Love Is Never Past Tense...

by Janna Yeshanova

  “And you, as a matter of fact, are alone. You have assistants that will run away in a moment if something scares them. You sit, and become snobby. But for certain, something is not right; you make mistakes and you do not notice …”

  The mistakes did not take long to be shown. The whole year of 1993, the dollar stood as dead: prices grew, but the rate of the dollar was constant. Everyone who was engaged in import grew rich, by leaps and bounds. Everybody bought the goods for one thousand dollars. They sold for rubles under the increasing prices. They exchanged rubles at a cheap and stable rate. They were selling it to their seller, not forgetting to leave, “some extra money” overseas, or here, in Russia. Serge lamented his shortsightedness. “What did you reject? Janna was offering you, this very thing, as if she could predict favorable market conditions. But you had agreements based on the dollar. It was good for the customer—you bring them dollars, you change them for a cheap rate, and then run to the market to buy materials that are rising in price every day. That's all. It's done. Failure is waiting for you. When Janna offered prosperity … she again stretched her hand out to you. She herself was in serious need of money. Aren’t these preconditions for a strong alliance? Well big deal, she is your former wife. That’s even better. It is not necessary to explain to each other who you are.” But Serge missed this chance, by his own foolishness and because of his own conceit.

  “Trouble has come—open the gate.” And literally, on the threshold of his office gangsters appeared …

  It was July 9th, 1993. And on July 8th Serge in the circle of his whole family, celebrated his mother’s 65th birthday. He was still a little tipsy when he arrived at his office. He got out of the car, and was immediately surrounded by enforcers. Yes, they were gangster drones. They ransacked the city in search of rich dealers who were not yet “protected”. (Almost all the businessmen already had a “roof” or gangster, either bandits or FSB.39 These “protectors” included former Afghan soldiers, and sportsmen, and my god, everybody was in …)

  They did not introduce themselves. They said that they would arrive tomorrow for conversation, because now they didn’t have time. They offered friendship and services: shaking off debtors, resolving problems with pig-headed customers—in short, they had the kindest of intentions. “And as a token of friendship,” they said, “Give us cigarettes.” And Serge gave. How could he have known, being raised in an intelligent family, that in gangster rules this step was referred to as the purchase of “the right of the first night”? You have given money; it is unimportant how much. You have given, so you have invited them to visit you. You have subscribed under the certificate of “cooperation.” Nobody else, according to the thieves' rules, could do anything more to this client—he was already under a roof.

  The next day they came as promised, at eleven in the morning. One of them muscular like a bull with a shaved nape, strode through the office master-like and, asking nobody, opened Serge’s door. Silently, with a nod of his head he invited Serge to get out—we will talk in the car. He opened the back door of the car; two men—the driver and one more shaved head, sat in the front seat. The one, who invited Serge, sat next to him in the back seat. Later, Serge learned that to sit down in the car under any circumstances was prohibited. But could he allow himself to look like a coward?

  There was no preamble. Serge immediately felt the impact of a sideways fist. In truth, he was not beaten strongly; he was beaten just for the sake of intimidation.

  “You will pay us. Do you hear? Do you understand?” said the guy who was sitting in the front, not even turning around. “You make big money here, so ten grand a month for you is not a stretch. I do not hear your answer!”

  Again, there was a blow in his side. But Serge was ready for it and clenched his muscles. The impact was weaker than the first.

  “Well! Why are you silent? Who do you take us for, you fuck! You think it is OK to play silent with us?”

  “So go to the forest, he will tell us something faster,” said the driver, impatiently starting the ignition.

  “No need to go to the forest,” Serge said calmly. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t have any fear. Later, by himself in his office, he shook like an aspen leaf, and the young secretary offered to call an ambulance. But now, he was externally unperturbed. He got a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Ten thousand dollars a month—the sum is unreal. You have incorrect information on my business. If you want, we will go, and you can check my accounts.” Serge understood, that now, these morons will not go anywhere because they understand crap about accounting. He needed to delay a little bit, and his brain convulsively thought how to get out of this tin box. “Scream, or call for help?” he thought to himself. Next to them was a little park, where only moms with children walked by. “You will get a punch in your jaw and then they certainly drive you away. Jump out and run to the office. You can always find some hefty guys in the supply department … I will make noise, and what then? The bandits will guard the building until night. It is impossible to jump out so quickly: the door is locked, you need to pull up the lock button, you have to open the door … I need to win them over, somehow calm them down.”

  “Don’t give us shit. We know everything. We already checked everything. In short, ten grand, on the 30th of each month. And don’t get the thought in your head to run to the police or somewhere else. We will find you. So, I don’t hear the answer!”

  “Ah,” he realized, “They need an answer; this is what they need. They want me to give them a promise. I’ll give one—then the shit hits the fan …”

  “I will talk about the sum and the rest of the terms with your boss. Tomorrow or during any time convenient for him, I am ready to meet. And now, please excuse me, I have a customer coming, and if I’m not there, there will not be ten, or five, or even three grand.” Serge spoke so easily and convincingly that the thought of a lie or dirty trick didn’t even cross their minds.

