Love Is Never Past Tense...

by Janna Yeshanova

  Dolphins swam along the coast. Very close. About a hundred-a hundred and fifty meters from the pebble beach. The vacationers’ faces were turned towards the sea. Each time when the graceful animals jumped out in an arch and again entered the water, an approving rumble swept over the crowd on the beach. The dolphins, as if they knew, gave the people pleasure and carried out acrobatic jumps, like for an encore.

  It was difficult to recognize how many of the creatures swam. Now they appeared, now they disappeared, but swam a straight course towards the cape of the Kara Dag Mountain, on the right side of the Koktebel bay. The dolphins brought that finishing touch, without which this picture of the surrounding nature would be incomplete. Little whitecaps covering the sea, the soaring seagulls, ducks diving, swimming, bobbing on the smooth waves; people, sprawled under the rays of the hot sun and splashing in the warm water, the hills surrounding the gulf—all this was united into an ecological system where only dolphins were absent. And here they appeared. Everything somehow became ordered, it became peaceful and cozy.

  Alla and Elina, Boris’s daughter, looked at the dolphins with open mouths. They squealed and jumped on the pebbles, echoing the jumps of the sea mammals. The adults smiled, looking at the children. For them, the grownups, this visit to Koktebel was a farewell. They knew it. But children did not guess anything. They only started to learn about this complex world, but did not suspect how complex it was. “And thank God!” thought the adults, looking at the loudly laughing girls.

  “Mama, mama! Look, how nice they are, these little dolphins,” Allochka cried out sonorously, clapping her palms together.

  Boris placed his three-year old son on his shoulders so that the boy could see better. The child turned his head back and forth and did not understand what was happening. When he looked to the sea, the dolphins disappeared, when he turned to his father’s face—they jumped out from the water.

  “Whewe awe the fishes, the fishes, daddy?” The boy had trouble saying his ‘r’ and it sounded like something between an ‘r’ and a ‘w’.

  “Right there, look!” Boris pointed with his hand, but his little son, apparently, did not see anything. However, he also felt good, at least for an opportunity to sit on his daddy’s shoulders.

  The sea beauties swam away and did not come back. It seemed that they came to say goodbye to us.

  Koktebel, during the Soviet time called Planerskoie, was a place for meetings and vacations of the representatives of the caste considering themselves the intelligentsia. Here, they got acquainted, went off in groups, then parted, and in a year or two gathered again. They brought along friends and girlfriends, and those in turn did the same. So the glory about the wonderful corner, created millions of years ago thanks to the eruption of the volcano Kara Dag and spiritually enhanced by the works and the philanthropy of Maximilian Voloshin, spread around. He has been captured by a naturally occurring bas-relief of rocks in the image of his profile on Kara Dag, and forever sleeps on the top of the mountain Kuchuk-Enishar.

  Here at the beginning of the 20th century the artists and poets created their works. To make it easier for them to create their art masterpieces, the Soviet officials established “The House of Creative Activities for Writers,” isolating it with a high fence.

  In the silence of the shady avenues, placed into separation for better fertility, the members of the USSR Union of Writers bore their opuses. They, these members, drank vodka and young Crimean wine, played poker and chess, believing in their exclusiveness. In fact, their creative beginnings were guarded by a high fence that protected them from the rest of the world.

  Diligent officials could organize any phenomenon, and to bury the spirituality of Koktebel—did not take much hard work. Why, in fact, preserve the history embedded in the name itself? To hell with Koktebel! Planerskoie—here is the name of the resort! In fact, it was here on the mountain Uzun-Syrt that domestic gliding began. Yes, it is true. But why are technology and artistic creativity opposed to each other?

  Representatives of the intelligentsia crawled through the fence to the House of Writers to peek at the writer’s bodies and to “touch their artistic essence.” Actually, it’s curious: suddenly you catch a luminary who you couldn’t meet anywhere else. But the “luminaries” were hiding in small house-incubators and hatched best sellers. The intelligentsia neighed in satisfaction.

