Fresh Mint with Lemon

by Monika Zgustova

  “Wait, I’ll go and ask her,” Radhika says on the phone after your timid question. Hope leaps up in you like a little flame from an abandoned lighter. You wait, trembling. But you don’t hear any steps, any sound.

  “I’m sorry, Vadim. Lately Patricia doesn’t want to see anybody. She’s inspired and she’s working. If you want, we could meet up on the beach and talk, you and I.”

  You agree. It’s your last chance. And, on the way to the beach, you know that you have been a fool, as well as ingenuous, for having fallen for this trick. You sit on the beach in front of the Terramar hotel and get angry with yourself for having agreed to this meeting. The sand is grey, the sky is black, even though the sun is shining and burning. And the people, today, are covered in dust, the sea is black and white; you find yourself in a silent movie that you have come to see out of obligation and that is of no interest to you. You know that only Patricia’s shining hair could illuminate this summer beach setting.

  You wait without wanting to, you play with the sand, and you watch as dark Radhika, who is wearing a tight, white T-shirt, approaches you across the grey sand. Voluptuous, with her hair down, she sways her hips and breasts with every step she takes. The men devour her with their eyes, even the gay men. Radhika has the body of an Indian goddess, you think, like those depicted in statues: wide hips, voluminous breasts, a waist that is barely there. When she reaches you, she stops, smiles, looks around, and in one quick movement pulls the T-shirt off her naked body, like when Don José takes out the dagger on stage and stabs Carmen with a single, rapid thrust. Radhika lets the T-shirt swing in her fingers, pretends that she’s looking at the sea, but deep down she is savoring the effect she has caused. You fall silent, and with surprise you notice that the black and white movie is acquiring colors. Radhika stretches her body out like a hammock on the burning sand next to you.

  “You’ll put some suntan lotion on my back, won’t you, Vadim? It’s in the bag.”

  You cover the goddess’s body with a layer of oil … What is the celestial wife of the great Shiva called? Parvati. Immediately, you also rub the lotion over her shoulders, her waist, her legs; then Radhika rolls onto her back and you go on covering her with that oily cream … her belly, her hips, her waist, and you hum a tune as you do so.

  “You forgot my breasts,” you hear her saying, and you also put cream on her full breasts. You want to keep on singing … but suddenly Don José’s dagger cuts you off. You lie down on your belly and feel Radhika’s fingers spread the oil over your back, your legs, further down.

  “Hey, turn over!”

  “No need.”

  “Sure there is! You’ll get burned, you’re white.”

  “You’ll use up all the lotion on me,” you say, and you have a feeling that Radhika is putting cream not only on the exposed skin, but also under your bathing suit. Quickly, you turn over again so that you are face down.

  “I like you.” You hear her voice.

  “You wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?”

  “Do you like me?”

  “Everybody likes you. Can’t you see that? What did you want to talk about?”

  “I’m asking you if you like me, I don’t care about the rest.”

  “I’m not important.”

  “You’re obsessed with Patricia. But you won’t get anywhere with her. She can’t stand men. Can’t you see that?”

  Radhika massages your neck and shoulders. Everything else in the world loses its importance in this sea of delicious sensations. The sentence “Patricia can’t stand men” floats lazily in the sea’s waves. Occasionally, the sentence sinks, and then reappears on the surface. But then Radhika’s fingers press your skin more intensely and drown the sentence completely.

  Once you are sitting together on the café terrace that looks onto the sea, you drink a gin and tonic and confess your idea to Radhika—your stupidity and ingenuousness goes as far as this—of organizing a costume party in which Patricia’s friends would go dressed up as characters from her paintings.

  “Good idea,” she says, casually.

  “Isn’t it?” you ask, with enthusiasm.

  “Mmm …”

  “You mean it?”

  “What I mean is that you’re wasting your time and energy. You’re wandering along paths that don’t lead anywhere.”

  “My path leads to you. To Radhika and Patricia.”

