Louis XVth <\/em>couch with casual possessiveness.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Later we lay down on the bed under the sleeping bag. The afternoon\u2019s pale sun has long ago crept out. Through the half-open window, smells of wood burning and of wet soil waft in, not the countryside of elegantly renovated farmhouses, but the no man\u2019s land of drifters, a mysterious world I know nothing about. Again, the excitement of being on the lam from my life. The silence of the night envelops us, an inky darkness darker than the night in Manhattan.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I wake up early the next morning and make my way between Yuri\u2019s \u201cmerchandise\u201d stacked in cardboard boxes in the hallway to look out the front door. It has rained during the night and puddles stretch lazily around. On the periphery of the yard the broken cars emerge from the wet grass like skeletons of prehistoric animals shaking off the morning dew. In front of the garage Yuri\u2019s gray Dodge and his white Lincoln are parked cheek to jowls with my Saab, also glistening with raindrops, the windshield and windows misted. If I left my car there, would it turn, in time, into a prehistoric animal too?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I tiptoe back in and slip under the sleeping bag along Yuri\u2019s warm body. He groans and throws his arm around me. His massive shoulders are covered with light freckles. The hair above his thick neck is buzzed high in a military cut. I gently run my fingers at the edge of the stubble.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When we get up later I notice a framed picture of Yuri as a little boy in his mother\u2019s arms on the dresser, the same picture he had shown me in Brighton Beach. I pick it up. He looks like a boy to whom a mom would say: \u201cmy little angel,\u201d \u201csweetie,\u201d or any of the equivalent Russian terms of endearment.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Yuri asks, with a menacing tone.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I put the picture back. \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was taken before parents split up. I was four or five. We still in Tbilisi. When father left I stayed in Georgia with mother and grandmother before going to Moscow.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI was raised by my mother and grandparents too,\u201d I say, intrigued by the coincidence.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He swats the air with his hand, so what. He slept in grandmother\u2019s room, on a foldable cot, he says. Sometimes he heard sounds from mother\u2019s room. Once he heard banging, furniture being dragged, screams. When he went into the room later he thought he saw dark, brown spots on the wall, like blood, but he always made things up. He had too much imagination. Maybe the spots had always been there. He read all the time, a lonely, shy boy, until his mother sent him to swimming lessons, afraid he would turn into a girly boy.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAhah! No need to worry about that.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, is true. I was really shy and lonely. At home all the time. Swimming saved my life.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He was a natural. He had a swimmer\u2019s body, long legs and wide shoulders. In no time he was winning competitions, local, then regional. He joined the Russian national team. He was headed for the Olympics when the country collapsed. I imagine him waking up at dawn on Saturday mornings to go to practice, like Lulu. He loved the team camaraderie. The coach was tough, he punished them if they didn\u2019t push themselves beyond their limits, but Yuri craved male authority. \u201cTough love, that\u2019s what boy needs.\u201d It was the best time in his life. And then his mother died.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He leans over to light a cigarette and stays silent for a while, collecting the ashes in the palm of his hand. It\u2019s as if there were two Yuris: a sweet, bookish, sensitive, imaginative boy and a carnal, brutal man and the two of them couldn\u2019t fit properly together.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did she die?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He smokes without answering. Finally, he says: \u201cAccident.\u201d He was in dacha with grandmother when it happened. It was wintertime. He had just turned eleven. Since then he goes every year on the anniversary of her death to put flowers on her grave. Her favorite flowers, lilies. But now he can\u2019t. He\u2019s stuck here. He twists his shoulders and punches the wood frame of the bed behind him, spilling a little of the ashes on his pillow.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIs like being in fucking jail here.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that why you want to go to Moscow so bad?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI miss it. I don\u2019t want to live there. I just want to go and come back. That\u2019s all I want.\u201d He remains silent for a moment. \u201cFor Jews, no problem immigrating.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cMost of Russians here, they all Jews. They come here, they say they were persecuted in the ex-Soviet Union and they become legal right away. They have associations of Jews that help them. I went to see them. They told me to just pretend to be Jew.\u201d He snorts with disgust. \u201cI\u2019d never do that. I\u2019d rather die.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A cold sweat runs down my back. The brutal Yuri has come back. With his pale hair, his gray eyes, he would make the perfect Nazi.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