  The days flew cheerfully in Koktebel. In the evenings we gathered at Anna and Vladimir’s home, local residents who provided simple living for people on vacation. We sang songs with a guitar, told jokes, laughed a lot, drank plenty, and ate heartily.

  “It is time to split.” Boris said.

  “You’ve only arrived! Why do you have to leave?” I asked.

  “But not in this sense …” Boris stretches his words in thoughtfulness. “There is no place to come back to, as a matter of fact. Before our departure from home, someone scratched a cross on the door of our house. Do you know what this means?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “It means, that we are marked by these thugs-nationalists. Nobody stops them. Not law, not government, not militia. Tomorrow a battle cry will resound: Beat the Jews!—And the Holocaust will begin with a new interpretation. And the most repugnant thing is that at work they hint to me about another nominee for my position. Fortunately, they let me go on vacation. They even paid me money. But I think it is just a tribute to good manners. When I return, they will show me to the door.”

  Boris broke off, filtering sand through the thin palm of his hand.

  Boris is my close friend since childhood. He is handsome and very smart. Boris knows everything. Even when he has no answer, he all the same knows everything. I knew too, that in Moldova anarchical forces were rising. They are gathering in parks and plazas, crying out chauvinistic slogans: “Moldova—for Moldavians!” All the others—Slavs, Jews and other ethnic minorities, should in their opinion, leave the country. But I did not give it much thought: they were just youth gatherings, I thought, nothing more …

  “Hitler’s Germany began with street processions too. And then six million Jews went to the gallows and to the gas chambers. To leave, it is necessary—you understand, Jannoshka? Or are you immune? Maybe you have documents of a Turkish citizen?”

  “Where to split to, Boris?” I whisper.

  “Where? Probably, to Israel. Where else can you split?”

  “And what will you do there?”

  “I want freedom. I want to live easy!” Boris stands up and with long steps goes to the sea.

  In fact everything is so good: the hot sun, the sea. What slaughter? What gallows? But in fact Boris said that. And he knows everything.

  “Marin, what do you think on this occasion?”

  “I think like Boris,”—was the short answer. It was August, 1988.

  In the sky there are no clouds.

  The soft sea caresses the coast.

  A dark profile hangs above the smooth surface of the sea.

  It goes downwards from the rocks of Kara Dag.

  Koktebel, my lovely, my dear, you are of Valoshin sunrises joy.

  So the poet Yury Yezersky wrote. To me it was memorable. Well, why don’t people live in love?

  ***

  At the end of the eighties, in the gatherings of the Moldavian nationalists in Kishinev and other cities of Moldova, appeals began to sound for the mass deportation of all “newcomers”. Anti-Slavic and anti-Semitic moods amplified, and the Moldavian government at that time took the course of creating a mono-national state and seceding from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). People who lived in what eventually became the Prednister Republic were stirred to action against the militant national-fascism. Then the governmental circles of Moldova relied on using the rising contradictions among the population to keep control. Numerous attempts at a solution began in 1990 by using physical force on the Prednistrovian problem, and led to innocent victims among the peaceful population. The apogee of violence was the civil war unleashed b
y Moldova in 1992. More than 800 people ended up dead, and about three thousand were wounded.

  It seems Boris really did know everything …

  ***

  September comes. And while the students are at the collective farms,43 once every five years the college educators must take classes to improve their professional skills. What else can they teach me? I got so many awards for being one of the best teachers in town,—I think, but there is no way to get out of those classes. It would be better to stand at a chalkboard, but who will allow me?

  The courses begin. I am at the last desk sharing the space with a twenty-four year old girl. My eyes are looking forward. She is so bright! I am ecstatic about what she says! We think so alike!

  The girl arrived from far away. I offer to let her stay at my house. Her name is Alla. Same as my daughter’s. We become great friends.

  I share a lot about myself with her. About my first love—that is, about you, Seriozha. She listens attentively, looking at my face. Everything interests her. And it is interesting to me to talk to such a listener. She understands everything. To me, it is pleasant, and I’m delighted that I am not keeping everything that has become painful inside.

