Moonlight in Odessa (35 page)

Tristan pulled the pan off the burner and dumped the potatoes into a strainer. He rinsed them off and put them back in the pan.

‘They’ll burn,’ I warned him as the potatoes started to cook. I smirked. I didn’t know much, but I knew that.

‘You really have a lot to learn,’ he said. ‘This is a non-stick frying pan. And I have a secret weapon. You’re going to love this.’

He took an aerosol can out of the cupboard and started to spray the potatoes.

‘What are you doing?’ I yelled. ‘Why are you spraying chemicals on our food?’

‘This is Pam. Zero fat,’ he said slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot.

I ate the potatoes because wasting food is a sin. But they did not taste good.

That weekend, when I called Boba and told her of our argument, I expected a little sympathy, but she said, ‘
Nu
, child, men always think they know better. Let him continue to think so, what harm will it do? All people disagree, it doesn’t mean anything. He loves you. He’s trying to help you adapt to his ways. How many times have we heard Americans cook with chemicals? Now you know it’s true.’

‘But, you don’t understand, Boba –’

‘And now you’re arguing with me? What kind of girl did I raise? Marriage is like the sea – rarely calm, rarely stormy, but somewhere in between. Living together takes patience, compromise, and wisdom.’

Tristan brought home a recipe book he borrowed from Molly,
Low Fat and Lovin’ It
. It suggested cooking vegetables in plain water. I tried this and the potatoes tasted bland, but Tristan liked them. Or I thought he did, until he a month later, he asked, ‘What’s with all the potatoes? Haven’t you ever heard of rice or spaghetti?’

I was proud of the way I cleaned his house. In Odessa, I hadn’t so much as wiped the table after a meal – Boba always insisted she wanted to do it. In Odessa, products came in boring brown packaging and were called names like ‘industrial cleaner.’ Not very alluring. But Comet? Or Fantastik? Maybe I used more than necessary, but they smelled so good and I wanted to have clean, shiny surfaces. And I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Emerson didn’t have a real library or book shop. It had only taken me a half a day to explore the town. I’d read my novels several times and had explored nearly every inch of cyberspace. I didn’t know what to do, but wanted to be helpful, so I scrubbed. And maybe it was a form of penance. Atonement for my wayward thoughts.

When he came home from work, Tristan opened the windows and said, ‘What? Are you trying to asphyxiate me?’

But then he would hug me and say, ‘It’s okay, you don’t know any better.’

I frowned. And bit back scathing remarks, Jane’s words about offending others and expecting them to change firmly in my mind. I shouldn’t expect Tristan to change. I was the one who should adapt . . .

He worked part-time, so when I tried to read a book and listen to music in the living room, he was there, too. Only he turned on the television to watch his ball game and the commentator drowned out my beautiful Bach. Suddenly, the open floor plan I’d loved seemed very limiting.

I turned off the stereo and went into the office to read. He followed me and played computer games. The bleating machine guns made it impossible to concentrate, but I knew that if I went back to the living room or into the bedroom, he would just follow. There was no place to hide. No little nook or cranny.

‘Could you turn the sound down?’ I asked.

He looked at me, his sour gaze lingering on my ebony blouse and trousers. ‘Sweetie, do you have to dress up all the time? Let’s go shopping and out to dinner.’

It would be pleasant to get out of the village. A change.

He took me to a store called Wal-mart and chose some clothes for me. When I came out of the dressing room, wearing baggy jeans and a bright T-shirt, he nodded approvingly, ‘Now you fit in.’

Odessans would rather stand out than fit in.

I looked around at the other shoppers. He was right. I looked just like them.

‘Thank you, Pygmalion,’ I said, only a little sarcastically.

‘Did you just call me a male pig?’

‘No, no. It was a reference to a play by George Bernard Shaw. He was well liked in the former Soviet Union. All school children read his books.’

I stared at myself in the full-length mirror. I didn’t look bad. But I didn’t look great. And Odessan girls like to look fabulous. Plus I hated to waste money on something I wouldn’t wear. What to do?

A man may be the head of the household, Valentina would say, but the woman is the neck. She can turn the man’s attention at will. Turn on the Odessan charm. But your eyelashes – that’s why mascara was invented, for God’s sake. Smile. Speak softly. It’s more effective than a rock between the eyes. He won’t know what hit him.

‘Tristan,’ I took his hand in mine. ‘The clothes you chose are lovely, but I was thinking more along the lines of something . . .’ Speak his language. ‘Sexier. Maybe a blouse? Or a little sweater?’

‘Sure . . . yeah, anything you want.’

He really did look stunned, as if someone had hit him. We scanned the racks until I found something suitable, but I felt guilty, as if I had used a weapon against an unarmed man.

I was lucky to be in America. Lucky to live in such a big house. So how could I protest when Tristan upbraided me? How could I complain when he told me how he wanted his food cooked and house kept? The more one is scolded, the more deeply one is loved. He wasn’t finding fault, he just wanted me to adapt to the American way. To fit in. And I tried. But it was hard. Especially when I couldn’t defend myself.

