Lena closed her eyes and told herself again she was going to be fine. Leaving Geneva had worked remarkably well only a few months before. It had wiped out her feelings for Gerhard so utterly and completely that she concluded she must have finally found her cure for a broken heart. It was an age-old prescription worth more than all the modern antidepressants. Just six short words: out of sight, out of mind.
She arrived in Moscow with just one suitcase; the rest of her stuff would follow by freight. A connecting flight took her to Rostov, a town in the south of Russia where her mother had returned to after the divorce. Lena was going to see her, for the first time in twelve years, and she no longer cared that her dad would disapprove. She was twenty-three now, and he could no longer prevent her from visiting her mom.
Anastasia Malakhova was to meet her at the airport. Lena was a little nervous as she walked through the sliding doors to the arrivals area. She hoped they would recognize each other easily thanks to the photos they had exchanged every now and then.
“Lenochka, I’m here!” she heard a vaguely familiar voice.
Lena scanned the crowd until she spotted a tall, youthful woman calling to her. Her mother wore high heels, impeccably cut jeans and a stylish leather jacket, and looked exactly like she did in the photos.
“Come here, darling, and give me a hug.” The older woman cooed and kissed Lena’s cheek. “My God, how you’ve grown! Let me take a good look at you.”
She circled around Lena, looking her up and down, making her feel increasingly uncomfortable.
“It’s striking how much you resemble him,” she finally said with a heavy sigh.
After an awkward pause, she shrugged, and flipped her golden mane. “Well, at least you are thin.”
“Can we go to your place now, please?” Lena pleaded.
Her mother stopped the inspection and led the way.
Located in the center of town, Anastasia’s apartment was spacious, light and professionally decorated. Given her mother’s permanent lack of employment, Lena had no difficulty in deducing that the apartment and the expensive clothes were paid for by her dad. It was considerably harder to accept that the said apartment and clothes were the price of her motherless adolescence.
“My dear, I’ve missed you so much! I am so glad you decided to come visit me.”
“I’m glad, too,” Lena said.
Anastasia fidgeted with her ring. “Just make sure . . . that your father knows it was your idea, and I had nothing to do with it, OK?”
She smiled sweetly and patted the sofa next to her. “Come here and tell me about everything. What are you plans? Will you stay in Russia or go back to Paris? You must have a boyfriend. I’m dying to hear about him!”
Lena sat down in the sleek armchair on the other side of a designer coffee table. “I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry more than necessary about that. I’m sure you’ll find someone sooner or later. You’re still young and you’re an heiress.”
Lena shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say anything.
“Fortunately,” Anastasia continued, “there are enough men to go around after the prettiest girls have had their pick.”
She winked at Lena, then fingered her phone and held it out. “This is my boyfriend. Isn’t he gorgeous? And you know what? He’s crazy about me. Says he’d die if I left him. Ha! I should test if he really means it. Don’t you think?”
Lena changed her ticket and flew to Moscow the following day. In spite of her complete failure to establish a connection or relate in the tiniest way to her mom, she was content about this visit. It helped her see certain things with more clarity. And it drove away the regret that had plagued her for so many years, giving way to a much less taxing emotion—disappointment.
Part III
This Funny Thing
Saying your name—a breath of my lungs,
Saying your name—a peppermint on my tongue.
A tiny movement of burning lips,
A single beat of bird’s wings.
A glimpse of swallows headed south,
A clink of silver bells in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a pond
Will cry out the name that you are called.
Marina Tsvetaeva
TEN
A Slavic supremacist gang savagely beat up a Tajik immigrant and his four-year-old daughter. The man died on the spot. The girl was hospitalized. Even though at least eight people witnessed the incident, authorities do not appear to have much to go on.
Lena read about this incident in the morning paper and couldn’t stop thinking about it ever since. She wasn’t the only one, of course. Many of her fellow doctoral students and faculty at the Language and Translation Institute shared her incomprehension and outrage. People shuddered at the horror of the attack, cringed at the brutality of the skinheads and worried about the little girl. Strangely, no one condemned the witnesses who had been close enough to see the crime but did nothing to intervene or help the police find the attackers.
As she walked home from the institute, Lena thought this incident was an extreme form of her home city’s ugliest side—its hostility toward the outsiders. Not the rich tourists who bought overpriced souvenirs and ate in expensive restaurants, but the scruffier migrant workers and refugees.
She glanced at the unusually blue September sky, then at her watch, and made a detour to the park. As she treaded on the colorful carpet of fallen leaves, her dark thoughts began to fade away. Soon enough, she lost herself in the childish joy of ruffling the dry leaves with her feet and listening to their soft rustle.
She filled her lungs with air and remembered she had a reason for celebrating today. This morning, before she opened the newspaper, she had realized she could no longer picture the exact shade of Rob’s eyes. At first, she felt shocked and bereft, but then it hit her that this could be the first sign of healing. Since her return to Moscow two months ago, she’d done everything in her power to help the out-of-sight cure do its magic. She had deleted all Rob’s photos, avoided social media, and asked Jeanne not to talk about him in her e-mails. But until now, she’d been seeing no results.
