People nodded, as though Tristan was an authority because he’d been there once for five days. I bit back a scathing comment and said, ‘Actually, many Russians and Ukrainians enjoy eating meat, but I’m a vegetarian.’ When I was thirteen, my class spent a week taking care of animals on a communal farm. It was the first time I had come face to face with my dinner. How could I eat something with eyes? With a soul? After that, Boba and I never ate meat again.
‘Nothing wrong with being a vegetarian,’ Molly said kindly. ‘My niece who goes to Berkeley is one.’
People ate and spoke under the warm sun. I sipped the tart cola and listened. The woman who’d given me the children’s books said, ‘I just don’t know about that Rita. Brownie needs hip replacement surgery and she won’t spring for it. When she wouldn’t pay the two thousand dollars, well, I knew exactly what kind of person she was . . . I said I wouldn’t talk to her again unless she treated that dog right.’
When I understood that the two thousand dollars was for a surgery for a dog, the Coke came flying out of my mouth. I started coughing and Tristan whacked me on the back.
‘All right, babe?’ he asked.
He and Toby went to get another beer. The alarms in my head went off. I didn’t leave Ukraine to avoid our problem men only to find myself with an American alcoholic. I had to be careful. My three-month visa would give me time to get to know him.
‘What do you think of Emerson?’ the woman sitting on my left asked. She was wearing a tie-dyed shirt and skirt, and her hair was so long that she could practically sit on it. The sky was blue and we were sitting in a garden. It was just as idyllic as the scenes I’d seen on American television shows. I pinched myself and responded, ‘I still can’t believe that I’m here. It’s only been two days, but so far I’ve enjoyed the calm. How long have you been here?’
‘Ten years now. I moved to get away from L.A. I have my own store in Paloma, a town just down the road. I make scented candles and soaps.’
‘I’d love to see your shop.’ What an accomplished woman: an artist and a businesswoman. It seemed everything was possible in America.
A small diamond twinkled on her left hand. Instinctively, my hand went to my chest to feel my own ring, tucked away from prying eyes. ‘Would it be impolite to ask if you’re engaged?’
She laughed. ‘Not at all. Yes, I’ve been engaged for eight years now.’ She paused to let the surprise sink in. ‘See, my fiancé and I came here from different directions, and the first thing we each did was build a home. For my log cabin, I did everything from dig the hole, pour the cement, and cut and stack the logs. Jason put as much effort into his geodesic dome. But now neither one of us wants to move. So we spend half the week at my place and the other half at his.’
People here had such different problems. In Odessa there wasn’t enough housing. Young, and not so young, couples often had to live with their parents. Americans had so much they couldn’t decide where to live.
‘How do you know Tristan?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know him very well. Molly invited me because I’m her best friend. I’m Serenity, by the way.’
She stuck out her hand. I shook it. ‘Daria.’
‘I didn’t think Dora sounded Ukrainian,’ she said with a laugh.
Molly cut a chocolate cake and asked who wanted some. People said, ‘Me! Me!’ But I didn’t say anything.
‘Would you like a piece?’ Molly asked, her eyes warm and friendly, a blond twin wrapped around each of her bare legs. The knife blade was covered in frosting. The air smelled like chocolate. My mouth felt dry and empty like a desert. How I wanted a slice of the moist, sinful cake.
‘No, thank you,’ I said politely. And waited. She didn’t insist. Instead, she turned to Serenity, who said, ‘You don’t have to ask me twice.’
Molly gave her my slice.
In Odessa, a hostess politely offers and the guest politely declines. You see, after the Great Patriotic War, when food was scarce, a hostess didn’t always have extra. And guests certainly didn’t want to take food if there wasn’t enough. So a system was devised. A hostess offers, a guest declines. This way no one loses face. If she is earnest, the hostess will offer again and again, insisting that the guest partake. Only then may the guest accept. Today, I learned an important lesson. In America, people don’t ask twice.
If you want something, you’d better take it.
On Saturday, I woke up early and waited for Tristan. He was clearly not a morning person. He walked arms out like a zombie to the kitchen and poured cereal into his bowl.
