Moonlight in Odessa

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  In Odessa, women serve the men. Jane told me that in America women didn’t serve anyone. So I knew this was a big gesture on her part and was grateful.

  He perked up when she put the plate in front of him. ‘Boba did make the best, didn’t she?’

  Tans protested good-naturedly that his was the best.

  ‘Maybe in San Francisco,’ Jane said.

  ‘Let’s give him California,’ Tristan said.

  ‘But Boba has the title for the universe,’ I concluded.

  I was thrilled that they were getting along. That everyone was making an effort. How I wanted Jane to like him.

  There was a constant coming and going of artists and singers and intellectuals. This was what I expected when Tristan had told me he lived near San Francisco. This was what I wanted. I felt at home with these people. They were witty and clever and amusing. Several took me aside and said, ‘When you decide to leave that putz, I’ll help. Call me.’ The women slipped me fifty dollars so I wouldn’t be completely dependent on him. I tried to refuse, but they insisted that I could pay them back. Although I appreciated their kindness, I felt embarrassed for Tristan, and hurt for him that he’d been rejected. But I could also understand why.

  Tans, Jane, and their friends weren’t seeing him at his best, in his Emerson aquarium surrounded by familiar greenery.

  As usual, I woke up at 6 a.m. Some of Tans’s guests were just leaving. I sat at the kitchen table with a burning-hot glass full of coffee in my hands and savored the moment. I liked to get up early, to have the world to myself. When Jane joined me, we spoke Russian for hours. We had the kitchen to ourselves and no one was there to be offended by our escape into another language. Tans seemed to understand how important it was that Jane and I had time together. He tried to occupy Tristan. For most of the day, she and I moved from room to room. With Tans’s running interference, Tristan was always a room behind.

  I asked Jane to tell me about Montana, about life with Tans. I was too embarrassed to talk about my life. How could I explain? How could I tell Jane things I didn’t understand myself? How I’d fallen in love with Tristan before I met him. How here and now I wasn’t sure that I still loved him. How could I tell her when I could barely admit it to myself?

  After lunch, Tristan thoughtfully offered to take Jane and me on a tour of San Francisco. He drove us to the Fisherman’s Wharf, which was packed solid with tourists, but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless and bought some postcards for Boba. Then we went to a park, where families picnicked, children played, friends threw Frisbees, couples cuddled on the grass. In Emerson, people walked or jogged exactly thirty minutes for exercise, or not at all. They drove to the store, even if they lived only three blocks away. I marveled at these throngs of people who, like me, were happy to spend a glorious day out of doors.

  Tristan offered to buy us tea at the Japanese Garden. Jane and I found a table and he went to order. I felt proud that he had given us such a lovely day. I wanted Jane to like him.

  He returned with a tray. ‘Can you believe it? Eleven dollars for tea?’

  Shame washed over me. Jane had paid for her plane ticket to San Francisco, and he complained about spending a few dollars. I could barely meet her gaze. An Odessan man would never talk about the price. It’s uncultured.

  ‘They forgot to give us napkins.’ He went back to the counter.

  In her distinctive Russian (Jane sounded like an old Odessan lady because her vocabulary and inflection were learned from her neighbor, a lavender-haired pensioner with an attitude), she said, ‘Eleven dollars for tea?’

  We giggled.

  ‘Seriously,’ she continued, ‘Tans and his friends can be intimidating. It’s probably not easy for Tristan. It was nice of him to take us around today.’

  ‘It was,’ I agreed, happy that she appreciated him, at least a little. ‘Men just like to grumble so that we acknowledge them.’

  ‘Sound the horn and praise him,’ she said as he returned with a handful of napkins.

  ‘Beeeep!’ I squealed out like a schoolgirl.

  My eyes met Jane’s, and I burst out laughing. So did she.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Tristan asked.

  How could I tell him that he was what we found amusing?