February. The rhythmic competition is in New Jersey, two exits away from Yuri\u2019s place, as I realized when we drove down. On the Brahms sonata adagio, Lulu has done a near-perfect routine, her glittery-turquoise hoop victoriously suspended in her over-stretched hands for the final salute, and struts off the mat in the rigid regulation posture while the girls of the team, crowded at the auditorium entrance, give her a loud ovation. I stand up to applaud and scream \u201cBRAVO!\u201d Corina\u2019s mother, Alba, who has come with us, stands up too and yells \u201cBravo, Bravo!\u201d We clap our hands until Lulu disappears behind the curtain. When the applause dies down, I sneak out to the lobby, and, without pausing to think, dial Yuri\u2019s number. He answers on the first ring.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cGuess what. I\u2019m in Cherry Hill.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here the whole day. Lulu\u2019s got a competition. Want to come over?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I quickly give him directions. No sooner have I hung up that I regret my phone call. What a terrible idea to invite him to meet me at the school, I must have been looking for trouble. Beads of sweat drip down from my armpits. My cheeks burn. I walk to the back door and step out in the cold air. There is a pile of plastic chairs stacked up at one end of the deck and a soda machine. Stupid impulse. I have tried so hard to keep him away from Lulu. And now this. I am getting more and more confused about Yuri, given to twisted rationalizations like this: If I\u2019m not willing to breakup with him, then I should admit that we have a \u201crelationship.\u201d Besides, compared with Bill\u2019s evasive, almost loutish behavior the weekend before, isn\u2019t Yuri shining with steadfastness and\u2026 hoooonesty<\/em>? Isn\u2019t the \u201cwall\u201d behind which I am protecting myself a sign of class snobbishness and paranoia?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
After my phone call I keep walking out of the auditorium and checking the parking lot. At least if I could intercept him before he\u2019d walk into the school, I would limit the risk of Lulu running into him, but after an hour or so I give up waiting and settle down on my bench and watch Lulu do her club routine. I figure he has gone back to sleep. But as she takes her salute, I glance toward the door of the auditorium and I see him hovering, hesitant to come in. My heart leaps into my throat. Huge, with his long black leather coat and his pale hair slicked back, he looks incongruous and slightly menacing among the delicate gymnasts, the solid middle-class parents and the coaches. A dark scenario unfolds in my mind, in which someone will notice he doesn\u2019t belong and will try to throw him out; he will defend himself with a few well-placed jabs and then someone else will call the cops. I wave at him and with my index finger signal him to wait for me outside. He frowns and stays at the door. I lean towards Alba. Since the night we have tried to drink Yuri\u2019s Moldavian wine I have mentioned him to her a couple of times. He sounds exotic and intriguing when I talk about him, but to be confronted with him marching on you with his big black leather coat and a surly look in his pale eyes as if he was ready to punch you in the jaw if you looked at him the wrong way, is another thing altogether. Alba is reading the New York Times Magazine. There are still three girls to go before Corina.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI am stepping out for a little while,\u201d I whisper. \u201cI have to talk to a friend.\u201d She turns her head toward the door. I hope she doesn\u2019t see the \u201cfriend\u201d I am talking about.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He is waiting for me on the back porch. I see him through the glass door, pacing and smoking a cigarette. His face cracks into a tight smile when he sees me, but he looks nervous and ill at ease. \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cLulu has a competition. Rhythmic gymnastics? Remember?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He flips his cigarette in the grass and looks over his shoulder with shifty eyes as if he\u2019s expecting someone to come and get him. The INS? The FBI? The KGB? The FSB? The MVD?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you leave?\u201d His lips hardly move. His voice almost inaudible.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I nod.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We are like two co-conspirators planning a dirty trick.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s go. Meet me at van. I am parked up front. Do you have time to go to my place?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I go back in to pick up my coat and my bag. Alba\u2019s eyebrows go up but she doesn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI have to step out for a bit. Would you mind\u2026 if Lulu does her ribbon routine before I come back\u2026 Can you tell her? I won\u2019t be long.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She gives me an ambiguous look, which I chose to believe is a look of complicity, but doesn\u2019t ask any questions.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cTake your time,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m not going anywhere. If you miss her routine, I\u2019ll tell her. No big deal.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The van is parked in the front lot, in full view of the school, and he\u2019s sitting behind the wheel, his door open. When I lean in, he pushes my head down into the crotch of his unzipped pants.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I pull back and push him away. \u201cNot here! Are you crazy! Not in front of the school.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He grins as if it was the wittiest joke. I walk around, shaking my head like a disapproving schoolmarm and climb in through the passenger door, which I make sure to bang to show my displeasure. He zips up his pants and puts his hand on mine and searches my eyes to see if I am still angry. I am not really. It\u2019s another one of his schoolboy pranks.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