‘Maybe we could go to San Francisco today,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Sweetie, the city is half a day away. Too far for a daytrip. How ’bout we go for a hike?’
‘The drive from the airport didn’t seem that far.’
‘You fell asleep after fifteen minutes. It’s a four-hour trip.’
‘But you said you lived near San Francisco. That’s what you said.’
‘Relatively speaking, we do live close to San Fran. We could live in Miami – now that would be far!’ He laughed again.
Thoughts swept into my mind like gusts of wind. Was he telling the truth? Where were we? My throat constricted and I felt the wide open space of Emerson, no longer anchored by the buildings and museums and hotels and restaurants and theaters and traffic – elements that had been constants for me. I sank down on the couch and hacked, trying to get my throat to reopen.
‘Come on, honey,’ he said blithely. ‘Let’s get out into nature, that’ll help you breathe better.’
He pulled me up and we went for a walk in the woods. I followed him through the trees. Neither of us said much. I couldn’t help but feel that he had lied. He’d told me he lived near San Francisco. That’s what he said. Four hours. An eternity. I tried to make the best of things as Boba always told me to do. I took a deep breath and looked at the silent beauty of the woods. (It was so very quiet. I found it disquieting . . .) I looked at the flowers near the trail and asked, ‘What’s the name of that flower?’
‘The pink one? That’s Liza Jane.’
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
‘The white one is Russell,’ he added.
‘And that tree?’ I pointed to the tall pine.
‘That’s Melissa,’ he replied.
‘Nice to meet you, Melissa,’ I said. We both laughed.
He held out his hand and I entwined my fingers through his.
That evening I called Jane in Montana. She couldn’t believe I was in America. ‘Obviously you are, though,’ she said. ‘The phone line is so clear.’ We calculated that I’d arrived in the States only hours before she had. ‘So you weren’t kidding when you said you’d be here before me. And that’s why you asked so many questions about California . . . and rednecks.’ She asked who I was with. I said nothing. ‘Tell me in Russian,’ she urged. How could she know that Tristan was in the background pretending not to listen?
‘He lied. He said he lived near San Francisco,’ I told her quickly in Russian. ‘But he lives four hours away.’
‘Actually, that isn’t a lie,’ she responded in Russian. ‘My sister lives five hours from my parents, and we consider that close. It’s in the same state and it’s not a bad drive. Maybe a person from New York City or Odessa would have a different perception of distance.’
Different perceptions. An interesting notion.
‘What is he like?’ she asked.
‘Gentle. Patient. His house is big. He gave me a computer. He has nice friends.’
‘When I visit Tans, we can meet in San Francisco for a weekend.’
When I hung up the phone, Tristan asked, ‘Why were you speaking in Russian?’
‘It’s my native language.’
‘I know a few words. Maybe you could teach me some more.’ His lips brushed against mine. ‘How do you say “kiss”?’
‘I kiss you. Tseluyou.’
‘Slyouyou,’ he said.
He sounded like the drunken
sailors on our ships.
‘Slyouyou, slyouyou,’ he said, leaning towards me. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me again. ‘Marry me.’
I kissed him back to avoid answering.
Chapter 15
Our letters never start with the paltry ‘dear.’ Salutations – in the true Odessan style – are two lines long. And no comma either – only an exclamation point will do for a proper greeting.
Hello, my dear Boba!
Greetings from the American Dream!
Everything here is wonderful and automatic – you don’t even have to flush the toilet in America! Unbelievable! The road from the airport to Tristan’s home was as smooth as rails. As excited as I was, I actually fell asleep, can you believe it?
Tristan said it would be easy for me to get a job as an engineer. He said that he could really talk to me. I worried that he’d be upset when he learned that I couldn’t cook. But he said that he liked to cook, that he wants us to cook together. He said he can teach me. And in the meantime, he can call the restaurant and tell them what we want to eat, and they deliver it! Just like in the movies!
