My Spanish

Ðóññêèé òåêñò çäåñü:  http://www.proza.ru/2015/10/01/119


MY SPANISH


In loving memory of Natasha Simonova



"Quiero, a la sombra de un ala,
contar este cuento en flor:
la nina de Guatemala,
la que se murio de amor" 

(Jose Marti)


“Time is not for one's self, it belongs to the other. For one's self there is no time. The universe evolves around one's needs, one's desires, one's moods. Time is for the other to whom a promise was made, as for a miracle, and at the moment of expectation, if one is late, the miracle does not take place. Time is for the one who comes to meet you with his expectations, it is not for yourself who likes to wander, to dream, to get lost in the infinite. A universe without time is the universe inside of one. Time means the hour to meet the other, and it is necessary to the miracle of touch, to the miracle of meeting, touching and loving. In the great empty space in which we are lost, the hour is the one set even by the planets when they wish to grow nearer each other, or even eclipse each other! Or there would be no conjunctions”

(Anais Nin)


I was invited to somebody’s seventeenth birthday. I went, just as I was supposed to, made a speech. The birthday girl, tall and thin (as it turned out when we got up from the table to take some pictures) was from Argentina, the daughter of my school friend who moved to the silver country about 20 years ago. She listened to me talk with a bashful smile. The other guests made absentminded toasts as well, mostly slightly tattered women of my honorable age. The girl listened with the same shy smile, and replied quietly “Thank you!” We all wished her happiness.

Happiness! Happiness!

But what is happiness, a concept that each of us interprets differently? What is the Argentinian happiness, French happiness, Indian happiness, Kazakh happiness? What is the happiness of 2015 and the happiness of 1980? What can I possibly have in common with this girl – besides her mother that I used to know and love dearly, who I went through hell and fire of the teenage years with, and whom I see every 10 years now, and share nothing besides awkward talks on Skype? Our acquaintance became an empty and loud expression (“Nastasja? Nastasja is in Buenos Aires!”), and love has been put away into a quiet and dark place of my heart with a whole heap of others like it – compressed into a dot from the past, and painful and scary to take out and spread apart, turning it into a living and breathing thing.

What did I have in common with that little girl?

Just our age. She is seventeen in 2015 – and I’m seventeen in 1980. My throbbing seventeen – far away, dark, deeply loved times. As if it was just yesterday.

My speech was fully plagiarized, something I read off of Grishkovets’ once:

-‘Turning seventeen’, - I began slowly, as if trying to unearth some deep truth, when in reality I was fighting all at once with a hangover, absentmindedness and Alzheimer’s, -‘happens just once. Just once! (As if turning 18 happened twice), you see, the seventeenth summer, summer at seventeen. At the edge of adulthood. You see, Lisa? Me entiendes? (I wasn’t aware how good her Russian was, and I kept on switching to my horrendous Spanish). Such a time, a true frontier, tiempo de la frontera! It’s when school, or childhood, is already behind, and adulthood is in front of you, and the present, la actualidad – me entiendes? – The present is here! And it’s terribly important. Toda la actualidad es muy importante. Muy importante! Me entiendes? And you, oh how do I put this… you’re stuck in this in-between time of june-july-august, in this summer after school. You’re stuck, stuck…(here I made a pronounced pause, when in reality I was just looking for the right words) Tu estas en la actualidad, en ahora! Tu estas en ahora! Me entiendes? You’re stuck in the present, and you remember it, forever! Estas en la actualidad y lo recuerde para siempre! Para siempre!... So remember… Asi recuerdo…recuerdo este momente para siempre! Recuerdo este verano, Lisa! Remember this summer! Enjoy this in-between, this sheer, almost nonexistent state, hijita! You’ll never have a summer like this again! Este verano no sera mas! Nunca!

The girl lowered her eyes, and with a shy smile said “Gracias.”

-‘All in all, I wish you happiness!’ I ended on a high note.

We clanked our glasses, I sat back down and span the glass table top. The birthday was celebrated at a Chinese diner, the dishes circling, all you had to do was to get a hold of one. Nastasja, who was sitting right next to me, whispered, ‘Great speech, Fay! Only… a bit too early. Lisa has another whole year ahead of her in school, in Argentina we’ve got 12 grades, and actually summer for us is winter. Lisa will come home and have to take her exams, she’s very worried.’

My mouth stretched into a sad smile

-‘Exams? That’s great! Just maravilloso!’

- <<>> -

Flooding, as one of my husbands liked to say. A whole flood of memories… My exams, my seventeenth summer, 11 total – seven in June, and four in July. Tiresome, easy and hard at the same time. Everything revolved and structured around them, schedules of the day, the summer, the whole life.  The beat of my heart, the pulse of my brain. The memory of the feeling itself. Ha-ha-ha, exams of my life.

There was a boy, curly hair and all, tall and cute, dark complexion and dark eyes, and all that follows. He played the guitar in our band ‘Venceremos’, where Nastasja, Rimma and I sang Cuban and Chilean songs. I fell in love with him before the exams, in May, when I was still stuck in childhood, in my class, in my school, or to be more exact at the last bell, or more precisely right after the very last bell, when we all went to the river to swim, where everyone got undressed, opened up and changed, becoming different, unrecognizable even to ourselves.

We knew one another from before. We went to the same school, same grade for ten straight years, with almost no sick days. I could count the months, weeks, days, minutes and seconds spent together. As well as the band – rehearsals, tours, shows, this and that. As well as the trips to the country after the 7th and 8th grades, we started going out there together. Endless movies, birthday parties, competitions and soccer games, when all the girls would go and cheer for our boys. It didn’t matter where and how we overlapped before then! In some grades we even sat together behind one desk, and there was nothing. Nothing! We studied while paying almost no attention to one another, as we used to say back then, we were just friends – and then on that fateful trip to the river everything fit and changed, as if a puzzle has been put together, I fell in love.
-‘Hey Faya!’ – he yelled out from between the buzzing grass and the blindly blue sky, ‘Let’s get ready for the exams together?’
-‘Let’s!’ – I replied, without lifting my eyes, without taking them off.
              -‘At my place!’
              -‘Ok!’
              -‘I will pick you up tomorrow morning, then?’
              -‘Yeah.’
He was there to get me early in the morning, thin and tall, curly hair and all that, in a clean white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. He came all the way out here from his own place, to take me back there, across the whole city. As we were riding on the trolleybus, I was afraid to lift my eyes up, and so I ended up looking at the pearly white collar and his strong, tan neck. Or his dark arm, or the row of white buttons on his chest. The ride was marvelously long, marvelously quiet, my head span, my eyes closed, I wanted to stop in time and die right there. Queria recordar este momento para siempre, just as I said to that girl.
-‘Are you okay, Faya? You look sleepy. Maybe you want to sit down, a spot just opened up right there, just for a couple of stops?’
The caring tone in his voice just killed me right there on the spot. Of the many men I’ve known after him, not one came even slightly to resemble that tone. The tone that wasn’t habitual, or mechanical, or fake, or feigned, humiliating, tacky, annoying, demanding, chummy, obligatory – but spontaneous, happy, sincere and friendly – never. A wave of warmth spread over me.
-‘Oh no! I’m okay’ I answered, trying to disperse the confusion.
He laughed and I raised my eyes towards him, smiling as well.
We arrived. A microdistrict, as they were called, on the other end of the city, a different planet, one I’ve never been to before. We walked up a narrow staircase to the fourth floor, and he opened the door with his key (‘Everybody is away in the country, don’t worry!’), and let me inside. There, in a narrow hallway I saw myself in full height in the mirror – large, scared eyes and useless arms hanging by my sides, ‘entrapped.’