  “Well, shall we believe this asshole? Tomorrow, also at eleven, we will take you where it’s needed, you’ll talk … Don’t get it into your head to run from us. We know where to find you.”

  Serge opened the door, slowly got out of the car, and slowly moved towards his office. He had only a day to find a way to rescue himself, his family, and maybe his business. Though he didn’t really believe that he could rescue his business …

  After two years of persistent struggle, he sold a four-bedroom house in Moscow and took his family abroad. But this gave him only relative serenity. Earning money was extremely difficult. Although sometimes he was lucky, his good fortune was coming to an end, and poverty was coming, pitiful and humiliating. Serge did not notice how he grew older and completely exhausted. He could not do anything positive any more—his knowledge, and his steel experience, was not in demand …

  ***

  “One needs to die in his mother land,” the old man whispered, putting his legs on a stone. Back on the beach, he tied the stone with strong hempen ropes. Now he needed to attach his feet to these ropes. For this purpose, he chose a thin nylon twine that was easier to push under the hemp. The sun was rapidly setting. He needed the light of the slanting beams to handle this work, and not to do it by touch. He passed the twine under the hemp, then wound the end around his right ankle, stretched the cord, and again passed it under the rope. He did this until he tied it around his leg thirteen times. He chose the number thirteen because this number appeared in his life many times, and for him, it was lucky. It is difficult to explain why he decided to make it so. He was neither a superstitious nor a devout person. He simply decided to do so—that’s it. When the right leg was firmly attached, he started on the left. This business went more quickly because he already gained some experience. About ten minutes later, the left leg was attached to the stone. He fastened the end with a sea knot. The rest of the cord he cut off and threw out into the sea. His legs with veins that were dark blue even before entanglement, began to become even bluer. The blood supply had obviously worsened
.

  “That’s OK,” the old man calmed himself. “There is not that much left.”

  The crimson sun went down to the edge of the sea. He observed the beauty of a sunset many times. But here, far from the beach, the sunset was especially impressive. It seemed that the fiery sphere was just about to touch the water and the violence of the elements would begin. It seemed the sea would begin to boil and start to extinguish the heavenly body. He even imagined that clouds of steam would rise in the sky, and looked at how fast the space becomes thinner between the bulk of the sun and the far away strip at the end of the horizon. The red rays were still trying to sink their teeth into the sea, but they reflected on the surface and left slanting lines in the sky. A bright path ran from his boat straight to the falling disk flaring from its last efforts. Black glasses allowed him to look at this miracle of nature without serious consequences. The old man began to count—two more minutes and the sun will begin to fade, somewhere there, far in the boundless waters. As soon as the sun touched the water then he, the old man, would follow it. So he envisioned. This was his plan. His algorithm of actions.

  Really, he did not have time to count to a hundred. As the sun reached the horizon, the sea looked as though it began to eat the fiery sphere.

  “Well that’s it, it’s time,” the old man said in a half-voice. He pulled out a battery-powered drill from a sack. He tested it and thrust the drill, like a corkscrew, into the wooden bottom of the boat. The drill went softly, without effort, piercing the wet boards. The old man was surprised at the speed. Suddenly the drill, not meeting any obstacle, plunged down to the drill-bit housing. The old man pulled out the drill. From the hole, a fountain of water cheerfully sprang up.

  “It is possible to drill more, and the process will be accelerated,” the old man thought. But the spurting ran so vigorously that the need for an additional hole disappeared. The old man examined the drill—excellent German work—then swung and threw it far from the boat.

  The water was coming. When the boat loses buoyancy, it will quickly sink, and the heavy stone (the old man had barely dragged it in the boat) would drag him to the depths. What depth, the old man did not know. Perhaps a hundred-two hundred meters. He removed his glasses and looked inside the sea, but except for darkness, he didn’t see anything. Only waiting remained.

  The sun disappeared as if it was a piece of butter in a heated frying pan. Water already filled the bottom of the boat.

  “No one will search for me,” the old man reflected. “If they do, it will be short. Nobody will search the bottom of the sea for some mad man. And thank God. There will be none of those nervous and expensive preparations for a funeral, there will be no foolish speeches at a tomb, there will be no ridiculous commemoration when after half an hour of toasts for resting in peace everyone starts to crack about everyday ordinary affairs: how many seeds you need to plant in the garden of a dacha and when to expect blooms … No, I will fence myself and my relatives from this vulgarity. So this is how I want it, how I ordered it in my will!”

  The boat was a quarter full; the stone and everything was in water. The sun disappeared, the sea swallowed it. The dark blue of the sky became lead, and this lead outflow covered the sea from the opposite side where the sun left.

