Love Is Never Past Tense...

by Janna Yeshanova

  Part Four

  Return to the Future

  The sleepless night spent at the restaurant tired both Serge and Janna. They only felt the weariness after the end of Janna’s story. She was very agitated. It seemed for her that the present became the future, and the past became the present. She dove deep into her memories, and they swallowed her. She did not see Serge, and only sometimes turned to him and asked: “Do you understand?” But more likely, it was a certain attribute of the story, rather than the desire to find out if he understood something or not. Serge only was ordering: wine, water, or ice cream. However, the last was only for him. Janna did not eat ice cream. For Serge, many questions gathered, but he did not break her monologue. What for? Somehow later he figured he would get the details. He knew that he would not hear a smoother and more consecutive version of the events of her story. And details can somehow be specified, without being imposing.

  Janna broke off. She sat for a long time, almost not moving, still somewhere far away. “That’s it, Serge, my head hurts. Let’s go.”

  It was almost five o’clock in the morning. There were almost no visitors. Night had ended, and the restaurant was closing. They paid up and went across the street—to the hotel room. The coolness of the morning refreshed them. They were standing at the entrance, enjoying the crystal air. Then they went up to their floor. Janna quickly took a shower and climbed under the blanket. She nestled next to Serge and closed her eyes. After a while, her easy breathing announced that she was already in the land of Morpheus. They slept long. Almost until noon. Just like a long time ago in Kishinev. Their stay in the hotel, they decided, should be extended or they should move to another place. Serge found a hotel directly on the coast, in Park Lanzheron. They dragged their belongings to the car and went to search for this hotel with the romantic name ‘Brigantina.’ Certainly, he was glad to have an opportunity to stay in the place where they once met. It was their dear Lanzheron.

  ***

  The story of the meeting of a young man and a girl, though, was only an instant in the history of Lanzheron, a park founded by Count Alexander Fedorovich Lanzheron. This legendary person participated in many fights, battling for Russia and its interests. In 1815, he was appointed as the town governor of Odessa, and managed to leave a kind memory of himself. His tenure brought about the first city newspaper (Le Messager de la Rus Meridional), the establishment of mineral water in the city park, and the layout of the botanical gardens which gave rise to gardening for all of Odessa. In 1817, he opened the Richelieu Lyceum, the second in Russia after Tsarskoselski. His house, with the famous cannons at the entrance, gave its name to Lanzheronivska Street, and served for a long time as one of Odessa’s brightest sights. Up to now, the towering Triumphal Arch leading to the dacha of the Count, called by Odessans the Arch of Lanzheron, opens on the road to a beach of the same name.

  Lanzheron Park was extolled by many Russian poets and writers, such as Jury Olesha, Vladimir Glazyrin, Konstantin Paustovsky, and Valentine Kataev.

  First, the dryness and wildness of the neglected park

  Then the road down, and a stone arch,

  Absolutely Italy.

  A curvy, olive trunk

  Hanging in emptiness,

  Glowing in brightness,

  And the sea flat, like a table.

  I knew, I felt, that later or early

  I will return to my homeland …

  This is how at a mature age, Kataev described it.

  In short, the Arch Lanzheron, the park descending to the sea, and the beach itself—are all symbols of Odessa.

  An inexplicable nervousness filled Serge when he taxied up to the Triumphal Arch. From here he started to watch the girl in far away 1973. But today, she sat near him on the front seat of the car, and he was touching her when he shifted the lever of the transmission gears. He could stretch out his arm and embrace her, and he really did embrace her when the car stopped to park right near the arch … He was very excited and did not get out of the car for a long time.