How strange to find myself in his apartment in the middle of a day I am spending with Lulu, and alarming, too, as both my lives are dangerously converging. He drags me to his room and we fall on the bed.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much time you have?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The ribbon routine! It has taken us more than half an hour to get to his place. I\u2019ll never make it back on time. I close my eyes. He pulls my pants down without taking them off and enters me. I grab the wooden headboard of the bed with both my hands and surrender under the weight of this gesticulating giant. The teakettle whistles in the kitchen, forgotten. He lets out a curse and gets up to turn it off while I drift into a half-sleep. Even though it\u2019s hardly past lunchtime, the contours of the bedroom, whose small window is obscured by a bush, are dissolving into shadows and I sink into the bed, my own boundaries melting. I hardly feel the texture of the sheet or the weight of the sleeping bag over me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou asleep?\u201d Yuri sits near me and hands me a steaming cup of tea.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I jump up and look at my watch.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my God we have to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOk ok. Drink first. Then I drive you back.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At the school he gets out of the van with me. I would have preferred if he had just dropped me off, but I don\u2019t have the heart to refuse him a cup of coffee. As soon as we walk in I know I\u2019ve made a mistake. A swarm of girls in shimmering leotards is crowding the buffet set up in the lobby, devouring muffins and packs of chips. A few of them glance up and move to the side to make room for him. Alba is coming out of the auditorium and walks toward us. I\u2019ve missed Lulu\u2019s ribbon routine. My heart beating, I wonder if I\u2019ve missed the next one \u2013 which was it? Hoops? Balls? Who knows? Everything has become a blur. I feel dizzy and lean against the buffet table to keep my balance. Next to me Yuri is paying for his coffee and flirting with the teenage girl who\u2019s handing him his change.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Noticing my confusion, Alba puts her hand on my arm to reassure me. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. You missed Ribbon, but she\u2019s fine. I told her you\u2019d be back soon. Balls are starting in a little while.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Yuri turns to her and watches her attentively, perhaps noticing her Brazilian accent. Or maybe she is to his taste. Alba is petite, pretty with a mass of tightly curled black hair.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYuri, Alba.\u201d I introduce them.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She looks at him with curiosity and holds out her hand. It wouldn\u2019t have been hard to connect him with the Moldavian wine and my weekend in Brighton Beach.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAlba is from Brazil,\u201d I say, as if we\u2019re about to have a normal conversation.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Yuri\u2019s face beams.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cBrazil? Is my dream. I hear Brazilian girls are goooorgeous<\/em>. With long dark hair.\u201d He makes a gesture with his hand to evoke a long mane cascading down his back, the same gesture he had done when he had talked about \u201cTasha\u201d and about Catherine Zeta-Jones. \u201cAs soon as I get papers I go there.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
I am mortified, not so much humiliated as ashamed, like the mother of a badly behaved son. Alba glances at me with consternation. I try to change the subject, but he won\u2019t let it go.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the best beach in Rio?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIpanema,\u201d Alba says, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Lulu and Corina bounce out of the auditorium at that moment, and jump up and down at the buffet table, repeating and copying each other: \u201cMom, can I have a muffin, mom can I have a muffin, mom can I have a muffin?\u201d until one of us pays attention. I get them each a muffin and a banana to distract them, but while I am paying, I hear Yuri insist behind my back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that true, what they say, about Brazilian girls?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I am dying. Will he just shut up already.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When I turn around, Alba\u2019s face has remained impassible. Bless her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are all kinds.\u201d She takes a step back, pulls her fur coat over her shoulders, with the air of wanting to distance herself from the conversation as much as possible, and nods a goodbye.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I take Yuri by the arm and pull him away.