The Boy on the Bridge

by Natalie Standiford

  Karen shook her head. “That’s how you know it’s obsession. Or something else.”

  “What else?”

  Karen squeezed her shoulders as they walked, as if needing to cushion a blow. “An ulterior motive.”

  Laura looked down at a worn gravestone. Karen’s arm weighed heavily on her shoulder.

  “I’m not saying Alyosha’s a bad person,” Karen said quietly. “But when someone wants something very badly … when someone thinks you hold his entire future in your hands…” Laura felt her hesitation, her reluctance to finish the sentence. She wasn’t about to let Karen off the hook. Go ahead, Karen. Finish the thought.

  “They won’t let it go easily. They’ll do anything, convince themselves of anything. Even love.”

  There it was. What everyone was thinking.

  “It’s not true.” Laura shrugged off Karen’s arm and stalked the rest of the way to the museum. “Come on. The bus is waiting for us.”

  It wasn’t true. Alyosha really loved her — for herself. If she were a Russian girl, he’d love her the same, maybe more. She felt it in her skin, her bones, the blood that pumped through her body, from her heart and around and back again. She felt it.

  And no one could talk her out of it. Karen meant well, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know Alyosha the way Laura did.

  No one did. And no one knew Laura the way Alyosha knew her, either.

  Ivan the Terrible is your favorite czar?” Alyosha was incredulous. “What exactly do you like about him? The murder? The brutality? Oh, I know. It’s the insanity, right?”

  “Yeah, I do like all that stuff, when it’s far back in the past. It makes a good story.”

  “It might make a good story, but millions of people had to live through it. And die because of it.”

  “What about this place? He created this, didn’t he?” They were wandering through St. Basil’s Cathedral, staring at the icons framed in red and gold.

  “He had it built for him,” Alyosha said. “And then he blinded the architect so he could never build anything so beautiful again.”

  “See what I mean? Now that’s what I call a czar.”

  “Who’s your favorite Politburo leader? Stalin?”

  “No. If only Stalin had blinded his architects, Moscow would be a lot less ugly.”

  Alyosha made a mock-horrified face, which melted into a sly grin. “Brezhnev, then?”

  “Brezhnev! Too boring.” Laura closed her eyes and pretended to snore.

  He leaned his cheek against her head so he could whisper ominously in her ear. “I should probably tell you at this point that I’m a KGB agent and you are under arrest.”

  She jerked her head away, pretending to be alarmed. “What’s my crime?”

  “Acknowledging the ugliness of Stalinist architecture. Come with me for questioning.” He took her hand and led her outside to Red Square, which was mobbed with tourists. The line for Lenin’s Tomb snaked halfway around the massive square.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Laura asked.

  Alyosha looked around at the crowds with annoyance. “There are too many witnesses here. I must take you to headquarters.”

  Giggling, they ran hand in hand to the metro, which they rode to Old Arbat Street, where Alyosha’s friend Dima lived in a run-down but charming old building.

  “Here we are.” Alyosha opened a door and led her up a winding staircase. “KGB Headquarters.”

  The apartment was a tiny studio, just a bed, a small sofa, a table, and four chairs, a kitchen off the hall, the walls covered with paintings of Moscow street scenes. Laura took off her coat and sat down on the couch.

  “Dima’s at work,” Alyosha said, putting a kettle on to boil. “Now, my dear…” He prowled up to her, towering over her chair. “Let’s talk about this problem you have with our beloved leader. You find him boring? Let’s see if you find this boring, too —”

  He leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back for a long time. The kettle whistled. Alyosha hurried to turn it off, didn’t bother to make the tea he’d planned, and settled down on the couch with her.

  The shadows lengthened, then were gone. When they finally came up for air, the room was dark. They lay entwined on the couch, legs and hands and hair tangled together.

  “When’s Dima coming home from work?” Laura asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe late. Are you hungry?”

