Monogamy Book One. Lover: This is one love for life and beyond time

by Victoria Sobolev

  To my surprise, however, his immature, carefree manner remained a thing of the past, giving way to a masculine sense of ownership.

  ‘I don’t understand why you need to go. I mean, where do YOU fit into all this? It’s a shame, of course, he was a good guy, but what’s it got to do with us?’

  ‘Was?! He’s not dead yet!’ I shout defensively, at the same time as bursting into tears. ‘Like I already said, Tim. His sister thinks I’m the only one who can change his mind!’

  ‘How? I wonder. And you still haven’t said why it has to be you!’

  ‘I’ll talk to him... You know how persuasive I can be! And as for why they chose me, I’m as clueless as you are. I’ll go, find out everything, then tell you. I think this Maria is grasping at any straws she can to help him... I don’t know if you remember, but Alex didn’t have many friends here. Besides us, in fact, he didn’t have any at all!’

  ‘Well I don’t want you to go. What about your husband and family here?’ he snaps. ‘Let his family persuade him. I mean, you said he’s married now, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s married. And that’s exactly why I don’t understand what you’re getting so worked up about! I’m simply going to go there, talk with him a little, look around Seattle for a week or two, find out what’s there, maybe get some ideas, you know how it is... Oh, and his sister has already bought me a ticket, so...’

  My poor husband! The conversation was really just a formality. Even if he’d threatened me with the breakup of our family, even if he’d said he was going to kill himself, it wouldn’t have stopped me. There wasn’t a force in the Universe strong enough to prevent me from going, nothing I’d ever wanted more in life than to go there and stop Alex from doing what he was doing.

  CHAPTER 15. AMERICA

  The flight really takes it out of me. After twelve hours over the Atlantic, Greenland and North America, I literally fall out of the aeroplane into the airport building. I get through passport control, have a brief chat with the officer about the purpose of my visit, and am immediately approached by a tall, well-groomed woman wearing a pearl necklace – Maria. She is beautiful in an aristocratically sophisticated way and speaks with dignity, despite the accent. I, on the other hand – looking tired and wearing a t-shirt and jeans – immediately feel uncomfortable, awkward, and unladylike.

  Maria drives us in her car along a broad highway and promises that we’ll arrive at our destination in a couple of hours. Alex lives on Bainbridge Island in a small community called Port Blakeley. To get there from Seattle, we have to take a ferry for about half an hour.

  *** ‘Holocene’ by Bon Iver ***

  I’m having trouble believing the reality of what’s going on, as if I’ve suddenly found myself in the middle of an American movie. My tired brain is contemplating the landscape flying past the window, trying to commit as much as possible to memory. The cold beauty of Washington State is difficult to put into words, probably because there are none. The unusually clear, oxygen-rich air that makes your head spin before you’ve even left the airport, the crystal-clear water that tastes like pine needles – the fabulous beauty of nature is everywhere. The most common tree here is the spruce. They’re not just tall, but towering leviathans that stretch their dark limbs out ominously. The landscape is both beautiful and eerie at the same time. It would be the perfect place to film a thriller or a fantasy, especially given the weather and the fact that its annual number of sunny days is one of the lowest in the USA.

  The horizon is a mix of the Cascade Mountains, the Rainier volcano, the ocean and harbours, and, wherever you look, no matter where your eye falls, it is treated to unusual landscapes.

  But right now, on my very first day here, the beauty all around has little effect because my heart is completely wrapped up in my own feelings. I’m dreading seeing this man who, in the years since we parted, has become a distant dream left unrealised. What’s he like now? Will he be pleased to see me? What will he say?

  I am woken from my thoughts by Maria’s quiet voice informing me, ‘We’re here’. Here to do the impossible: to try to convince a dying man that he should live.

  Feeling exhausted, I climb out of the car to be met by bright, but cool, sunshine generously pouring its soft light over a large modern house standing on the shore of a bay. It is built in the form of a cascade descending to the sea with numerous overhangs and terraces. Maria rings the buzzer for a while but no one answers, so she takes a key fob out of her bag, uses it to open a pair of huge solid gates, then hands it to me.

  ‘I don’t have a key to the door, hopefully he’ll give you one himself later. This is the entrance through the garage. Just go straight on and through the internal door and you’ll be in the house itself. I won’t be coming in.’

  ‘If he’s not home, then maybe it’s better to wait until he gets back,’ I suggest.

  ‘He’s home; there’s nowhere else he wants to be,’ she says, sharply. ‘He has buried himself alive in that mausoleum. I should warn you that he doesn’t know you’re coming. He might lose his temper; he’s been doing that a lot lately. If he kicks you out, then call me on this number. I’ll come and take you to a hotel and you can fly back tomorrow. Thanks for agreeing to do this and... good luck!’

  *** ‘Cruel World’ by Lana Del Rey ***

  With these parting words, Maria disappears in a cloud of dust and I’m left dumbfounded, standing completely alone in a patch of sunlight in front of the gates. As soon as I walk through, they close behind me. I glance into the garage and count one, two, three... seven vehicles – all sports cars and one SUV, definitely not intended for family use. There’s another one, car number eight, parked in the courtyard – a Porsche Cayenne. My heart gets even heavier. How do I talk to someone who is just so far removed from me in every way? We are both people, but from such different worlds that we might as well come from different planets.