Here began the game of deceiving fear, a charming play of friendship, comradery and brotherhood.
‘Here’s my room. Make yourself at home, senorita!’ – he waves towards the chair next to a desk, ‘I’ll go have some water. Do you want some?’
-‘No, thank you.’
I look around, incredibly intrigued. How does he live? How is his life organized? It’s so constricted that besides a spartan bed, I note, a laminated desk and a tiny cabinet, there is nothing else in the room. Everything is incredibly organized, even the desk. A neat pile of books, pencils and pens, nothing excessive. Oh God, such a model student! If he’d only see my mess! Here, not even one thing is out of order, besides an opened book on top of the bed.
-‘We will begin with literature, of course!’ he says loudly, appearing in the doorframe, my tidy friend, comrade and brother, a reader of the book, ‘Do you mind, senorita? Literature is my weakest point. And I’m not a good reader, or a writer. I’ll definitely fail the essay portion. And what’s there to learn in five days? All hope is on you, my literary lady!’
-‘And what am I supposed to do?’
-‘Huh. “What am I supposed to do?”- he mimics me, ‘huh, you’ve been pulling slackers behind you for the last 10 years, yeah, you have. You’re read all the required reading, right?’
-‘Right.’
-‘That’s what I thought. You probably know it by heart. Pushkin, Gorky, Gogol-Mogol, get the concepts out and tell me all about them, and I’ll memorize.’
-‘What should I tell you?’
-‘Tell me everything! The plot, the meaning, heroes, behaviors, colorful expressions, quotes. What I should write my essays about! And what I should say for the oral portion of the exam. Bring me up to speed, silly me. You want some juice?’
My throat is parched from all the worry and I nod. He goes out to the kitchen and I start panicking. How is it possible to go over the whole school program in three days? Even in five days… if I come here every day… oh god!
A delicious cherry juice – ah, I’ve never had anything that good before. That’s what happens when you leave your house just once, everything is new! A hot wind breaks into the room, ruffling a thin curtain on the window, tousling the curls of a boy behind a desk.
-‘Should I close the window? Is the wind bothering you?’
-‘No, just leave it. It’s hot.’
-‘Ok, here we go. Let’s begin with Pushkin A. S. “Eugene Onegin”. I think I remember the plot. “My uncle ruled the very loyal, a needles man, but I belong to someone else, and I shall stay faithful to him forever.” What does it mean ‘ruled the loyal,’ ‘needles man,’ and ‘I belong to someone else?’
-‘Well, ‘I belong to someone else’ is the easiest. Honor above all else.
-‘Above what?’
-‘Well, love, for example.’
-‘And what is love?’
-‘Are you kidding me?’
He is laughing, and I feel ashamed. When you think about love in books and movies, everything makes sense. Yet in real life you can never figure it out. Until the last bell, or more precisely, until the last trip to the country, I thought I loved Seryozha Gulin from parallel 10th grade, only today I’ve thought about him just now, once. And it hasn’t even been a whole day. There was love, and now it’s gone, and what I felt towards Seryozha Gulin now feels so silly, so evanescent in comparison…
  -‘What are you thinking about, senorita? About love? About love, I can tell. Don’t philosophize, just tell me straight, did Tatyana love Onegin or not? And if she did, the why did she refuse him? ‘
-‘What do you mean “why?” I say while I try to escape the touchy subject of love and concentrate on something more tangible and safe like loyalty and duty. ‘She’s married to the old general, he’s been in the war of 1812, got awards and all that. A respected man, a hero. How can she betray him, a respected man, and a hero? To put him down in front of everybody? No, it’s simply impossible.’
-‘Stop. So, she can’t cheat on him because he’s a hero? And what if he’s not a hero, not old, not awarded? If he’s a nobody, just a regular Joe? Then she can cheat on him?’
-‘What? Are you crazy? You cannot cheat at all!’
-‘Do you really think so?’
He looks at me, as if testing me, and I grow deep red. What horror. I come to think that by discussing Tatyana and Onegin, or my very presence in this house and drinking of the cherry juice and such, I am cheating, seriously cheating on Seryozha Gulin, the one I’ve been dreaming about for so many years, and have dedicated so many verses to, who has no idea about my feelings towards him, the best manifestation of it being the little cheat sheets I provided him with, and the worst, such as ridiculous spying on him from somewhere afar? It’s all in the past, of course. And me cheating on Gulin is not the issue here.
-‘No,’ I say quietly, yet firmly ‘you cannot cheat on your husband.’
-‘Is that you or Pushkin?’
-‘It’s both of us.’
-‘Ok, whatever. We’ll come back to this discussion in ten years or so. Deal?’
I catch ahold of his gaze.
-‘Why ten years? You think I’m being childishly extreme?’
-‘No, it’s more like naivet;, and that you live by literary quotes, didn’t I say ‘literary madam?’ You don’t know life. Everybody around you cheats, women with men, and men with women, and your Pushkin is an idealist. In poems, of course.
I forget about my feelings, and my shyness, and go on defending my principles:
-‘Pushkin, first of all, was a man of honor, of noble honor! An intelligent, good man. And a good man cannot cheat, even if he loves another.’
-‘Pushkin was quite a ladies’ man, a Don Juan, you didn’t know that?’
I’m not indenting on letting Pushkin be marred like this! I’ve fallen in love with Pushkin way before Seryozha Gulin!
-‘Pushkin fell in love, of course! If he didn’t, there wouldn’t be any poems! With Anna Kern and such. But all this happened during his youth, before the wedding, before Natalia, before the Boldino autumn! – I’m on fire, ‘marriage to him was holy! He even died because of it.’
-‘Ok, let’s suppose you’re correct. You and Pushkin. Tatyana cannot cheat on her husband because she’s a lady, intelligent and proper…’
-‘A noble lady.’
-‘Ok, a noble lady, great. Only I think she refused Onegin because she didn’t love him. Anymore. And has already fallen in love with her husband, soul and body, with her body, you see? And duty isn’t really an issue here.’
-‘No! No, look, Tatyana herself says to Onegin “I love you – why lie?” It means she doesn’t love her husband, she can’t even think of anybody but Onegin. “No one, no one else I would’ve give my heart to.”
‘You’re confusing something here, senorita! Why does it matter what she thought before she fell in love? It’s a line from a letter, and when was this letter written? A few years went by, and she loved Onegin platonically, and with her husband she probably slept. Did she? What do you think? Of course she did, and fell in love, it’s always like that. You know how it is, ‘today I love Sasha, tomorrow Seryozha, and after tomorrow, Petya.’ It’s always like that with you women, and who even came up with an idea that you can’t love two people at once?’
I’m ashamed again. In his every line I sense hints. What does it mean “loved with body and soul?” Why is there a body? Body is such a dirty concept. What Tatyana feels towards Onegin, she feels it with her soul, he is a dreamy apparition, for her it’s enough to simply hear him speak and think of him, only of him. And what does it mean ‘today I love Sasha, and tomorrow Seryozha? And Petya, maybe he means Seryozha Gulin? Oh god, oh god.
-‘It’s ok, Faya! Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not talking about you. I’m just being hypothetical. But with Tatyana and Onegin it all makes sense. I’ll come up with something. ‘
-‘What makes sense?’
-‘They’re not from out time, senorita. Let’s go have tea!’


-<<>>-

The first part of June was spent amidst the somewhat exciting studies of literature, math, English and history. It’s easy getting used to the good stuff – so I got used to it as well. My parents have grown accustomed to my absences, and his obscure parents have gotten used to my visits as well, even though I’ve never seen them back from the so-called ‘country’. My heart has gotten used to the whole ordeal as well, the novelty of it. I became accustomed to waking up at 7:30 and waiting by the door for him at 8. I also got used to his punctuality, and that resulted in certain alterations in me as well. The bus stops, the layout of the streets, buildings and famous landmarks have settled in my mind. I familiarized myself with the narrow staircase, the revealing hallway mirror, the reflection of my eyes, the poplar tree behind the window, juice from a jar and kvass from a canister, to everything that at some point has been a part of somebody else’s life has now become my life in a span of two weeks.  It was a fascinating place, and it was a part of being stuck in that in-between time of the last summer of my childhood, that I so vehemently tried to tell about to the little Argentinian. Only then, in 1980, there was no need for me to show off. The rocking trips on the bus, the long hours of pouring over notebooks and cozy little meals with the person who grew to be dearest person in the whole wide world, it all became so ordinary and normal, so matter-of-fact and at the same time mesmerizing, as it perhaps happens only in dreams, called the same in English, and quite differently in Russian, and it makes you think of the differences, yet where everything wonderful is normal, and everything extraordinary is ordinary, that it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening to you. It all served as sort of a swinging hammock where I was stuck in my seventeenth summer that now, 35 years later, melancholically passes in front of my eyes like a slow and wonderful slideshow.
The exams themselves have become little islands amid the sea of wonder, the exams that we prepped for together, yet pretended we barely knew one another when the time came. Our classmates had no idea about our familiarity, and my girlfriends kept passing on to me tidbits of information about the whereabouts of Seryozha Gulin, teachers gave me A’s, and to him they gave B’s, which on its own was an achievement, a victory of sorts. We attended the oral exams separately, and his answers were his answers alone, of which I was proud, somewhat like a coach would be. ‘If only I had a month to spend on each subject, he’d graduate with a gold medal’, I’d think, very pleased with myself.
The last exam was chemistry, and it wasn’t my best subject. Right before, a couple of days prior to the exam, we had a fight. Not really a fight, he just called me a dummy, jokingly, of course, and for a reason, yet I was still upset. One little bit of silliness and rudeness – and suddenly something snapped, went out of order. Silliness or sheer stupidity? I was trying to explain a concept and got confused, failing him. Of course I was a dummy, not a coach. Why was I even invited out there, just to talk, to stare out at the poplars? He called me out there to help him prepare for the exams, and I couldn’t even teach him a thing about chemistry. I had a crying fit, and nothing helped, neither tea nor juice. All the fascination was gone, and all that was left was shame and discomfort. Shame for my utter stupidity. Screw chemistry! I hated it, and I didn’t understand it. I was hurrying home, and he, obviously saddened, walked with me to the bus stop, whereas the previous days he has taken me all the way back home. He simply said ‘I’ll call!’ and left. Abandoned me right where I was standing, not even waiting for the bus to get there.
One of his punctuality-based habits was to call me not just every morning, but every night as well, right at 10 P.M. He’d call from a payphone, confirming I was alive and well, saying he’d be there at 8 A.M. sharp and wished me a good night. These calls were short, almost devoid of any real information, not what I had with my girlfriends. They were calls simply to establish the contact, the connection:
-‘Saludo, senorita!’
-‘Saludo!’
-‘Como estas?’
-‘Great! How about you!’
-‘It’s going!’
A short pause and an exhale:
-‘Good night!’
-‘Buenos noches!’