Like the time Tristan came out of the bathroom with my tube of denture cream. ‘Sweetie,’ he laughed, ‘you have to learn how to read. This isn’t toothpaste, this is Polident. It’s for senior citizens who don’t have any teeth. I’m old, but I’m not that old, ha, ha!’

What could I possibly say? Self-conscious, I put my hand over my mouth like I used to.

He hugged me and said, ‘You’re so cute.’

Of course that really meant, You’re an idiot.

Life in America was quiet. No signs of life wafting through Tristan’s windows, which were closed all the time – if it was warm, he turned on the air-conditioning. No one grumbled, no one complained. Everyone smiled. People in the village drove large Fords and Chevrolets. No Mercedes with blacked-out windows anywhere. It was a relief is what it was. Really.

The euphoria of my arrival had worn off. The days in which I marveled at a smooth stretch of road, the garage opener, the microwave were over. I felt as though I was being submerged, covered little by little by white gauze, caught like a spider in her own web. I didn’t know anything about culture shock or homesickness. Who could tell me about it in the former Soviet Union? Most people lived and died in the same place. Those that left, left for good.

One crisp Saturday morning Tristan suggested a hike. He grabbed the rolls of toilet paper off the passenger seat and threw them into the back. I followed their trajectory and saw a mop and metal bucket. The cab smelled like bleach.

I sat down and he closed the door behind me. What kind of teacher carried toilet paper? Don’t judge, I reminded myself. I opened my window and breathed in deep. The smell of the pine, moss, and sunshine was calming. He whistled as he drove. I thought of how Jane said that everyone in America had a car, that cars were freedom. Suddenly I wanted this freedom. ‘Can you teach me?’ I asked, gesturing to the steering wheel.

He smiled. An easy, relaxed smile. He was happiest in nature, just as I was happiest lost in a city. ‘You bet. Just pucker up, like this.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If you want to whistle, you have to put your lips like this.’ He looked like he was going to kiss me, lips tense and pursed together.

I realized that he’d misunderstood, though he would surely say that I had not been clear. I wanted him to teach me to drive, he wanted to teach me to whistle. I sighed.

He frowned. ‘Can’t we just go out and have a nice day? One minute you’re smiling, the next you’re sulking. I don’t understand you. God, I hate it when you sigh like that. You sound like my raft when I let the air out.’

I certainly felt deflated. Misunderstanding after misunderstanding. Was it my fault? Was my English flawed? This thought made me feel reticent to say anything more. I turned to look out the window.

‘Don’t pout,’ he said.

I looked at him. Unbidden, a line of Sergey Yesenin’s poetry came to mind,
There is only one joy left, to put my fingers in my mouth and whistle a pretty tune. Yesenin was a great Russian poet, though westerners would know him in a different context, as the husband of dance pioneer Isadora Duncan. They divorced of course, and later, it is rumored that he slit his wrists and wrote his last poem in his own blood.
 

Yesenin’s sadness and difficulties were so much greater than my own. Here I was in this magnificent country and all I could do was feel sorry for myself. I was lucky! Lucky. I put my fingers in my mouth and tried to whistle. Only air came out. I tried again.

‘Don’t use your fingers. Just pucker up and blow.’

Nothing.

‘Try touching your tongue to your teeth and blow.’

A quiet sound came out.

‘There you go! Just keep practicing.’

He parked and we walked off the lot into the woods.

‘We’re going to have to get you some decent shoes,’ he said, looking at my ballerina flats.

We walked and walked. Whistled and whistled. Birds chirped and little animals, perhaps squirrels or lizards, rustled in the plants near the trail. ‘What is this flower?’ I asked, pointing to the delicate pink petals.

‘That’s Liza Jane.’

I smiled. ‘Seriously, what’s the name?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

A few minutes later, we came across another plant I’d never seen. ‘What’s this one called?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Just tell me its Latin name then.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you’re a teacher. And a scout leader.’

He looked at the ground.

‘In Odessa, all school children learn the flora and fauna of Ukraine. It’s part of being a cultivated citizen. How can you not know?’

He didn’t look up.

‘I just don’t know.’

‘Why do you carry toilet paper in your truck?’

‘I’m a scout – always prepared,’ he tried to joke. His expression was nervous, tense.

Something wasn’t right.

‘Let’s keep going.’ He started walking.

I grabbed his arm. ‘No. Not until you tell me the truth.’

We stood there for a long moment – him looking like he wanted to escape, me digging in for an answer. Odessans can stare down anyone. The technique is this: we cock our chin like a gun, raise one eyebrow, and glare until the person capitulates. Success guaranteed.

‘I’m a maintenance supervisor,’ he finally said.

‘What does that mean? Are you a teacher or not?’

‘I clean and take care of the school.’

I gasped. We were hours from San Francisco, I lived in a village and had married a cleaning man. What else was he hiding? What had I done? How could I have come to a foreign country to marry a complete stranger?