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cMy daughter is going to compete soon. I have to go in and watch her.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOk ok. I go.\u201d He puts his coffee cup down and lifts the collar of his leather coat. I walk him to the door. For a moment he struggles with the wind outside, the flaps of his coat beating against his calves, his tall body rigid as if he was bracing himself against a powerful storm but couldn\u2019t quite manage it. When he gets to his van he turns around and waves in my direction. I move my fingers feebly against the pane of glass.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWho was he<\/span>? Lulu asks when I get back to the buffet table. \u201cHe was weird<\/span>.\u201d The girls giggle and make faces at each other.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
I am appalled by Yuri\u2019s embarrassing questions about the Brazilian girls, and even more appalled to have let Lulu see him. A scene with my mother comes back to me. I had gone back to France for the summer. She was cooking a barbecue in my grandparents\u2019 garden, and she had received my cousins naked, with only an apron tied over her breasts and thighs, entirely exposing her backside, \u201cbecause it was so hot.\u201d Instead of being angry I had been filled with shame.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s different<\/span>,\u201d I tell Lulu, using the politically correct American answer destined to smooth out potential prejudices against foreigners. \u201cDo you girls want some chili?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
They burst into laughter. \u201cMom, we just had a muffin!\u201d and run back in. I buy a regular coffee with milk and sip it alone in the lobby, then stroll back in and sit down next to Alba. She shoots me a look of complicity mixed with commiseration. I content myself with a vague smile and bury myself into the Sunday Times.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
* * *<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At first I didn\u2019t pay attention when Yuri mentioned \u201cthe virgin.\u201d It might be the same inattention that had made me overlook his mention of the goooorgeous<\/em> woman who turned out to be \u201cTasha,\u201d his future and now ex-wife. Yuri is quite a talker. For a couple of hours every other night from his cell phone on the highway, alone like a truck driver, his radio playing softly in the background, Lulu asleep in the next room, he talks and I half-listen, lulled by his stream of consciousness. I could never remember the girl\u2019s name. Mostly he called her the \u201cvirgin,\u201d for the obvious reasons. It\u2019s been a long time since he\u2019s stopped talking about his marriage plans. It\u2019s a relief not to hear him rant and rave about this or that woman, and how they are all bitches out to get him, and how he needs to have his papers so that he can leave and go to Moscow, and not feel like a prisoner anymore, waiting for the hour of his liberation. So when the \u201cvirgin\u201d starts coming up in his nightly talks I figure she is a friend. An American girl from Maryland, whose parents own a farm in the \u201cboondocks.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
It\u2019s only after a few weeks that I realize that, not only has he developed a relationship with the \u201cvirgin,\u201d but he is considering marrying her. After being burned once by his first Russian fianc\u00e9e<\/em> \u2013 the one for whom he has bought the Louis XVth<\/em> set of furniture \u2013 and a second time by \u201cTasha,\u201d he figures that a simple American girl might be best. It won\u2019t be a fake marriage, or a love marriage, this time, but rather an old-fashioned marriage of convenience. The \u201cvirgin\u201d is twenty-three, she has a clerical job in Baltimore, a pleasant personality, a \u201cgood body\u201d but an \u201cugly face.\u201d He has met the family, has been invited to dinner, brought them presents, but \u2013 he tells me \u2013 can\u2019t resolve to sleep with her. \u201cI can\u2019t fuck her,\u201d he whines. \u201cShe doesn\u2019t turn me on. She thinks I am gay!\u201d According to him, he occasionally spends the night in her apartment and they just engage in tepid fooling around.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
While every time he mentions \u201cTasha,\u201d my stomach still tightens in an ugly knot while I imagine them in the steamiest poses, I feel no jealousy toward the \u201cvirgin\u201d since Yuri doesn\u2019t desire her. In fact, she relieves me from a weight, especially from those dark moods that he\u2019s gotten in lately when the future seems blocked. She could provide the perfect foil if they got married: he would get his papers, a home with a wife, and we might even still have our sexual encounters. A secret affair. Excited by the idea, I encourage him to go ahead with the marriage and finally get his \u201cstatus.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It\u2019s around that time that I tell Yuri the dates of my trip to Vietnam: the last week of March and the first two weeks of April, before the monsoon season starts. As usual when I am about to leave the States, his mood turns sour, as it reminds him that he cannot travel. Even though I suspect his sulkiness is meant to make me feel guilty, I sympathize with his frustration. So when he asks me if he could stay at my place for a couple of days before I leave, while he takes care of \u201cbusiness\u201d in Brooklyn, I accept in order to soften the blow, but not without trepidation: it will be the first time he will come over while Lulu is at home.