Love Is Never Past Tense... (17 page)

And suddenly in the list of received messages in his inbox—was her letter. Only a few lines, at first. Correspondence started, then communication by phone and Skype. Later, she told him that she would be travelling to Europe, to Romania to visit relatives, and this would happen soon. Serge suggested that they meet. Janna resisted for a long time, but eventually agreed to meet. Serge did not know whether there would be a continuation of this meeting. He simply wanted to see the woman who was so strongly burned into his memory. He also wanted to see for himself if the ending in 1974 was a fatal mistake or not. Maybe he was moved by simple curiosity. Maybe he was hoping for a continuation of the romance, so ingloriously and foolishly broken long ago. Some similar expectations gripped Janna as well, though she was afraid of this reunion. She was afraid to lose the bright memories of 1973. Without any ambiguity, she told him about it by phone. But both understood that most likely, there would never be another chance. And life rapidly counts years. They agreed to meet in Tiraspol,
⁴²
in neutral territory, and then dash away to the Black Sea …

***

“Why did you dump me, Seriozha?” She sat at the open door of a balcony and spoke as if to the street, where the yellow specks of autumn already filtered onto the dense greens of the trees. “Why did you dump me? What a blockhead! What have you done?!”

Serge lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling. And what, really, could he answer? Yes, back then he was fainthearted, and he gave others the opportunity to convince him that he did not need this girl. It has already come to pass, it congealed with time—nothing can be changed. Why return, why look back? It is important to look forward, at what has not yet come to pass and at what may happen. He needed to think of the future, and whether they would have a joined future.

When she was tumbling down the rabbit hole, there in the past, it seemed to Serge that she would never return: neither in the present, nor in the future. He was afraid of this—he was extremely afraid. He felt like he was a billiard ball in a high-stakes game, and that now she would recoup her losses. She would take her ball and strongly and precisely drive it into the pocket, so it could never roll anywhere again.

But she was coming back. Again she appeared in his embraces and spoke tenderly, with the low voice of a strong woman who wanted to be weak. She gently kissed his palm, and words of love flew from their lips that were pressed against each other …

***

… A lone tear slides down Serge’s cheek and falls into a glass of cognac.

“In 1974, whom did I make happy when I put the signature on this ill-fated paper stating that our married life has come to an end? Whom did I free? And from what was I freed? Myself? The anarchy of the following years testifies to it. Her? And how much happiness did she have for these past 35 years? As she said, very little.” Both of them tried to find replacements for each other. Oh, what terrible nonsense, bosh, absurd! And though they agreed not to move back this marker on the scale of time, the idea was difficult to maintain—again and again it returns both him and her there, in this black 1974. But he doesn’t want to think of it any more. He, despite his mature age, wants to look into the future, aspiring to grab what he lost earlier. Why? The answer is simple: because he, in spite of everything, kept his love for her.

“Yes, I love her very much!” whispers Serge, and tears drip from his cheeks. He picks up the glass, then looks at it and with one sip, drinks it down …

***

“You left,” she began. “Perished. Disappeared from my life. As though you never existed. But there is a memory, and from it I will never escape. I could not run. The first years after that foolish divorce I saw you everywhere: in the bus when I went about my affairs, in the street I found your image in passers-by. I looked in the faces of other people, but saw your face, or more truly, tried to see the features of your face in the faces of others. It was intolerable. You were next to me all the time. But the real you was not there. The most horrible thing began at night. I remained alone, alone with you, and still by myself … I understood that it was possible to go mad. And it seemed to me that it had already begun. That reason had grown dull. And when there was a person who admitted that he fell in love with me, I surrendered. I wished to start living from a clean page. To leave you in the remote past. The new life has begun with the birth of my daughter—Allochka.

“But soon everything repeated. I could not embrace him, unless I imagined that I was embracing you. Somehow by itself, the formula of life worked out: let reality happen whatever, and in my soul I will live in 1973 to protect that, which we did not manage to save in reality …” She sipped her already cooled down coffee. In the street were cheerful, chirping birdies. The easy sea wind swung the branches of the trees. In the end of September in Odessa, autumn was only beginning.

“Why did you dump me? … ” She did not cry any more, but she moaned. Then she became quiet for a long time.

Serge was silent as well. He lay on the bed and imagined that it would always be this way. Or at least, for a very long time. This return to the past, to 1973, would be here next to him, like a ghost. Wherever they would be, or wherever they would travel—it, 1973, materialized and took the shape of a phantasmagoric monster. But in fact, back then no monster existed. There was the love of two young beings. It was pure, without any platitudes or catches, just the attraction of two hearts. There was pleasure. There was happiness, at last. Why couldn’t their long-standing relationship of 35 years be called happy? Then why recollect that period with such bitterness? No. Bitterness certainly, that all this did not continue. Everything was artificially interrupted, like an interrupted pregnancy. The embryo had not developed into a robust and strong love lasting the rest of life …

Serge looked at his friend. In front of him was sitting an adult woman who lived somewhere and somehow without him all these long years. She was a stranger, but at the same time, absolutely close and dear—the same lips, nose, ability to laugh and cry almost simultaneously. He was looking at her. Her sight was aimed through the open door of the balcony somewhere afar. He brushed away furtive tears, but they again and again appeared in the corners of his eyes …

“We can drive ourselves to the point of madness if we constantly torment ourselves with that divorce. I was just twenty-one. I was just a lad. How could I know that you can never be replaced? Yes, periodically it seemed to me that I was forgetting you. I was infatuated by others, like any normal man. But it quickly cooled down because, among other things, love requires being entwined. Not a unification of bodies, but of souls. My God, why do I spin this banality? … Listen, you took a drink, and the coffee went down your gullet. And this movement is now congealed in the past. It never will return. You have another sip. But this one will be a different one. Not like the previous one. But the old one, you cannot repeat. It has petrified, like stone. You cannot do anything with it. With our divorce, you cannot do anything, understand, my dear. Nothing can be done with the years lived. It is already history. While we live, it is necessary to look there, where we are capable to reach what we desire. Well, how will we benefit if we kill ourselves with our efforts and expire with tears for that, which you cannot return, and that, which you cannot change? … Fie, with clever words I speak common truths, like an elementary school teacher. Forgive me.”

