her look twenty again,’ one of the neighbours enthusiastically dished the dirt to the other.
‘But have you seen the boyfriend? At least ten years younger than her. He’s obviously after her money …’ splashed out of the other neighbour’s mouth.
Natalia politely butted into the conversation, interrogated the grannies, and a few minutes later was on her way to the business a few blocks away from our home.
It was a two-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a typical nine-storey apartment building (identical to the one that my family and all other post-Soviet-zone folk lived in), which had been turned into a not-so-fancy but clean and successful hair salon.
A metal staircase ran from the ground to a gap in the balcony wall, which was the main entrance. The balcony itself had been transformed into a little waiting area, which led to a room that was the men’s section. From there, a modestly sized passage led to the second room. It was considerably bigger than the first, fully equipped with washbasins, hooded hair dryers and big mirrors, and was reserved for the female clientele.
Natalia loved the scene and contacted the owner right away. Her name was Sophie. She was a very pleasant and intelligent woman (although the grannies were right – it did look like she overused the peroxide) and made Natalia feel like they had been good friends forever. Their conversation stayed warm and friendly, even while they negotiated the price.
An hour later, my sister had a deal she was happy with: the price was affordable and included the business, all the equipment, and the flat itself. Sophie then asked Natalia to stay for another cup of coffee and discuss a few more things about the salon’s current staff members.
‘You know, Natalia, I feel that I am kind of responsible for those people. And I will not sell my business if I am not sure I’ve protected them … they all are good people with fairly good skills …’
Natalia found this quite reasonable and agreed to sign a three-month employment contract for the staff. ‘And then, obviously, it will all depend on their professionalism and discipline,’ my sister reasoned, and they shook hands on the deal.
In any case, there was no salary involved as the staff worked on 30 per cent commission. It was a fair number, considering that the products, like shampoos and hair colours, were the salon’s responsibility. That way, Natalia and Lena could be sure that their stylists used quality products and were as motivated and interested in the success of the business as they were.
Natalia was very excited and kept sharing her dreams with Lena about how they would run their new business. When I caught one of their tête-à-têtes in the kitchen I couldn
’t stop myself. My inner green monster was out of control.
‘Great idea, Nata! Your hairdressers are honestly going to give you your 70 per cent while you’re in France? Yeah, right! You are going to become businesswoman of the year.’
Natalia just shushed me, ‘No one was talking to you, Jul.’ And they went back to their discussion.
Nevertheless, she took my words into consideration and called our mother in Istanbul, asking her to come back and help them with the new business.
At first Mom protested, explaining that she knew nothing about hair and was scared that she wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But Natalia reassured her, explaining that the business needed a manager who would keep an eye on the staff and deal with the everyday admin work.
‘Besides, it’s been too long for you and dad to be living apart. You know it can’t last this way. This is a great opportunity for you to reunite,’ my sister added, and Mother didn’t resist for much longer. She did feel very lonely away from her family. So she agreed.
31
I’m finishing packing my bags as Natalia walks in to the room.
‘Rethink this, Jul. I lived in Turkey for five years. It’s not as good as your friend promises it is. Let’s go to France together. I will lend you the money. Lena and I will help you.’ Her voice is filled with genuine concern.
‘I don’t need your help! Leave me alone. I don’t want to add more troubles in your life, as you’re always saying I do.’ I continue throwing my clothes into the open suitcase on the floor. This adds quite a dramatic effect to my words.
Natalia sighs and sits down on the bed.
‘Don’t be like that, Jul. I care. We all care about you … and you know that.’
I try to avoid eye contact with her – I know she has expressions in her stash of manipulative tools that can be very convincing, ‘Nata, just leave me alone. I don’t have much time. I am telling you, I am going to Turkey and it’s not open for discussion … especially not with you.’
She jumps off the bed, swinging instantly from I-am-your-bestfriend-in-the-world to bitchy-furious. ‘Okay! You think you are clever? Fine, but just don’t run back here when you get into trouble. Again.’
The fact that I can make her lose it, even for a minute, makes me feel so good. I just calmly smile back at her: ‘Are you done?’
‘Julia, your cab is here.’ Father’s shout from the kitchen interrupts our clash. ‘Hurry up! Where is your luggage? I will help you to bring it down.’
I drag my suitcases and walk past Natalia without saying a word.
32
‘To the river port, please,’ I instruct the cab driver, and light a cigarette.
When I first hear about the transport Inna has chosen, I’m shocked. Almost two days on a small cargo ship that doesn’t take more than 36 passengers and that is going to sail through the waves – and possibly storms – of the Black Sea, doesn’t sound like a cracking plan at all. But after giving it a lot of thought I get that it’s not as bad an idea as it first looked. My suitcases can be as heavy as I need them to be, and I can take more than one, without paying anything extra. A one-way ticket is $80, twice or even three times cheaper than an air ticket. Even though our travel time will be much longer than if we flew, we still have cabins in which to sleep flat, and dining three times a day. And because it is summer, we can suntan on beach chairs on the deck. What’s more, it’s something I’ve never done before. I wouldn’t call it excitement, but I do have some kind of curiosity about what it feels like to be on the open sea.
By the time I drag my two suitcases out of the cab and straight into the port’s only shabby bar, which is packed with passengers and oversized checked polypropylene bags that are a signature item of the shuttle traders all over the post-Soviet space, my former schoolmate is already pretty hammered. She sticks persistently to the good-looking barman with confidence on her drunken phiz and refuses to notice his I-am-not-interested-in-you-soaker-why-don’tyou-just-shut-up expression.