  He learned that cars were not permitted in the park: you could walk by foot or wait for the special tourist bus which carried interested persons to the hotels standing near the sea. Dragging the suitcases was inconvenient, so they decided to wait …

  Going down in the minibus took about five minutes. The hotel was private, and it immediately expressed its character of service. The suitcases were delivered to the room. Serge and Janna were offered a supper and soft drinks, but they refused everything and decided to walk in the park. First, they walked the asphalt path alongside the sea. Waves crawled softly over the coast and made the sand rustle. The seagulls soared in the air, and shouted something to each other—then easily sat down on the water. They had their own business. They didn’t need to rent a room in the hotel. Their house was the sky and water. However, somewhere on the coast they built their nests. There they hatched nestlings and again headed to the sea.

  The water was light green. Who decided to name it the Black Sea—is not clear. He truly, was a color-blind person. Then again, in the Red Sea the water is not red either. And the White Sea—not white. To hell with it, thought Serge, becoming tired of reflecting on the geographical oddities. A velvet September evening shrouded their walk. They went upwards along an alley, arguing about what falls from trees—buckeyes or nuts. Both were great experts in botany. So it was necessary to ask a man, who stood at a booth and selling some knickknacks.

  “It is a nut,” he said seriously. But he immediately understood that he would not receive any benefit from this.

  “But this clip is for your wonderful ears!” He handed Janna some cheap costume jewelry: it looked like two cockleshells smeared by a varnish.

  “How much?” Janna asked, simply to keep up the conversation.

  “Only twenty-five grivnas.51

  “And in dollars?” The American understood only one currency.

  “Five dollars,” another dealer shouted next to them.

  “And what, we wouldn’t understand without the help of a snot-nosed kid, or what?” cut off the first dealer, looking with disdain at his colleague.

  “And how will you count the dollars without this old Jew?” said the man, referring to himself.

  “Yes, we will figure it out, ‘arithmetician.’ Do you like to count someone else’s money, huh?”

  “But did you ever see a Jew who did not count another's money? Do you need it in shekels, young lady?”

  “No, that’s fine,” Janna answered with a laugh.

  “Well then, try some dried smelts and shrimp. What is the point of wandering without business?”

  Janna, with a smile, turned and went down the hill. And Serge bought shrimp, most likely as a tribute of gratitude for the gratis performance. But when he crunched the shells,—1973 grew before him, like a rock from a fog. Then they also walked along the quay. He chewed the shrimp and spit out the chitinous tails. She went behind him, or beside him, or in front of him … And here, everything repeats … The magical cocktail of sadness and delight poured through his body. He can stretch out his hand and touch her. He can embrace her. He can kiss; everything is like in 1973. She turned: “I saw you back then, when you walked behind me!”

  “You could not see me. You did not turn around.”

  “I turned around. You did not notice.”

  “I could not not notice. I looked at you all the time.”

  “Let’s check this out: I will go ahead, you don’t take your eyes off of me, and I bet, you will not notice when I look at you.”

  The experiment started. Serge intently stared at Janna’s nape. Yes, the head turned, but not so that he could get into her field of vision.

  “So what, did you see?”

  “I saw nothing.”

  “But I noticed you.”

  “That’s impossible! What are you, David Copperfield in a skirt?”

  “What skirt? I’m wearing red pants!” (She had on training pants, red in color.) “You are so observant. Back
then, you only looked at my butt.”

  “Why bother looking at your covered butt? But it looked to me like your legs were sticking out from your ears. Now this phenomenon interested me …”

  “Ah, a Young Naturalist! … 52 I need to extend my legs.” She put both hands on the elastic band of her red exercise pants, and with a jump lifted them upward. Her legs really did become longer.

  “Ha, ha, how did you like that method?”

  “You need to change your profession—you will become a millionaire. Ladies and gentlemen, step right up! Now on center stage, the unique Janna Yeshanova nee Janna Yevgenia Gelvarg, stretching her legs up to her ears. A performance unmatched anywhere in our city! Only two soldo!”53

  “Assisted by … uh … uh, just a passer-by, who happens to have the same last name …”

  Serge approached, and grabbed her training pants.

  “Where should I pull: up or down?”

  “It’s too early for down: up, for now.”

