‘You have a nice family,’ Tristan said.
‘Thank you. Welcome to our home.’
When Boba heard my voice, she came down the steps into the courtyard. Her hands were clasped in front of her heart. She looked from me to Tristan and I had never seen such naked joy on her face. ‘What a fine-looking man. And he came all this way for you,’ she said. Boba was so wise. ‘Tell him I say hello and welcome to sunny Odessa.’
I translated, and Tristan turned to her and said, ‘HELLO. NICE TO MEET YOU.’
We escorted him up the stairs, through the entryway into the living room, where we had covered the kitchen table with an embroidered tablecloth and my favorite foods: a beet dish so bright it was guaranteed to cheer up any sad winter day; a potato salad so delicious no one ever left without begging Boba for the recipe; small open-faced sandwiches; aubergine caviar that tasted better than the real thing; fish that Boba had de-boned by hand (which left her gnarled hands covered with hundreds of paper-cut-like nicks); black bread still warm from the bakery. Boba and I were both vegetarians, but she had prepared a rabbit for Tristan. (In the old days, when food was scarce, unscrupulous vendors sold skinned cats as rabbits; now they’re sold and served with their furry paws and buck teeth intact to prove that everything is on the up and up.)
‘Dasha, invite the gentleman to be seated,’ my grandmother said, wringing her hands nervously.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ I asked and filled his plate with Boba’s delicacies. As I reached for an Odessan favorite, a slice of bread topped with a thick layer of butter and lovely sardines, Tristan whispered, ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Please don’t refuse, you’ll offend my grandmother.’
‘I’m a little sick to my stomach,’ he whispered. ‘I see you went to a lot of trouble, but maybe I could wait until later to eat.’
Poor Boba couldn’t understand. When I repeated his words in Russian, she still didn’t understand. ‘I’ve never seen a man turn down a meal,’ she said between clenched lips. In Odessa, food isn’t just nourishment, it is love and respect. When we invite you to our table, it’s covered with home-made dishes prepared with the guest in mind. When we invite you to our home, we invite you to be our friend.
‘Tristan, please understand, refusing food in Odessa is like refusing to shake someone’s hand.’
He looked at Boba’s stony face and picked up the open-faced sandwich. ‘Do I eat the heads and tails?’
I nodded.
He bit down and chewed slowly. I saw not only that he wasn’t hungry, but that he didn’t like sardines. He tried to hide it by taking a drink of Boba’s home-made compote between each bite. But he finished the sandwich without a word. Then he started to cut the meat. He smiled at me. I nodded encouragingly. It was important to have my grandmother’s blessing.
Boba and I hadn’t eaten for two days, we were both so nervous. After Tristan started to eat, we did, too. I could see that Tristan didn’t like rabbit, but after he tried the potato salad, he exclaimed, ‘My God, it’s incredible. I can die happy now.’
I didn’t need to translate his words. Everyone said the same thing about Boba’s potato salad. Before we could serve the cake, Tristan’s eyes started to close slowly, then fly open. I showed him to my bedroom, the guest room during his stay.
Boba and I ate dessert, just the two of us, as we had so many times in the past. Some things would never change. I raised my glass of champagnskoye, ‘To the lovely hostess and her golden hands!’
‘To my beautiful granddaughter!’ Boba toasted. ‘May she be lucky in love!’
I kissed her quickly three times on the lips, as is our custom.
Boba stroked my hair and said, ‘A man promised, “Darling, when we get married, I’ll be there to share the trouble and sorrows.” His fiancée said, “But I don’t have any . . .” The man replied, “I said, when we get married . . .”’
I giggled.
‘He certainly liked the potato salad,’ Boba said.
‘Of course he did.’
‘What do you think of your young man?’
I shrugged. How could I tell my grandmother that he didn’t make my heart gladden? ‘He’s all right. It’s too soon to tell.’
‘Too early to tell?’ She threw her hands out and looked up at the ceiling. ‘He’s American. He came all this way. He was polite, so polite that he ate food he didn’t like so he wouldn’t offend. You said he doesn’t live with his parents and he has a steady job. What are you waiting for? A message from God signed by all twelve apostles?’