  I walk around the left-hand side of the house, my steps silent on the cream-coloured marble tiles (just like in a mausoleum, really), and find myself standing on an enormous terrace with an empty swimming pool, the outer edge of which ends abruptly at the foot of a cliff. My unsophisticated mind is so overcome with the open view of the grey sea melting into the midday September haze, Seattle’s skyscrapers and the distant mountaintops that I forget to breathe. I stand open-mouthed, staggered at the sheer beauty and... tranquillity of the place that Alex has chosen for his home.

  I spot a private marina not far away in which a large modern yacht is moored. It’s beautiful. Really beautiful. I’m afraid to think who it might belong to – there are no other houses visible to either the left or the right.

  The wind is blowing dry burgundy petals from a plant in the garden across the terrace’s marble tiles and the empty pool. Scraping against the white stone, it’s like they’re whispering something affirmatory, something comforting and soothing, filling me with an inexplicable confidence in the correctness, even the predestination, of what’s going on.

  This house is pleased to see me; it is talking to me.

  Right behind the terrace is a rugged cliff being battered by waves, and their muffled murmur is just as calming as the petals brushing against the marble.

  I turn around to look at the house and freeze: it is enormous. I have never seen anything like it before, not in my dreams, not in reality. It’s not like a house at all, but a beautiful modern palace made of glass and steel, almost completely transparent from this side, but most of the windows are covered with tightly drawn curtains. It’s not the house of my dreams, it’s something sensational, unbelievably beautiful and fashionable all at the same time. The huge sliding doors are closed, but I notice an open glass panel on a small second-floor terrace. The wind is playing with a long piece of translucent fabric identical to the fabric still covering the windows in the apartment he left me. I stare at it, then slowly climb a small staircase with metal handrails leading up to the terrace. My heart pounding in my ears, I enter the house to find myself in what
is either a kitchen or a dining room with a lounge area containing a whimsical array of furniture, appliances and aquariums. I see a staircase leading both up and down and decide that upstairs is probably where the bedrooms are, somewhere I definitely don’t want to barge into uninvited.

  Descending a wide staircase with stained glass windows on one side, I ponder how rich Alex must be. I suddenly feel wildly uncomfortable and have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here. One thing that’s particularly bothering me is that I still haven’t worked out what to say to his wife when she sees me and most likely asks who I am and why I’m here.

  *** ‘Water’ by Joachim Heinrich ***

  My ears catch the sound of music coming from the same direction in which I am slowly, extremely cautiously, but stubbornly heading. Opening a door along the way, I find myself in the dim light of a spacious hall filled with offbeat furniture and décor pieces arranged around the edge. In the middle of the room is a home cinema with a stereo system and a gigantic screen surrounded by super fancy armchairs that look more like clouds than furniture.

  And it’s in one of these that I finally see him...

  Alex is listening to the music, his eyes closed and his head thrown back. The music is peaceful and melancholic, but loud enough that he hasn’t noticed my intrusion.

  Jesus! The last time I saw him was five years ago! I realise.

  Slowly, and as silent as a shadow, I move closer, but I don’t violate the half a metre of personal space that everyone knows only loved ones are allowed to enter. On the floor is a white plastic bottle of pills next to a glass of water – a heart-breaking scene. It reminds me why I’m here and my euphoria at Alex’s stunning home instantly fades in my mind.

  Sensing the presence of someone else nearby, Alex finally opens his eyes.

  I am standing directly in front of him, unaware of what I’m doing or even what I look like, because the explosion of long-buried feelings is so powerful that my brain is incapable of forming a single coherent thought. His eyes are staring straight at me, but it’s as if they don’t understand who I am, they don’t recognise me... don’t believe that it’s actually me, or that the person in front of them is even real. He seems to be in a daze, his dark eyes fixed on mine for too long, but, finally, he lifts his head, nailing me to the spot with a piercing look full of surprise, irritation, and embarrassment.

  I sink to the floor so that I feel at least relatively safe, and Alex does the opposite, tearing his shoulders away from the back of his armchair and leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees, as if trying to get as close as possible to be sure I’m not a mirage.

  Suddenly he frowns, his perfect black eyebrows knitting together, obviously not knowing what to say. My unexpected appearance seems to have erased every word from his mind both in Russian and English.

  *** ‘Stay’ by Cat Power***

  Alex looks so much thinner than I’ve been remembering him these past five years and his hair is shorter; he never once wore it that short in the two years we were together. And, against his pale face, his eyes look even bigger and darker than they used to. He is gorgeous. It’s hard to believe, but the guy has actually become even more beautiful: his mature features are even more aristocratic and his look more piercing.

  My body can feel the stirrings of a long-forgotten attraction like thousands of tiny pinpricks, my stomach is being clenched by a sweet languor, and I am once again falling into the abyss of his goddamn sexiness. Nothing can erase this man’s extraordinary attractiveness, even cancer is powerless, and, in trying to destroy him, it is only making him more beautiful, more desirable.