  The old man closed his eyes and began to whisper the lines written long ago:

  You do not trust me—I’ll forgive

  To be angry, I’ll never learn.

  I have only one thing to ask you:

  Allow me to quench my thirst from your gentle lips.

  Yes, I have escaped to the country of charming dreams,

  May the rusting leaves cover the ground,

  May the nasty wind blow between birches,

  Dejectedly, they lower along their bodies their palms.

  May the rain of grief wash the heart of sadness,

  And heat the soul ruthlessly.

  It was everything—in spite of this, someone is missing

  Someone is missing last night, and now.

  I am forgotten … Everything failed as if in eternity,

  And maybe, were carried away in transcendental cold.

  I remained alone. Around—my carelessness

  Glasses ring. Can you hear? ‘Ding’!

  It is so silent, so melodious …

  Crystal, and maybe, Czech glass.

  I hear a whisper: “Darling, do you love me?”

  Oh my God! Who has this thick glass tumbler?

  Chuckles, coming nearer,

  And a hoarse voice nasally mumbling:

  “I smelled it, oh really—they are pouring.

  Give me a shot—my insides burn.”

  But who are you, with a blue nose

  The dribbling mouth, a shivering lip

  Sickly chest, belly pump (the stomach sucks everything)

  Where are you thrusting your hand?

  Get away! Image, disappear,

  Your face is impossible to me.

  Have mercy, for this delusion—

  It seems your features are familiar to me.

  Well, good for you, you noticed our similarity,

  But I thought everything was bad for me.”

  But you are ingenious, and through the ugliness

  To recognize the corpse—in fact it’s me!

  I walk after you as a shadow.

  I follow you, without rest.

  Either night you will live through, or day,

  And I still wait for you …

  And with each hour faster and faster

  You slide into my embrace.

  You the sinner! You fell victim of passions,

  But that’s OK, repent in my monastic cell.

  The jaw froze in mid-scream,

  But the desert gobbled up the wild cry.

  Around all shadows prowl, patches of light,

  Oppressive anguish falls on the chest.

  A salty tear washes my soul,

  Cold sweat irrigated the bed.

  I know, just simply I’m missing someone

  And last night and now.

  You do not trust me—I‘ll forgive,

  In fact I’ll never learn anger, not at all.

  I only have one thing to ask you:

  Allow me to quench my thirst from your lips.

  Yes, I have escaped to the country of a dream,

  And in it I catch up with you,

  I love you from here, believe me!

  Whether I can love you in reality,

  I do not know at all …”

  ***

  The old man wiped the tears running on his cheeks, and with pleasure remembered the bottle. “Yes,” he continued, taking a large drink. “They will gather anyway. Anyway, in any case, they will eulogize me regardless of the letter which I left in the hotel to be read by my family. Family? But which one? During your life in this world, you, brother, created a heap of families. But you weren’t the real head, the provider in any of them … So, you were the lover, and the physiological father. You were a pain and a splinter. The ruiner of souls you were. And how many hearts have you shattered? How many gentle maiden hearts have you crushed with indifference, arrogance, and emptiness? And in spite of this fact, you violently fell in love, losing your head, and during these moments you could take your last shirt and give it to whom you loved. But as soon as passion cooled, the loved one ceased to exist … Everyone suffered, but you also suffered from all of this confusion and disorder. Where is this coming from, from whom, from what ancestor?”

  Water began to wash the soles of his feet. The old man wished to lift them, but in making the effort he remembered that he was attached. His already intoxicated brain reminded him why he, in general, was here. He dangled in the middle of the blackening sea. Ah, yes. Now everything will become black. And, at last, the ordeals in this life will be over.

  Despite the tragedy of the situation, the old man was absolutely calm. His pulse was strong and rhythmical, barely faster. But it was more likely from the drink, rather than the
sensation of his nearing end.

  “But, in fact my mind can leave me, when it begins. In fact I can start panicking. And I would want to leave with dignity. Although nobody sees me … But even so, for myself. In fact, how cold-bloodedly Martin Eden40 left. And Bunin’s Mitia, who with force and pleasure, shot himself in his mouth. And old man Hem? Oh, Janna, precious Janna. You wanted me to like this writer! Yes I liked him. I read everything of his. And I know that he left by will. And I, the old man, dangle now in a half-sunk boat. But I do not struggle with a huge fish, and I am simply waiting for when my body will go to these fishes to be eaten up.”

  “My kind and gentle Janna! Forgive that I ran from you my whole life and searched for those who even externally resembled you—in this paradox of my whole private life. How silly and ridiculous this is! To know for my entire life, that there actually lives in the world the dearest person, and I disappeared and hid for my entire life from my own happiness, artificially dulling the feelings for a while, feelings of love for the girl from 1973—the most miraculous year of my life. But now everything will end. The absurd should have a logical ending. Perhaps it is silly to die, but it is more silly to continue this futile existence. Everything is lost, everything is already behind. Now the fish and the sea worms will begin their business …”