My mouth fell open. Who was this woman? Never had Boba tried to force me to date. She always told me to take my time and to make a wise choice. That the choice of life partner was the most important one that a woman would ever make.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Stop moping about Vladimir Stanislavski. He’s not the one for you. Give this man a chance. I’m not saying you have to get married tomorrow. Just be open. Try to get to know him. Let him get to know you. Don’t you want a family? Don’t you want children?’
‘You know I do, Boba. More than anything.’ Of its own accord, my bottom lip started to quiver. Why was Boba attacking me like this? I was so far over Vladimir Stanislavski that he was just a speck. I could barely see him. How could she think I was moping?
‘Don’t be offended, granddaughter.’ She stroked my face. ‘If you want a family, if you want to break The Curse, you’ll have to open your heart and look past appearances. Handsome devils are just that – devils. They won’t make you happy. Not in the long run. Your mama and I both figured that much out.’
It seemed that everything had been said. Wordlessly, we rose from the table and started to take the dishes from the dining room table into the kitchen. As I was covering the beet dish with a plate so that it wouldn’t dry out in the refrigerator, Boba said, ‘When I was a young woman, my neighbor Alla asked me to make my potato salad for the evening she invited her boyfriend Arcady to dinner. Of course I did, and of course she passed the dish off as her own. He proposed that very night. I’m sure it was the potato salad that cinched the deal.’
‘I’m sure it was, too.’ She told me this story every time she made potato salad. I’d heard all her stories at least one hundred times each.
‘One evening, years later, when he was a little tipsy, he told me he married the wrong woman. He found out only after the wedding that I had made the famous potatoes. Men! They’ll do anything for my salad.’
That night as I lay in bed I stared at the ceiling and thought about what had Boba said. I was judgmental. And hard on people. I needed to be softer.
The next morning, Tristan stepped out of the bathroom after a long shower. His hair was wet, and his eyes shone. He looked better than he had the day before. Or maybe after Boba’s strong words, I saw him differently.
‘Did you sleep well, Tristan?’
‘I love it when you say my name. It sounds so sexy.’
I blushed and was pleased that I pleased him.
Boba smiled as she watched him devour the cheese vareniki, or ravioli, that she had made for breakfast.
‘Ah, the appetite of the young,’ she said contentedly.
‘This is awesome,’ he said. ‘You guys are spoiling me rotten.’
His voice sounded raspy. I hoped he hadn’t left the bedroom window open last night. That was a sure way to catch a cough.
‘Would you like to go out and explore the city?’ I asked, already apprehensive about running into acquaintances.
‘Do you mind if we stay in? I think I’ve got a cold.’
Boba roasted a chicken and made mashed potatoes, then went to visit people in the old neighborhood so Tristan and I could be alone. If she and I still lived in the sleeping district, our neighbors would have invented excuses to borrow a glass of flour so that they could come in and meet our visitor. In our former building, the old women knew about things before they even happened. Luckily, our new neighbors – young foreigners – did not
care about us.
In our tranquil blue living room, Tristan and I sat in David’s chairs.
‘You have such a nice apartment,’ he said. ‘Small. Cozy. When I was in college, I lived in a dorm, but I was sure glad to get back into a house.’
‘In the city, we can only dream of having a private house. I’ve always lived in a flat. What is it about living in a house that you like so much?’
‘Mainly, it’s the yard I like. And growing fruits and vegetables. Nothing makes me happier than being in nature. I love working in the garden, on my knees with my hands in the dirt. It probably sounds weird, but I feel connected to something bigger than me.’ He glanced at me, as if worried that I didn’t think he was manly.
‘That’s exactly how I feel when I walk along the sea.’
‘It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?’
‘The best.’
‘I love my roses. My mom grew them, too, and when I see them blossom, I think of her.’ His voice was low as he said this, and he looked at me almost sheepishly, as if he were ashamed.
‘Our parents always inhabit us, don’t they?’