  “Alla, it is boring here for me,” I told her one time. “It would be great to get away somewhere.” She nods as a token of agreement.

  I call a friend in the government entity on tourism. I ask her how to expedite a last minute travel package, and where I can get one—let me know, please.

  “Good,” says Nina. The conversation is over. Now I live with one thought: “When will this happen?” In the evening I get a call from Nina: “In two days there is a package to Yerevan. It’s a great one. Do you want it?” My goodness! Yerevan! I had never been there.

  A few days after my return, I leave the house and I see a sign on the door: a six-pointed star. I shudder. The fear, terrible animal fear, has gotten into me. A Jewish neighbor woman, who had lived in Kishinev since birth, tells me she has the same sign on her door. Boris was right: it is time to split!

  ***

  Urgently, I fly to Moscow. Lina, my girlfriend, hospitably receives me into her house. My purpose was almost unattainable: I needed to receive a visa to go to Israel. But to leave Russia, you need to have an invitation from the other country. The invitation should come from close relatives. But I had no close relatives in Israel. I learned that the Israeli consulate does invitations, if your documents are in order. I approach the Dutch embassy where there is an Israeli consulate. The Soviet Union had no diplomatic relations with Israel, considering that this state was a stronghold of aggression of the Middle East. This is why the Israeli consulate was found in the building of the Dutch embassy. Behind these closed doors, I can obtain freedom. But so far, it is elusive.

  There is a crowd of men. Only men. They look at me, look and probably think, “What is she doing here, where can she get through?” A fierce cold. Everyone stands. Everybody waits.

  The crowd of men is my first obstacle. Who will let me pass? Everyone waits, like someone is going to bring them a bowl of hot soup. And who will get it?

  I want to shrink and run away. But I do not do it. I cannot walk away from what I envisioned. In fact there was just one step, certainly a hard one: but if I get into this building—I have freedom. This thought simply eats up my brain. My body shivers a fine shiver. I have to get a hold of myself, because I need to think of something. But I cannot …

  At the embassy gate there were two boys in military uniform. They protect another's border, but maybe also their own. A young man approaches me from the crowd. “Do you have an exit visa?” he asks. “If you do, then they will let you in.”

  “What visa?” I answer. “I do not even have an invitation. I need an invitation. That is why I’m here. How can I see the consul?”

  “This is impossible,” the young man replies.

  “It is impossible to get in there. I am in refusal,”44 he says. “I have been here for two years and cannot get in. But there is one chance. The consul leaves for dinner exactly at one thirty. I know him, I see him every day. Everyone surrounds him at once: it is impossible to get close to him. You won’t get through.”

  “But how can I receive an invitation?” I ask.

  “And what does “chance” mean?”

  “When he leaves, everyone stretches out their hands with notes containing their personal information. He takes them, and then you receive an invitation.”

  “Notes,” I think. “And what if suddenly my note falls out of his pocket? Then what?”

  “Well,” I say, “we’ll see. I need to see him.”

  It is three more hours before he comes out. The young man tells me during our conversation that the consul lives in the Ukraine hotel, in room 245.

  The young man is well-informed. It appears that he also lives in the same hotel.

  “I think,” the guy says, “the consul has lunch in the hotel restaurant. It is not far from here. Maybe 10-15 minutes by taxi.”

  In my head I carry out different scenarios of a meeting with the consul. It is not good to return home with nothing. Where would I go? Home, to Kishinev, to stay forever? But in fact, national disturbances and an orgy of violence had already begun there. What will meet me there? Horror, hopelessness, and no food in the stores. That means waiting would just be a struggle for survival, and I don’t know who would win. And what if my mom dies? She is already many years old. She survived a war. She is a veteran of this war. She has awards and medals. And she could die from a stone thrown by any thug or punk. And my daughter! What can I give her, my Alla? She is already 11 years old. We live in a small house. How will we share one roof when she grows up?45 Then suddenly a schoolmate will call her a Kike again. And then again I’d have to catch this scoundrel and say, “If I hear this again, I will kill you. Convey this to your mom.”