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou need to arrive after 10 PM, ok? After Lulu goes to sleep. And there\u2019s a rhythmic gymnastics meet that weekend, so we\u2019ll have to leave early on Saturday.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here.\u201d Yuri\u2019s voice on the phone startles me awake. It\u2019s 2 AM. I\u2019ve asked him to come after Lulu\u2019s bedtime, but I didn\u2019t expect he would arrive so late. I\u2019ve fallen asleep all dressed on my bed. \u201cRight in front of door. At fire hydrant. Come down and help me out.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He\u2019s standing by the open trunk of his white Lincoln, surrounded by a staggering pile of boxes and suitcases full of \u201cmerchandise,\u201d which he can\u2019t leave in his car for security reasons. Horrified, I can only imagine the noise he will make carrying everything up my five flights of stairs in the middle of the night while I keep guard near his car. Watching him pick up the first case, I think of Willy Loman, his idol, and of the Mongols carting their wares on camelback across the Central Asia steppes. When Lulu wakes up in the morning she will be confronted with that same pile of \u201cmerchandise\u201d in the hallway, not to mention the fridge overflowing with plastic bags containing red caviar, kielbasa, black bread and cheese and the flask of Stoli he tucks away in the freezer. This is not quite the way I would have chosen to officially introduce him into our household \u2013 actually, I foolishly thought I could hide him from her \u2013 but it\u2019s too late now. Yuri\u2019s shoes are already lined by the front door and he\u2019s padding around in his Adidas slip-ons, his yoga mat under his arm, looking for a place to levitate on his fist. I quickly usher him into the guestroom, where he will spend the night, and where I briefly join him later.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The next morning, when Lulu gets up, I explain to her that I\u2019m helping out a \u201cfriend\u201d by letting him stay for a couple of nights and she observes the heap of boxes without comment. I often have European friends staying over, but this is the first time I\u2019ve brought a lover into my apartment while she is home, and it seems to me Yuri\u2019s boxes are flashing red warning lights. I quickly whisk Lulu off to school and I ask Yuri, after we\u2019ve made love in the guest bedroom, to come back after she\u2019s gone to bed in the evening \u2013 but not as late as last night.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
On Friday night, when Yuri returns at 10 PM on the dot, I remind him that Lulu and I will leave early the next morning for the rhythmic gymnastics meet. He can let himself out later when he wakes up, just pull the door behind him. In the dim light of the guest room I see him tighten his mouth like a sulky child. A surge of guilt fires up another round of twisted logic. Is it fair, just because I deem him socially inappropriate, to banish him from my life? Is it even fair to me? After all, we still have great moments together, and this weekend is our last chance to see each other for a few weeks. In a new fit of impulsiveness, I offer him to stay the whole weekend until Sunday night. We can all have dinner together when we come back. I hand him a set of keys with many repeated recommendations not to lose them, as if I was talking to an irresponsible twelve-year old.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At 5 AM, as Lulu and I leave for another ride up the deserted Henry Hudson Highway and the Palisades, the smell of freshly mowed grass wafts through my open window. At dawn on the highway, on an early Spring morning, it\u2019s America at its best, America of the movies, cars flowing by, glittery bumpers, bright divider lines, bushy trees and lawns in crew-cuts, America smooth as a dream park where everything is fresh and clean and every bump manicured.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the evening, I dial Yuri\u2019s number from the hotel to see how he is doing in New York, but my call goes straight to voicemail. No answer in my apartment either. I figure he must have gone out. After all, why would he stay home alone on a Saturday night?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sunday. 11 AM. I call Yuri again on his cell phone, then on my home phone. Still no answer. Panic. What if he has drunk \u201ceverything in sight\u201d at my place? What if he has fallen asleep with a cigarette between his fingers, and the whole building is aflame? I call my home number again. If he hears my voice, he might answer the phone. I yell into the answering machine, willing him to answer. Pick up! Yuri! Pick up! I repeat it in Russian, hoping the sounds of his native tongue will rouse him from deep slumber. Still nothing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The day drags on, the competitions follow one another in a predictable and brain-numbing order. I call Yuri at regular intervals. Something went wrong, I know<\/span> <\/em>it. How irresponsible of me to have let him stay in the apartment by himself and trusted him with my keys! On the drive back, while Ludivine listens to the Beatles (Love Me Yeah Yeah Yeah<\/em> and Yesterday<\/em> crackling from her headphones) cataclysmic images erupt in my mind: Yuri passed out on the couch, drunk, clumps of vomit on his chest, or drunk, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the couch catching fire and going up in flames, or Yuri gone with my keys, concocting to come back one day when I am out to steal my new laptop and my grandmother\u2019s sapphire ring. As we ascend the four stories, it\u2019s the idea of Lulu finding Yuri naked, drunk on the couch that alarms me the most. I manage to squeeze in the door before her and I run to the living room \u2013 empty! to my bedroom \u2013 empty! to the guest room \u2013 empty! No trace of Yuri anywhere. Not even his Adidas slip-ons. Only the suitcases and trunks still stacked in the hallway signal that he will come back. I don\u2019t know whether to feel relieved (no fire, no tragedy, no uncomfortable encounter between a drunk Yuri and Ludivine, sapphire ring still in its case) or even more alarmed: what happened to him?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