‘Thank God,’ he replied.
We sat in awkward silence for a moment. Perhaps we were each thinking about our families, our past, and what the future might hold. I was looking for something to say. A way to lighten the mood, which had grown too somber. Finally, I settled on, ‘What do you like best about teaching?’
He smiled. ‘I love working with young people. The money’s not the best, but I love knowing that I’m helping kids. Like this one little guy, Adam. He’s in fourth grade – nine years old – and his head goes back and forth like a bobble head because his old man used to shake him. Every day, he brings me a drawing of an airplane. You just feel bad for these kids and want them to have some kind of future. He barely knows the alphabet, but man can he draw! He’s in my scout troop. If I can help these kids, help them have a few good memories of childhood. . . Besides, I want kids of my own and figure it’s good practice . . . What about you? What do you like best about your job?’
The unbidden answer was sitting in the darkened boardroom with David, drinking cold coffee and talking about literature. ‘Giving tours. I love to introduce my native city to people.’
‘Maybe we can go out later.’ He rubbed his jaw and neck.
‘Does your throat hurt?’
He nodded.
‘Black tea with raspberry jam will soothe it.’ I went into the kitchen to make him some. He followed me and got the cups out of the cupboard. This surprised me – most Odessan men would sit at the table and wait to be served. I put three large spoonfuls of Boba’s home-made jam in each cup and three small spoonfuls of tea leaves in the pot. When the tea was ready, I poured it into the cups and opened a tin of Boba’s cookies and encouraged Tristan to try them.
He took his tea and the tin of cookies and left the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the living room.’
‘Usually we have tea here.’ The kitchen is the coziest room in the house.
‘The chairs in the other room are more comfortable. Come on.’
He was right.
Back in the living room, he looked at me and said, ‘I’m so glad we’re finally here together, face to face. It was so frustrating to call you and not be able to talk.’
‘I know. My boss hates the phone lines in Odessa, too. Once, he got so mad he threw his phone across the room.’
‘What a jerk. Sounds like he needs an anger management class.’
‘He’s not so bad.’
As we spoke, Tristan held my hand. I felt his appreciative glances. I, too, was interested in him, a foreigner from California, and hoped this curiosity would grow into something more. Little sparks can create a roaring fire, that’s what we say in Odessa. True, he wasn’t as cultured as some clients at the socials, but unlike them, he’d come for me. Me. He didn’t carry a clipboard to compare and grade the women he met.
‘This tea is awesome,’ he said. Jane used that word all the time, too. It must be an Americanism. ‘I’ve never had anyone take care of me like this . . .’
‘You’re in Odessa now. The most hospitable city in the world.’
‘In the galaxy,’ he seconded. ‘It seems like a beautiful place.’
‘It is. I love Odessa. I love it here. But . . .’
‘But?’
Odessa will always be here. Don’t they call the city Odessa-Mama? She’ll be right here, waiting for you if you want to come back. You’re young, you should go, explore, live.
‘I’m wondering if there isn’t more.’
‘More?’
‘I want . . . I want . . .’ I couldn’t articulate the things I desired. I looked down at my hands.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I have trouble finding words, too.’
I smiled gratefully.
‘Ti – krasivaya.’ You’re beautiful. Then he said, hello and thank you in Russian.
‘You’re very welcome,’ I replied. ‘How?’
‘I wanted to be able to say a few words of your language so I’ve been listening to tapes in my truck. I should have said hello in Russian to your grandma yesterday, but I was too nervous.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What a lovely, unexpected gift.’
There was something in the air suddenly. Something charged and fragile. He leaned towards me. I leaned towards him. Our lips connected. He tasted like warm raspberries.
After a moment, he pulled back, ‘I don’t want you to catch my cold.’
I smiled shyly. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
We chatted all afternoon. I was surprised at how much we had in common. For example, we both liked the Beatles. We both wanted two children. We both dreamed of going to Paris. We both loved the sea. He loved looking at my pictures, and I loved having my picture taken. Neither of us understood why people thought football was so interesting. If given the choice between happy or rich, we both chose happy.