  “A little. What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  Whoops. She was late for dinner with the group at the hotel. And after dinner, they were supposed to see the Bolshoi Ballet. If she hurried she could make it in time to catch the ballet … but she didn’t feel like hurrying.

  So she didn’t.

  The next time she checked the clock, it was after midnight.

  “Hmm,” Alyosha said. “I wonder where Dima is?”

  “Does the metro shut down at midnight here, too?” Laura asked.

  “It does. But you can get a taxi.”

  They met Dima coming in on their way out of the apartment. He was blond with a big head and a friendly, open face. “Hey, why don’t you spend the night?” he offered.

  “I can’t. I have to get back to my hotel.” She was almost as worried about what Karen would say as she was about being caught away from the group.

  “Tomorrow night, then! Good night!”

  Alyosha put her into a taxi. She sped through the empty Moscow streets, back to the hotel. Karen was waiting for her in their room, reading in bed. Binky was safely asleep.

  “How was the ballet?” Laura asked.

  Karen tossed her book to the floor. “Are you kidding me? Are you really going to come in at one in the morning and ask me how the ballet was? Like you care? I was worried about you!”

  “I’m sorry.” Laura sat at the foot of Karen’s bed and squeezed her friend’s toes. Karen jerked her foot away.

  “Don’t. I’m not in a friendly mood. You are in big trouble, girl.”

  “I am?”

  “You’ll find out at breakfast tomorrow. If Stein and Durant let you eat.”

  Laura got up and changed into her pajamas. “Because I missed the ballet?”

  “And the Tretyakov Gallery. And dinner. And no one knew where you were. I reassured them there was no need to call the police, and I just hoped I was right.”

  “You were right. Thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with you lately?” Karen asked. “You’ve been so … reckless. You’ll drop anything to see Alyosha. Like you don’t care about anything else.”

  I don’t care about anything else, she thought. But she was afraid to admit that to Karen. Afraid that would only bring more scolding, more lectures. “I — I just don’t understand why I can’t be with him all the time, if I want to.”

  “And you want to.”

  “Yes, I want to. Karen, if you only knew him better —”

  “All I know is this: If they don’t send you home tomorrow, you’ll be lucky.”

  “They can’t do that.” Laura brushed her teeth and turned out the light. They couldn’t send her home, not now.

  If they sent her home, she’d be separated from Alyosha forever. And that couldn’t happen.

  She couldn’t let it.

  * * *

  Of course, Karen was right. Before breakfast, Professors Stein and Durant knocked on their door to see if Laura had made it home. When they saw that she was fine, they sent Karen and Binky downstairs to the dining room and gave Laura a talking-to.

  Stein and Durant were married, middle-aged, and looked alike. Professor Durant, the husband, was tall and gray with silver glasses. Professor Stein, the wife, was short and gray with silver glasses. They were in charge of the American students studying in Leningrad, but Laura had barely seen them since she’d moved into Dormitory Number Six, and had paid them even less attention. That was one reason she hadn’t taken the threat of being sent home too seriously — Stein and Durant did not seem aware of what was going on.<
br />
  They were not going to let her ignore them any longer.

  “Laura, we understand what’s going on here,” Durant said. “This happens every semester. At least one student falls in love with a Russian who wants to marry her — or him — and move to the States.”

  “I’m not getting ma —”

  “This causes so many problems for the study-abroad program,” Stein interjected. “The university officials are always threatening to shut the program down, mostly because of these sham marriages.”

  “But this isn’t a —”

  “Never mind the program.” Durant set a large hand on his wife’s shoulder to indicate that it was his turn now. “What worries me is the heartbreak these marriages cause. The American has to work hard to get her Russian spouse, who has remained behind, out of the country. It’s endless paperwork, evasions, a real pain in the ass on both the Soviet and American sides. Once you get him to the States — if you manage to pull it off — you’ll have to pass a test proving your relationship is real and not visa fraud.”

