CHAPTER ONE
In the beginning there was pain.
More of it at the end…
The steps outside sounded unfamiliar. Today was Saturday, Yuri seemed confident about that; it was as quiet when he checked into the hospital once before, years ago. Then it was Saturday too, he remembered very clearly. He just came back from New York where he spent a couple of weeks visiting many relatives, both known and unknown. Some of them immigrated to this country long time ago, some recently, all of the little nieces and nephews were born here. He didn’t know them, got confused.
Otherwise, he felt like a shah.
It started at the airport, he was walking to his gate carrying light luggage when he had to slow down and then come to a complete stop. He couldn’t breathe, to be exact – he couldn’t breathe normally. He will remember that moment forever. All of a sudden everything was hard work: breathing, walking, talking. He just stood there as though he had all the time in the world, pale and quiet. An old couple helped him to get to his gate; he thanked them in a weak voice, listening to the unleashed pain right in the middle of his chest. Then it suddenly disappeared. The stewardess, an experienced eye, offered an aspirin, which he swallowed when they were already up in the air. He really felt better and, as soon as they were allowed to, had a drink, cognac with lemon. Half an hour later, still pain free, he ordered another drink, vodka this time; he still had some lemon left.
He was glad that his seat was by the window.
His neighbor, the one in the middle, who was asleep since the take-off or just pretended to be asleep, a red-faced man in his late thirties, stretched his arms and asked if he was Russian.
“Why?” said Yuri, glancing at his neighbor’s short, fat fingers.
“I’ve never seen anybody having a piece of lemon after a drink, except Russians.”
So he wasn’t asleep.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” was all Yuri said.
“I knew some Russians once,” his neighbor wouldn’t let go. “They just moved...”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Yuri, “I need to get through.”
He was tired all of a sudden, no pain, just tired, as if he’s been working physically all day. He stood up and apologized: he needed to go to the restroom. His urine was yellower than usual, scary yellow. He looked at his watch: two more hours.
“I had then once in my house!” exclaimed the red-faced neighbor as soon as Yuri occupied his seat. “Husband, wife, three kids… Strange people: they just sat there, smiling like idiots, not a word, not a sound, barely touched the food…”
“Such an educated nation?” asked a woman from across the aisle.
“As God is my witness, ma’am.”
“They were probably Jews,” said the woman. “Jews do have strange habits.”
The stewardess walked by, and Yuri asked for some tea and more lemon. The pain had returned slightly, and he told himself that whatever was going on inside his chest was more serious than cold symptoms, and the whole world narrowed suddenly to the size of this plane, this particular section…
“Your tea, Mr. Marian,” the stewardess. He looked at her more intently: nice face, not older than thirty, 5’6”-5’7”; her upper teeth were a bit too big, more than made up for by rare green eyes and a great body.
“Thank you again, ma’am,” said.
Suddenly a thought: is it possible that he’ll never make love to a woman again?
He drank his tea, then fell asleep, but not for long. He didn’t open his eyes; not that he was afraid to do so; he heard voices, coughing here and there, an announcement about the weather conditions in Tucson; he even tried to imagine the stewardess’s legs, but the view didn’t come up as clear as he wished.
The weather in Tucson – according to the captain – 68 degrees.
It had been 31 degrees in New York, snow, wind and rain.
The only reason he didn’t open his eyes was the weird thought that they had turned yellow suddenly, dark yellow with broken blood vessels, and that would scare the hell out of his neighbor and the lady from across the aisle.
FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS!
Thank God, he told himself, he never re-married; he would still need to call his daughters and his mother as soon as possible: if something happens to him, he didn’t want it to be a complete surprise.
He thought about his wife Tatyana.
He thought about her all the time. She was the best thing that happened to him…the best thing that could ever happen to a man.
Then he fastened his belt.
(Tatyana always believed that the day will come when he’d be a big success. She’s been saying that since they got married, enthusiastically in the beginning, particularly when she was pregnant with their first daughter, less and less later, after she got pregnant again and they decided to keep the baby. He was doing great at the time, a well-respected assistant professor, who was on his way to become the youngest linguistics professor at the age of thirty. She tried to help him as much as she could, taking care of their daughters and keeping her job at the high school. Then came the strange time, late sixties-early seventies, when everybody had to make a decision and his was not the wisest one…)
Last warning before landing.
Last minutes filled with conversations and loud preparations. . .
Last look at his neighbor who never spoke to him again. . .