At seven, just as Lulu is getting out of the bathtub and into her pajamas, the phone rings. It\u2019s him.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m coming. I\u2019m round corner. I bring groceries for soup.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A soup? Since when does he cook soups?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ten minutes later he is at the door, carrying two brown supermarket bags filled to the brim and a six-pack of beer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Lulu turns her head from the couch, where she has just settled to watch the preview of the Academy Awards and stares at this blond giant, whom she must remember from the Cherry Hill meet, who has just let himself in with a key and is dropping groceries on the counter as if he was at home. A feeling of nausea grips me, but I embark into a flurry of self-serving justifications. Isn\u2019t it better to be upfront with one\u2019s child? What\u2019s wrong with having a man in my life? Granted, Yuri may not be the best candidate for the part, but is that a reason to be ashamed of him?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cLudivine, this is Yuri.\u201d I try to make my voice natural and confident. \u201cYuri, this is Ludivine. You met, remember, at Cherry Hill? Yuri\u2019s going to have dinner with us\u2026 huh\u2026 cook dinner for us, actually.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She gives him a tiny, half-wave of the hand from the far end of the living room.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you watching?\u201d Yuri asks, marching toward her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Oscars.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He squats next to her for a moment, watches the sweep of ball gowns on the red carpet, the precious stones glittering on the stars\u2019 earlobes and necklines, listens to the gossip.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s Julia Roberts? I hate her smile. Big mouth. Look at all those teeth.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Lulu shoots him a venomous side look.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you watching this?\u201d Yuri insists. \u201cIt\u2019s American\u2026 Hollywood propaganda.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYuri!\u201d I call from the kitchen before he\u2019s done more damage.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI like it,\u201d Ludivine answers coldly, stretching her legs under the blanket she likes to wrap herself in to watch tv, announcing the end of the conversation by staring hard and unblinkingly at the screen.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI tried to call you all day, Yuri,\u201d I tell him when he comes back to the kitchen. \u201cWas anything wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, everything fine. I am going to make borscht. Have you ever had?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
With disbelief, I watch him busy himself at the counter, unpacking a pack of beets, a head of cabbage, onions, a bunch of parsley, another one of dill, asking for a large pot. This display of domesticity would warm my heart if I didn\u2019t find it so suspicious. Something\u2019s wrong, but I can\u2019t figure out what yet. When all the vegetables are chopped and the soup\u2019s underway, he sits down at the table across from me and pops open a beer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWant one?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I shake my head. \u201cWhat happened last night, Yuri?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He takes his time, tastes his beer, pouts. It\u2019s a Budweiser. As tasteless as a Rolling Rock no doubt. Perhaps there was no Guinness at the supermarket.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI was out, ran into girl I know. I had met her way back, when I first came to America, and friend of hers. We went to Russian Vodka Room.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I tried to call you all day!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
His eyes cloud over with that hooded and shifty look I instantly recognize from David.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOh no you didn\u2019t!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The jealousy that the \u201cvirgin\u201d couldn\u2019t inspire in me stabs me deep in the stomach.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He sucks on his beer, and shoots me a quick look.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d His lips twitch.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Oh yes, I recognize that look, and the sheepish smile.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich one did you sleep with?\u201d I keep my voice to a whisper. I don\u2019t want Ludivine to have any inkling of what transpires in the kitchen \u2013 thank God for inane, blaring tv commercials!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He glances at me, apparently weighing the pros and cons of honesty or deceit, balances on the fence for a brief instant, then opts for full disclosure.