That happened every day, a sort of a ritual. At first I wanted more, to lengthen the conversation, to bring in some variety. Yet I was too shy to ask him anything, I couldn’t flirt or share any news. I didn’t have any news to share – I spent all my time with him, almost till dark. He’d bring me back home, went back, and at 10 he’d be by the payphone to wish me a good night. I barely had enough time to sneak in a cup of tea.
On that sad day, two days before the chemistry exam, I was sure he’d not call again, that everything was over, I’ve failed in life, it was my own fault and chemistry screwed me over. Darn chemistry. I was crying into my pillow without even being aware of the time.
Yet he called:
-‘Saludo senorita!’ Coma estas?’
And without waiting my reply, he said ‘Hey Faya, is it okay if I study over at your place tomorrow? It will be kind of noisy here. My parents are back from the country.’
And I exhaled.
-‘You can, of course.’
-‘Ok, good night then!’
…and he hung up.
He was there at 8, and we went to the bedroom I shared with my sister, who was still in bed, so we made our way slowly out to the balcony.

-<<>>-

35 years have gone by since then, and I live in a completely different place now, yet whenever I occasionally pass under the same windows of my old apartment complex, I raise my head to look up at the balcony, and I have to hold back tears. The balcony looks different now, before it was a concrete box with wooden railings painted pink, and now it’s all covered up, serving as an extension of someone’s room.

The balcony was empty. We got three chairs out, covered one of them with the exam notes and cheat sheets, and sat down opposite of one another.
It was still cool, not too humid, and the street was calm, quiet even. The cars passed by once in a while, silently. People were hurrying to and from the grocery store, and somewhere not too far off you could hear the yard keeper’s rustling broom, and the oak tree in front of us swooshed its newly green foliage.
My brain seemed to be functioning, and my soul felt at peace. I began with taking apart the ill-fated concept, sorted through everything, and he, without any jokes or silliness, copied everything down into his notebook, as well as the formulas down onto his cheat sheet, and crossed out the concept from the items we had to study.
I breathed out with relief and went out to the kitchen to get coffee. My mom asked me, indifferently,
-‘It that your slacker’?
-‘Why slacker? He is getting all B’s on his exams. A pretty smart guy, actually.’
-‘Well, if the was smart, he’d get all A’s.’
-‘Grades aren’t everything!’
-‘You get your grades not for being smart, but for all the work you’ve put in. He might be smart, but he isn’t doing his best. And now you have to get him up to speed.’
-‘Mom, it’s actually easier for me when I can explain everything.’
-‘Ah, I know all about that,’ she smirked, ‘I used to get freeloaders like that too! Once you explain something to them, you can never forget it. Add more condensed cream!’ (regarding coffee)
-‘Mom, my head works better when it’s black.’
-‘Take some cookies.’
In this idyllic setting the whole day went by, and my ‘nice slacker’ ended up having some of mom’s soup. During lunch my dad kept on asking him about his plans, and what university he wanted to go to and why. He only calmly replied that he hasn’t made up his mind about the university yet, and my dad, as it usually went, frowned and lost all interest in the conversation.

-‘Your dad didn’t approve of me!’ My friend said happily, after we got back to the room. The sun was already up and it was too hot out on the balcony, so we got rid of my sister Raya by sending her out to the street to play.
-‘Oh! It’s hard to get into his good graces, if not impossible. My parents expect a lot out of everybody. Including me. Don’t pay any attention to it.’
-‘I’m not.’
-‘It’s not like you have to baptize kids with him in tow.’
By the evening we were using the balcony again. Erik went out there to smoke. His name was Erik, by the way.
I followed him.
-‘That’s it, Faya!  I’ll finish smoking and then head out. My head’s not working anymore.’
-‘But we have two more concepts to go over!’ (I wanted to stretch my moment of happiness for as long as I could)
-‘Screw it!  I doubt I’ll get them. The exam is tomorrow, I want to get some sleep.’
He smoked, and I was looking down the street, lively and filled with people right before sunset. We stood there for ten minutes or so, yet it could’ve easily been days for me.
…and suddenly ‘Hey look! It’s Rimma!’
He glanced down, and it really was her, down there, his fir crush from grade one to grade three, looking up at us and smiling, waving.
-‘Come on! Lets take a walk before the exams!’
We nodded, finished smoking, and went downstairs.

-<<>>-

Many years after I asked Rimma what she thought about that one time, underneath the balcony. And she said that she knew what was going on right away.
-‘What did you think?’ I didn’t believe her. Because nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
-‘Now I know why Erik was doing so well on his exams!’
-‘Ah!’ I replied, relieved.
Grown-up Rimma was joking, of course. Being sly. Grown-up Rimma that read my life like a novel. She knew everything about me right away – the charmed fascination, the falling out of time, happiness and unhappiness and other delights of my seventeenth summer. Rimma was 17 as well, and she wanted to be in love, too. And she loved everything around her, the sunrise, the field flowers, the rocks, roads and songs. She liked to sing and romanticized everything. And of course she romanticized us as well.
Yet that’s not what we were all about. We were about something else. She read us incorrectly.
It was getting dark. The electrical hum of the streetlights mixed with the last rays of sunset. Rimma was walking in between us and chattering away. We were quiet. Nothing happened between the two of us today – nothing besides chemistry. Besides chemistry that took over the whole day: an exam that we will pass and never think of again, like a bad dream.
Rimma was an A student, she was not afraid of exams. I wasn’t that good of a student, and wasn’t sure how well I’d do tomorrow, in chemistry, afraid I simply won’t pass it. I’ve been always afraid of chemistry. But now I simply didn’t care. Absolutely didn’t care. Why did it matter if right now there were just the two of us – Rimma didn’t count – walking along through the darkening city. Almost at night!  With out almost synchronized quietness! Although, we’re always synchronically quiet. We’re not disturbing Rimma in the least, listening to her patiently, without hearing anything she says. Oh how my heart is pounding! How beautiful are the shadows! How mesmerizing is our city at night! How wonderful is adult life.
Yes, the patterns make sense, a non-existent shrink would say, during such early transfers from one non-existent time to the other. These two parallels exist only in your personal history, an invisible line dividing the before and the after. 10 years of school routine, hustle and bustle, race, revolution. And suddenly –ding!- the last bell, revolution. The transformed view of the world, where the dated seems different, altered by the light. The old looks comfortable, homey, without any obligations besides the occasional chores. Yet the new feel like an endless realm, an endless expanse that is widening inevitably. And this newness, this future thrills me. How did I live before all this, by myself?
Oh, my heart is pounding so…!

-‘Horses! Horses!’ Rimma shouts, suddenly, and I turn my head to the right, towards the sound of the hooves.
The horses are galloping down the nighttime Furmanov street, lit by yellow streetlights, amongst the Volgas and the Ladas that are slowing down, giving way. There are no riders on the horses - mustangs with flowing manes and powerfully built. Flying in a straight line, side by side. Ten, twenty, thirty of them.

-‘Beautiful!’ Erik says, mesmerized, ‘I’ve always dreamed about this!’
The hooves are pounding loudly, ricocheting along the Furmanov street. Where did they come from? Horses in the city! All on their own, wild. It’s fairly strange, though. ‘Dreamed about this my whole life!’, Erik and I exchange glances, and he winks at me. Oh, happiness, your time has come.

I’ve dreamed of escaping the city my whole life. Just like an eternity ago, flying down the sunlit highway on our bikes, with my brother and sister, towards the wind. Someday, we will be back to the country, to the lone highway, the lone road. We would live amid the steppes and fields. Amid prairies and pampas. There would be horses as well, of course. We will be free. Viva la libertad!