  His thin, but still masculine, body is hidden beneath a dark blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans the same colour, and there is a new, intricately patterned tattoo encircling his bicep like a bracelet.

  ‘Well... how did you...’ he begins but is unable to finish the question.

  ‘Your sister opened the gates for me and gave me this,’ I manage to say, holding the key out to him.

  Instead of taking it, Alex runs his hands over his face irritably, as if trying to pull himself together and figure out what to do with me.

  He keeps his hands covering his face and, most importantly, his eyes – in which I’m still hopeful of finding at least a speck of joy at seeing me – for what seems like an eternity.

  Finally, he lowers them back down to his knees and, dousing me in his icy cold gaze, asks, ‘Why are you here, exactly? Let me guess: you’ve come to try out your powers of persuasion.’

  It hurts. The pain is more than anything I have ever experienced. And it’s not just my heart that’s suffering, but my physical body too: there is a dull pain in every single one of my cells from the cuts of his razor-blade gaze. He is no longer a passionate man in love, a hot-blooded, indefatigable lover; he is now ice.

  I’m struggling to collect my thoughts and there’s a lump in my throat, but, after a while, my voice fights its way out and takes charge.

  ‘You know why I’m here. I want you to live. I want you to stop all this nonsense you’re doing to yourself and live a long and happy life!’

  For a long time, Alex says nothing, then quietly, and very softly all of a sudden, he says, ‘Everybody has the right to make their own decisions.’

  ‘No!’ I shout. ‘Everybody does not have that right! “You become responsible forever for what you have tamed”2, remember?’

  He looks piercingly into my eyes and I into his. If a gaze was energy, then ours seems unbreakable at this moment. It consists of millions of words that have been left unsaid over the years. There is an abyss between us – thousands of days lived apart, thousands of hours spent with strangers to our souls. But, most importantly, the realization that we could have spent all this invaluable time together, holding one another, loving one another, rather than each of us wallowing in our own pain and regret. And it was pain, because what else could make a man as blessed by fortune as Alex give himself up so readily to cancer?

  Alex’s eyes become softer, warmer, but he doesn’t say anything else. After a while, he stands up.

  ‘A mojito as usual?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, because his mojitos are the most delicious in the world.

  I hear my voice as if from afar and it surprises me. I have never spoken to Alex so gently, even at the very start of our relationship, but it seems to have absolutely no effect on him.

  Time passes quickly, he comes closer to hand me the cocktail and I catch myself wanting to reach out and touch his stomach, even if only through the fabric of his t-shirt. The urge to press my hand against his thin body is so strong it’s almost unbearable. I want to feel the life inside him because it’s there, it’s still there. I could hold on to it; I could grab it and not let go...

  ‘So how’s life treating you?’ he asks.

  I take a sip too quickly and cough.

  ‘The same as it’s treating everyone. I’m just getting on with it.’

  ‘But it’s good?’

  His brown eyes are peering into mine, holding my gaze tightly.

  ‘More yes than no,’ I reply.

  ‘Congratulations on the birth of your daughter, by the way.’ And there is something sharp in his eyes, something piercing, painful.

  ‘Thank you. How did you know?’

  ‘I know everything,’ he says with a bitter smile. ‘Happy?’

  ‘You can’t imagine! I don’t think I was ever happier!’

  Alex turns away abruptly, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I could hit him with words, then this phrase has dealt the most painful blow. He fills his glass with some dark alcohol while I stand motionless, strangled by remorse: how many times did he tell me his dream of having a daughter?

  ‘Should you be drinking?’ I ask him.

  ‘It makes the painkillers work better,’ he replies, his smile cutting.

  And there it is again, the sinking feeling of anguish, the fear that made itself at home in my chest as soon as I took the phone call telling me that
this man standing by the panoramic window could be gone. Forever.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ I ask quietly, feeling like I’m instantly going to start hurting in the same place.

  ‘Nowhere.’ he replies sharply.

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Nothing! Just get your things and go, please. You’ve got no business being here and you never will.’ He has never spoken to me in such a tone before, never been so rude, so heartless. I have come halfway around the world to see him and just like that, without even talking to me for ten minutes, he is sending me back with icy indifference.

  ‘You know perfectly well I won’t do that,’ I say, in as firm a voice as possible.

  ‘You can’t stay in my house against my will!’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Physically kick me out? Drag me out by the hair? Or maybe you’re going to call the police, and they’ll come and twist my arm up behind my back and expel me from your country forever. Or you could try and drown me in your empty pool... or in the sea. Unless you’re planning on doing any of these things, I’m staying right here until I’m convinced that you’re no longer putting your life at risk!’

  Half facing the glass wall, Alex throws me a sideways glance, then turns away from me, opens the curtains slightly and stares out at the sea in the distance. He stands there saying nothing for a long time, so I perch on his oddly shaped settee and quietly sip at my mojito, tasting nothing, afraid of moving and breaking the silence.