Moonlight in Odessa

by Janet Skeslien Charles

The only defense is an offense, that’s what we say in Odessa. ‘What about you? That Tans is practically a pensioner! Do you love him?’

  ‘Yeah, I love him. And no, I’m not going to marry him.’

  ‘You have that luxury. You’re American. I’m here on a visa.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ she repeated.

  I wanted to.

  ‘Please, please wait,’ she pleaded. ‘There’s no rush. You’ll have your whole lives together.’

  I heard the frantic notes in her voice: worry, concern, and fear. But I hadn’t asked her opinion. I didn’t want to hear that I was being hasty or that I was wrong.

  ‘When you gave me advice in Odessa, I always listened to you,’ she said. ‘I always trusted you. And you were always right. Please trust me now. Don’t do this. Don’t. Let’s try to find another solution. Maybe you can get a work visa. Or find someone else.’

  I wanted to hear I was making the right decision. She’d been wrong about Budapest. I could have trusted Tristan. I should have gone. She was wrong about this. And perversely, the way she said no made me want to say yes. She didn’t understand Tristan the way I did. She didn’t know how kind and thoughtful he could be. And she was practically an old maid anyway. What did she know about marriage? I pulled away from Jane, the voice of reason.

  ‘I have to go. I need to talk to Boba.’

  So it wasn’t my dream wedding. I was still lucky. I was in America. I would have my own family. I would make new friends. I looked at Molly, who’d greeted, cleaned, and organized the entire day. She had even cooked vareniki for the reception. I was touched by her kindness and put three potato ravioli on my plate. God loves three, that’s what we say in Odessa.

  ‘I hope they taste all right,’ Molly said.

  I took a bite and nodded. ‘My Boba always says the first time is good, the second time even better. Thank you for bringing a piece of Odessa to Emerson.’

  ‘My pleasure. I made the dough from scratch, just like the recipe said. You Ukrainian gals sure don’t do things the easy way.’

  So true.

  I looked down at my bouquet and touched the red petals. Last night, Molly’s husband Toby had come to Tristan’s. Looking sheepish, he said he’d been ordered to invite Tristan over for a beer. ‘A laid-back bachelor party,’ he explained.

  Tristan didn’t want to leave, but Toby proved to be persuasive. ‘Come on, man. When have you ever said no to a brewski?’

  ‘Brewski! Ha! Didn’t know you spoke Russian.’

  And off they went. I drew a bath, intending to try to relax and reflect on my new life. Reality – the fact that I would be tied to this man for life – was seeping in. I grew more and more nervous. Was Jane right? Should I wait? Now that the date was set, was it too late to have doubts? I stepped into the water. I steeped in the water, thinking thoughts that got as dark as Boba’s favorite black tea.

  Here is the one thing all Odessan women know: men stray; men leave. They go to sea, they go to see. They go off to war, off to seek their fortune, off with their drinking buddies. But women, women stay. We wait, we wonder. Penelope was the original Odessitka. She waited for Odysseus to come home. She waited, she cried, she wondered, maybe she even prayed. What a paragon. (What an idiot! Jane said.) Women don’t leave. Women don’t file for divorce. Women endure. We learn in health class that girls mature more quickly, that women are stronger, live longer, can bear children, can bear more, do bear more, period. Ask any Odessitka. She’ll tell you that our men went off to war after war, that Stalin killed our men, and that now there are more women than men. And you don’t have to be a capitalist to understand the concept of supply and demand.

  Odessitki are taught to be cultured, well bred, feminine, clever, to work hard, to solve problems, to bear the brunt, to accept that some day, we may be alone . . . We have staying power. Patience. The man is the king of the castle, even if his castle is a communalka. No provision is made for his wife. Sometimes I wonder: when sailors go back to sea, are their wives relieved?

  Just as I stepped out of the tepid water, the doorbell rang. I dressed quickly and opened the door. Molly and Serenity grabbed my hands and insisted on whisking me away. They were giggly and fidgety and looked happy. Happy. I went with them. We drove to a bar with neon lights, which looked magical to me. The Step On Inn. Five women waited for us at a table topped with boxes swathed in shiny paper and bows. Introductions were made.