  My Alla should be happy! I need to do everything so that she can always make her own choices. My words carried like an echo in my head. The shiver was gone. It was replaced by a mother’s determination to struggle for her child. It was on an animal, genetic level.

  My thought drifts to my mother. “Mom. My precious … stay calm. It will be good for you there. Mom, the earth is very small and if we move a little bit farther away from here, I will prolong your life. Mom, trust me.”

  The crowd of men seemed insignificant and it was not an obstacle. Now I know for sure, that a conversation with the consul will take place, in spite of everything!

  “Permit me!” I say loudly. Heads turn towards me. A female voice!? I think it stopped the consul, who was just about to leave.

  “Well then, please! Allow me to pass!” In this voice there is no request. There is confidence. I’m here. I will speak with You. Now! And You will not tell me No”! I kind of pumped myself up with confidence. I gave myself a pep talk: “it will be the way I want it to be!” I looked at him, not turning my head. Everyone who appeared in my way, I dismissed, overriding any objections with a soft, movement of my hand. Did I hypnotize him? Probably not. But in my approach there was no hint of entreaty, no request to stop, to wait for me. He was bribed with my resoluteness—in it there was an intrigue that forced him to stand and wait for me.

  “What is the matter?” asks the consul, measuring me with his eyes. Here I recalled that I was a young and attractive woman. Facing me is the consul. But he had a small fault—he was a man. I could see a man of average height, dark hair with neatly cut temples—the rest was covered by a hat—and dark-burning eyes. They looked out with surprise and curiosity. Certainly, he understood that here, people ask for only one thing. He understood that I approach him not as a man, but as a consul. But when I come closer, his eyes become soft, and in the depths of his pupils the expectation of flirtation begins to shine. Instinctively I guessed that this condition needs to be kept until I resolve my problem.

  “I need to speak with you,” I answer, trying not to lose his gaze.

  “Speak,” he pronounced, putting on himself th
e mask of the consul and looking back at those around him. A pause comes. Silence is around us. Only wisps of steam came from the hot breath of people. If I tell him about the visa I would then and there return to my place somewhere on the edge of the crowd, and God would feel sorry for his trouble of sculpting me as a woman.

  I look the consul straight in the eyes, but I see in him a man. I speak firmly, interrupting the tightened pause:

  “I cannot talk, it is too cold here.”

  “Well,” almost with a whisper the consul answers, “I will return at half past two. Wait for me.”

  I search for the young man with whom I spoke earlier. I need to share with him. Let him be happy for me. I can help him too. “Actually,” I think, “why do I bother with him? I still have not solved my problems. What a character I am, to stretch out a helping hand to everyone. He may not even need it.”

  He is standing, talking with a fellow of twenty-five years. I introduce myself. I tell them what has happened. “I will take your information for the invitation with me, boys! Everything will be fine!” I think.

  “Maybe we should go to the ‘Ukraine’ hotel and find him at lunch? We can sit down at the next little table and maybe we can talk to him there?” offered the first young man. Superb! Certainly, we will go. We will take a taxi.

  In the taxi the first guy says that he has run out of money. The money order from Kiev is just about to arrive, so he does not luxuriate at the moment.

  “Do not worry; I will pick up the tab for the taxi and dinner.” The second guy immediately suggests, splitting the charges with me, and I agree.

  Passing down the corridor to a room of the first guy, a woman on duty threateningly informs him that he must pay for a broken night lamp. The second guy and I split the cost. Our companion has enough troubles. We come into his room. I hang up my shearling coat on the radiator, to let it dry slightly. (While I was waiting for the consul, I opened the door of the building across from the embassy. The door had a small window, and I could look outside and watch. I leaned next to a radiator on the wall, trying to get some warmth. I did not expect that my movements would cause a pipe disconnection, and hot water would run down the side of my coat!)