  But Serge could not contain himself, and embraced her and kissed her cheek that seemed to be burning with fire …

  ***

  “I can make you a chicken chop, and add tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, and certainly, greens. What kind of sauce do you want? What kind of drink would you prefer?”

  The waiter, who was also the cook and the assistant to the owner of the hotel, was a young guy with an open kind face, and seemed born to be the master of service. He did not forget to bring a small pillow for their seats, and afghans to warm them. He lit a candle on the table. After all these preparations, the little table became very cozy and romantic. Nearby, in view of the lights from the hotel, the now-black sea stirred. Somewhere in the distance, with flickering lights, a big ship floated. On the table, an uncorked bottle of wine materialized, and glasses. Andre—this was the name of the waiter—poured the wine into the glasses, and placed napkins and silverware on the table.

  “My God, this is some kind of paradise,” Janna contentedly sighed. “Odessa, Lanzheron, wine, you beside me. Why didn’t we find a hotel like this earlier?”

  “I repent.” Serge confessed. “But you must remember the time we arrived in Odessa. Almost at night. We didn’t have too many choices.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, that was good too. I liked the deep leather armchairs in the restaurant.”

  “And cuisine was quite good,” he pointed out.

  “But here is an absolute fairy tale … When do we leave?”

  “It would be good tomorrow.”

  “Let’s stay for one more day.”

  Serge looked pensive. His business in Moscow did not give him much time off. But he did not think for long, and nodded his head in assent. He became somewhat more relaxed and joyful from this decision. He drained his glass. Andre appeared like clockwork, holding in one hand two large fragrant dishes. During supper, there were no more trips into history. They actually talked about nothing; just light and nonchalant chatting. Serge thought about dumping the afghan, undressing, and diving into the dark, already cold autumn sea. But he remembered that the days of his youth had already passed, and instead he buried himself tighter in the afghan. He looked at Janna and felt very happy. He avoided thoughts of parting. Why think about the bad when it is possible to think about good?

  “Oh, I ate too much.” Janna spoke with a full happy voice. “I wanted to lose weight. It is like two hells trying to lose weight, here with you!”

  “Are you done? You know I love you the way you are. Relax …”

  “And the kilograms?”

  “Which ones?”

  “Extra.”

  “Where are they? I don’t see them. Hey, kilograms!?” Serge glanced under the table. “There are no kilograms there.”

  There were, though, her legs tightly covered by the training pants, and her soft white sneakers. Serge straightened up, furtively looked at Janna, and felt that a force majeure attracted him to her. Why? He could not explain it to himself. He could not put it into words why it was so good now, even if he tried. It seemed to him that the long years of ridiculous separation had ended, and it would always be like this. There would always be the whisper of the sea, there would be a cool evening in a golden autumn, there would be an obliging waiter, and there would be a tasty meal. But the main thing, there would always be a room with his beloved from whom he never wanted to part, not ever …

  ***

  … The hotel balcony overlooked the bend of the Dnestr River. Morning. The sun had crept out of its shelter. The banks of the river were densely overgrown by thickets of deciduous trees. They were decorated in green, yellow, red and claret. Above the quiet, almost immovable water rose a light fog. Silent and peaceful. There is no desire to move. You want to be suspended in the dense cool air, to be dissolved in it and to hang above the river. But you have to leave. Who needs it? Why is it needed? Why do you need to leave the place where you feel so good? … Serge looked at the smooth grey-green surface of the water by himself, and somehow fell into his memories.