Landing…
He sat quietly in his seat until everybody left, his belt still fastened, as though ready for take-off. A stewardess finally came by and was very polite. He smiled. He was afraid to leave, afraid to face the outside world. “Sorry,” said, standing up. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“That’s alright,” she assured and walked away, and he looked after her, having no thoughts, not even sexual ones.
He found his car in the parking lot, started the engine and turned on the radio: country music. Then he cried, quiet in the beginning, becoming uncontrollable sobs for five minutes or so; no one could hear him. He stopped once to look at himself in the rear view mirror: he looked awful, like a beaten dog. People were passing by, carrying their own burdens and fears. He looked in the mirror again and saw a black “Volvo” with a blonde at the wheel, who was getting visibly impatient waiting for a car with a running engine to pull out of the parking spot.
He apologized like a deaf person, put the gear in ‘drive’. Beginning of December, but it felt like March, never a snow-flake, only up in the mountains: probably, a good time to die, if there is ever such a thing.
He waived at the blonde, smiling.
She waived, too.
(About Tatyana: she was the one who noticed the change in his behavior, in the way he expressed himself, but she was his wife, and she acted like one, trying to make him feel safe and comfortable. They still had guests now and then, old friends and colleagues, and he was their usual host. They always had a good time. Only Tatyana seemed unhappy. Once she said: “You used to be cheerful and witty, my love; now you don’t speak much, as though you’re afraid of your plain language.” He didn’t deny it. Of course, he thought, he could make an effort to be smart and funny; it’s just that he had the feeling he had said it all before and the things he really wanted to discuss were dangerous and forbidden. Later, when everybody was gone, most of the time after , he stood at the window, hands in his pockets, silent. When he at last turned around, Tatyana was already in bed.
He was in his late twenties at the time, still young and healthy.
As time passed, things got worse.
They became a couple, a man and a woman, which no longer have anything to say to one another. They made love occasionally, still with some passion, but with their eyes closed, relieved to be done. He still kissed Tatyana in the morning, looking at the same time at the front page of the newspaper, and again in the evening, but in passing, as though forced by necessity. He taught literature at the local university, was a member of the Professional Union. He had many duties, boring, useless duties. He hated his job, the environment, the System. More time passed. He met plenty of people every day, killers and those who ordered the killings, all sorts of things happened around him, but as soon as he stepped onto his porch he didn’t feel like talking about it.
Once he thanked God for television. He would’ve prayed, but praying wasn’t an option; it was, in fact, punished, to the full extent of the law.
Little by little he began changing the way he thought about the system, peoples’ rights and freedoms – things you could talk about only in the privacy of your own house, to the friends you could trust. He really tried to keep his family out of it. He conducted several seminars in a basement of one of his students; then went to Moscow and participated in a meeting with his old college friends. The main discussion: where outside of Russia was the best place to set up a shop to print forbidden books and articles as well as BBC radio programs. It was dangerous, could cost him more than a job or advancement opportunities, but everything went fine. When sometime later he was invited by the local KGB office for a chat, it was a shock: KGB? He didn’t know what to think, but this wasn’t an institution he could ignore. Major Anatolii Tkachuk turned out to be a man in his early thirties, very polite and a good listener. Even now, many years later, he could still remember the whole conversation, every word of it. Anatolii knew a lot about his work, personal life, hobbies, but talked about it casually; then suggested lunch at a nearby café, and he couldn’t refuse. He ordered a beef stroganoff, and for the next thirty minutes there was very little conversation, only short remarks about this and that.
Then they shook hands.
Sunny day, a few innocent clouds far left and right.
No rain, everybody in white shirts.
Anatolii called again a month later to wish him a happy birthday.
That was the day he told Tatyana about the meeting and the following lunch.
“KGB?” she said, coming into the kitchen with a nervous smile. “You’re having a conversation and a lunch with a KGB major? What is his name, dear?” He tried to explain. She didn’t listen. “What about our kids?” asked fearfully. “Don’t you remember that you have two daughters and a wife? Well, let’s forget about her!”
He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter, because there is no future, no real tomorrow for them or their kids, even though they were excellent students, bright and loyal; about thousands who disappeared without a trace, young and old, smart and stupid; about the System, which would have to die in order for them to have a future; and about the real reason he went to Moscow (not to attend a seminar as she’s been told). But didn’t. Anatolii called a week later and suggested a second meeting, this time in the apartment on Garden Street, right behind the bookstore, at next Tuesday morning. “Next Tuesday?” he asked as if this was the only thing that would stop him from coming. “I need to check my schedule.” “I’ve taken the liberty,” interrupted Anatolii. “Your first class starts at 11:45 a.m.”)