  ‘We wanted to throw you a bridal shower slash bachelorette party!’ Serenity exclaimed.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ I murmured, touched by this unexpected attention.

  The barman, who Molly referred to as hunky, came to take our orders.

  ‘Bud Light, please,’ Molly said.

  ‘Michelob Light.’

  ‘Diet Coke and rum.’

  I had no idea what American women drank, so when the barman turned to me, I replied, ‘A cognac, please.’

  ‘Oooh! That’s so classy!’ Molly said. ‘I changed my mind. I’ll have one of those.’

  ‘So will I.’

  ‘So will I.’

  I was pleased that they wanted what I wanted. The cognac warmed my belly and loosened the tightness in my chest. I felt relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time since my arrival. We talked and laughed. How I had missed this camaraderie. I thought of Boba, of Valentina, of Jane. I even thought of David and how we sat in the darkened boardroom, drinking cold coffee and talking.

  ‘Open your presents!’ Serenity exclaimed, bringing me back to the present.

  Gently lifting the paper from the cardboard so I could use it as stationery to write to Boba, I opened the box and pulled out a snippet of silk. When I realized what it was, I blushed and stuffed it back in.

  ‘Show us what you got!’ Molly yelled. Her eyes were as wild as her auburn hair.

  ‘A guaranteed wedding night pleaser.’

  ‘And teaser.’

  ‘Open another!’

  Frilly undergarments, finer than I had ever had before. Scented candles. Massage oil.

  They whooped and whistled. As the barman served another round, Molly whispered something to him and he returned with a bouquet of red roses and white freesia. I caressed the velvety leaves that surrounded the flowers. I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten to order a bouquet and felt such gratitude.

  ‘I hope I’m making the right decision . . .’ The cognac had loosened my tongue.

  ‘You’ll be able to stay if you marry him, right?’ Serenity asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘You have to stay, we want you to stay,’ Molly said.

  ‘That’s what I want, too. I’m just not sure . . .’

  No one said anything for a long moment. They just looked at me. I felt their care and their concern. The bachelorette party seemed suddenly separate from the wedding, from the marriage to come. Finally, Molly said, ‘He’s a good provider.’

  ‘He’s a good provider.’

  ‘A good provider.’

  ‘Good provider,’ they echoed.

  I buried my nose in the bouquet and inhaled deeply. Molly squeezed my hand. Then Serenity put her arm around my shoulders. We sat like this for the rest of the evening.

  The longer the wedding reception, the longer the marriage, that’s what we say in Odessa. Our celebration was over by 9 p.m. On the porch, Toby thumped guests on the back as they passed him on the way to their cars. Molly went through the house with an enormous black garbage bag, clearing away the paper plates and plastic cups. She put two pieces of cake in the freezer for us to eat on our anniversary and discreetly left. Tristan and I stared at each other. Tonight I was moving from the office to the bedroom. I knew what he wanted, and I was curious, too. What would it be like? I liked his hugs and kisses – it felt safe in his arms.

  At least, thanks to Vlad, I knew that making love could be wonderful. Spectacular. Hot. Why was I thinking of him? I felt disloyal suddenly. Tristan touched my arms, my back, my hair with the tips of his fingers, as t
hough my body were Braille. I waited to feel a burst of passion, a frisson of lust. His caresses weren’t disagreeable.

  ‘Should I use protection?’

  I shook my head, since we both wanted children right away. He took off my dress and lay me down on the bed. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed as he looked at my breasts. ‘Wow!’

  Just when I started to relax, he stopped and pulled off his clothes. He pounced, wet kissing me everywhere. Ride-rode-ridden. Sow-sowed-sewn. Go-went-gone. Grind-ground-ground. His frenzied movements made me tense. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard, willing myself to feel desire. I shoved my tongue in his mouth. He groaned and ground his pelvis to mine. I arched my body towards his, hoping our hip bones would strike together and ignite a spark that would grow into something more.

  Greeting Boba, from a very happy bride!