And twenty years wasn’t so much, was it? Boba and I were dear friends. As were Valentina and I, despite a gap of thirty years. Most women married older men. After all, as we learned in health class, girls mature faster than boys. Tristan’s years meant additional experience, which was a good thing, wasn’t it?
For dinner, I served Tristan a large scoop of Boba’s mashed potatoes and a succulent thigh.
‘You don’t have to wait on me,’ he said. ‘You should dish up. Ladies first.’
No Odessan man would ever think like this let alone say such a thing.
‘You’re a good cook,’ he said.
I should have admitted that I couldn’t bear to touch a chicken carcass let alone roast it to perfection as Boba had. But I wanted him to think the best of me. So I said, ‘Spacibo.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied in Russian. Nechevo.
‘It feels good to sit here with you. Usually I’m so busy with work that I never get home before seven. My friends think that I do too much. That I want too much.’
‘Well, we wouldn’t be sitting here if you weren’t such a hard worker, if you hadn’t taken that second job. Nothing wrong with having dreams. In America we say, “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll still be among the stars.”’
‘In Odessa we say keep your feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds.’
‘That’s a downer. You gotta try, don’t you? I mean if I hadn’t signed up at Soviet Unions, I’d be sitting alone in Emerson instead of with you in this awesome city.’
Two evenings later, Tristan proclaimed himself ‘over jetlag,’ and we explored the city.
‘This place is a little run down, but pretty,’ he said. ‘It smells like diesel.’
I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. I looked over my shoulder, worried about crossing paths with a friend or colleague. Catch-caught-caught. I hadn’t told anyone about him – I didn’t want to jinx things. So much could go wrong. He could simply disappear jus
t as Will had. Vita and Vera could try to steal him away, or worse, tell David. I glanced behind me again. And again. Odessa is like a village. I’d never walked more than two blocks without running into an acquaintance. Still, tonight my luck was holding.
‘Nothing’s written in English.’
‘Well, you’re in Odessa,’ I said tartly. ‘How many signs written in Russian do you have in San Francisco?’
‘We have a whole Russian Hill,’ he said.
I wanted more than anything to see it, my earlier irritation forgotten. I was dying to see America, and Tristan could make that happen. So he complained that the city smelled. Things weren’t perfect here – that’s why so many people wanted to leave.
As we crossed onto Pushkinskaya Street, he stopped and stared at the golden cobblestones, which made the street seem as if it had been paved in gold. ‘Why, it’s a real yellow brick road!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can that be?’
Finally something in my native city impressed him. I recited the information from my guide book: ‘They’re made from clay and remain in the furnace until vitrified.’
He took my hand and exclaimed, ‘A real yellow brick road! We’re a long way from Kansas, Dorothy!’
Sometimes he said things I couldn’t understand. Like my first American film years ago – Woody Allen’s Manhattan. I’d bought my ticket weeks in advance and carried it with me everywhere. I couldn’t wait to hear real native speakers and went alone so that no one would distract me with comments or jokes. In the movie theater, the lights dimmed and I stared at the screen and fidgeted in my seat, ready for a life-changing moment. I sat in the dark and stayed in the dark. I understood all the words and none of their meaning. It was deeply frustrating to understand everything and nothing. Why was Tristan talking about Kansas? Why did he call me Dorothy?
I gave him the same tour as the other Soviet Unions clients, then took him to a modest discotheque on the beach. The bar served our vodka, kognac, and champagnskoye, as opposed to the foreign drinks (and foreign prices) of clubs like the Crazy Horse. The sliding glass doors of the disco were opened to the night. Half the club was a dance floor, the other half a restaurant with tables covered with white floor-length tablecloths. The doorman took one look at Tristan’s jeans and T-shirt and shook his head. I slipped him a few bills and explained, ‘My friend is a foreigner.’ He frowned, but let us pass. Tristan looked at the young people dancing. ‘They’re perfect. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect bodies.’
Moonlight in Odessa Page 19