“I want to eat. And, apparently, we can do something about it.” She smiled, and cheerfully looked at Serge. She then set aside the cup and friskily moved next to him in bed …

An hour and a half later they sat in deep leather armchairs at the restaurant, and assiduously studied the menu. Serge didn’t feel like eating. He struggled all the time with feelings of stupidity that stuck to him from the irrevocably lived years outside of and apart from this woman. Though if he tried to undertake the slightest effort … Oh! To hell with the elementary school teacher! To hell with all this mean theory. You simply tossed aside the whole thirty five years of pleasure to be near this matchless, unique, unpredictable in her actions and consequently an extremely attractive woman. Here she is smacking her lips and stops on a fish dish. Well certainly, Serge will eat fish too. To be at the seashore and not eat fish—what an absurdity.

“How did you manage to finish American graduate school in a couple of years?” he asked her. “You studied in a foreign language.”

“Do you want to hear a joke?” Janna says. “Two Englishmen, two Italians and two Jews were stranded on an uninhabited island. After a while they were rescued. ‘So, how did you live without women?’ the rescuers asked the Englishmen.

‘We are Puritans—we were never introduced,’ was the answer.

‘And you?’ they asked the Italians. ‘We established a schedule: one week I am the woman. The next week—he is.’

And then, there on the island, they noticed two women with the Jews. ‘My goodness! How did they get here?’

‘It was difficult, but we managed to get them,’ answered the Jews.

“Well isn’t that funny? And I finished my degree the same way!” Janna burst out in laughter, and both she and Serge dipped their heads into 1973 …

***

From the fireplace, orange light jumps out. Serge looks at a photo. It is dated 1982. A young woman … An open face … Her eyes are sad. As though they were inquiring: Am I alone? It’s difficult for me. And where are you, man of mine, for whom I still continue to wait? Behind her on the wall—is a portrait of Hemingway. This is their favorite writer. He looks at the woman, as though he wishes to tell her what ordeals lie ahead of her. She does not know yet what she needs to overcome. There are still six more years before 1988, and the beginning of her difficult wanderings. In front of him is her photo with the sad beautiful eyes. This picture has been around for many years. The same amount of time will pass, perhaps, or less, and the one who now looks at her photo will no longer be here. And the photo remains as a frozen moment of life. Even though the photo paper already turned yellow, it is capable of telling much about the destiny of the person who is captured there. Paleontologists can use hardened bones to reconstruct the whole world from the depths of millions of years. But the photo of a person is only a representation of their appearance. Something else is still needed …

***

“How did you end up abroad?”

“Um. It is a long story.”

“So tell me. We are not rushing anywhere.”

“Where do I begin? Probably, where my friend instilled in me the need to leave.” She was deep in thought, frozen, staring at one point as though drilling through the layers of years that piled up since that time. Serge took a sip from a glass of fragrant wine and began to listen …

***

We had a vacation in Koktebel, or Planerskoie as it was known at that time. The vacation was coming to the end. But we didn’t want to leave. Alla and I are walking down by the seaside, and suddenly—Boris's lanky body comes into view. His face is covered with big dark glasses. Wow! I didn’t know that he was coming here. And not by himself, but with his wife and children. Boris sits with me in a tent under the trees. They arrived at the sea unexpectedly. Here comes his wife Marina. She is kindness itself. My impression is that she loves all people in the world. We embrace. She brought two big buckets of almonds in green shells.

“What is this for?” I ask.

“For the winter,” answers Boris.

We remove the green shells from the almonds and toss the nuts into our mouths. The almonds obviously will not survive until winter. We are going down to the sea together.

Dolphins swam along the coast. Very close. About a hundred-a hundred and fifty meters from the pebble beach. The vacationers’ faces were turned towards the sea. Each time when the graceful animals jumped out in an arch and again entered the water, an approving rumble swept over the crowd on the beach. The dolphins, as if they knew, gave the people pleasure and carried out acrobatic jumps, like for an encore.

It was difficult to recognize how many of the creatures swam. Now they appeared, now they disappeared, but swam a straight course towards the cape of the Kara Dag Mountain, on the right side of the Koktebel bay. The dolphins brought that finishing touch, without which this picture of the surrounding nature would be incomplete. Little whitecaps covering the sea, the soaring seagulls, ducks diving, swimming, bobbing on the smooth waves; people, sprawled under the rays of the hot sun and splashing in the warm water, the hills surrounding the gulf—all this was united into an ecological system where only dolphins were absent. And here they appeared. Everything somehow became ordered, it became peaceful and cozy.

Alla and Elina, Boris’s daughter, looked at the dolphins with open mouths. They squealed and jumped on the pebbles, echoing the jumps of the sea mammals. The adults smiled, looking at the children. For them, the grownups, this visit to Koktebel was a farewell. They knew it. But children did not guess anything. They only started to learn about this complex world, but did not suspect how complex it was. “And thank God!” thought the adults, looking at the loudly laughing girls.