-‘Why are they here? They shouldn’t be here!’ Rimma is worried.
Erik suddenly takes ahold of my hand.
The horses are leaving, being led away by the police. The sound of the hooves dies off, somewhere far, and is taken over by the sound of the cars and my beating heart.
We sigh and start walking back home. It’s now fully dark. It’s night! And it’s the first time we’re alone in the dark (well, besides Rimma).
-‘Let’s take Rimma home first, she lives farther away’, says our man, and I’m in complete awe of the fact that he makes a decision and I follow it, and from this complete joy my head starts spinning again.  I’m not used to so much happiness at once.
Unexpectedly, without saying a word, Rimma take a turn and disappears into a dark entryway.
-‘What is she doing? There’s another half hour left of walking to her house.’
-‘I don’t know. Hey, Rimma!’
Silence.
We wait, and go in as well in a few minutes. The entryway is dark, and a bit scary. Erik takes my hand and shouts ‘Hey Rimma’ again, this time in a more serious tone.
Rimma is right there, apparently, standing right next to the mailboxes.
‘Well, let’s go, companeros!’
We’re confused. Rimma is not as talkative anymore, and our moods have been dampened as well. After seeing the stunning horses, nothing else can be as magical, and after Rimma’s silly disappearing trick, our jolly mood is gone. All I want is to get home, lie down, close my eyes and remember - to capture the impressions, remember them forever. Para siempre.
We walk faster. Sometimes the need to get home is very strong. In a while Rimma is running again, ducking into another entryway.
-‘Are you crazy?’ Shouts Erik as he chases after her, and brings her back out, forcefully.
And again, and again.
-‘Idiots!’ screams Rimma after the fifth time, ‘You can’t see your own happiness!’ Idiots!’
It’s becoming ridiculous. We almost start running. And with this pace we cross the street and enter the park, and when Rimma, who is clearly upset, runs into her own entryway without saying a work, we breathe out a sigh of relief.
There are just six blocks between my home and Rimma’s home. We walk very slowly, yet end up there too quickly, unable to stretch out the time. We’re just standing by the entryway, in the darkness, now knowing how to say goodbye. Then Erik takes my hand, just like before, and pulls me towards him, so that we’re standing very close to one another, so incredibly close.
-Hey Faya, you know I’ve dreamed about horses my whole life. To have one, to ride it. It’s in my genes, I think. My grandpa was a Cossack, my great-grandpa too. Today, when I saw the horses, it took my breath away.’
-‘Mine too!’, I whisper, raising my head, ‘They took my breath away too.’
-‘Yeah, I know, I saw it. We feel things the same way. Wouldn’t be too bad to ride together, huh?’
My joy.



-<<>>-
It happens once in a while, perhaps too often, that something important it being overshadowed, pushed to the side by something of a lesser value. I didn’t pass the chemistry test, didn’t get an A, and because of it (most likely) I didn’t get the medal, and had to get back down to earth and deal with all of that, instead of falling in love, I had to deal with my parents, classmates, teachers and the school principal. My parents were shocked than angry, and they suffered, and I suffered along with them. They must have had certain ambitions regarding me, and considered my failure as their own. My mom, as always, assumed the harsher position, unearthing all of my sins, including my abstract ‘laziness and negligence’, to more concrete accusations of hanging out with my girlfriends and spending the whole year on writing god knows what. There was nothing I could say back to her, because there was a bit of truth to everything she said. My dad suffered silently, smoking one cigarette after another, frowning. There was nothing he could say, and he didn’t want to chime into my mom’s arguments. The teachers, as well as the school principle, urged me to retake the exam, on the day of, and a couple of days after, before all the final grades were entered. I refused, both times. To me it seemed it’d be the highest form misery to do so. Chemistry was a difficult subject, and several kids from my grade, including my very own student, got C’s precisely in Chemistry. Yet they weren’t offered to retake the exam! It would be completely senseless to backtrack on my decision, I simply couldn’t do it, so I spoke to my teacher and the principle very assuredly, and calmly. The choice has been made.
The opinion of my classmates was equally divided, some called my home phone and disconnected immediately after calling me dumb and arrogant, while the others simply asked:
-‘Well, are you going to retake it or not?’
-‘No.’
-‘No? It’s not fair. We will still consider you an honor student!’
Thank you, my friends! But you know what? Whatever I lost by not getting the hypothetical medal, or any other possible or impossible achievement, whether big or small, did not even come close to the level of happiness I felt during those few days, the wild joy that makes your heart go mad and jump out of your chest, something that simply might be called utter bliss.
I was worried about something else, I wasn’t sure why exactly. I was worried about prom. I gathered enough courage and asked my mom,
-‘Tomorrow they’ll be giving out the diplomas. And I have nothing to wear, no dress or shoes.’
-‘You don’t deserve a dress or shoes! You’ve wasted your medal. Go in whatever you already have.’
-‘Mom, I have nothing else to wear besides my school uniform!’
That was one of the choices. I had a sporty jean dress, with a folding collar and metallic buttons that I wore to school as a uniform. I loved it, so it traveled with me into my college life, where it turned to be quite useful (smile, Rimma! What kind of a romance novel would be without the main character mentioning her clothing?) Yet my mom refused that idea of an outfit. I was watching TV, waiting for the 10 P.M. call, (that for some reason didn’t happen the last couple of days before and after the exam), meanwhile listening to what my parents were arguing about in the kitchen.
-‘Wasted, simply wasted her chance of getting the medal,’ my mom’s voice boomed. I’ve heard that one before. ‘And now she wants a dress!’, that one was interesting. My dad tried to counter argue by saying ‘But she’s a young lady!’ (even a literary lady! Thanks dad!), ‘But she didn’t deserve it!’ ‘Yes she did! It’s just one B, it could’ve been worse…’ ‘It’s all you! Your upbringing!’ ‘It’s not the upbringing! She’s all grown up now! We’ve let something slip, on our side…’ ‘It’s all that slacker’s fault, she spent all her time on him, didn’t have enough time to do her own studies!’ ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do now, but she needs a dress.’ ‘She should’ve thought about the dress earlier! There’s no time left for a dress now!’ ‘Oh just buy her something pretty, she’s so worried she’s not herself anymore.’ ‘Ha-ha-ha, her? Worried? She wasted her medal, and not a care in the world!!!’ ‘Well, still, go and get her a dress tomorrow, get the money from savings. And don’t say Faya didn’t deserve a dress. She did.’
Well, Faya made the conclusion that the worst has passed. And the reader has made an assumption as well, news are interesting only the first time around, and then the significance diminishes, just like the pain diminishes. They’ll scream, scream some more, and forget. Well Faya, what family is a family without the black sheep? No Moscow State University for you now, time to move forward, attend something local.
 Still… why didn’t I get chemistry and its laws? Why is chemistry (and physics as well, if I’m being honest) not my thing? Why don’t I get the natural, yet understand something less tangible, something fake, like movies and literature? Why don’t I understand the nature, and the social structure, juxtaposing it against the pathetic and hapless dreams, the pale and unknown, uninteresting and useless myths – the myth of my personal history? Why do I try to swim against the current, against nature and society? Nature that requires me to be young and beautiful, and society that wants nothing more from me than to retake the stupid chemistry test. And why, why didn’t he call yesterday? Why didn’t he call today?
Why won’t he call ever again?



