Tatiana and Alexander: A Novel

by Paullina Simons

  He had lived the last five years of his life amid young men who could die instantly as he was covering them, as he was saving them, as he was carrying them back to base. His connections to them were real but impermanent. He knew better than anyone the fragility of life during Soviet war.

  Yet Tatiana had lived through the hunger, made her blind way through the snow on the Volga, made her way inside his tent to show Alexander that in his life there was one permanence. In Alexander’s life there was one thread that could not be broken by death, by distance, by time, by war. Could not be broken. As long as I am in the world, she said with her breath and her body, as long as I am, you are permanent, soldier.

  And he believed.

  And before God they were married.

  Alexander was sitting on a blanket, his back against the tree, and she was on top of him, straddling him, kissing him so deeply he couldn’t get his breath. “Tania…” he whispered. “…Hang on…”

  It was their third morning as husband and wife. They got up, washed, drank and were now deeply ensconced under the birch.

  “Shura, darling, I can’t believe you’re my husband. My husband.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Shura, my husband for life.”

  “Mmm.” His hands were caressing her thighs.

  “Do you know what that means? You’ve sworn to make love only to me for life.”

  “I’ll take that job.”

  “Do you know I read that in some African cultures I get to have your liver as a sign of your love for me.” She giggled.

  “You can take my liver, Tatia, but I won’t be much good to you afterward. Maybe you should make love to me first.”

  “Shura, wait.”

  “No. Take your dress off. Take it all off.”

  She obliged.

  “Now sit on top of me.”

  “But you’re completely dressed!”

  “Just sit on top of me.” He gazed at her hungrily. Tatiana had a beautiful body. And Alexander had seen them all. Lithe, smooth, crème, from her clavicles to her carpals, Tatiana was formed to fit Alexander’s desire. Everything he liked in a woman’s body, his tiny maiden wife unsparingly had. She had a small waist and rounded hips, she had soft thighs and lush breasts. She had the gift of silk and velvet from her golden hair to the soles of her feet and all within her. Alexander’s breath was short. He opened his arms.

  Tatiana straddled him. “Like this?”

  “This is good,” he said, his hands over her, groaning at the feel of her. Tatiana lifted herself up to let him kiss her warm breasts. His hands grasped her hips. He closed his eyes. “Tania, do you know that in Ethiopia a woman, to make herself more attractive to her new husband, makes a series of cuts on her torso and then rubs ash into them to raise them into scars?”

  Sitting back down on him, Tatiana stared at him. “You would find this attractive?”

  “Not particularly.” Alexander smiled. “It’s the sacrifice that appeals to me.”

  “I’ll show you, sacrifice. I think it’s in the same Ethiopia,” she said, “that the women get shaved from the neck down.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Does that appeal to you?”

  He was pressing her body into himself and licking her lips. “Let’s just say it doesn’t not appeal to me.”

  “Shura!”

  “What? You know in some African cultures the women are not allowed to speak to their husbands unless they’re spoken to first?”

  “Yes, and in others, they can flirt with both the husband and his cousin and both men can share the marriage bed if the woman so desires. How does that strike you?” She went on without letting him respond. “And in some, I keep myself completely covered in a, in a—what is that thing called…”

  “A black box,” Alexander said, smiling.

  “No, the real name.”

  “A burka.”

  “Yes! A burka. I keep myself covered with a burka from head to toe my entire life, but at the beginning of the marriage you have to lift the burka off my face and I have to reach up and help you, and the one whose hand is on top gets to be the boss in the marriage.” She laughed infectiously. “Which one of those appeals to you, husband?”

  He couldn’t speak for a moment as she continued to kiss him to end all wars. “Well, first of all,” he said hoarsely, “my father’s sister had no children, so the cousin thing is out. And yes, I would like for you to wear a black box so no one else can lay their eyes on you. And to address your third point, I find it hard to imagine a tadpole like you being the boss of anything.”