Tristan’s house is huge! He has a fireplace, and we sit and talk in front of a roaring fire. In America, they have air-conditioning. Cool air circulates through vents so you don’t get too warm. Tristan and his friends have it. So does the supermarket. Remember our old flat and how hot it got in summer? How we joked that we’d already gone to hell?
He said that he didn’t make much money as a teacher, but clearly he was being modest. He must be rich. Not only does he not live with his parents, he has his own house – everyone has their own home and their own yards. There is not one single apartment in this whole suburb – can you believe it?
He said he wants children with me. He said we could be a real family.
All my love,
Dasha
In Yosemite National Park, exactly three weeks after my arrival, surrounded by sequoias and ferns, Tristan got down on one knee and presented me with a ring. My hand flew to my chest, where I felt another engagement ring warm against my body. Give-gave-given.
‘I haven’t even been here a month. There’s so much we don’t know about each other . . .’
‘I know I want to marry you. You’re so beautiful,’ he said, sliding the ring onto my finger. ‘I want everyone to see that you belong to me. I love you.’ He stood and hugged me tight. Find-found-found.
I stared at the ring. ‘You don’t have to give me an answer. Just think about it. You and me happy in America.’
In the evenings, we continued to chat on the sofa. He told me about his older brother Haliburt, a minister everyone called Hal, who lived near Seattle. ‘After Mom died, our dad just disappeared, man. He was there, but he wasn’t, you know what I mean? I owe Hal so much. He kept everything together. Made sure we had food on the table, made sure I went to school. I was always pushing it, but Hal pushed back and made sure I did the right thing.’ Tristan shook his head. ‘He’s still bailing me out. When I told him how I felt about you, he paid for your plane ticket since my credit cards were maxed out.’
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Maxed out?
He kissed me gently, rubbed my back, and ran his fingers through my hair. His hands inched lower and lower. I don’t know why his hand on my breast made me stiffen, why his body on mine made me more rigid than Boba’s ironing board. After a few minutes, I pushed him away. I told myself my reaction was normal and that this time I wouldn’t forget the most famous Odessan proverb: Not all who make love make a marriage. I wouldn’t be had again.
Tristan untangled himself from me and said, ‘Thank you for saving yourself for me. Of course, I respect you.’ I didn’t correct him, grateful that he’d invented himself a reason for my involuntary refusal of an otherwise mostly perfect union.
Jane and I decided to meet in San Francisco for a long weekend. I was so looking forward to seeing her. In Tristan’s truck, I couldn’t sit still. My toes tapped with excitement.
‘Your friend lives on Snob Hill,’ Tristan said snidely.
‘You’ll love Jane.’ I just wasn’t sure she would love him. Something strange had happened: in the miles from Emerson to San Francisco, he’d grown surly.
As the truck climbed higher and higher, I saw the Victorian homes featured in photos and movies. Between city blocks, I caught glimpses of the bay. What a breathtaking city!
We parked behind a Jaguar. Jane came running out of the house followed by Tans. My eyes started to water when I saw her. It had been weeks since I’d seen a familiar face. She took me in her arms and crooned all the words I needed to hear. She said them all in Russian, ‘You’re so brave, so pretty, so smart. Everything will be fine, you’ll be fine.’ Eyeing the ring on my finger, she added, ‘Just don’t rush into anything. Time will show.’
When I stepped away, I ran my fingers through her hair, which was as unruly as ever. I was so happy to see my Jane that I couldn’t stop touching her. I stroked her face, her arms. I brushed away imaginary wrinkles from her white blouse. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then twisted my arms around hers. Touching her felt like touching my native city again, like I was holding a piece of home in my hands.
Tans gave me an enthusiastic hug and kissed my cheeks, chin, and forehead, tickling my face with his mustache. Tristan looked at them warily. Tans noticed Tristan’s sour face and greeted him man to man, with a strong handshake and a phrase indicating that they should give us women time together. Tans walked Tristan up the steps of the elegant four-story Victorian and ushered him in. He shot Jane a look that said He’s not one of us.