-<<>>-

Prom. What a pretty and festive expression. You imagine girls in white, and all that. Dance after dance, taram-taram, taram-pam-pam. Worried and proud parents. Worried and sentimental teachers. Worried, happy students.
All in all, there was no prom for me. Nothing of the sort. And not simply because there was no white dress, or that my mom, who in the very last moment got me a hideous and prickly garb, and shoes that made my heels bleed. There was another reason.
Rimma, who always exaggerated my ‘revolutionism’, my ‘cheguevarism’, considered the ugly dress as a form of protest against the B in chemistry, and the sly smile of my fate, personified in the sanctimonious smiles of the principal, as well as the vice-principal and of course the chemistry teacher herself. It was hard to argue against it, and as the principal was handing me my diploma, he did smile rather sarcastically. He was a striking, youthful looking Greek, who was used to all his female colleagues and female students admiring him.
-‘You’re not ashamed, Faya?’ he hissed with the most famous sarcastic smile of his.
I didn’t say anything. Just tucked the diploma under my arm and stumbled over to my friends.
Although something did happen, something that for a moment overshadowed the principal’s sarcasm, as well as the painful, yellow shoes. As I was nearing my spot, (the crowd was organized in a sort of a perimeter around the auxiliary gym) someone appeared in front of me, rather suddenly, an unknown to me little man of a soft, bolding, timid appearance. He jumped right in front me and grabbed my hand, kissing it. I was so surprised that I almost dropped my diploma. No one had kissed my hand before, and I was stunned.
-‘Flattered! Flattered and surprised! And happy!’ the man was saying as he tried to prevent me from escaping into the back row. ‘So happy that my son has an eye for such thing! A great eye! Such beauty! So smart! I’m flattered! Truly flattered!’
‘Erik’s dad,’ Rimma whispered into my ear when I finally reached her. ‘He kissed my hand as well, don’t take it seriously, “I’m flattered’ he says, ‘seeing the first love of my son”, that’s just his style. Don’t get flustered. Oh the dress you’re wearing! Great job! My Cheguevara!’
I turned back, spotting Erik wearing a beautiful blue suit, as well as a tie, his hair brushed, not looking like himself as all. He wasn’t even gazing in my direction. He got his diploma with a satisfied smile, and raised it above his head, as some sort of a soccer award. He walked back, without seeing me. He gave the diploma to his dad and left the gym. ‘Who knows what’s going on’, I thought to myself. My feet hurt, the dress was prickly and my ears were ringing. I walked back towards the wall and plopped down onto the bench.
The whole spiel with the diplomas dragged on for another two hours. Afterwards we were released outside (it was already dark by then). All the girls, looking done-up and beautiful were fluttering around, several moms that were a part of the parent committee were getting the tables ready, there was supposed to be a sort of a impromptu banquet, interrupted by dancing, ‘cheese, kielbasa, dessert, and even champagne’ announced our class leader, Ludochka, and after there was supposed to be a tour bus taking all the students around the city’s most famous landmarks, with the night ending at the main square, where we’d meet the sunrise. Oh, I forgot to mention that the very next day, the day that we were supposed to meet as a whole crowd of newly graduated students, was supposed to be my seventeenth birthday, basically where this whole story has began.
Years later, my female classmates brought up several memories regarding that night, once again convincing me that my hazy personal narrative should always be checked against the historical narrative, or the facts. And these are the facts: the diplomas were given out, tables set up, cheese and dessert consumed, as well as the kielbasa, two bottles of champagne per the whole class that simply disappeared on account of the student mass, music blasting from gym, somebody kept on going in and out, somebody sat behind the table for the whole duration, some danced, some danced slowly, just the average slow-dancing, nothing epic. The bus got there, we all loaded into it and left the school, going back and forth around the city, stopping at the airport for some reason, got to the main square, saw the sunrise. As I listened to other peoples’ narratives, I heard conversations about the talks with teachers and parents, kisses in a closed classroom, port wine and vodka, an argument and a fight. My own narrative was nothing but my injured feet and a broken heart. There was no one to talk to, not even Rimma, not even mentioning Nastasja, Alena and other girls who were still talking about Seryozha Gulin and his whereabouts, and to all their questions about my bad mood, I simply pointed at my shoes, and brought to the attention of Seryozha Gulin when he apperead next to me, as I sat behind the table, gloomily, over a plate of dessert. Seryozha Gulin asked me to a dance, or to just hang out, and when he heard about my shoe problem, he simply laughed, saying ‘just take them off and go dancing barefoot!’, but I refused, and he left. Why did I refuse, I had no idea. I had to throw the shoes away anyhow, and see the sunrise barefoot, slightly less upset, meeting my seventeenth year almost happy.
My own narrative lacked whatever we wait for to happen during such proms and holidays, adding your own little happiness, your private happiness, to everybody else’s moments of glee. This sort of combining my intimate with the public has let me down back then, as it has over and over, later on. I simply couldn’t fathom that everything was over, the exams taken, the pages turned, time to move on. It seemed everything was just starting out, just beginning, everything a whir, and just like that it was over. So suddenly. During everyone’s moment of happiness. Some were excited over their received medals, some were excited that the exams were over, the end of the difficult 10th grade, relief of the detested responsibilities and the long awaited freedom. Only I seemed to be unhappy.
At first I was simply looking around – where was he? Where was his stylish blue suit that made him look more handsome than Alain Delon and Robert Redford? Won’t I hear his slightly sarcastic laughter, the one I’d recognize out of a million? Won’t he call out to me amidst the crowd ‘Hey Faya, let’s go dancing!’ I kept on searching for him, and came to a realization that not only he was missing, but a bunch of other boys as well, and only then decided to ask, in a neutral tone, where was everybody?
-‘Where could they be?’ replied Nastasja, the rational one, ‘They’ve gone off drinking to the park, the whole gang.’
I raised my eyes in horror.
-‘Yep, all of them,’ Nastasja sounded upset, shaking her head ‘…and Gulin went as well. It’s because of him you’re so upset, or because of the medal? It turned out kind of silly, Fay, you should’ve retaken your chemistry exam.’
-‘Oh screw the exam! Me feet are hurting.’
-‘Oh poor thing.’ This time Nastasja sounded even more worried.
They’ve gone off drinking. Huh. What about the dances? The prom? Erik was right when he called me a dummy. All I could do was to eat the dessert, and if not, then go dancing without the shoes. It’s dark there anyway, just the pulsating lights, the loud band, no slow-dancing, no boys, nothing to be afraid of. Right, Rimma?
Long story short, that’s how it all ended. The drunken boys were loaded onto the bus, and they happily fell asleep on the back seats. The girl chatted and quieted down as well. The bus went into slumber. For four hours we went back and forth, and some of us, the goodies, including barefoot me, came in and out at the previously specified spots, for a break. The most interesting stop was the airport, it wasn’t asleep, and that’s when the thought of leaving first crossed my mind.
The next day was my birthday. I got home at seven in the morning, lying about my shoes, saying that they simply went missing, most likely on the bus somewhere, and to return them would be impossible. I got a bit of a talk about it, yet it was all forgiven and counted as a part of things that happen at prom, and thank Allah that everyone returned safely from it. Half of the class was invited over to my place around four in the afternoon, to celebrate my birthday. Among the invitees were the hangover boys, as well as Erik, looking roughed up and irritated.
I figured I’d sleep well into lunch, yet I woke up just after three hours of slumber. Just like a phoenix I shook off my feathers, catching the flame of a new hope. My irritated, roughed up friend was forgiven of course, albeit only in my head. It could happen to anybody, giving way to other slackers and opportunists, getting drunk, effectively ruining the whole evening. Yet the evening was already ruined by the chemistry exam, the sarcastic principal, yellow heels and prickly dress. Would it even be possible, if Erik wasn’t drunk, and behaved like an utter gentleman, for him to invite me to a dance out of pure goodness, despite my horrific outfit, my overall bumpkin appearance? Even if he did invite me, being the gentleman that he was, as well as having a sudden case of a clouded mind and crummy eyesight, and he wouldn’t notice my ugliness, there would still be the shoe problem. I couldn’t possibly go dancing in these shoes with him. If that was the case, then thank goodness it turned out the way it turned out. It was silly, hoping for something else, and the opportunists who got him drunk, well, kudos to them.
Surprisingly enough, my mom was in a good mood. Raya and I made salads, while my dad went out to get the cake. All my wants and needs weren’t cheap, and I was hoping that as soon as I’d move away and become a professional, I won’t let them spend anything more on me. The future seemed bright and hopeful, and the past was forgotten until 2015, the year I remembered and wrote about it. On my birthday I lived for the present, and the upcoming date. An hour before I washed my hair. Half an hour prior I put on my blue silk dress, a roomy, trusted thing that supposedly looked good on me, according to Raya. If anything at all could look good on me. I wore the dress a couple of times to Erik’s house, when we studied for the upcoming exams, and I didn’t notice any repulsed looks on my account from him. It was fitting, since I was deathly afraid of experimenting and not seeming like myself, the dress was a good choice. Yesterday was already forgotten. It carried a tinge of foreignness, during which I felt akin to a castaway, a martyr, romanticizing the whole thing. Which, all in all, was quite normal. Yet today was my birthday, and I didn’t want to suffer. Not even one bit.
Everybody arrived, boys and girls, loud and happy, rested and freshened up, happy with life. Nastasja showed up with a raspberry pie in tow. She was already a great cook back then, and now probably treats all her Argentinian neighbors with her culinary inventions. Marina and Aleyona appeared as well, presenting me with a notebook and a pen, so I had something to write on and to write with, when I’d leave the place. Rimma came over, her present was a compact mirror, and the point of it being so I’d look at myself, even occasionally. Everyone else appeared. Just not him.
That was too much.
‘I will be there at four, Maria said!’
Five, six, seven.
I had to keep up the appearances, as my dad would’ve said. Nobody knew or understood anything, everyone was having a good time. And I kept myself on my toes as well, not even tearing up, honest! I sat there, smiling, looking over my guests who seemed to be enjoying each other, el pueblo unido. It was our tightly knit class that was used to spending time together, almost never apart, and no one has separated just yet, becoming independent. Even I was still present. I’d watch over them, so sweet and full of hope and plans. We all just floated in the shared sympathy for one another. The room was filled with excitement. Everyone wished me happiness, as well as to themselves, to everybody. Happiness, and getting into a university of choice, happiness and to all wishes coming true, happiness and good friends, happiness and love, happiness and to being home, happiness and to not forgetting home. We took sips in between the toasts, mostly just lemonade, although there was a bottle of champagne somewhere on the table, as we discussed who was going where, applying where. Then Rimma, instead of making a toast, decided to sing a song she made up, just for me.
-‘But where is Erik with the guitar?’ she asked suddenly, startling me, ‘Who is going to be my backup?’
-‘Yeah, where is Erik?’ everyone else became alarmed ‘Did you not invite him, Faya?’
-‘I’ve invited everybody. Rimma, you don’t need a backup!’
Rimma started singing (very adoringly, as always, addressed to me, as someone adorable. Belated gracias, Rimma, for thinking so well of me).
El pueblo unido applauded, and moved on to intellectual board games.
In a few hours, after all the salads have been eaten, and all the lemonade gone, when all of Rimma’s songs and everybody’s songs were sang, and all the board games finished, the overall state of the crowd was gleeful. Certain parents were already calling the house phone, wondering when is the party coming to an end and such. My mom and I were busy in the kitchen, preparing the last bit of tea, and placing the last bits of dessert into serving dishes, as well as slicing the cake, when the doorbell rang. Because of the noisy settings in the living room, nobody heard it besides my mom and I.
-‘Who could that be?’ my mom was surprised ‘A parent?’
I went to see who it was.
My well-groomed and well-brushed friend was standing right there, with a huge bouquet of daisies, and a guitar (he played really well, knowing all of Rimma’s and my favorite songs)
-‘Cumpleanos feliz!’ he said, niftily, ‘Happy birthday, senorita!’
This was more than enough.



