Moonlight in Odessa (26 page)

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 just 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.’

I looked at them, but didn’t see anything unusual. He was more interested in the youth than he was in the architecture. He asked how old they were, how much it cost to come to a club like this. Why was he so amazed? This place wasn’t unusual. There were dozens of them in Odessa.

‘In the States, we have a problem with obesity,’ he explained. ‘Plus lots of teenagers fight acne. I did. You’ll see when you get to America.’

America. He sounded so confident when he said this. I just hoped he wouldn’t disappear. Like Will. Like Vlad.

‘Everyone looks so . . . good,’ he continued. ‘They’re wearing nice, even fancy clothes.’ He sounded surprised. He looked at the young men in dress shirts and trousers dancing with slender girls in gauzy summer dresses, which showed off their tanned legs.