  “Imagine away, soldier,” Tatiana said bravely. Her fire lips consumed him.

  It was time for him to get undressed. But he couldn’t move. Her knees were against his ribs, her arms were holding his head, and her lips were ravishing his mouth.

  Alexander groaned. “In Barrington, do you know what we did? It wasn’t Africa, but we cut our palms and pressed our blood together to say we were going to be friends for life.”

  “If you want we can press our palms together, but in Russia, when we want to reaffirm marriage, we just have a baby.” She bit his neck.

  “I tell you what,” said Alexander. “Let me up, and we’ll see what we can do to reaffirm our marriage.” Not only did she not move off him, but she held him tighter. “Tania…” he said. Nothing from her except her lips. He was feeling weaker by degrees.

  “A minute ago, I was a tadpole,” she whispered. “Now suddenly you can’t move me off you.”

  He didn’t just move her off him. Holding her with one hand, he jumped up off the ground into a standing position while continuing to hold her. “You, my dear,” Alexander said, “are lighter than all of my gear and my weapons and the mortar that I carry.” With his free hand he unzipped his trousers.

  “Where is that mortar that you carry,” Tatiana said huskily, her lips at his neck.

  Time, time, time.

  They were walking back to the cabin. Alexander’s blueberry bucket was half full. Tania’s was flowing over. “I don’t know how you’re going to survive in the wilderness,” she said.

  “By not picking blueberries, that’s for sure.” He took her hand. “Want me to carry that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Say something in English.”

  “I’m hungry,” she complied in English.

  “Something else.” He smiled.

  She tutted.

  “Something else,” he repeated, squeezing her hand emphatically.

  In English, she asked, “Do you ever went to doghouse?”

  Alexander didn’t understand. “A doghouse—”

  He understood. “Tania…” He laughed. “It’s the cathouse.”

  “Oh.” She blushed. Alexander pulled her to him.

  “Careful with the blueberries,” she said in English. “Don’t spill my full backet.”

  “Okay.” Alexander shook his head. “And it’s bucket.” Balling up her hand into a fist, he brought it to his lips.

  At the cabin, Tania immediately perched down to pick through the blueberries while Alexander went for a swim. Drying off, Alexander stood in front of Tatiana, buckets between her parted legs. She looked up at him expectantly. He extended his hand.

  After they had finished making sweet slow afternoon love, and she was cradled in his arms, he said, “Yes, I’ve been to a cathouse. A long time ago.”

  She shuddered briefly, not looking at him. “Often?”

  “No, not often.”

  “Didn’t you ever—all those skanks have been with so many men. Do they even wash in between?”

  Alexander smiled at her innocence, at her blinding blondeness. “Not all women can be untrampled snow like you,” he said. He paused, slightly shuddering himself. “I’ll never go again, all right?”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “Why would you?” she asked, her expression full of love, full of faith. “You’re married now. To me.”

  “I know who I’m married to.” He thought a mome
nt. “Besides,” he added slowly, “I was very careful. I always wore a safety sheath.”

  “A what?”

  Oh, dear God. “A false scabbard,” he said. She was heartbreaking. “Over the sword.”

  Tatiana was thoughtful. “When you say always…”

  “Always.”

  “Not always, right?”

  “Always, Tania. How can you not believe me? A second ago you didn’t even know what—”

  “Shura.”

  “What?”

  “Not always,” she said firmly, propping herself up on her arm. “You don’t wear one with me.”

  Alexander smiled. “Why would I?” He took her in his arms. “Why should I?” he whispered.

  “Wait, wait!” She disentangled herself. “Are you telling me that you were never uncovered…”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Alexander laughed. “The truth is not dependent on your belief, Tania.”

  “All those women, all those good-time girls, all those garrison hacks, not a single one?”

  “Particularly not them.”

  “But Shura, you—” She paused. “You must have needed quite a lot of them.” She smiled. “Scabbards, not girls.”