  I loved America. I loved the wide, clean streets. I loved the spacious wood homes set on invincible green lawns. I loved the choices at the supermarket – from the pre-made food to the cleaning products. I loved living in a place where no one stole light bulbs in hallways, where no one pissed in the elevator, where dust didn’t cover my shoes, the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings. I loved the light that filtered through Tristan’s home. I loved the distance between houses. Privacy. What a wonderful concept. I loved the calm. No bottles clanging together, no one stomping on the ceiling, no family fights seeping through the walls, no babies wailing, no babushkas complaining, no televisions blaring. It was as though someone had pressed the mute button on the soundtrack of my life.

  I loved living in a house – not waking up to the smell of a neighbor’s burned toast in the morning, not falling asleep to another’s techno music at night. I didn’t miss the domestic disputes of the Sebova household – the missus screaming that the mister was an alcoholic, the mister shouting back that if he was it was because of her. I didn’t miss Petr Ivanovich’s incessant hammering.

  In America, the houses were unique. So were the people. Everything was so personal. Even license plates held messages – from Go Packers! on a Jeep to Thanx Dad on a red convertible. If there was a child in the car, there was a ‘Baby on Board’ sign. I couldn’t say Americans wore their hearts on their sleeve, but they did wear their logos on their chest. Nike. Coke. Pepsi. The flag was everywhere – on sweaters, on cars, hung outside people’s homes as well as at businesses. In Odessa, no one wore a Ukrainian flag on their chest, I could tell you that. In Odessa, the bakery sign read Hleb, or bread; here, it was Mama’s Little Bakery. Here it’s not just ‘restaurant,’ it’s Ruby’s Café or Aunt Sarah’s Pancake House.

  Above all, I loved listening to the language, to all the contractions and contradictions that my English teacher Maria Pavlovna never taught us: gimme, gotta, gonna, wanna. Perhaps she didn’t know they existed. I wrote down new words in my notebook. Spiffy. Snarl. Stuck up. Dead meat. Dude. Even if I didn’t recognize them, often I could tell their meaning by the person’s expression.

  I loved America. I loved that drivers let me cross the street instead of trying to mow me down. I loved the post office personnel, so cheerful when I sent letters to Boba. I loved the way total strangers talked to me. When I went to the doctor’s office for a blood test, the nurse came out wearing all white, looking like a shiny star, and said in a beautiful voice, ‘Daria Kirilenko, we’re waiting for you.’ I felt like a princess. At the supermarket, a teen put my purchases in bags. In the stores, the saleswomen asked if I was looking for anything in particular. In the café, the waitress brought a glass of ice water with the menu and said, ‘Take your time.’ Everyone said, ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’ These small courtesies filled me with gratitude. No strangers were nice like this in Odessa unless they wanted something.

  Sometimes, I looked around in wonder. But the Americans didn’t seem to notice the thoughtfulness surrounding them. How they took things for granted. Everything was easy here. Everything worked all the time – no shortages, no blackouts. Everything was perfect.

  My visa would be up in six weeks. I was passionate about America, but not about Tristan. Maybe I’d learn to love him, like oatmeal. Like the way I grew to appreciate David. I didn’t know what to do. I could call Jane, who would tell me I shouldn’t marry him. Or I could call Boba, who would say I should.

  I dialed and said, ‘I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘You went to America to get married.’

  ‘I don’t think I love him,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Does he love you?’ Boba asked.

  ‘Da.’

  ‘My little sparrow
, give him a chance. There’s nothing for you here. You looked for an engineering job for six months and ended up a secretary. Think about your friend Maria, who graduated first in her class at the conservatory and has a voice like an angel. And in Odessa, she’s a waitress. It’s not right. It’s just not right. But that’s the way it is. Don’t come home. There is nothing for you here. Remember how lucky you are to be in America. Passion fades. Love grows. Security is the most important thing.’

  She was right. I should marry Tristan. That’s why I’d come. He wanted to marry me, wanted children with me. He was honest, decent, and dependable, unlike Vlad. He’d been a perfect gentleman. And he was American.

  And if I married him, I could stay in America.

  Part II

  Three things in this world he loved:

  Evensong, white peacocks

  And worn maps of America.