  “That happened to one of our students a few years ago.” Stein was beginning to remind Laura of one of the humorless detectives on Dragnet, an old TV show. “He married a Russian girl, and once he brought her over, an immigration official judged their marriage a fraud. The girl was deported and our student faced five years in jail as a penalty.”

  “His parents paid a pretty penny to some high-powered lawyers to keep him out of prison,” Durant said.

  “The process can take years. By the time the Soviets let your husband out of the country — if they let him out — you will hardly know him anymore,” Stein said.

  “And you’re one hundred percent responsible for his welfare. If he can’t get a job, too bad. You have to provide for him.”

  “These marriages almost always break up as soon as the Russian gets his citizenship,” Stein added with a meaningful nod.

  “You might think he loves you, but we’ve seen this too many times. The lies, the deceit, the heartbreak —”

  “Don’t do it, Laura. For your own sake.”

  “What would your parents say if you stepped off the plane and told them you were married?”

  “Well, I —”

  “How old are you, anyway? Twenty?”

  “I’m nineteen, but —”

  “Promise us you won’t do anything — apply for a marriage license, go to the embassy for permission — without talking to us first,” Stein said. “Do you promise?”

  “We’re here for you,” Durant added.

  “Look, I do have a friend.” Were they finally letting her talk? Amazing. “But he hasn’t asked me to marry him. Or anything like that.”

  “Yet,” Stein said.

  “He’s already led you away from the group,” Durant said. “Your behavior on this trip has been reprehensible.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Just don’t do anything rash.”

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  The chaperones stood awkwardly in her room, looking at each other as if to ask, Are we done now? There seemed to be nothing left to say.

  “Are you going to send me home?” Laura asked.

  “Not this time,” Durant said. “Don’t force us to. If you follow the rules from now on, you’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “We expect to see you at every activity we have planned for the rest of this trip. Every meal. Every stop. And when we get back, we expect you to attend every class.”

  They escorted her downstairs to breakfast. After breakfast, before their next field trip, she made a quick call to Dima’s apartment and told Alyosha she’d see him back in Leningrad in a couple of days. He didn’t take it well. But there was nothing she could do.

  Back in Leningrad, she quickly forgot Stein’s and Durant’s dire warnings about Alyosha. Or rather, she remembered them, but she didn’t care. She saw Alyosha all the time, and weeks passed with him filling her free time with something that felt truly free. The school instituted line after line of things to do, but with Alyosha, she lived between the lines. Before she knew it, April was nearing its end.

  Olga and Roma invited her and Alyosha to their dacha in Repino for the weekend. She figured she was in trouble already; she might as well go all the way. She agreed to meet Alyosha at the train station Friday afternoon.

  Many Leningraders, even those who weren’t particularly well-off, seemed to have a dacha. These ranged from stately country manors, for highly placed Party officials — Laura had heard stories about these secret estates from Alyosha’s friends — to tiny, run-down shacks on patches of mud. As long as it was in the country, it was a dacha, and it was beloved. There, city people could escape the neighbors, cook outside, gather mushrooms in the woods, and take in the country air. If Laura was going to understand the Russian soul, she had to see one.

  “I’ll have to skip Literature again,” she told Karen as she packed the night before. Nina was studying late at the library.

  Karen sat on her bed, grimly watching her. “You’ll notice I’m not saying anything.”

  Laura crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. “I appreciate it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking things.”

  “I know. Want to come with me?”

  “No. It may sound strange to you, but breaking the rules while living at the whim of a totalitarian government makes me nervous. I’ve probably seen Cabaret too many times. What will I say if Nina asks where you are?”

  “I’ve got it all figured out. I talked to Dan and he’s willing to play my pretend boyfriend. When I’m not in my room, I’m in his, making passionate love to him. There’s no rule against Americans dating each other, right? Stein and Durant will be thrilled. Meanwhile, he’s with Lena and I’m with Alyosha. It’s the perfect crime.”

