Moonlight in Odessa

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  I had a job and money and paid the phone bill, but when I called anyone, even Molly, he turned up the television volume so I could barely hear. He hated to hear me speak Russian with Boba because he couldn’t understand. Paranoid, he thought we were talking about him. As if. We talked about everything but him. Boba described the borscht she made that week, or the amber-colored honey she bought at the bazaar. My mouth watered as I imagined these tastes of home. She said she still hadn’t received a single phone bill. When she called the telecom office, the clerk insisted it was paid. How could that be? She said, ‘For once, they made a mistake in my favor, I won’t question it.’

  ‘Are you still on the phone?’ he growled.

  Shrink-shrank-shrunk.

  ‘Why is he always grumbling?’ Boba asked. ‘He was so nice in Odessa. Was that just a façade?’

  Oh, Boba, you have no idea. I put my hand over the mouthpiece, and said, ‘Will you please let me talk to my grandmother?’

  ‘You’ve been talking for twenty minutes, eighty dollars. That’s enough.’ He grabbed the receiver and slammed it down.

  ‘You, you monster!’ I sputtered. ‘I have my own money, I can do what I want.’

  He stood there, as if stunned.

  ‘S-sorry,’ he said.

  The phone rang. And rang. We just stared at it. Finally, I picked it up. It was Boba. I’d given her the number in case of an emergency but never expected her to use it – calling from Ukraine was horribly expensive. A minute cost one-fifth of her monthly pension.

  ‘We must have been cut off. You know how the phone lines are.’

  ‘I know how the phone lines are,’ she repeated in a tone of voice that told me she knew exactly what had happened. ‘Little rabbit paw, maybe you should come home. Maybe I was wrong to tell you to go to America?. . .’

  ‘I’m fine, Boba. Wouldn’t I tell you if I were suffering? This is costing so much. Let’s say goodbye until next week.’ I hung up the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tristan sniveled. ‘Sorry, sorry. I love you. I love you.’

  ‘Would you just leave me the fuck alone?’ I yelled, speaking my mind like a real American woman. I grabbed my copy of Anna Karenina and took refuge in the bathroom – the only room with a lock. I stayed there the whole afternoon, lying on a towel in the tub, reading. As always, Tolstoy spoke directly to me from the first page. ‘. . . there was no sense in their living together and that people who meet accidentally at any inn have more connection with each other than they . . .’ What to do? Like poor Oblonsky, I again pictured all the details of my quarrel with Tristan, all the hopelessness of my position and, the most painful of all, my own guilt.

  And yet . . . How dare he hang up on my grandmother? Boba was right. He’d been so nice. That was then. And now . . . Now I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to touch him, not even accidentally while asleep. I would sleep in another room. And it would be a relief. I hated the way his milky sperm oozed out of my body, how most nights I went to sleep with a pad between my legs to sop up his mess.

  I made up the bed in the office and lay there, next to the empty crib. At midnight, he threw open the door and turned on the light.

  ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  I squinted up at him. ‘I am in bed.’

  He slammed the door.

  At work the next day, I asked the guys at work to put a deadlock on the office door. Tristan brought home six limp roses as a peace offering. I stuffed them down the garbage disposal. Never was I happier to have a modern appliance.

  True to earlier Soviet-American cold war relations, we did not fight, we did not yell. We simply did not talk. After six nights of sleeping in the office, the door locked, Tristan came to me as I stood at the kitchen counter making a rump roast for him, apple compote for me. I bristled with anger and he slunk towards me like a dog that has displeased his master. He laid his latest peace offering on the counter. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. He’d chosen the right gesture. Books always pleased me. Dinner was a somber affair in which we did not speak, the only sound was him chewing and the scrape of cutlery on his plate as he dissected his meat. After dinner I took the book and began to read. Men are different. They have different needs. Different desires. Nu, da. Well, duh. Between the last page and the back cover, I found a letter.

  Dearest Daria,

  We haven’t wrote to each other since you came to California. I miss your letters. They told me exactly what you felt. And when I wrote, I thought of what I was going to say a head of time. Now, I say and do things without thinking of how it will effect you. Maybe I should go back to writing letters.