  He didn’t like crying children,

  Tea with raspberry jam

  Or hysterical women.

  And I was his wife.

  – Anna Akhmatova

  Chapter 16

  My Darling Boba, the best Grandmother in the world!

  Greetings and love from Emerson!

  Waiting impatiently for a letter from you. Please do write! It would make me so happy.

  You’d be surprised by so many things here. People have yards, but no gardens. They buy their fruits and vegetables at the supermarket. They don’t can at all, can you believe it? Tristan’s friend Molly says she has enough to do without worrying about that. She wrote down the names of the best brands so that I wouldn’t be confused about which ones to choose. There are over one hundred kinds of shampoo and toothpaste. There are so many different brands of jams and jellies. The best raspberry jam here isn’t half as tasty as yours . . . Next year, I am planning on growing my own tomatoes, potatoes, and strawberries. What else do you think I should plant?

  The sparrows are plump and happy here. People are open and friendly. You can get exactly what you want. In a café in Odessa, we are lucky to get real coffee rather than instant. We are lucky if it comes to the table warm. In San Francisco, when Jane and I went for a coffee, she ordered a ‘half caff skinny extra hot latte easy on the foam with a shot of vanilla.’ When it was my turn to order, I didn’t know what to say! Can you imagine the look the waitress would shoot you if you tried such a thing in Odessa?

  I miss your voice, your jokes, your stories. Won’t you consider coming to visit? When he was in Odessa, Tristan said you could come and live with us. I do hope you’ll think about it. I want you to see this paradise for yourself.

  All my love,

  Dasha

  Freeze-froze-frozen. Ring-rang-rung. I put on the velvet dress that Boba had sewn for me. Tristan looked handsome in his khaki trousers and blue button-down shirt I’d spent an hour ironing. He held my hand tight. His palms were sweaty. So were mine. He kept pushing wisps of hair behind my ear, I kept untucking them – I’d left them down on purpose. Little by little, everyone arrived. Everyone. Everyone was no one I knew. Forty people – the women in dresses, the men in jeans, the boisterous children climbing on furniture and knocking down lamps – clogged the dining room. I gave the little ones sweets and told them that they would soon grow up and all their dreams would come true. Harried mothers handed me casseroles. I accepted their offerings with the smile and kind words Boba had instilled in me.

  Boba.

  I felt a pang. If only she could have come. Or my mother. Or even Jane. Then I remembered: I wasn’t talking to Jane. Not after what she said to me. She still called, begging me to open up, but I only spoke about the weather until she tired and hung up.

  Hal, an older, jowly version of Tristan, squeezed me in a grip that felt like the jaws of life. Hal was a minister and his wife Noreen, whose pinched expression gave the impression that her heels were two sizes too small, was holier-than-thou.

  ‘You’re a very lucky girl to go from rags to riches,’ she said. ‘Every woman in your country dreams of coming to the U.S. of A. You should be grateful for all this family has done for you. That other girl wasn’t grateful at all.’

  ‘What other girl?’ I asked.

  Noreen looked to Hal.

  ‘One of Tristan’s ex-girlfriends,’ Hal said. ‘You have to forgive Noreen, she doesn’t think anyone is good enough for Tristan.’ His tone was as cold as a Siberian winter and he held Noreen’s arm so tightly she winced.

  Behind them Molly rolled her eyes then winked. Noreen and Hal moved on, and I stood watching all these strangers. As people talked around me and over me, but not to me, I was reminded of the buzzing of a thousand flies.

  And to think, this was my wedding day.

  I laid my hand on my chest. Of course I thought of him. And of what our wedding in Odessa would have been like. An intimate ceremony, certainly, followed by a feast prepared by Boba and me. Well, mostly Boba, but I would have helped. Glasses raised to me, the beautiful bride; a toast to the groom, lucky in love; another to Boba for raising such a granddaughter; a final word of praise for his mother, so courageous in bringing up three strong sons. Vlad and I would feed each other a piece of braided bread so that we never go hungry, dipped in salt so that life always has flavor. He would smile tenderly. I’d lick the salt from his fingers . . . No. I shook my head. That gangster was not welcome at this celebration.