  “Exactly. And that’s precisely why I’m telling you that your path doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  You try to protest, but she cuts you off. She tells you about what she does: in America she runs an institution for children who’ve lost their parents. You hear her words and the names of the countries—India, China, Rwanda, Ethiopia—and you look out over the surface of the sea; you see boats there, and you see sentences inscribed on their sails: “Paths that lead nowhere” and “Patricia can’t stand men.” But, after all, none of this has anything to do with you! All you want is to write a monograph about Patricia, nothing else! Sure? All at once, you feel Radhika’s hands on your knees and hear her saying emphatically that you too must find a reason for living.

  “Such as?” you ask.

  “Humanity. Justice. Changing things.”

  “Humanity. Justice … A better world! How many of these empty words have I heard throughout my life! You know what you do? You forge medals from other people’s bad qualities, and pin them to your chest.”

  “Life only has meaning if we dedicate it to others, if we fight to help others.”

  “For me, life only has meaning if I sit in the shade of a tree and do nothing, just be; in the evening, I stretch myself out under the tree and while I sleep, I look forward to the next day because I won’t have anything to do. And so on, day after day, and my only concern would be not to miss out on the feeling of the sea breeze, which brings tenderness and relief.”

  “Your life is a path that doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  “Only the paths that don’t lead anywhere are worthwhile. And pleasant! Those paths that stretch ahead between two fields, between two trees. The paths on which you can stop, look around you, savor the shade of a tree, the song of a sparrow, or the smell of a harvested field.”

  “We have to change the world, and you’re talking to me about a harvested field. Can’t you see how terrible the world is?”

  Radhika says this with her hand on your knee.

  “If there’s anything I want to change, it’s myself. The world? I don’t think it’s so terrible. This evening, when you get home, sit for a moment in the garden and listen to the cicadas and the crickets.”

  Radhika, with a hand on your thigh, says, “This evening I don’t feel like going back home.”

  THE MOON AND THE FLOWERS AREN’T THERE ANYMORE

  The following day you once again take the path leading to the white house, through the vineyards. You place an envelope into the slit of the mailbox, wait, and let it drop from your fingers.

  In the envelope is your business card, on which you have written some verses:

  The moon and the flowers

  aren’t there anymore.

  And I sit,

  with a glass in my hand,

  all alone.

  Friday at seven in the evening, in the shade of a mulberry tree.

  * * *

  You don’t even ring the bell. On the way back, you sit under an olive tree, whistle a tune, and hear how you are accompanied by the trembling chime of a cricket. He must be resting there, in that thicket of dry grass. You ask yourself … What happened yesterday evening, how could you have allowed Radhika to leave, disappointed and in a bad mood? You’re like Christ, Noli me tangere, no one must touch you. Are you about to turn yourself into someone who is untouchable for women? For Radhika, at least … The flight of a white convertible cuts through the air; you see the blonde hair that pursues Patricia through space like a smoke trail from a plane, you see her hand with a cell phone against her ear … And you congratulate yourself on the fact that you are sitting
under a tree, listening to the chirping of the cicadas, and savoring the breeze that is caressing your shirt. All that rushing around seems useless to you, now that the cicada is singing. You whistle an old tune, you get up, and you set off, slowly … Maybe now Patricia is reading the verses that you wrote on your card … The moon and the flowers aren’t there anymore … They aren’t there anymore, that’s for sure. The real ones and the other kind. Well, so what? So they’re not there. On the other hand, the blackberries are getting ripe!

  * * *

  Sergei crumbles the slice of bread over the table. He eats the crumbs, one by one. Without realizing it. Without tasting it. He eats little. He is thinking about something else. About what happened over thirty-three years ago. He sees it as clearly, as if it has just happened. As if thirty-something years haven’t gone by. What has he done, really, in all that time? Live … Live? Really? Live … like a parasite, like weeds in a field of corn. He has been a parasite, he has lived off that which is better than he is. Off that which is good and useful. One August day, thirty-three years ago, he turned into a parasite.

