Irish Bar

It was March 1995. I walked into a bar on 7th Avenue, the closest one to where I was renting a room. It was Friday evening, the eve of St. Patrick's Day—the Protestant Easter. I learned about the holiday later; back then, I had no idea about American traditions. Interestingly, this holiday coincides with my mother’s birthday on March 17th.
I felt strangely lonely that evening. I didn’t know that just a few days prior, my beloved Boris had passed away in St. Petersburg, Russia, and on this day, according to the old Russian custom, he was likely being buried three days after his death. Perhaps that’s why I felt such a wave of sadness and solitude.
Gathering my courage, I decided to visit the nearest bar alone. The place was buzzing with people. I wasn’t sure how to squeeze my way to the counter when suddenly, I noticed a free seat in the center—right next to an incredibly handsome man.
He stood out from the crowd—polished, elegant, and refined. His haircut, his clothes—everything radiated sophistication. It was March, yet he had a sun-kissed tan, his wheat-colored hair masterfully styled. He looked like someone from Europe or a Texan multimillionaire straight out of a Hollywood film—though in real life, I later learned they often look much simpler.
The bar was located on 7th Avenue and 53rd Street, near expensive hotels. I thought he might be a bored wealthy tourist and sat down next to him.
“What would you like?” the bartender asked right away. I ordered an Absolute with tonic—my favorite drink at the time.
I began to feel at ease, surrounded by the lively atmosphere and such a charming neighbor. Everything about him seemed untouchable, perfect—his hairstyle, the color of his hair like ripe wheat, how his short-sleeved shirt fit him, his moderately tanned arms. He exuded a striking aristocracy that sharply contrasted with the crowd around us.
Unexpectedly, my seemingly unattainable neighbor, breathing perfection, turned his face toward me. My God, what a beautiful face it was, and how much benevolence and acceptance it held—perhaps the kind of look a mother gives her newborn child. His beauty and kindness captivated me within seconds, just like how genius music instantly conquers your heart. I simply melted into him, feeling light and pleased.
He looked straight into my eyes and, with a pleasant, vibrating voice, asked:;"What do you drink?";"Absolute," I replied, smiling in response to his smile.;"Where are you from? You have an accent," he asked with interest, as if I were already in his embrace.;"What do you think?" I replied, matching his playful tone.
He began to I knew people would assume I was from anywhere but Russia.;"Russia," I finally admitted.;"Russia?" he repeated in astonishment.;"How is Russia?" he asked, as if inquiring, "How are you?";"Good. Democracy," I replied with the standard phrase, as though someone had asked me, "How are you doing?" But my voice carried a note of sadness and disappointment.;"But people are hungry?" he said, mirroring the sorrowful tone in my voice.
I remained silent, acknowledging the sad truth. The atmosphere in the bar was festive—it was the eve of St. Patrick’s Day, and this was an Irish bar. I didn’t feel like engaging in a long discussion about Russia’s situation.
"What’s your name?" he asked in a gentle, friendly, and confident voice.;"Marina," I replied.;"My name is Steven Benderoff. I work on TV. I create music for a commercial television channel. What about you?";"I’m an artist," I replied.
Of course, I lied. I couldn’t tell him I was a cleaner or a masseuse—or even an economist; it sounded too mundane. I wanted so much to be on the same wavelength as him.;"I’m scared here," I admitted, surprising even myself. I remembered how I had been strangely afraid to enter the bar.;"With me, you have nothing to be afraid of," he said with such confidence that it immediately reassured me, and I felt calm and even happy again.
"I also write poetry," I added, reciting a few lines that had recently come to me.;"I’ll put it to music," my new acquaintance said.
At that time, I wasn’t an artist—not yet painting. But as Kazimir Malevich writes, one doesn’t become an artist; one is born an artist. That was absolutely true.
I felt extraordinarily happy, as if I were a child again—like those early evenings when I was just over a year old, and the whole family would gather around the samovar under a beautiful pink lampshade with fringe, and I sat in my father’s arms.
In the end, he didn’t ask me how I made a living or how I earned money. I justified myself in my mind.;"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked with his well-modulated voice, as pleasant to listen to as a favorite melody.;"Later," I replied, flustered. I felt that something significant was happening to me.;"Later," the bartender repeated with a laugh, handing me a drink.
"Why did you leave Russia?" he asked.;
"It’s hard to stay in one city—or even one country—with the man you love but want to leave because nothing is working," I replied.
He looked at me intently, as if trying to understand and grasp what I had said.;"Do you have children?" he asked.;"I have a daughter," I answered.;"How old is she?" he asked.;"She’s eleven," I replied.;"Where is she now?";"She’s in Russia with my parents.";"I have two daughters—four and six years old," he said.
He began telling me about himself: he had a house on Long Island, a wife he was planning to divorce, and an apartment nearby.;"Can I invite you to dinner?" he asked again.;"Maybe tomorrow," I replied hesitantly.
I felt a magical attraction. I also felt that this meeting could change my plan to return to Russia soon. I missed my daughter very much. My plan had been to stay in the USA for six months, but already two years had passed. My visa had expired, and though I longed to see my daughter, something kept holding me here.
We left the bar. It was a warm spring evening, almost summer. Steven was wearing just a shirt. We walked and continued talking until we found ourselves in a cozy restaurant decorated in a classic style. It was already late, and there were almost no other patrons. We sat across from each other, face-to-face.                Once again, I was struck by how beautiful and divine his face was. He looked at me and exclaimed, "Madonna." He gazed at me with undisguised admiration. Maybe I looked so good because his company instantly elevated me. It was a true miracle. I felt such unity with him, as if a piece of paper that had been torn and lost its halves, long separated, suddenly came together and returned to its original, whole state. A remarkable completeness returned to me.
His words, "Madonna," didn’t even surprise me. I wasn’t thinking about how I looked; I was completely absorbed in observing his face. Every moment, every change in his expression held great significance and value for me.
I wrote a poem about this meeting:
I remember the evening in the Irish bar,
How we sat in the dimly lit hall.
Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary—
Suddenly, this thought struck us.
We’ve known each other for a thousand years—
That’s the secret of our attraction.
What does this meeting mean,
When a moment equals eternity?