  Yesterday, Tristan and I were married. How we both wished that you could have been here to celebrate our joy! I wore the dress you made me and so many people came to wish us well! Tristan has so many friends and it was lovely that his brother and sister-in-law could attend. In fact Hal is a holy man! It was so special to have family not only there, but to perform the ceremony! Soon you will be a great-grandmother! I kiss you, Dasha

  I mailed the letter in a package with the all beautiful cards we had received, and we left for our honeymoon. Although I had never camped (‘roughing it’ – going without water and electricity – never sounds like much fun to people who have done so for a portion of their lives), I was thrilled to go to the Pacific. There is nothing like the sea. The sound of the waves hitting the sand. The constancy of the tide. The rhythm of a mother rocking a child to sleep. The sand and the water as old as time itself. The smell of the salt and mist. The mystery of it all as you look out at the horizon and see the blue-gray sea meet the gray-blue sky and you have the impression that heaven does meet the earth. At least somewhere.

  ‘As a scout leader, I know all the good sites,’ he said as he unloaded the food from the truck. He dug a shallow hole and built a fire. We sat side by side, holding hands, looking out at the waves.

  He went back into the trees and came back with two slim branches. With his knife, he scraped away the bark at the tip.

  ‘What’s it for?’ I asked when he handed me one.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He reached into the food box and grabbed a plastic bag. He tore it open and pulled out a white spongy confection. I watched him pierce it with a stick and hold it over the fire. ‘Go ahead, take a marshmallow,’ he encouraged, handing them to me.

  When his was golden and bubbly, he pulled it off the stick and put it on a bar of chocolate which he slid between two crackers. I did the same.

  ‘Isn’t this the best?’ he asked after he finished his. ‘Want some more? Get it? They’re called S’mores.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I have so much to teach you,’ he said.

  He was kind and gentle. I’d made the right choice. It was fate.

  So why did I constantly touch my palm to my chest to feel the diamond ring, safely tucked underneath my blouse? I put the necklace on after Tristan went to work and took it off before he got home. I don’t know why I still wore it. At first, it was so that no one would find it, on the train to Kiev, then at the airport . . . I should have been able to take it off for good. That part of my life was over. I wouldn’t take any steps backward. I would only go forward.

  But lately, I forgot to take it off before he arrived. Lately, I left it on until bedtime. It comforted me. I saw Boba hand it to me, heard her say, ‘It could save you.’ I saw Vlad before me on his knees.

  Before bed one evening, Tristan took off my blouse and froze when he saw the ring. He choked out the word, ‘Who?’

  I froze. Tell-told-told.

  ‘Who gave you that?’ he asked.

  ‘What did you say?’ I made him repeat himself – an old Odessan trick – to give myself ten extra seconds to think of a suitable reply.

  ‘Who gave you that ring?’ he asked, his voice hard.

  ‘Boba did . . . right before she said goodbye.’

  I bit my lip. In Odessa, we say a half-truth is better than no truth at all.

  He smiled indulgently and exhaled in relief. ‘Do you think it was hers?’

  ‘Whose else could it be?’ I asked, using the famous Odessan technique of answering a question with a question.

  ‘Your mom’s. Hal got our mother’s wedding ring.’

  I nodded. Of course.

  ‘It’s sexy in your cleavage,’ he said. His fingers traced a line down my breast bone. ‘It looks expensive.’

  ‘It’s worthless,’ I responded, surprised by the bitterness in my voice.

  At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Time moved quickly. I sat and watched it fly by. I remembered what Jane said about observing and adapting. I didn’t want people to think I was stupid, like when Tristan told them how I was agog at the garage door opener. In general, Americans were so warm, and so friendly. I loved to listen to them talk as I waited in line at the post, as I walked through the aisles of the supermarket, as I watched them on television. TV. People here call it TV. They had a channel for every subject. Golf. Weather. Decorating. Sex. I watched the cooking channel to learn how to make real American dishes for Tristan.

  In Odessa, I never had time to just sit and do nothing. I studied, worked at the shipping company and Soviet Unions, I beat rugs with Boba, went to the bazaar, carried pails of water from the stove to the bathtub to wash our clothes and sheets. It was pleasant to have days to read books, to watch TV, to look at the Internet, to talk to Molly on the phone, though she could never talk for long – she was always chasing after her twins. Still, I wished there were an engineering firm in Emerson.