  I have made many mistakes since you got here. I’m so sorry for hanging up on your grandma. It is the worse thing I have ever done. I should of understood how important talking to her is. I should of been more understanding. You and her should be able to talk as much as you want, whenever you want. I will work more hours so that you can talk to her more.

  I hope that you can forgive me for being such a jerk. I love you more than anything more than anyone with all my heart and all my soul and more than anything want to live with you as husband and wife, to start a family, to be a real family with you. You are the most beautiful woman in the world and when I am with you, I finally feel like I am someone.

  Your loving husband, Tristan

  I opened the office door. When he took me in his arms, I felt only pity and exhaustion. But these emotions are just as binding as love. He steered me to the bedroom. His eyes were solemn and he wanted to talk about it all over again. I had no desire to. As he opened his mouth to apologize again, I asked, ‘How did you find me?’

  He looked at me, tears floating in his eyes. ‘It all started at my twenty-year high school reunion. A buddy there had a Filipina wife. She was real pretty and young. She didn’t speak a word of English and looked up at him like an adoring puppy. She’d arrived the month before. We all thought he didn’t want to be single for the reunion, so he got himself a wife.

  ‘I asked him about it and he told me that it was easy, that there are dozens of dating sites and thousands of women looking for a decent guy. When he read what Amelia wrote and looked at her picture, he decided she was the one.’

  ‘Amelia doesn’t sound like an Asian name,’ I said.

  ‘Actually, she changed it. Her real name was unpronounceable.’

  A little like Daria, I thought to myself. ‘What did she look like? What did she say?’

  ‘She was short and cute. On her profile, she wrote – well, someone translated what she said, because she hardly speaks two words of English – that she was a traditional lady who wanted a home, a husband and children. She didn’t need a lot of money, she just wanted kindness and respect. He went and got her. Well, that gave me the idea. If he could do it, why couldn’t I? He’s just an ordinary guy like me, but he has a sexy wife twenty years younger than him. I thought I’d have more in common with a European woman, so I looked at the Russian sites. Some had over eight hundred ladies. It was overwhelming. I looked at the ones my age and they looked ten years older than me . . .’

  It’s true that our women have so much work and so many worries that they age quickly.

  ‘So I looked at younger ones. Ladies so beautiful that I could never have scored with them in America. It was, like, whoa –’

  ‘Whoa?’

  ‘Because it just didn’t seem right. Looking at those pictures. I thought it made me desperate and crazy. So I stopped.’

  This reassured me. He felt the same way I had. I took his hand in mine.

  ‘But then winter rolled around and I was so lonesome that I thought I was gonna die, so I started looking again. There’re no single women in Emerson. It seemed like every girl has a guy, you know? Everybody my age is married and anyone younger leaves this town for bigger and better things. So I started looking on the net again and planned a trip to St. Petersburg.’

  ‘You went to Russia?’ Bells went off. He told me he’d never travele
d before. Was that a lie, too?

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I chickened out.’

  ‘Chickened out?’

  ‘Wimped out. Got scared.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Then I saw the Soviet Unions site. You were in photos at the socials, but not in the profiles section, so I figured you worked there. The way you smiled . . . you just glowed. I wanted to be happy like that. It probably sounds stupid, but it just seemed like you were looking at me. Like your eyes met mine. Like there was a connection. Like you wanted to meet me, so I gave my credit card number and created a profile on the website like the girls did. I hoped you’d see it, that you would feel the same connection and contact me. Is that what happened?’

  ‘My boss asked me to correspond with someone. I chose you.’ I felt a pang. I missed Valentina and her forthright, shrewd way. Why had I cut myself off from everyone? If I told her about my situation, I wondered what she would advise. Take him camping, where neighbors aren’t so close and you have a large piece of wood at hand?. . .

  ‘You chose me?’ His voice was awed, as though he’d never been first choice. ‘Why?’