The flat was spacious and dark. The blinds were down. Perhaps because Tans knew he looked better in soft light. He seemed aware of things like that. We walked down the darkened hall to the kitchen, the heart of the home, which was full of friends – Jane said Tans hated to be alone, so at any given time, there were at least ten people at his flat. The table was a scarred hunk of wood surrounded by mismatched chairs. I touched the fat spider burners of the massive stove and felt nostalgic for Boba and Odessa.
Jane introduced me to Zora and Gambino – accountants by day, musicians by night. Lea, a woman with no angles, only curves, sang with Zora. When she looked at me a little too intently, Jane told me in Russian that the woman was ‘pink.’ (In Odessan slang, it means lesbian.) Tans’s best friend Jonothan wore a bright silk shirt and was young enough to be Tans’s son. In Russian, we would call him smooglie, swarthy. We would also call him well built, for his shoulders and upper arms were muscled like Vlad’s. He stared at Jane, who carefully ignored him. Jono’s sister, a lanky stockbroker, was so proud of her G-string decorated with a sparkly butterfly that she lowered her trousers to show everyone.
‘Come meet my friend Daria,’ Jane said.
She pulled up her trousers, asked, ‘Is that an engagement ring, ma chérie?’ and took my hands in hers. She squinted at the diamond and said, ‘Darling! That speck of dust isn’t a reason to get married! It’s a reason to get divorced.’
Tristan turned red. Jane glared at her. My hand flew to my chest.
‘Behave!’ Jono warned. ‘Or you can spend your nights in a rented conference room at the Sheraton with the other low-life sharks.’
She shuddered at the threat.
‘Size doesn’t matter,’ I told her, taking Tristan’s hand. ‘Intentions do. Tristan called faithfully, wrote every day, and traveled to Odessa, Ukraine. No other man I know would have put in so much time, effort and money.’
Tristan looked at me gratefully and Tans’s friends looked at me with interest. I thought of Vlad, who would have defended himself. Then I remembered how he’d given me jewels and vanished after he’d got what he wanted.
Perhaps to erase the awkwardness, Tans swept Jane into his arms and said, ‘Let’s dance, darling.’ Jane laughed but she didn’t say no. They swayed together. I smiled; they were such an unlikely couple. Jane was four inches taller and three decades younger. Tans met my g
aze. I looked into his eyes and saw something disturbing in them. Then he smiled, and I saw that I was being ridiculous. Why did I have to be so suspicious? Why couldn’t I relax and enjoy myself, instead of sizing everything and everyone up?
When the song faded away, Tans told everyone I was from Odessa. He described the gracious people and the gorgeous architecture. Gambino asked if the staircase was as majestic in real life as it was in the film Battleship Potemkin. Jono recommended a book about the Black Sea. Zora said her great-grandparents had lived a thirty-minute wagon ride from Odessa. They emigrated in 1910 after a pogrom had left many homes in their village charred.
They were so kind that I nearly cried in relief. No one assumed that because I was from Ukraine (Yes, they’d actually heard of the Ukraine!) I was destitute, or that Tristan had ‘saved’ me. In fact, they thought that I saved him! Jane and Tans and their friends saw me for who I really was.
Tans’s personal library was richer than the Emerson bookmobile, which came only once a week, Fridays from nine to noon. In the dining room, lined with shelves of leather-bound books, there was a constant buffet on a formal table. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Coffee so rich, it could have been served in Turkey. And the food. Oh, the food! Hummus so creamy. A potato salad so light and golden it rivaled my Boba’s. Dolmas wrapped by hand. Not since I had been home with Boba had my stomach so rejoiced. Food – how it feeds the soul, feeds the memory, feeds the needs we don’t even know we have. More than one person watched me devour the bundles of rice wrapped in grape leaves.
Jane and I sat across from Tans and told him how wonderful it all was. He basked in our praise, his mustache twitching with pleasure. Tristan slumped down beside me, ‘What am I supposed to eat? This’s all different.’ Diffrnt.
‘Would you like to try the potato salad?’ Jane asked. ‘It’s delicious. Almost as good as Boba’s. Let me get you a plate.’
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