  “Hardly. What about Nina?”

  “She’ll just have to take our word for it.”

  “I hope she won’t ask.”

  “Who knows? Maybe she won’t.”

  * * *

  Laura met Alyosha at the train station, and they took the electrichka to Repino. Olga and Roma were already at the dacha, getting everything ready for the weekend. “So the stove will be lit and the cottage will be nice and warm by the time we get there.” Alyosha draped his arm around Laura and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You don’t want to arrive when the house is closed and frozen.”

  “So — there’s heat?” Laura asked, a little nervously. She knew better than to take any comforts for granted.

  “Of course! An old Russian woodstove. It will warm the whole house. We’ll sleep upstairs in the attic. The floor’s covered with straw to help insulate it.”

  “Oh, good.” Straw. “We’ll keep each other warm up there.”

  “Yes we will, little fish.”

  They arrived just before dark and walked three quarters of a mile from the station along the edge of a forest. Alyosha knew the way. They entered a small community of ramshackle, makeshift summer cottages, a mishmash of styles and colors thrown together from whatever materials their builders could find. It was a little early for dacha season, so most of the houses were dark. The lights of Roma’s house glowed up the road, and smoke curled out of the chimney. The moon rose over the forest of birch trees, illuminating a scene out of a fractured fairy tale.

  Roma greeted them at the door wearing a striped felt robe, an odd furry vest, and waterproof gardening boots. He clutched a bottle of vodka. With his tinted aviator glasses and his devilish grin, he looked a little crazy. “Hallooo! Welcome! Come in, come in!” He kissed Laura and Alyosha and hurried them inside to warm up by the stove. Olga greeted them in the kitchen, where she was slicing potatoes.

  “We’re having a simple supper tonight — just cabbage soup and potatoes and a little cold chicken,” she said. “But tomorrow, Roma is making shashlik!”

  “I make it the best.” Roma kissed his fingertips like a cartoon Italian. Shashlik was Georgian f
or grilled lamb shish kebab. “Georgian blood runs through my veins, you know.”

  “Really?” Laura began to unbundle, taking off her bulky coat and boots. Olga went to a closet stuffed with strange, costume-y clothes, and gave her a quilted housecoat to wear. The stove warmed the kitchen but the rest of the house was still chilly. “I didn’t know you were Georgian.”

  “That explains his hot temper,” Alyosha said. Under his coat he wore a down ski vest.

  “Where did that come from?” she asked. “All the boys wear them in Providence.”

  “I don’t remember.” He wouldn’t meet her eye. “I found it somewhere….”

  “Someone left it at a party once, remember?” Olga said. “And they never claimed it.”

  “That’s right.”

  Olga gave Laura a bottle of beer without asking if she wanted one and went back to stirring her pot of soup. “Where’s the bathroom?” Laura asked.

  Olga frowned. “You should have said something before!”

  “I’ll show you.” Alyosha put down his beer and slipped his feet into a pair of rubber boots. “Put your coat back on.”

  “And wear Olga’s boots,” Roma said. “It’s muddy out there.”

  Alyosha lit a kerosene lantern and led Laura outside, past a toolshed, to an outhouse. A wooden pocket nailed to the door held bits of newspaper for toilet paper. He gave Laura the lantern and said, “I’ll wait for you out here.”

  When she was finished, they traipsed back to the house in the dark. A cool wind was blowing the clouds away and millions of brilliant stars blinked down at her.

  Supper tasted delicious in the warm kitchen, soup and bread and potatoes and chicken washed down with beer and tea. Afterward they took a bottle of cognac into the living room. Olga lit the kerosene lanterns — the house had no electricity or running water — and they settled on the worn antique sofas and chairs to play cards. Roma reached for his guitar and strummed softly.

  “Do you have a dacha in America, Laura?” Olga asked.

  “No,” Laura said. “We don’t have dachas, exactly. But some of my friends have summer houses, mostly at the beach.”