  I couldn’t tell him I’d been annoyed and didn’t want anyone, so Valentina had chosen. I stole a common phrase from the couples at our socials. ‘You had the kindest eyes.’

  ‘Awww.’ His hand reached over and kneaded my hip like it was tough dough. I felt no chemistry, no spark. I cursed Vlad. If I’d never been with him, perhaps I would have been content with Tristan’s wet kisses and his awkward attempts at lovemaking. I told myself that it was a blessing that Tristan wasn’t a gifted lover – it meant that he wasn’t a player. That good sex didn’t mean anything. But I didn’t believe my own words. I wanted strong, sensual hands. I’d tried to show Tristan what I wanted, but as usual, he continued his own litany of moves. I closed my eyes tight and prepared for the onslaught. Every time was the same. His tongue spun in my mouth like a pinwheel. Then he whispered, ‘I love you.’ The effect was ruined when his tongue went back into my ear, as if to block the words from crawling out. I tried to inch away, but he pulled me tighter to him. This time, I spun around so that my breasts were squished against the mattress, my head twisted away from him. My legs were tangled in the flannel sheets and my bottom was raised slightly as I tried to shuffle forward and away like an inchworm.

  ‘So that’s the way you want to play it,’ he said and thrust inside me. I looked at the pine headboard and started to count. It was over by number eight.

  Chapter 22

  Dear Boba,

  I hope that you are well. I am

  The phone rang; I hadn’t even finished the word hello when I heard, ‘Daria, is it you? Have I finally found you? You’re in America, but where? I don’t recognize the area code.’

  Tears welled in my eyes. I didn’t want to tell him. And anyway, it seemed ridiculous. Lost. In America.

  ‘Do you need help? Are you ever coming home?’

  I tried not to cry.

  ‘I miss you. We need you here. Vlad is breathing down my neck, the rates keep going up at the port, and Vita and Vera have made life hell for your replacement. If you were here, I know those bastard inspectors wouldn’t have dared raise their “fees.” You could rein in Vita and Vera. You could get Vlad off my back.’

  It had been so long since I’d had any reminder of who I’d been: an audacious, clever girl. I couldn’t respond to a single thing he said. Bile and mucus and blood pounded together. My throat constricted. My jaw quivered. I fought to regain control.

  ‘How did you get to America?’

  Hiccough.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you married one of those losers from your socials.’

  Hiccough. Sniffle.

  ‘You did. I can’t believe it.’ He sighed. ‘Didn’t I tell you that they were all pathetic freaks who couldn’t get a wife in their own countries? Why didn’t you listen to me?’

  I sobbed. And sobbed. It felt good that someone knew the truth. That I didn’t have to say a word. If he would have shown any sympathy at all, I would have died. Instead, and rightly, he pretended that nothing was wrong, that I wasn’t bawling my eyes out on the end of the line. He started talking about Odessa: the weather (perfect, of course. It was, after all, Odessa), the opera he’d seen the evening before, the monuments going up in the city center. These details, the sound of his voice calmed me and I could finally respond with a sniffle, ‘No city in the world has more monuments than Odessa.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’ve told me ten times. You also told me Odessa’s opera house is the third most beautiful in the world after Sydney’s and Timbuktu’s.’

  I laughed. ‘What can I say? We Odessans are proud of our city.’

  It was so easy to talk about Odessa. I was mortified that he knew, relieved I didn’t have to explain. He didn’t talk about his life either. As he spoke, my tears dried and I felt happy for the first time in months. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask, ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘How do you think? I stole it.’

  I smiled. He really was an Odessan.

  ‘I knew your grandmother would call you. I’ve been stealing her phone bill for months, hoping. And she finally did.’ He sounded very proud of his intrepid self.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t give up.’

  ‘I was about to. I felt ridiculous loitering around the entryway of the courtyard, waiting for the postwoman to pass, avoiding nosy neighbors, then prying your grandmother’s mailbox open with a penknife. But after your call, I knew you needed a friend.’

  ‘More than ever.’

  ‘No one knows where you are. Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving for good? Why not write to Valentina and some of your other friends?’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Afraid to jinx everything, I guess.’