  Everyone got in their cars and drove to a patch of forest. Tristan declared that since I hadn’t gone to service in the time I’d been in the States that I was like him: ‘not churchy.’ I thought of telling him about the synagogues in Odessa that had been destroyed, the rampant anti-Semitism. I wanted to remind him that religion had been forbidden in the Soviet Empire. After perestroika, people were leery about returning. Many like me didn’t know how to return.

  But I remained silent, fearing that he would get it wrong again, like when he said I didn’t eat meat because there was none. He clearly had problems with interpretation.

  Plus, he’d said, after spending so much ‘dough’ to get me to America, we didn’t have much left for ‘frivolous things like weddings.’ He decided that we would have ours as God intended, in a wooded area outside of Emerson. We exchanged our rings solemnly. The only sound was the birds chirping. It seemed like a good omen.

  We returned to Tristan’s house for the ‘potluck.’ No use wasting good money to pay a caterer, he’d said, and asked his friends to supply the food. To me, our reception didn’t feel like a celebration at all, just a huge bring-your-own picnic with dishes and paper plates perched on a card table on its last legs. In Odessa, no woman ever asked guests to cook their own dinner. In Odessa, women created feasts, and this effort showed how much they cared. I tried to smile. In America, I’d noticed that people smiled when they were happy, but also when they were nervous or uncertain. No one noticed that my smile was of the melancholy variety. They hugged me and called me hon. They wished me well and asked if I was happy. I smiled.

  It had all happened so fast. Tristan and I went hiking on Sunday afternoon a week after we returned from San Francisco. He’d been nervous all morning, stuttering and losing his train of thought. We sat on a faded blanket and ate cheese sandwiches. After lunch he got on his knees and pulled me to mine. Holding my hands in his, he looked into my eyes and asked, ‘Will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you marry me?’

  Tenderness spread through my body as I understood how difficult it had been for him to work up the courage to propose. No vodka necessary.

  ‘This will be the last time I ask,’ he said and squeezed my hand. ‘I know what I want. But this has to be what you want, too.’

  I thought about what I wanted: security. A home. A child. A real family. An end to the family curse. This was what Boba wanted for me. Tristan had proven himself, unlike Vlad. I looked into Tristan’s eyes and saw gentle simplicity. I could trust him. He loved me. We wanted the same things. Why wait? I threw my arms around his neck. ‘Yes!’

  He kissed me a
nd kissed me and hugged me tight. It felt pleasant. I was thrilled to know I’d be staying in America with a dependable man. He would never just disappear. He would always be there.

  ‘We should get married right away,’ he said when we got home.

  I nodded, dazed by the conviction of his voice, by the haste of our engagement. But wasn’t that why I’d come to America?

  ‘I don’t want you changing your mind,’ he joked. Then he speaker-phoned Molly. I heard her cry, ‘Oh my God! Congratulations!’, call Toby, then shout, ‘Oh my God!’ again. Tristan asked if she thought we could have the wedding in a week. She said she would organize everything: invitations, caterer, hall. He replied that we had ‘a budget,’ a word that means no money, and suggested we have the reception at home.

  I called Jane and asked her to be my maid of honor.

  ‘Oh my God! Of course!’

  I noticed that God is always on Americans’ lips, on their minds, on their money.

  ‘The ceremony is Friday.’

  ‘This Friday?’ she shrieked.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s so sudden. You have a three-month visa. Don’t you want to use the time to get to know him better?’

  ‘I know all I need to; we want the same things. Why wait?’

  She said she had to ask for the time off and check ticket prices. She called back an hour later. ‘The last-minute fare is over one thousand dollars. Why Friday? Why a weekday? Why so soon?’

  She already knew the answers. She just wanted me to say them. He doesn’t want Jane or Boba to come. He wants us tied together as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to give me time to think. These thoughts were somewhere in my brain. I’m not stupid. But knowing and admitting are two different things.

  ‘He’s so much older. And you haven’t known him very long. Do you love him?’