-<<>>-
It was enough for my summer to turn out, to end up memorable and real. For two months right after the birthday nothing happened besides studying for the exams, exams themselves and all the worrying before my departure. Everyone else, including Rimma, have passed their one exam and left for their well-deserved vacations till September. Whereas I, and others like me had to not only take four exams, but do all the cramming as well. My dad and sister left for the sea in order to not interrupt my studies. My mom and I led an ascetic sort of existence of two deeply in work elements. She’d make coffee in morning, using our big coffeemaker, and leave for work, and I would wake up around nine, make some eggs and drink the cool coffee. It was July, incredibly hot, so we kept the balcony doors locked from the early morning, curtains drawn and the bathtub filled with icy water. Yet the heat still managed to get in somehow, through the invisible cracks.
I studied relentlessly. I really wanted to get in and go somewhere. Moscow, Leningrad, wherever. I’d cross out one completed concept after another, then rinse my face with the icy water and proceed to lying on the floor for ten minutes, recuperating. That was Nastasja’s trick, taught to her by her gymnastics coach. She started out the training at some point, yet had to abandon on the account of being too tall. During our ‘Venceremos’ times, after rehearsals we’d lie on the floor like that, the three of us, talking about whatever came to our heads. Now, all alone, I was thankful to Nastasja for her helpful advice.
Nobody called. There was soup in the fridge that mom and I would spread over five days, and the July heat was still unbearable. My mom and I would have dinner around seven, I’d tell her about my accomplishments of the day and then go to my room. At nine I’d pull apart the curtains and open the balcony door.
The same balcony where just two weeks ago, one month ago, we studied chemistry. The same balcony where we hung out on my birthday, after everyone was full, happy and dispersed. Now I was very content to look out there while studying, at the windows, sleepy flowers on the windowsill, almost motionless curtains and streetlights. When my eyes would be on the verge of closing, I’d go out there and go over the railing that still remembered his touch. The space would greet me with a quiet, calm coolness. I would look up at the moon, listening to the gull of the night and breathing in the supposedly fresh air. Then I’d go to bed and watch the lights from passing cars, scattered across the ceiling.
-‘Hey Faya, I head a dream about you last night. In it, you were walking along in your blue dress, in this dress, across a daisy field, all beautiful. That’s why I brought you daisies.’
-‘That’s why I put on this dress.’
-‘You like daisies?’ he asked, nodding at a big three liter jar, filled with his daisies.
-‘Yes, I do.’
-‘Then it’s all yours.’
I’d play he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not afterwards, and each time it was different.
Good night, senorita!
Buenos noches!