  ‘You Odessans with your superstitions.’

  ‘We can’t help ourselves.’

  ‘You sound so unhappy. Isn’t there anything I can do?’

  I sighed. Move back time. Get me a green card so I can get a job in San Francisco. Offer me my old job in Odessa. Find someone to put Tristan down.

  ‘Can you really hear that I’m unhappy?’ I hated that I sounded pathetic. That he could actually hear I was miserable.

  ‘Only because I know you. Hasn’t your Boba said anything?’

  ‘No, but I hide everything from her.’

  ‘What do you mean “hide everything”?’

  ‘With Vita and Vera, you have to stand up for yourself. Tell your new girl that. Tell her to shout that they’re nothing but a two-headed, one-brained pink monster any time they start in on her. If she makes a scandal in front of co-workers, they’ll back off.’

  ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘Threaten one port inspector. Say that if the company lodges enough complaints, he’ll be fired. Remind him dozens are lined up in his shadow, just waiting for a shot at his goods-paying job.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  ‘Tell Vlad you can’t concentrate on earning money and running a business with him breathing down your neck. Tell him if you have the space you need, he’ll see results.’

  ‘Won’t you tell me?’

  ‘Don’t make me say,’ I whispered. ‘Everything you imagine is true.’

  ‘Why won’t you let me help you?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Tell me what you need and I’ll get it to you. You know I’d do anything for you.’

  I closed my eyes. I wanted help. Needed help. But didn’t want any more debt. ‘I have to go.’ I started to put down the phone.

  ‘Wait!’ I heard him yell. ‘Vlad still asks about you. He’s here all the time. He thinks I know where you are. He tore up all of Odessa and Kiev looking for you. I heard he has someone tailing your Boba. You should throw him a bone.’

  I imagined Vlad emaciated with love for me, destitute a
fter spending his millions looking for me, riddled with self-anger, no, self-hatred, at having let the best thing in his life escape. I imagined him on his knees before me again.

  ‘Why do I care about Vlad?’ I asked. ‘Besides, I’m married.’

  ‘So?’

  Just so.

  I folded down the first page of the marine biology section in the University of California catalog, put it in a manila envelope and sent it to Vlad with no note, no return address – just the postmark from Emerson. This simple act gave me such perverse pleasure. I imagined it was somehow cheating on Tristan and torturing Vlad.

  How was I to know a month later, I would go to work only to find a black Mercedes with blacked-out windows parked in front of the café? There was a ticket on the windshield, since the car was parked in a handicapped zone. Perhaps the driver was a wealthy oligarch who didn’t care about other people. Or perhaps he was from a country that didn’t have handicapped zones or priority cashier lanes for pregnant ladies. Vlad? No, it couldn’t be. Could it? I smoothed down my hair, just in case. No, it couldn’t be. But how I hoped it was him.

  Comme la vie est lente

  Et comme l’Espérance est violente.

  Yes, life is slow, and hope is violent. It couldn’t be him. I put my hand to my ring – his ring, to my heart. Beat-beat-beaten. I entered the café. Vlad was sitting on one of the metal chairs facing the door. Shake-shook-shaken. He stood when he saw me. Instead of his all-black uniform he was wearing jeans and an Oxford shirt. He’d come. All this way. Surely that meant something, I meant something to him. Hope tore through my body. Sing-sang-sung. He stared at me, taking in my face, my brown polyester uniform, my white socks and tennis shoes. All he said was, ‘Nyet.’

  He was here. My heart rejoiced as my pride wallowed.

  ‘Da.’ I looked down at my sneakers. In Odessa, I’d had so many fine high heels. In Odessa, I’d been someone important. Here, I was no one. My only solace had been that nobody had witnessed my descent. Now the one person I didn’t want to see me like this was here. Here! He was here! I bit my lip. Emotions flurried together like snowflakes coming down in a winter storm over the streets of Odessa. Shy hopeful scared flattered thrilled ashamed. Everything would be fine. Everything would be fine. Fling-flung-flung. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. And couldn’t think of a single thing to say.