  * * *

  Sergei feels exhausted. He sits on the tank. The tank has come to a halt; it is still. Sergei’s eyes are burning. They become moist. And he sees, through the mist, a crowd of people. He wipes his face and his eyes with his sleeve. Now he sees them. It is a group of young people. They are arguing. Someone says something to him, Sergei. Another attacks him in an irritated voice, but Sergei doesn’t understand him. Everyone is talking in Czech and Sergei only catches one word, which is repeated constantly: “Proc.” With a languid melody. With a questioning look. “Proc.” Do they want to find something out? What? A blonde girl looks at him, Sergei. She stares at him with wide eyes. Brown eyes. And she also says, “Proc.” “Proc?” A few young people yell at him. And Sergei slowly begins to understand. They, the Russians, are not the liberators. They have done something wrong. Sergei doesn’t know what. They have destroyed something. Some building that will never be reconstructed. No, they are not liberators, Sergei can see that quite clearly now. And he also sees the stone in the hand.

  A moment later, the hand ceases to be there. There is just a melee of people who are howling. And crying. Inside Sergei, something breaks.

  No, he mustn’t cry, the blonde girl is looking at him. He turns a little to wipe his nose with his fingers. Mitya, sitting next to him, hands him a handkerchief. Sergei wipes his eyes. Now he can see her better. A very short miniskirt, a tight, short T-shirt. Hair down to her waist. She looks like … she looks like Zlatovlaska, from the Czech fairy tales. The nymph with the golden hair. He hears the girl’s voice one more: “Proc.” Now Sergei is sure that the arrival of the Russians has brought nothing good. He feels like the father who, with a single kick, demolishes the tower that his son has spent the whole afternoon making with his building blocks. Once, years later, Sergei himself did that at home. Just so. Little Vadim had built a medieval castle with dozens of towers, out of the colored pieces that came with his construction set. He, his father, stamped on the castle with his boots, as if he hadn’t seen it. And not only that, but he also kicked it. Violently, with anger. When it was over, his three-year-old son spent the whole night in tears and didn’t say a word to him for days.

  Now this girl is looking at him with her eyes full of resentment and stubbornness and asks “Proc?” “Proc” … Why? Sergei has understood what the word means. He tries to explain. He puts together some shaky sentences. He chokes. He feels frustrated, because he knows that he won’t be able to convince the girl of anything. Nothing is true, except death. Right now, even he isn’t sure of anything. He doesn’t understand anything, everything has lost its meaning. In his head, his thoughts are all mixed up with the images of what he is seeing here, in Prague. Chaos is buzzing in his head, just as it is here, in the streets.

  The fists of the people in the crowd are raised, tight and tense. People are crying over the dead bodies covered in flags. The blonde girl is his salvation, Sergei feels. He keeps looking back at her. He has the feeling that they are connected by an understanding that goes beyond words. If Sergei speaks, it is only to feel her eyes on his face.

  The young people who are surrounding him say something in a threatening tone. A couple of young people embrace. With passion. They almost make love in front of Sergei. Mitya whispers to him that he can’t take much more of this. He wants to get inside the tank but in the end he remains seated. He observes the crowd around him. He knows that they are putting on that show of passion just for him and Sergei. But Sergei’s eyes are fixed on only one place. On the blonde girl’s face. Now it is she who is saying something to him. She is gesticulating, moving her head forward and backward, moving all the muscles of her face. She wants Sergei to understand clearly what it is she has to say. Now she makes a hysterical gesture of desolation. Very slowly, Sergei nods his head. Then he shakes it as if he can’t understand a thing. And then, finally, he nods again.

  One of her Czech friends grabs the blonde girl by the hand. He turns her toward him. He kisses her, almost violently. He brings her body close to his. He puts his arms around her. He caresses her body all over. He follows the line of her body under her T-shirt. He raises her miniskirt. And while he embraces and kisses the girl, he observes the two Russians with cold, wide-open eyes. With eyes full of hate. He wants to see if he has hurt them enough. If he has had enough revenge. Sergei retreats, little by little, into the tank. Mitya sees—and later tries to explain it to his friend—the blonde girl’s look when the young man lets her go. Her adoring eyes. On the other hand, the young man, without showing her any more interest, turns to his friend. The blonde follows him with a passionate look. Mitya also lowers himself into the tank. Sergei says to him, “Do you know the tale about Zlatovlaska? It’s a Czech legend. Today I have found my Zlatovlaska. With tearful eyes.” Tearful, like his, Sergei’s. Mitya, however, doesn’t idealize reality. He doesn’t know how to. Mitya sees, and later tries to communicate this to Sergei, that they, the Russians, have attacked a foreign country. Just like Napoleon did with Russia. Like Hitler. The Russian invasion has been a disaster for the foreign country. The Russian invasion has caused Sergei’s happiness. He has found Zlatovlaska.