-<<>>-

While thinking about him now, I think back to the moments when I’d go out to the balcony at midnight, or lie on the floor in between studying. It was much easier, and even more interesting to think about him, rather than being with him, reading or walking with him, sharing a silence. In my thoughts he was much closer to me than in real life, and I was much braver as well: in my imagination we’d take walks in the park, sit on a bench, ride a horse, fly through the clouds and simply talk, and he answered me, did not offend me, did not disappear for a whole month and did not forget about me. He was always there, right when I needed him, kind and attentive. I’d ask him ‘How are you doing? Studying for the exams?  Passing the exams? Thinking about me?’ And he’s answer, ‘I’m doing well. I’m studying. I’ve taken the exam. I think about you. Think. Think. Do you think I’m not right besides you?’ I liked to envision him, envision his answers and gestures – the answers would be constructed out of my memories and the tidbits of our conversations, and the gestures were simply made up. I’d make up my own gestures as well, like ruffling his hair, stroking his dark hand. In my endless inner vision, he’d occasionally turn into a real philosopher, discussing life and death, beauty and love. He saw me as someone very wise, who knew life not from the books, but a real hero, capable of great feats. There was no end to my romanticizing of him.
Was he anything like in my dreams, I don’t know. But I believe that he was. Even more than just a little bit. My inner knowledge, my sixth sense didn’t deceive me: I imagined him exactly the way he was. He is what I imagined.
The past was sort of a support, our combined past from grade one to grade ten. The recollections would make their way through the thickness of forgetfulness, bits of disdain making their way in as well. I remembered him as a seven-year-old knight, a 10-year-old troublemaker, a 12-year-old soccer hero, and a 14-year-old hero of the country fields. He was always somewhere nearby, throughout this life filled with lessons and breaks, schools plays, pioneer-meetings and volunteering, songs and laughter. Such a wholesome representation of the communist way, perfect childhood, tight-knit group of school friends, the farther away it got from me, the more wonderful it seemed. Yet what stuck the most was our 10th grade and the team of agitators, our politically-inclined band ‘Venceremos’ that Erik joined over two years ago, completely accidentally, and accompanied us since then with his guitar, on different concerts and shows, like a good guy, trying to help out his friends, even when the friends were the somewhat crazy activists, as Nastasja, Rimma and I were. He didn’t believe in communism himself, yet respected Che Guevara.
We put the band together in 8th grade, right after I got back from summer camp ‘Artek’, filled with enthusiasm of the worldwide revolution, that back then was at its peak in Latin America, in Chile, and later in Nicaragua and El Salvador. And in Cuba there was an international youth and student festival to be held nexy year, where I desperately wanted to go. All we did in Artek was sing, sing, and sing. Artek songs, revolutionary songs, Spanish songs. Chilean and Cuban. Songs of Victor Jara, ‘Venceremos’ and ‘El pueblo unido’. And ‘Guantanamera’, of course. Throughout the whole month in Artek, I filled an entire notebook with the lyrics of these songs, memorizing them. Artekians sang them in Artek, sang them on the evacuation base in Simferopol, sang them in trains on our way back from Artek, sang them in our dream and awake state alike. After getting home, I could not stop singing them. I performed them to Nastasja and Rimma, who immediately liked them, and we decided to create a band that would stir up the interest in Komsomol, and the worldwide, or at least Latin American revolution, ‘Granada, Granada, my Granada.’    
 In September, we announced our band to the Komsomol school committee, that Rimma and Nastasja have already joined by then, and they gladly accepted us and sent us to the young Komsomol convention. We went there, performing and acquiring support, getting inspired, and after receiving a proposition from the local Komsomol authorities, we began attending schools, orphanages and even factories with our unchanging ‘Venceremos’ and ‘El pueblo unido.’ The last song was especially popular in a care facility for children with poor eyesight, and these kids somehow saw us raising our fists in the air, and they would run up to the stage in complete awe, raising their little fists in the air, as if threatening the invisible foes. Our popularity grew, and we’ve even been invited to the local radio station (shouldn’t I look for the tapes somewhere in the radio-archives?), and then sent to a festival in Kiev, dedicated to the anniversary of the revolution. And that’s when Erik joined our trio, the local authorities deciding that we lacked an accompaniment, a boy with a guitar.
No one could play the guitar better than Erik. Not in the whole school. So we asked Nastasja, who back then shared a desk with him, to figure him out a bit. To ask Erik if he wanted to go to Kiev with us during the fall break. The kind soul that he was, he wouldn’t mind going to Kiev for free, as well as seeing it for the first time. Actually neither of us has been to Kiev before, the mother of Russian cities. We practiced for a bit and took off.
That’s when he entered my life. Yet the way he came in, I barely recognized him. I had my own thing going on, so to speak, and I was all about Che Guevara, and Victor Jara, whereas Erik’s songs and melodies were completely different from mine. His guitar was his ‘girlfriend’ that he barely let go of during our trip. Our songs that he quickly learned, but didn’t like as much as we did, were big and broad, while his personal songs were quiet and private, supplemented by inaudible strumming of his guitar. He hummed them, barely audibly, occasionally almost whispering, and in general he liked to play and listen, rather than sing. His own voice wasn’t too powerful, and during our own singing, he chimed in only during the chorus, although his strumming was solid and he switched between the chords self-assuredly, sounding as well as we did, and everything was just as it was supposed to be, even better. In between our fiery performances, we managed to sew ourselves floor-length red skirts that we wore with black turtlenecks, the whole outfit turning out to be very Latin American and very revolutionary, while he was always somewhere in the back, his presence exemplified by his ringing guitar strings. He was the music that developed somewhere behind our backs, yet drove the crowd crazy.
His and Nastasja’s friendship developed more than anyone else’s. She fed him, sewed his buttons back on, basically took care of him. Even though she was just fourteen, she already had something motherly about her. During our travels, he helped Nastasja with her bags, and I remembered that because Rimma would always point out the fact, asking Erik ‘I see it’s too late for me now, Erik?’, hinting on his declared feelings towards her in grade school. Yet he pretended he didn’t understand what she meant. He liked the 14-year-old Rimma less than the seven year old one, for some reason.
We got to Kiev in November. It was cold and overcast, and the time spent there made me reminisce the times in Artek. It was a festival, kids from different republics, mainly folkloric groups. It was going on in some school, where we also lived, sleeping on folding beds in the gym area. There was also a quartet of dombra players from a Kazakh musical school, who arrived with us from Almaty. They wore their traditional costumes, spoke Kazakh and mostly avoided us the first two days. We performed in our red-black outfits, and sang in Spanish for the first two days. Erik, being a son and a grandson of a Cossack, avoided both. He quickly became buddies with the boys from the accepting class, (each class was assigned a delegation such as ours), and he’d always disappear with his new friends, ‘walking around Kiev, of course!’ avoiding all the festival activities that didn’t directly involve ‘Venceremos’. During the dancing competition, Rimma, Nastasja and I donned our Kazakh outfits (prepared by our Komsomol authority), and performed ‘kamajay’ like three eastern beauties. The dombra players accompanied us, and we quickly became friends. In the evening, as we were resting atop out foldout beds, the boys taught us the song ‘Altyn Kun Aspanin’, is wasn’t the national anthem back then yet, and we spent half the night learning it, and then performed it spontaneously the next evening, as well as ‘Venceremos’, rousing the crowd. No one suspected that we knew Spanish better than Kazakh, of course. Erik began calling us not just ‘activists’ but ‘patriots’ as well, in a well-meaning way, of course. We must have disrupted his sleep during the night:
-‘Hey, you patriots, cut it out, it’s nighttime!’ he’d grumble in our direction, every once in a while.
Meanwhile, Rimma the patriot, had a short fling with one of the Kiev buddies, and it was the first real relationship of my friend that happened right in front of my eyes. The boy smoked like a chimney, and always tried to hug Rimma whenever they were together. I had serious intentions of pulling her away from the international gathering, following the dancing competition (since there wasn’t much out there for me), the excuse being the fact that we didn’t belong to the smoking crowd, and to what Rimma just widened her eyes, and refused to leave. I had to stay with her and dance with one of the dombra palyers, what later on led to the learning of ‘Altyn Kun’. And Sanyok, Rimma’s love interest, danced with her, as well as made out properly, and they exchanged letters for a while, two and half years, which I found out about much later on, in March of our 10th grade, when the letter exchange dwindled down and ceased to exist. Meanwhile I was in love with Seryozha Gulin, a smoker from the parallel grade. My antipathy towards smokers has vanished, by then. Rimma and I switched places.
And so it went.
And where was my darling Erik during all the dances? Yes, he was walking around Kiev with his buddies, of course.



-<<>>-

I also browsed through our pictures where we were together: 4th grade Erik, 7th grade Erik, 8th grade Erik, Erik in the country in summer after 8th grade, Erik of 9th grade, of 10th grade, fairly recently. Now I saw how he grew, stretched, his shoulders broadening, manning up from year to year, becoming stronger and more handsome. Observed how the boyish silliness transformed into teenage carelessness, slowly taken over by the adolescent estrangement, aloofness and arrogance. He was very smug, almost proud looking in his last photos. And he always kept separate. I never noticed it – his beauty, his uniqueness, and the trait to stay by himself. He didn’t really want to attend my stupid birthday, to sit with the loud crowd and play silly games. Because the real him is a book in the bed and a quiet guitar along the way, the ability to be quiet, feeling your friend’s shoulder nearby. Oh, I’m so tired of talking. And so much time has been wasted. Time that I can’t turn back. How could I!
In Kiev, he was much shorter than me, and even shorter than Rimma and Nastasja. He’s very tall now, and I’m tiny. What a funny thing. I can barely reach his shoulders now. Ah, how I wanted to dance with him, my god.
Once in a while Nastasja and I called each other. She had to take four exams as well. We had them on separate days, so whenever I had a free evening, she’d be at home, studying. During such evenings, there were four of them, obviously, I’d go into town and walk around for hours, retracing our path from Furmanov street all the way down to Kalinin street, and from there, across all the entryways Rimma hid in, through the park to her house, and then to my house, and back again, I managed to do three, and one time even four of these magical circles. The first and the second circle would be completed white it was still hot, and twice I would have soda, and stop once by a drinking fountain next to the church, it becoming a ritual of sorts. The intricately ornate church of Almaty, back then serving as a regional natural history museum, was bright and welcoming during the day, unlike that one dark night, when Rimma and I ran across from it, with Rimma scaring me enough for me to almost grab Erik’s hand. Now I wasn’t scared of the church one bit, and walked across from it just fine.
Finally Nastasja and I were done with our exams, after resting and sleeping it off, we decided to meet. When we saw each other, we were quite surprised by our appearances, we were leaving summer quite pale, thin and tired looking. Yet we both got into the schools we applied to, and that made us happy.
-‘When are you leaving, Fay?’ wondered Nastasja after finishing our first ice-cream, and about to move on to the second.
-‘August 28th.’
-‘That’s great! We still have 10 days. Rimma is coming back tomorrow, so we can all head out to my dacha, get some sun, eat.’
-‘Sounds like a plan!’
-‘Will you be able to sleep over?’
-‘Well, if I’m allowed to stay at a dorm in Leningrad, I’m sure they’ll let me do your dacha.’
-‘You never know! Parents have a weird way of thinking.’
-‘I’m sure they’ll let me go!’
-‘Do you remember what happened in winter?’
-‘Yeah. They didn’t let me go in winter.’ I agreed.
In winter, our whole class went to one of the girl’s dachas, to sleigh ride, and sleep over, while I wasn’t allowed to go. That was during the infatuation with Seryozha Gulin, so I wasn’t particularly interested in going, since Gulin was on a different parallel, and didn’t participate in the sleepover. Yet Nastsaja thought I was quite interested in sleigh riding.
Then next day, right after Rimma arrived, a person who could easily relocate from one place to another, we set out for the dacha. It turned out to be one of the best trips of my life. It wasn’t marred by the endless amounts of work, drinking, people I didn’t know or empty conversations, as many trips later on. We were young and na;ve creatures, activists-patriots of our soviet country and of all the progressive humankind, 17-year-old girls on the verge of adolescence, on the verge of separation and a new tempting and enigmatic, just like the adult psychology, life. We were dressed in light cotton dresses, and we felt light, free for the whole day, whole night and the whole morning next day. Nastasja and I put on the dresses to get some sun, whereas Rimma wore it to show off her tan that made her look like a Latin American beauty. As Nastasja and I were gathering the harvest, slicing the apples for drying, preparing lunch and having lunch, and then lots of card games, we picked up some color as well, blossoming toward the night, as we sat together underneath the apple trees, to drink tea out of the samovar, the great samovar!, and to talk in peace.
-‘It’s quite possibly the last time we’re sitting like this, girls.’ Said the philosophically inclined Rimma, although it was the first time we were in this particular situation, ‘…and we will remember this evening forever.’
-‘Para siempre!’
-‘Exactly!’ Nastasja would confirm.
-‘Let’s preserve our friendship forever!’ Rimma dreamt, aloud.
-‘Para siempre!’ I’d agree.
-‘Well, of course!’ Nastasja would say, finalizing it.