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s not even my type. I don\u2019t like blonds. I liked her friend better, but I wasn\u2019t getting anywhere with her. I could see Milla was into me. She was giving me looks.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Milla!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you went to her place.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The sheepish look again, followed by a sip of bud.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cShe wanted to see how I balance on fist. So I brought up yoga mat. Then she gave me blow-job.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cShhhh\u2026\u201d But the leap from yoga mat to blowjob makes me laugh in spite of myself.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. No details. I can imagine without your help.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Now we both burst into laughter. I stop laughing when I realize what should have been obvious.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWait\u2026 You just came from there right now!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
For some reason, that stings more than knowing that he\u2019s spent the night with \u201cMilla\u201d. Even though a few weeks ago, I was myself letting Bill kiss and grope me, I feel cheated on.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI left you the keys to my apartment. I trusted you!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t have to tell you. I decided to be honest with you.\u201d Hoooonest<\/em> with the long \u201co\u201d.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
True. He didn\u2019t have to tell me. I wonder what would have happened if David had been hoooonest<\/em>. But how can a meaningless blunder like this be compared with what happened with my ex-husband? I bury the thought away. I hate the way it keeps festering, triggering in me the urge to hide it, instead of accepting how vulnerable I still feel.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\u201cMom, when\u2019s dinner ready?\u201d Ludivine whines from the couch. \u201cI\u2019m hungry!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
To my utter amazement, the borscht is quite tasty. Rich and deep red, unctuous, laced with narrow slices of beef, razor-thin slivers of dill floating on the surface and a big wallop of sour cream. Even Ludivine asks for seconds and cleans up her plate. In spite of Yuri\u2019s judgmental frown, we are eating in front of the tv, the way we used to with David, at the end, when we were grateful for the sitcom dialogues to fill in the deadly silences. I have a real knack for creating dysfunctional families \u2013 no doubt for having been raised in one. They are reassuring in a way because so non-viable. It\u2019s the legitimate families that scare me, with their high-mindedness, and the horrifying possibility of remaining stable till the end, a suffocating jail from which one risks being stuck for life. I have always looked at my friends\u2019 \u201cnormal\u201d families with a mix of envy and disdain. From the outside, they looked like impregnable fortresses.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Somehow, the Milla episode blows in the wind. After reading to Lulu and making sure she\u2019s asleep, I join Yuri in the guest bedroom, where he tumbles me silently, his hand on my mouth to smother any noise. At breakfast the next day, while he\u2019s still sleeping, Lulu complains about him in a low voice.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said American tv was stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, he comes from another culture,\u201d I say, breezily. \u201cYou know what I think about the shows you watch. The same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Offended, she looks up from her book. \u201cBut mom, you like<\/span> watching the Oscars.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
I feel uncomfortable, hypocritical, caught in double-talk, but I figure everything is an occasion to teach.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI know. You\u2019re right. I like the Oscars. Look, he is a little rough, but he didn\u2019t mean anything. It was just his opinion.\u00a0 He comes from another country, which used to be a communist country. America was their enemy.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI hate him.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She looks at me with such fierce anger that I have to lean against the counter, seized with a new wave of vertigo.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
by Catherine Texier [France] Excerpts from the novel pentru versiunea rom\u00e2n\u0103 click aici The unnamed narrator of Russian Lessons is a fifty-year old French novelist, recently divorced. With her daughter Lulu, 8, a budding gymnast, she lives in a big loft in downtown Manhattan. She is having an affair with Yuri, a sexy […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[731,22],"tags":[755,1152,1116],"class_list":["post-6962","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-31","category-short-story","tag-catherine-texier","tag-egophobia-31","tag-short-story"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-1Oi","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6962","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6962"}],"version-history":[{"count":22,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6962\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7289,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6962\/revisions\/7289"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6962"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=6962"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=6962"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}