  * * *

  A little vodka! To warm himself up? Or to get his memory going, to set off his imagination, his dreams? No, he won’t do that. He has to work. He’d promised himself that he would sew two more purses. Well, one. But … and if he has just half a glass? His wife has gone to the forest to deliver the purses that are finished to the middleman. It’s late. She’s already on her way back. His wife. She’s already in front of the door. She opens it. She looks concerned. Sergei can see that even in the shadows. He can read it in her steps, her movements. In her breathing. They’ve paid her very little for them. So he won’t have time for a sip of vodka. But in the morning, before he goes to bed, he’ll have a double measure, that’s for sure!

  It was out of weakness that, years ago, he kicked over the castle that his son had built with the pieces from his construction set. Vadim cried, cried in silence. He was weak too. Although he was stronger than his father. Because he was in the right. The Russians, when they burst into Czechoslovakia, felt strong. But it was a false strength. Beneath it lurked weakness. Only a very weak man kicks over something built by a child.

  That summer evening took place over thirty years ago. Maybe thirty-five. Zlatovlaska. A Czech friend kissed her. He, Sergei, wouldn’t have been able to kiss her. He was her enemy. Outwardly. However, on the inside … They cried together. He knows that, and that is enough for him. Afterward, he got into the tank. And Mitya, after him. He was saying strange things. Sergei tried to get him to shut up. He didn’t want to hear anything. He had found his Zlatovlaska. He didn’t need anything else. Tomorrow she’ll be back, he thought on that day.

  * * *

  At night, he can’t sleep. The child with the stone in his hand comes back to him. He raises his hand even higher. In a fl
ash, he will throw the stone. It’s heavy. Too heavy to reach the top of the tank. The child gives himself courage: he makes a violent grimace. He stretches out his free arm to mark his aim. He gets ready to act. He aims at the upper part of the tank. At him, Sergei. The officer of his tank points his machine gun at the child. To frighten him, to threaten him, thinks Sergei. The child stops getting ready to act. He is as straight as a statue. Now he leans his arm an inch further back. He is preparing for the attack. Is he really? Couldn’t it be that his arm has slipped back a little? They will withstand his attack, should it take place. They are strong. They are armed to the teeth. But the tank moves forward and the child doesn’t get out of the way. Out of the way! Sergei wants to shout at him. And at the same time he wants to yell “Stop the tank! Stop it!”

  Stop it! he wants to cry out in his sleep. He wakes up.

  * * *

  Much later—by then he was at his home in Petersburg, then called Leningrad—he found something out. A few months after he left Prague, a young Czech burned himself to death. A student. About the same age as him, Sergei. The student did it to protest against the Russians. Against Sergei. Against the fact that when he, Sergei, opened his eyes, the boy with the stone in his hand wasn’t there anymore. A student burned himself to death. He killed himself, whereas he, Sergei, is alive.

  After more than thirty years, he is still alive. The student killed himself because he, Sergei, had attacked his country. With a machine gun. With a tank.

  In Prague he never stopped seeking out Zlatovlaska in the crowds. He sought her out so as to forget what was burning him up and hurting him.

  The next day, Zlatolavska didn’t show up. And by then, his tank had moved to another position. There the houses were also black. But you could see that version of the Nevsky Perspective with its great Bronze Horseman, made of stone. The horse wasn’t leaping into the sky like the one on the Petersburg statue. The Prague horse was moving forward step by step, with its head down. It wasn’t trotting: it was stumbling. In Prague, everything was sad. Even Zlatovlaska had cried.