Surprisingly enough, we stuck by our promise of preserving the friendship, albeit a bit rattled after 35 years, and with great happiness I’m devoting this story to you, Rimma, and to you, Nastasja, although destiny, represented by all the strange decisions we’ve made, split us up so far away, that we see each other once a century. Although is has just began.
Bless you, female friendship.
The sleepover on the trestle-bed, in the mountains and under the stars, no matter how much you write about it, it’s impossible to complete. I don’t have words for it, girls, my vocabulary isn’t enough. The samovar, apples, silly, boys, el pueblo unido, beauty, the future, suntans, fear, venceremos, summer dresses, freedom, exams, departure, friendship and eternity, everything grand and small, important and unimportant steps back when you’re looking at the stars, in the mountains. The cold air, and stars – the dipper, and Cassiopeia (you cannot discern any of the other constellations, and just stare in awe). And the Milky Way! Per espera ad astra. One on one with the macrocosm. Even if you’re not by yourself, you’re still completely alone. Delight! Bliss! Pura, pura felicidad!
-‘It’s falling! Falling!’ screams out Nastasja, and they jump up together with Rimma, who shouts as well, ‘It falling! Look Faya, it’s a meteor shower!’
I squint, and a million stars are falling on me. It means happiness, my friends say. Como siempre.

-<<>>-

On August 28th I left for Leningrad, as it turned out, for forever. My 17th summer ended on a high note, almost well balanced. Everything was done, suitcase packed, a parental lecture given. My parents almost forgave me for the medal, and believed in my restart. Either way, they were nice to me in the last few days.  I saw some of our relatives, either by coming over to their place, of having them come over. Raya was a bit jealous and upset that she way staying by herself. I also met up with my ex-classmates, the ones I knew well, and not well enough, promising to write. They promised to write as well, and we parted on good, sentimental terms. The goodbyes would stretch out, becoming almost unbearable. I was thinking I’d die, if I stayed in Almaty for another day, that’s how distraught I was.  Only Leningrad would save me, I’d think, I wasn’t ready to die yet.
And suddenly Nastasja, you remember, cari;a, that this is meant for you (and you too, Rimma, you too!) this sad story, and here Nastasja appears out of nowhere, on August 27th, around noon, and asks me:
-‘Hey Fay, did you say goodbye to Erik?’
“Hey Fay, dummy, did you say goodbye?’
-‘Why?’ I asked, proudly lifting my head.
-‘That’s not good, you said goodbyes to everybody. Besides him.’
-‘Because he doesn’t call.’
-‘And he won’t call.’
-‘Why not?’
-‘Because he’s proud. Just like you are. Both of you are too proud.’
-‘And now what? Should I hang myself?’
-‘No, why hang yourself. If the mountain doesn’t go to Muhhamed…’
-‘Are you crazy?’
I don’t care anymore, whether Nastasja knows or not, guesses or not, understands or doesn’t understand. A single word ‘Erik’ is enough to get into the pantheon.
-‘Get ready! And let’s go!’ she says, assuredly.
And the most unbelievable thing is that we’re going. On a number 12 trolleybus, taram-pam-pam.
-‘And what if he’s not home?’
-‘You’ll leave a note!’
Nastasja can’t be stopped.
-But what if nobody’s home?’
-‘You can leave it in the mail box.’
-‘And what will I write him? I don’t even have a pen.’
-‘You can write whatever you want. You cannot just leave like that, without saying goodbye to Erik. He’s our guy. He helped you out along the way. And here you want to leave without saying anything. It’s not nice, Fay.’
-‘Oh, it’s not!’
‘-And I have a pen, by the way. So it’s all good.’
So we’re on our way. On a number 12 trolleybus and all. It’s unbearable. And now you understand, at least, how unbearable it was, Nastasja. Watching the stops, the witnesses of the bygone pura felicidad! Crap!
We are there, next to the house of this story’s main character. His name is Erik, he is 17 years old, tall, broad in shoulders, handsome, tan, curly haired. I haven’t seen in two months, and I love him. The kind of love that enters your heart and gets stuck there, like a splinter, forever. I lead Nastasja up the stairs, not even pretending I’ve never been there before. Feeling like a character from Maupassant. Or Zola. My secret hiding place for dates. I haven’t been here is over two months, will the house recognize me, will the mirror recognize me? Will I recognize it? What does it remember? What does it know about me?
Nastasja rings he doorbell. Ding-dong-ding-dong. Of course no one is home. Of course everyone is at the dacha. Obviously, we’re here for no reason.
Yet the door opens and we fall into a hug, quite literally.
Mom, dad, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, somebody else. A whole lot of relatives in the 40 square meters apartment.
Mom, a statuesque brunette with an insinuating voice. This is the first time I see her. Yet I’ve noticed her before, I remember her voice, embarrassedly. She’s staring at me. I feel ashamed, awkward. As if I’m some sort of an abnormality.
She hugs me: ‘Faya!’
The father. We’ve seen each other recently, how come you’re not kissing my hand, sir?
He kisses my hand and says, ‘Oh, you’ve gotten even prettier!’
And I’m ready to fall through the ground.
-‘Erik will be here in a moment. Nastienka!’ says the mother in her kind voice, ‘He went to get some bread.’
It’s almost prosaic.
Erik will get home and witness a strange scene unfolding in his kitchen, of two uninvited entities which came over, thus breaking an unspoken agreement. He will see his calculating mom, his alert dad, curious sister and brother, and the rest who don’t really care what’s going on in front of them. He will see Nastasja, an activist, an iron lady who is always ready for self-sacrifice, and someone who is secretly in love with Seryozha Gulin from the parallel class, yet who hasn’t thought about him in over three months, due to the exams, of course.
He will see Faya, an activist, a passionate Cheguevarian, in love with Che Guevara, in love with Victor Jara, in love with Pablo Neruda, Nicholas Guillen and Jose Marti. Venceremos, only complete venceremos!
‘You see mom,’ he’s say craftily, ‘I told you so.’


-<<>>-
For all this suffering I was awarded by a long walk through the whole city. I was amazed even then, just as I’m amazed now, by the absurdity of what happened. We simply walked, walked quietly, and only Nastasja talked. We walked for several hours, across the dusty, dirty highways of the big city, silently.
Many years later, I’d repeat the same ludicrous feat in Iran, in Mashhad, setting out for a long walk towards the center, towards the main holy shrine, under blazing sun and at complete loss of where to go, besides the shrine itself. It was a simple motion of going forward, ahead, towards the known, unavoidable target, as my home used be back then, my fortress.
Sometime, a while ago in June, we slowed our walk in order to lengthen our short path. Now, in August, we were rushed by time. Looking at it, in 2015 and in 1980, both served as suspensions. Now I don’t care whether we slowed down or ran as fast as we could, begging for the time to slow down or to speed up. There is no time. It doesn’t matter what age we live in, in 1980 or 2015. The main thing is that we are still alive, and that we exist, and we’re real. And I keep on walking this path, unaware of my tiredness, or sadness. Each one of us has his own myth, his own universe, and there is no time, there is no old age, or judgment, and only love and myth exist. The magical world of personal myth.
-‘Good night, senorita!’
-‘Buenos noches!’



-<<>>-

In 2015, in Buenos Aires, a 17-year-old Lisa is standing at an intersection, confused, looking at the shrinking motorcycle. Lisa is standing on the road, her bounding arms cross her body, big eyes full of tears.
-Por ti respire, Ernestico, por ti vivo, por ti muero! Entiendes? Quiero estar contigo siempre, por siempre, para siempre! Toda mi vida! Soy nada sin ti, tu eres mi tido! Te amo, Ernesto! Amu tus ojos, amo tus manos, amo tu cabello, amo tu rostro! Nunca en mi vida voy a olvidarte. Estamos juntos! Para siempre… Entiendes?

The motorcycle disappears.

Con qu; tristeza miramos
un amor que se nos va.
Es un pedazo del alma
que se arranca sin piedad.


August - September, 2015
 

Translated into English by my niece Darya Jandossova Bowlin