When she sees me, she starts an uncoordinated waving while holding on to the bar. Her body language screams that if it wasn’t for the old, dark-wood counter, she would be on the floor already.
‘Oh my … Inna! You are loaded, my friend. It’s a good thing we have to board in a few minutes, so you can get some sleep.’ I talk softly, as if she is a five-year-old.
She rolls her eyes and throws a discharge of loud laughter into the air. ‘Did you just say minutes? Not so fast, my friend! These bastards are going to marinate us overnight like some fucking chicken drumsticks!’ She bursts into more laughter. Then suddenly her face darkens, her body sways and she starts to fall off the bar stool.
‘Here we are!’ I catch Inna under the arms. Her eyes mist in drowsiness and her head drops heavily to the side. I help her to relocate to one of the soft chairs that a young man is using; he courteously vacates it for us. Without coming back to the world, she sprawls in a not-so-elegant position with her legs spread wide, passed out. I bring a glass of water and put it on the table next to her. Then I go back to the bar, notice the disgust on the barman’s face, mumble to myself, ‘I must put “get drunk as a pig” on my not-to-do list … it’s really ugly,’ and order a double vodka with orange juice.
I sip my drink, look at my watch and scowl – we were supposed to board at least twenty minutes ago. The barman notes the concern on my face and snoops, ‘Is it your first time?’
I raise my eyebrows and look at him, searching for some kind of sarcasm or a taunt, but am surprised to see a friendly smile on his attractive face.
Oh dear! He looks like a normal guy. I wonder how much Inna tormented and annoyed him to put him in the twitching state he was in half an hour ago?
I smile and nod.
‘Don’t expect to board anytime soon. Sometimes it takes the whole day and night. They are still busy loading the cargo. And until they finish, they will keep you guys waiting here,’ he explains with ease.
My eyes widen, and ‘Fuck!’ flies out of my mouth before I even think about it.
The barman smiles at that and goes to serve another client.
Seven hours, three screwdrivers, four cups of coffee and a full pack of cigarettes later, at three o’clock in the morning, one of the crew comes up and announces that all passengers can proceed to the passport control section.
Half asleep, irritated folk begin to rumble, get off their seats and pull their trunks out onto the street. I wake Inna and we follow the crowd. We quickly pass through passport control and customs. And as soon as we step on board the Victoria, we receive keys to our cabin. One of the sailors helps us to get our luggage up through a few companionways, dropping it at a door numbered 8, which is the number on our key’s tag.
The cabin is a small room with a tiny cupboard and washbasin on the left, a bunk bed on the right, and a little table with one chair between them, right under the porthole. We are so wiped out that the moment we walk inside, Inna wearily drops, ‘I am sleeping at the bottom ... I get seasick,’ and crawls, still dressed, under the blanket. I murmur, ‘No wonder … drinking so much,’ and climb onto the top bunk, without even brushing my teeth or washing my make-up off. Two minutes later we zonk out into a deep sleep.
The next day I wake up and for a few seconds I can’t work out where I am. I close my eyes again and drown in thoughts about my life and where it is taking me this time. A light rush of adrenalin shivers through my body when I think of what kind of crap I could get myself into on this trip. No place to stay, no friends or people in whom I can have at least an illusion of trust and reliance, no working contract, no working permit.
In other words, a total fuck-up if something goes wrong.
I spend most of the trip on my own. Part of me is grateful that Inna has such an urge to get wasted and fuck some sailors, whose names I bet she can’t even remember the next day. Her drunken brawls give me some quiet time to myself. I try to catch up on some sleeping and tan on the deck with a book and a chilled beer.
/> When we approach the Bosphorus Strait it is night-time. At first it is impossible to distinguish the shoreline, because of how it merges with the dark sea and sky. Then, some lights start to appear, showing us the coast on both sides of the ship. The deeper we get into the strait, the more alive the land looks. When finally we reach Istanbul, I can’t believe my eyes. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! The view is breathtaking …
We ride the waves between the two headlands that rise uphill, covered by millions and millions of lights. We pass under the two huge bridges that connect the Asian and European parts of the metropolis and remind me of a graceful Christmas-light garland. The city glows. The mosques, whose minarets are adorned with floodlights of different colours, add to the city’s mood. Istanbul is alive and captivating; immense and powerful. It treacherously expands the space inside me for disturbing thoughts, bringing forth my fears and relentlessly emphasizing my vulnerability.
After making our way through the Bosphorus for about two hours, the Victoria berths at Istanbul’s Karaköy Port. I am still standing on deck, gazing around, absorbed, as my thoughts about my slippery tomorrow deepen.
The loud voice of the same person who announced the boarding in Kherson pulls me out of myself and into reality. He is walking around, warning passengers – with a smirk – to get ready for passport control. ‘Dear friends! Please go to your cabins and pack your stuff. The Turkish authorities will be on board in an hour or so. And ladies, I know it has been a long and tiring journey for some of you ...’ He stops his eyes on Inna for a second, filled with satisfied lust – Oh gosh, she slept with him too! Although ‘sleeping’ is probably not the right word for what they were doing … – then continues, ‘Please make sure you remember your surnames, the ones that are in your passports!’
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