San Barbara

My private angel. Well, I never liked long hair on a woman. I liked it on a man and on you – because you were a Goddess. I was so lost and naпve and you became my protectrice, watching my struggle for life in Petersburg.

You official position was diplomat; however, we had this unwritten contract that, despite all obstacles, you’d be my private angel. I just couldn’t accept anyone else. You tried to introduce me to several helpful mortals, yet I needed you.

I never liked tall people, neither men nor women – they seemed uncomfortable to me. Nevertheless, you were tall and perfect. Everything about you was delightful. Your clear skin with surprisingly healthy color on the cheeks, like you came from the high and clean mountains, full of pure air, nondusty trees and cool creeks. Your smile, which I wanted to kiss, was like a strawberry – white and red.

We spent a few days together. First, in a black limousine, separated from the chauffeur by thick glass, talking about people at the banquet we had just attended. That limo, so rare in those days on the streets of Petersburg, was moving in slow-motion from the Neva to the Moika Rivers. And we were talking, two foreigners – one from abroad, the the other in her own country. The second day we drove along the Fontanka River; the third day, Canal Griboyedova, and then Krinkov Canal. You wanted to learn all about the city you loved.

I invited you to my apartment on Pravda Street. You liked my big mirror, covering the whole wall and reflecting the bronze luster with the chandeliers. “That’s the real Petersburg!’ you exclaimed.

I offered you a cup of Russian tea with oatmeal cookies. You enjoyed the simplicity of my snack and found that our cookies were more delicious than in your native America. It was a relief for me, since I don’t cook.

Your spacious place was at a walking distance from mine, and I visited you a few times afterwards. Sitting at a long table, we were served the best restaurant food – much more complex than mine.

Fhree or four weeks passed. Then, once, while walking in Lietnyi Park with you, I told you nonchalantly, “You know, I realized I am in love.” You were silent, almost sad.

“Do you want to know with whom?”

“No,” you answered. And I understood that you didn’t want anybody else between us.

“I am in love with you, Barbara.”

You smiled. And you laughed. And you approached me. And I was afraid to touch your mouth with my lips.

Everyone in Petersburg believed that you were strict and unattainable. This is not how I remember you. That evening you stood there, in front of the Europeyskaya Hotel, waving to me in your gorgeous dress, long and simple. And this is how our secret contract started. That was the time you became my private angel.

From that point on, no matter what I was doing, I could manage. I could move things from a distance. My new telekinetic abilities surprised and amazed my friends. I could walk anywhere feeling protected by an invisible egg shell.

Quietly sexy, you were an example of discipline – every day. Without that example, I wouldn’t be what I am today. You had access to limos at any moment; yet you preferred your skinny and bonny aluminum bike. You told me that you don’t know a better city for biking than Petersburg with its wide prospects and practically no traffic. Oh, yes, you had the right legs for the bike, – your blue scarf flying in the Nevsky wind.

My co-brothers in the non-conformist art movement murmured in my ear that you were a feminist – even they were scared of you! Interestingly enough, you actually never used that word “feminist” – so unfairly infamous in Russia – but you clearly lived like one. It reminds me of Yoko Ono’s words, that every woman is a feminist – only not all women know that.

You saluted me like an officer when I was leaving Russia. In my exile, I felt your protection even more. We met again in Paris, after my first tour in America. You brought to my apartment on Boulevard Voltaire your sax and you played a romantic melody to me. How did you know that saxophone is my favorite instrument? I danced for you and you kissed me. Alas, our rendezvous was interrupted by a photographer arriving to take my pictures for a women’s magazine.

I was sure we would have hundreds more chances to meet again. But soon I heard from another diplomat that you were gone to Nairobi and never returned from your mission. You were 38.

No, people like you don’t die, even in Africa. I’m certain you have found a way out of it. You flew somewhere – to a distant place, where people like you live long and beautiful lives. Because you still manage keep me from harsh reality with your blue wings. How can I forget your powerful arms on the bike, your hands – cold from the wind outside and warm inside your palms…

When my son moved to Santa Barbara I was convinced that this glorious town was named after you. Protect him, my friend. Give him his music. Give him his art. Keep him a poet. Be with us, my private angel!


2005