  “Many years ago my Odessan uncle—actually, not even an uncle, but a distant relative, more like a kissing cousin—took me, a teenager, to the Dnestr River to fish. We rode for a long time by bus over a potholed country road. Then we walked for a long time to the village which was sheltered on the coast. My uncle puttered for a while with the boat motor, and then we floated for a long time upstream, disappearing in narrow channels, leaving the smooth surface of the flat river. At last we reached the deserted coast where we set up our tent. We stayed for a week. Waited for the fish. But someone, higher up the river, opened the spillway of a dam. The water arrived and washed out the fish’s food source, so they left. The fish were not interested in our bait. And those, that did nibble, simply went crazy. We caught half a small bucket of these mad fish. To come back home with such a poor catch was simply indecent. My uncle and I went to the fish farm and bought two full strings of carp. At home, my grandmother salted the fish: she simply poured large salt crystals on the fish and hung them on a cord at the window. In two days the fish became rotten. Fat worms crept over them. They felt good from grandmother’s care. But soon, they went straight to the garbage pail. So my sortie to Dnestr ended. And here I am again. Strange. More than forty years have passed.”

  The Hotel Tiraspol is in the Prednister territory—not a recognized republic. Who will recognize it, and when, is not clear. There was an uprising in the beginning of the nineties, when human passions boiled over. People for some reason beat each other, and even killed. And for what? In the Prednister region there was the 14th Russian army. And, General Lebed was restoring order. Now a small population lives here who sees rescue in its independence. They do not want to depend neither on Moldova, nor on the Ukraine. But their land sits directly between the two. The people living here thought up money that looks like candy wrappers from chocolates. They built their statehood, and opened their own cheap cafes. They even have a hotel with luxury rooms where they dragged in Jacuzzis, which made the room “heavier” up to fifty dollars a night. But Serge and Janna were not attracted by such comfort, and they hid away in their two-room suite. But, there was not enough furniture for two rooms. In one was a double bed. In another—for some reason, a single armchair. Probably, so one could sit and behold the naked walls.

  They crossed the border of this small republic, late at night. And, in spite of the fact that they planned to leave it the next morning, the border guards sternly ordered them to register. The whole registration consisted of a stamp on an immigration card, but something awful and ridiculous is contained in this most ‘Important of State Services’ that was located God knows where, and all they could do was wander in the dark city and ask casual passersby for the address of the services.

  Certainly, there was no opportunity to watch for traffic signs. Serge valiantly turned on a street with one-way traffic, and quickly rolled against the oncoming traffic. However, it was difficult to call it oncoming traffic, just, two or three cars passed by. And suddenly the jo
yful spark of a black and white striped police baton insisted in the darkness that it was necessary to stop … “They got me,” thought Serge.

  “Comrades,” said the face, “you committed a violation.” (The Word comrades, not pronounced in Russia since the beginning of Perestroika, caressed the ear. Here, still, was the Soviet Union. Well, simply The Lost World !)

  “Here it is expected …” droned the rejoicing keeper of order, secretly counting the profits that would pour from the wallets of these two dolts.

  “Open the window, quickly,” said Janna resolutely, pulling out from her purse her American navy-skinned passport as if it was the ID of Queen Victoria.

  The speech that followed poured out with such speed that to reproduce it is possible only by strongly straining the memory: “Listen, guys! It is so good that we found you!” (Duh, like we were looking for them!) “I am a correspondent for the American newspaper Columbus Pictures. I am collecting material about border guards, and guards of order in your young surprising republic. In short, about those who are looking after the tranquility of this country. Help us, please …” Janna had already run out from the car and came close to the thin youth, who had probably received his police uniform only yesterday. He even recoiled. Certainly, he in no way expected that, out of the dusty car with Moscow tags, the representative of a terrifying American publishing house would creep into the bright light. “How are you doing here with the crime sprees?" Janna pressed.

  “Oh, it’s OK, it is quiet …” mumbled the sergeant.

  “Can I have your ID? And your surname, your first name, is it possible to learn your ID number?” He answers, but Janna does not hear and does not write it down. “I will definitely write about you!” she promises solemnly.

  The second, the little bit older one, asks Serge, “What, what newspaper?” Serge shifts his glasses on his nose and with a strong American accent, which he never had since the day he was born, said, “Buffalo Rangers.”