  He smiled back.

  “What did you do when you ran out?”

  “I stayed away until I got some more.”

  Tatiana was very quiet. “What about Dasha?”

  “What about her?”

  “With her, too?”

  “Tania, with everyone.”

  “Shura…” Tatiana jumped on him, hugging him to kill the alive. She was shaking him. When she lifted her face from his neck, tears were in her eyes. “You’re such a beast. How could you have not told me this for five whole days? And after I told you all about me in the first five minutes.”

  He grinned, his hands running up and down her bare back. “You never asked.”

  She shook him again. He stroked her arms, her neck, her lips. Caressing her, he watched her face, her closed eyes, her slightly parted mouth. “Say something in English.”

  “No,” she said. “But now I am going to go and make you blueberry jam.”

  “Great,” Alexander muttered, watching her hop down. “Can’t wait. Much better than a bit of fresh.”

  Tatiana turned to him and smiled. “Shura,” she said in halting English, “show me your marriage bait.”

  Alexander laughed. “Tania, come here. Please. Forget the blueberries.”

  “What did I say now?” she said, coming back, kneeling in front of him and smiling.

  “It’s not marriage bait, it’s the wedding tackle. And here it is.” He smiled. “But stop using your English as a source of comedy on our marriage rack. Touch me.”

  Fondling him and grinning, she said in English, “All right, you well drawn soldier.”

  “Tania…oh, no.” His stomach was beginning to hurt. “Stop, I said. You’re killing me.”

  “Come, give me a slice of tail.”

  “Tania!”

  “What?” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  “I don’t give you a slice of tail!”

  “Well, all right then.” She lay down next to him.

  “You’re playing with me? Stop. I’ll be no good to you in a minute.”

  “Then who has the sugarstick?”

  He grabbed her, pulling her to him. “That would be me.”

  “Well, give me some.”

  “All right, then.” She was teasing him.

  “Come, come, come.” She smiled. “How is my English tongue?”

  “Perfect,” Alexander said. “And it’s the English language. But you’ve reduced a formerly whole man to his frazzled parts.”

  “What will make you whole again?” asked Tania. “A little trip to the cathouse?”

  “A little trip to your cathouse, maybe,” said Alexander, his lips devouring her laughing face.

  Stop, stop, stop.

  He was teaching her how to fire a pistol. She was a reluctant—“and poor”—student. “Attention! You are completely not paying attention.”

  “I am.”

  He nudged her with his hand. “You would make a terrible soldier. You don’t listen, you don’t obey. They’d throw you out of boot camp. Let’s try it again. Where’s the safety?”

  She showed him.

  “Where’s the magazine catch?”

  She showed him.

  “Where’s the hammer? Where do the bullets go? Do you remember how to put a new magazine in?”

  She popped the magazine catch, pulled the old clip out, snapped the new clip in place, cocked the hammer and with both hands aimed the pistol at a tree. From behind her he reached over and took the gun away. “If you fire it, we’ll lose dinner for a week. All the fish will leave.”

  “I see.” She jumped up and down. “So how did I do?”

  “You get good marks for memory but you completely fail on attitude.”

  Saluting him, she stood to attention. “Yes, sir. What’s the punishment for poor attitude?” She grinned and then burst out laughing and ran away.

  Tania is across from him on the wood floor in front of the fire in their cabin. It has rained all morning and afternoon, it is nearing dinner time, which she is supposed to be preparing, but Alexander isn’t letting her go—until he wins one, just one idiotic game of dominoes. She asks him, “You have one-ones,” almost like it’s not a question. And he says yes! because one-ones start the game and give you an advantage. But he has said that before. They’ve been playing since one. They must have played 40 times. Maybe 50. He’s had one-ones and two-twos, he’s had, in a seeming impossibility, all seven double tiles at once. He’s had every combination of tiles imaginable. He has not won. Alexander cannot believe it. “Wouldn’t the law of averages swing my way just once?” he demands of Tatiana who smiles sweetly across the floor.