  My first two months in America had been a cocoon. Tristan and I ate pizza, lit fires, rented movies at the convenience store on dollar night, and cuddled on the couch. We never talked about the future. We didn’t spend time with other people, which hadn’t bothered me – I had wanted to get to know him. But now that we were married, I was ready to beat my wings and break out of the cocoon.

  When he came home from work, I suggested, ‘Why don’t we go out? Or we could invite Molly and Toby over. Or go see Serenity.’

  ‘Aw, sweetie. I just got home. I wanna kick back with you.’

  ‘I’ve been here by myself all day with nothing to do. I want to go out, see people.’ I smiled and stroked his arm.

  ‘Well, if you feel that way, why don’t you get a job? Or learn to cook? I’m getting tired of pizza. Besides, we can’t afford takeout all the time.’

  Feel-felt-felt. My smile faded. I’d wanted to look for a job right away, but Tristan said there’d be plenty of time later. Of course, he’d also told me he lived near San Francisco. I assumed I’d find a job in my field – finally. Instead, I was surrounded by fields in the middle of nowhere. ‘There are no engineering firms here.’

  ‘You could apply down at the café or the grocery store. Things are expensive here. Most wives work.’

  ‘I’d love to. Why don’t we move to a bigger city so I can get an engineering job?’

  He didn’t reply, he just went to the kitchen and got a beer. He emptied the can in one long swig, then said, ‘You knew I lived here when you married me. We’re not moving. This is my house. My money. My rules.’

  I knew what Valentina would say about him and his rules. Give a man a centimeter and he’ll think he’s a ruler. Let him think that he’s the head of the household, you and I know who’s the brains.

  Life in America was so . . . calm. There was always water and electricity. The computer always worked. Building façades and windows were immaculate. When the orange and red leaves started falling to the ground, a man in a cosmonaut suit blew them into piles with a large apparatus, then a truck picked them up. I missed talking to Boba every day; I missed old Volodya puttering around above us, his heavy steps reminding me that I wasn’t alone; I missed t
he scent of Maria Denilovna’s cookies wafting in through the window; I missed the sound of cars racing down the cobblestone streets. Sometimes it felt dead here, as though I was living in a cemetery.

  He insisted we have sex every night so I would get pregnant faster. I wanted a baby, too. Still, some nights when he was huffing and puffing on me I wished he would just run out of sperm.

  In Odessa, women are excellent cooks and hostesses. Wives fuss over their men, serving their husbands the best slices of meat before sitting down and serving themselves. Tristan certainly loved it when I waited on him. I expected to feel more satisfaction. Adapting wasn’t easy. I’m worse off here than I was in Odessa. This thought invaded often. I pushed it away. I was lucky! I was lucky. I was. I was trying to make the best of the situation and to do my best, but nothing I did was right. Like tonight. I peeled some potatoes, which took an hour because I’d never done it before coming to America – Boba always prepared our meals. Then, I put the slices in the frying pan with some oil. Potatoes were my comfort food. I loved hearing them sizzle, I loved the salty smell. They reminded me of Boba, of home.

  ‘Look at that! You put like a gallon of oil in there. What, are you trying to kill us?’

  ‘How are potatoes going to kill us?’

  ‘On the death certificate they’ll write, “cause of death: clogged arteries.”’

  I cooked the same way my Boba did. Her potatoes were always so tender and crispy. Odessans are the best cooks in the world. Everybody knows that. Ask anyone in Moscow or Tbilisi. They’ll tell you.

  Tristan pulled the pan off the burner and dumped the potatoes into a strainer. He rinsed them off and put them back in the pan.

  ‘They’ll burn,’ I warned him as the potatoes started to cook. I smirked. I didn’t know much, but I knew that.

  ‘You really have a lot to learn,’ he said. ‘This is a non-stick frying pan. And I have a secret weapon. You’re going to love this.’

  He took an aerosol can out of the cupboard and started to spray the potatoes.