Maria

MARIA*      

      It happened long ago, at the high school prom. It had already began to dawn, the music had silenced, and we all sat in the semigloom of the school hall and didn’t want to leave.  Suddenly, to my own surprise, I announced that someday I’d marry a girl named Maria.
      “Maria?” they all shouted over each other. “Why is that?”
      “It’s a secret.”
      Maria…like the sound of wind chimes somewhere in the distance…
      My classmates had taken their kids to kindergarten, and I still wasn’t married. Not that it was because of that childish vow. I’d certainly had affairs in my life; it’s just that I’d never felt true love.
Our class would reunite once in a while, and then they’d start interrogating me if I was still waiting for my Maria. And I’d always remain straight-faced and reply that I’d never break my vow.
      I lived alone and often went out for a walk in the local park. There, under a huge poplar, was an old bench where I’d sit around and feed squirrels. I’d save some nuts for them, and all I had to do is just shake the paper bag, and they would appear as if by magic and cluster around me. Sometimes there’d be two of them, and sometimes, three. One of them was extremely brave – it’d climb up my pants, curl up in my lap, and start staring at me with its liquid-centered black eyes.
Once in a while, one of my friends would pass by and stop for a few words, and especially my female classmates would give a regretful and sympathetic sigh, “Oh, you’re still single.”
      At first, it had seemed amusing, until, once I’d turned thirty, I realized their comments began to get through to me. 
It was one of those warm August evenings when I saw a young woman sitting on my bench. She was wearing a white-collared gray dress. There was something striking about that dress, and the way she glanced up at me when I sat down beside her.
      Which was when my bravest squirrel materialized. At first, it had shrunk back in fear at the sight of a stranger on the other side of the bench, but before long, it was curled up in my lap. The woman next to me smiled. She had a sweet and somewhat childlike smile. If it weren’t for the barely noticeable wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, she could easily pass for a teenager.
      I offered a nut to the squirrel. Instead of scuttling off with its plunder, the little villain jumped onto the bench and stilled, tail aloft, gawking at my neighbor. The woman burst out laughing. She laughed so heartily that I, even if used to the squirrel’s stunts, also cracked up. The squirrel was instantly gone from the bench. It peered at us from the shaggy bark of the poplar and then disappeared behind it.
      The laughter oddly brought us together. I liked it that the woman didn’t say, “Oh, what a cutie,” or anything for that matter, which any other female would have found necessary to point out, in a notably ecstatic voice. She stopped laughing and glanced at me timidly, without saying a word.
I’d never been good at getting along with people, but at that moment, I found myself telling her funny stories about squirrels. I talked with growing enthusiasm, as she was a good listener, hanging on my every word like a child listening to a fairytale. Before we knew it, it had turned dark and cold. She rose to her feet and stuttered, “I have to go.” I walked her home. When we said goodbye, I asked for her name.
      “Maria,” she replied.
      It was the happiest time of my life. Maria and I traveled through our entire town smothered in lush greenery, and it seemed like the sound of wind chimes followed us anywhere we went.
“Where have you been all this time?” I’d ask her over and over again.
She’d laugh and repeat for the umpteenth time that she lived in a different, big city, and she’d come here on vacation to visit her relatives.
August was drawing to its close when I proposed to her and we decided to get married. 
      It was two days to go before her departure. We were sitting in the park, on the very same bench where we had met.
      “Who’s sure to find his happiness?” I asked, and then answered myself, “He who waits.”
      “Is it me you’ve been waiting for?” she asked shyly and happily.
      “Yes. And I can prove it.”
      And I told her about my long-time vow.
      Suddenly, her face fell. “So you’re marrying me just because of my name?” she asked.
      I gave her my most serious look and said, “Yes.”
      The next day, she didn’t come at the fixed time to the park. I found her aunt, and she told me that Maria had left and had asked her to tell me not to look for her.
      I just couldn’t understand why she’d abandoned me. I’d certainly made a sick joke, but I didn’t mean her name per se, I meant everything it impersonated for me, everything that I’d found within her. Like any lover, I had been convinced that she was supposed to take the hint.

***

      Several years later, at our traditional class reunion, when we were quite tipsy, one of my female classmates waved me over and started giving me what-for:
      “I just don’t get it. You’re such a nerd. You ruined your lives because of some stupid vow! She was crushed…
      “She who?”
      “My friend. I never meant to tell you, but it doesn’t matter now…She was visiting here on vacation. She saw our graduation group pic in my school album, and she had a crush on you at first sight. So I persuaded her to go to that park and call herself Maria…Hey, what’s wrong with you? Believe me, I meant well.”

*ПЕРЕВЕЛА с русского Мария Миллер Стоун (на русском языке рассказ "Мария" представлен на этой странице)