Lena reached a five-story building off Tverskaya where she had a small apartment. The location was perfect and within walking distance from both her father’s place and her school. Plus it eliminated the need to drive—or be driven around—in Moscow’s crazy traffic.
As soon as she walked in, she opened her e-mail to see if she had a reply about the abstract she’d submitted to a conference organizer. With a gasp, she stood up and walked over to the window. She remained there for a few moments, staring at the traffic and counting to ten, then to twenty, then to thirty. When she reached one hundred, she returned to her desk and opened Rob’s e-mail.
Hi Lena,
It’s been a while since we last talked, and that conversation didn’t end well. When I returned to Paris and didn’t find you at your place, Jeanne told me you’d left earlier that day to return to Moscow. She also conveyed your request not to contact you, to let you move on.
I’m not a stalker, so when a girl says she’s through with me, I respect her decision. Which is why I followed your instructions and let you be. But here’s the thing. The more I think about how I behaved over the summer, the more ashamed I am of myself. I can live with shame. What I can’t live with is knowing that I hurt you and didn’t tell you how sorry I was, didn’t beg you to forgive me. What prevents me from sleeping at night is knowing that you’re thinking badly of me.
That’s why I’m writing to you now—to say what I should’ve said during the firemen’s ball, what I’ve said in my head a hundred times. Lena, I’m so very sorry. I wish I had words to convey how much I regret the whole spying business, and, most of all, that I broke my promise and lied to you.
I don’t know if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, but I pray to God that you will. And I also pray you’ll accept to remain in my life, at least as a friend.
/>
All the best,
Rob
Lena reread Rob’s e-mail five more times. Could she forgive him? Eventually, yes. Despite his betrayal, she knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d behaved in a stupid and selfish way. He’d convinced himself that what he was doing wasn’t so bad, and downplayed the damage his actions could cause. He’d been irresponsible, but not mean.
So yes, she could find it in heart to forgive him. But she couldn’t trust him. Everything she knew about him told her he could hurt her again. He would hurt her again. Without meaning to, of course. And when that happened, he might shatter her heart into too many small pieces to reassemble.
And that was why she couldn’t let him back into her life. She had torn herself from him in one clean cut, like a surgeon, so that her she’d have a better chance to heal. But her wound was still raw. She needed a lot more time before she could envisage even friendship with him.
And by then he’d probably have forgotten she existed.
* * *
Lena made some coffee and sank into the cushy couch. She looked around. The apartment was now nicely furnished, trendy—and impersonal. Just as impersonal as it had been four months ago when she moved in. Oh well.
She opened her e-mail and read Jeanne’s typically short note.
Last night I had an epiphany and discovered my true calling. I want to be a bartender/proprietor. Preferably of La Bohème.
Lena immediately shot her a reply.
How exciting! But what made you see the light? And is there any indication Pierre would want to make you a bartender and then sell the place to you? Please tell me more.
As soon as her note hit the cyberspace, Lena shut the laptop. She wasn’t going to work on her paper or translations. She had established a rule for herself—Saturdays were for relaxing, which was why she was still in her pajamas. The rest of the week she worked almost around the clock, but she didn’t want all work and no play to turn her into a bore.
The problem with her seemingly sage rule was that it created a space unoccupied by purposeful activity. A space in which she was alone with her moleskin notebook. A dangerous, murky space in which strange things happened . . . Like now. Feeling as if she were a zombie, Lena grabbed a pen and began sketching portraits of an ancient god—a painfully familiar ancient god. After she filled several pages with drawings en face and in profile, she traced her finger over each line and then tore them into tiny pieces. Next, she began to decorate a blank page with the same tightly strung three-letter word.
Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob
She couldn’t help it and she couldn’t stop. She had the impression her hand was possessed, its neural pathways diverted from her brain and plugged into her silly defective heart. After she was done writing and tearing up, she chastised herself and made another useless promise to never do it again.
To distract herself, she turned on the TV. The eleven o’clock news segment was just beginning, which reminded her to stay close to the phone. Dmitry said he’d call between eleven and eleven fifteen, and Lena expected him to call in exactly that interval. The phone rang at eleven oh-three.
“Hello, my dear. I’ve got great news. I managed to get us front row tickets to the Swan Lake at Bolshoi.”
“No kidding? The new stellar interpretation everyone is raving about? How on earth did you accomplish that feat?”
“I’m not telling. But I’m happy you seem pleased.”
“I’m over the moon! Thank you so much, Dmitry, I really appreciate it. When is the show?”
“It’s tonight. I hope you don’t have other plans, but if you do, you shouldn’t feel—”
“I don’t have any plans, and even if I did, I would cancel them in a blink. When and where shall we meet?”
“I’ll pick you up at six o’clock at your place, so we can grab a quick dinner before the performance. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.”