  “Husband, I think your luck is changing.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m almost positive.”

  She is wearing a knee-length skirt and a blue cardigan over a yellow shirt. Her hair is swept up on top of her head, falling into her face. She looks warm and small. Alexander feels the aching in the pit of his stomach. Not even bothering to study her tiles, she is merrily humming, sitting with her legs drawn up. If he weren’t so intent on winning, he would ask her to pull up her skirt a little to let him peek.

  “But I just want to say, Shura,” says Tatiana philosophically, “that you can’t win everything.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Do I complain when you always beat me across the river?” she asks. “When you catch the perch with your bare hands and I can’t? When you unfairly beat me at arm wrestling just because you’re bigger? And what about poker? Do I complain when you always beat me at strip poker?” She grins, and Alexander wants to fall on top of her that instant.

  “Actually, yes, you do complain,” he says, his voice deepening an octave. “And I don’t want to win everything. I want to win one lousy game out of fifty, is that too much to ask?”

  Her eyes twinkling, she gets all demure. “Would you like me to let you win, darling?”

  “That’s it,” he exclaims. She laughs. “I’m winning this game, Tania, I don’t care what kind of black magic you weave over my tiles.”

  Alexander comes close. Very close. He has one tile left when she lays down her last and claps joyously, falling back on the floor. Her hitched-up skirt lifts, exposing the flushed backs of her bare thighs, her sheer underwear. He watches her a moment and then falls on top of her.

  “Shura, dinner!” She is laughing, feral, trying to get away, and does, and bolts out the door into the clearing and he chases her down to the river in the gloomy dusk, in the miserable rain. He catches her as she is about to dive in, clothes on, into the Kama.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he says, lifting her into his arms. “Not this time.”


  Squealing, she struggles against him, cheerfully and symbolically. He carries her wet inside the house, kicks the door shut behind him and, setting her down, pulls all the blankets and pillows down on the floor in front of the fire.

  “Shura, dinner!” she repeats mock-plaintively.

  “No, Tania, me.”

  It is very warm in the cabin.

  Undressing her, he lays her naked on the blanket and, undressing himself, lies down next to her.

  “One of two things is going to happen after I’m done with you,” he says in his most soothing erotic voice. Tatiana can’t take it; she moans.

  “That’s right, one of two,” he says, caressing her trembling body. “I am going to make love to you until you either beg me to stop, or promise me that you will never and I mean, never, play dominoes with me again.”

  She closes her eyes as her hands reach for him, grasp for him. “I’ll tell you right now,” she whispers. “I will not be begging you to stop.”

  “We’ll just see about that,” says Alexander.

  Stop time, stop time, stop time.

  One less day. In the late evening, Tatiana climbed into his lap. “No, no, don’t stop reading,” she purred, snuggling up to him. “I’m cold.” She curled into his chest. Enfolding her in his arms, Alexander resumed reading, but only every tenth word was getting through because she was nestled against him, and her silky hair was rubbing against his neck, his throat, his jawbone. Alexander listened to her breath. It was rhythmic. He put the book down and peeked at her. Her eyes were closed.

  An aching tenderness filled him. He sat, not moving, inhaling her sleeping soapy feminine smell. She fit into him like a cat under his chin, on his collarbone, her legs tucked in over him, she was warming him as he warmed her. He wanted to squeeze her closer to him but didn’t want to do anything to wake her up. Unlike him, she was a light sleeper, and he knew when she got up, she would get off his lap.

  Minutes, crystalline, wet, chilly, breathless minutes, and the time tick tock, tick tock, it moved, without a watch, without a clock, without the chime of the hour, the bell of the church, but with every sunrise, every sunset, with the waning cycle of the moon it steamrolled ahead without a backward glance.