A perfect night with a perfect man, she told herself after she hung up.
Dmitry was perfect, in every way that Rob wasn’t. Unlike Rob, who was just beginning to build a career, Dmitry was already established. He was a well-respected CPA. Her father’s chief accountant, as it happened. He owned a cozy apartment and drove a nice car. He was crazy about literature. He was honest and staid.
Dmitry was also always supportive, even protective of her, but without a trace of machismo. He was keen to know every detail about her work and her workplace, including the names of her colleagues and professors. If she didn’t feel like opening her calendar, she could just ask him about her schedule. He knew it better than she did.
When anyone—including Anton and Anna—teased her, she knew she could count on his swift intervention to defend her or to divert the discussion. Which always reminded her of how Rob had let Amanda bully her throughout their Nice weekend without attempting to protect her. He had acted like it wasn’t his business to speak up on her behalf. Which would have been fine, had she not been under such a relentlessly taunting assault. Dmitry would have said something, done something or just . . . carried her away. He wouldn’t have let her fend for herself.
He was perfect.
* * *
They had first met at Anton and Anna’s wedding shortly after Lena’s return to Moscow. They had a pleasant conversation and danced together a little. Lena enjoyed Dmitry’s quiet intelligence and his undisguised admiration. She forgot about his existence the following day.
She crossed him again three months later. Her stepmother, Anna, who was full of energy in spite of being on the verge of giving birth, had learned that the Moscow City was planning to shut down one of the oldest Children’s Arts and Crafts Centers. The center had survived for the past few years mainly on the unflagging enthusiasm of its stuff. But it had reached the degree of squalor that endangered the children. The site hadn’t been renovated since the Soviet days, when it was called a Young Pioneer House.
During a family dinner one evening Anna banged the table with her fist and told Anton and Lena, “Shut down the center? The hell they will. It’s the place where I learned how to make a teddy bear from fabric scraps and dance the kazachok. I fell in love with Ray Bradbury’s stories in its library . . .”
She stared at the wall for a few moments, her eyes vacant, and then blinked. “I don’t care if the mayor is hell-bent on closing it. I won’t let it happen.” She winked at Lena and added, “I didn’t marry a tycoon for nothing.”
“Is that so?” Anton smiled. “Here I was deluding myself that you married me because you were madly in love with me.”
“That, too. But don’t you think your money is begging for a noble outlet, such as saving a children’s art center? Besides, I’m sure your gifted accountants can figure out how to deduct most of it from your taxes.”
Anton put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Anna, my love, you always manage to get me to do your bidding, don’t you?”
“Who? Me? I wouldn’t dream of it,” Anna said.
Anton’s eyes fell on his wife’s prominent belly. “Well, as long as it’s to make children happy . . .” He gave Anna a gentle peck on the cheek. “Do your worst. But promise me to take it easy and not let your enthusiasm interfere with our baby’s plans.”
Shortly after that conversation Anton donated a substantial sum of money to the center, and Anna organized a fundraiser at a trendy downtown restaurant to collect the remaining capital required for the complete renovation of the building.
It was at that banquet that Lena met with Dmitry for the second time. He took a seat across from her at the long table overflowing with beautifully presented food.
“Lena!” He beamed. “What a pleasure to see you again. You look great.”
Lena smiled politely. “Hello. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Then her smile broadened as she recognized the enthusiastic gentleman. He was the nice accountant from the wedding. If only she could remember his name . . .
Right on cue, he he
ld out his hand. “My name is Dmitry, just in case you were wondering. I’ve been hoping for a chance of seeing you again ever since we met at Anton’s wedding.”
Lena didn’t know what to say. She had noticed how Dmitry was looking at her, but she found his words a little too forward. She feared the evening was going to be awkward. To her surprise, it turned out to be the opposite. After having unequivocally signaled his interest, Dmitry steered the conversation to completely different subjects ranging from the Russian oligarchs’ tentative forays into arts patronage to a comparison of contemporary Russian and Japanese novels.
He was thirty-five, a grown man—a real adult—to her twenty-three. He was well-dressed and good-looking. He wasn’t funny or charismatic, but he had impressive erudition, impeccable manners, and that look of adoring wonder that appeared on his face every time he glanced at her.
When the banquet was over, Lena realized she wanted to stay and continue talking to Dmitry. And when he asked if she’d like to visit an expressionist exhibit with him next week, she accepted without hesitation.
* * *
Rob had just finished a complicated financial report when Amanda walked into his office. She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “Shouldn’t we be booking our tickets to France? The longer we wait the more expensive they’ll get—soon it’ll be Christmastime, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Rob shuffled his papers. “I booked my trip this morning.”
“What? And you didn’t think to tell me? We could have flown together. Now we’ll probably end up on different flights!”
“We will end up on different flights, I’m afraid.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m flying with Aeroflot with a twelve-hour stopover in Moscow.”
What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) Page 13
