Miles (3 page)

With
as much dignity as I could muster, I stood up and walked out of the room,
ignoring the verbal explosions erupting behind me.

* * *

And I myself see not the bottom of it.

Troilius and Cressida

I
spent the rest of the night in my bedroom.  My desk lamp and the dial of
my stereo receiver were the only sources of light.  I switched on the
classical station, turning the volume loud enough so I couldn't hear anything
else, knocks on the door, phone rings, or my own empty thoughts.  They had
just started broadcasting a performance of Mozart's
Le Nozze de Figaro
,
a sweet, exquisite opera whose joy really magnified how shitty I felt.  I
had put on a thick sweater over my dress shirt, a pair of thermal socks, and an
old pair of Dad’s hiking boots, and kept my pea coat, black wool scarf, leather
gloves, and surplus French Army beret at the edge of my bed, in case I got
thrown out of the house, or decided to leave.  I laid on top of the covers
of my new king-size bed, a birthday present from last year I pretty much hated,
and buried my head in four pillows, trying not to cry, which was hard, and made
the tears that eventually came that much more painful.

*

I
could feel winter coming and Nicolasha's arms around me, squeezing me against
his cold leather coat, my lips touching a snowflake on his lapel, tears running
down my face, and his soft voice whispering a Russian song into my ear, rocking
me back and forth as we stood together at the edge of the large, rocky steps
that led downward to the icy waves of Lake Michigan, his hands slowly rubbing
my back.

I
woke up with a start, my eyes fixed on the orange glow of the stereo
receiver.  My face and pillow were damp with sweat.  I peered out of
my bedroom's large window at our vast and empty backyard.  I could see the
corner of one of the village's dainty little parks beyond it.  The sky was
black and starless.  I stumbled over to the receiver and turned it down to
a mere roar.  It was
four a.m.
, and the deep-voiced announcer read a brief news
update while I took off all of my clothes and crawled back into the womb
beneath the quilt, blanket, and bed sheet.  My God, the station then
started playing
The Age of Gold
Suite.

Well,
it looked like dear old Mom and Dad were going to hear Nicolasha's record, after
all. 

I
heard every note of the Suite, but I wasn't listening.  All I could think
about was leaving school yesterday, and how it felt to have Nicolasha's arm
draped over my shoulders.  I pictured Nicolasha tucking me into bed and
kissing me on both cheeks, like my Dad used to, holding my face in his warm
hands as his body pressed against mine.  I struggled to keep my own hands
outside of the covers and away from my waist, trying to blot the image out of
my mind.  I turned over to lay on my stomach and my erection.  It
took me a long time to fall asleep again, and, by the time I did, it was almost
light. 

*

While
walking through the frost-covered park to the train station, I passed a young
couple making out on a wooden bench.  I remembered she went to the local
public high school.  She was pretty, too, with short black hair and a full
chest that pressed out from her tight leather jacket.  I didn't recognize
the football jock.  He was a beefy red-head with freckles all over the back
of his neck.  He didn't look very bright.  She sat on his lap with
her hands deep inside of his lettermen jacket, while he held her waist with one
hand and rubbed her legs with the other.  I heard a funny mixture of
moaning and soft laughter between the sucking sound of their lips.

His
eyes shifted to meet mine.  I slipped on a small patch of ice and landed
painfully on my knees.  They stopped kissing for a moment, their faces red
from the cold and wet with saliva, staring at me as if I was a clumsy kindergartener. 
I hurried to my feet and ran to the platform, too embarrassed to look
back. 

Peeking
from around the corner of the platform stairway, I stared miserably at them,
kissing each other like a Soviet nuclear attack was imminent.  I begged
for a train to pull in and take me away from them. 

* * *

such sweet thunder

A Midsummer Night's Dream

"Count
Dracula and His Vampire Bride."

A
couple of dozen intrepid moviegoers and I emerged from the faded and threadbare
single-screen cinema near the heart of
Hyde
Park
's business district into the
cold and cloudless Friday afternoon.  Most of my fellow horror film
connoisseurs were unoccupied students like me, enjoying the free day before the
gear-grinding stretch leading up to Christmas break.  Despite a tatty
budget and outrageous re-title job done by the film's third distributor (it was
once "The Satanic Rites of Dracula", the final installment of Hammer
Films' wonderful series starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing), we all had
a good time listening to the British actors confuse the film with a new West
End performance of
Edward II
, and watching sexy vampire girls get staked
between their bobbing tits.
 

The
temperature couldn't have been any higher than twenty degrees.  The air
was thin and sharp, making the exhaust fumes from the passing cars and the
rush-hour buses that much worse.  The sun was bright, but was already
moving to the other side of the apartments and trees that separated
Hyde Park
from its desperately poor neighbors to the west.  I began to wander in the
direction of the train station, even though I sure didn't feel like leaving the
city anytime soon.  I had considered going downtown and seeing some film,
any
film, in one of the remaining movie palaces left in the
Loop
,
but the thought of doing battle with the hordes of "opening day"
Christmas shoppers kept me from going any further north than the odd,
integrated neighborhood of the Pilot Institute.  And now, having seen the
Dracula film and digested a hardy breakfast of unbuttered popcorn, a plain hot
dog, and a large Coke, it was time to go home. 

And
the hordes didn't sound so bad, all of a sudden.

A
warm hand reached over the back of my neck and squeezed gently.  I stood
still, imagining some hulking, deranged
Vietnam
vet wanting to kill some silly white kid from the
suburbs.  Nicolasha peeked around my shoulder with a dimpled smile, his
right arm dropping across my shoulders as I recognized him and relaxed.  I
involuntarily wrapped my arm closest to him around his waist and returned his
smile with a pretty bright one of my own, before blushing and drawing a few
inches away, like everybody around us was suspicious of something.

"I
would have thought commuting to school five days a week would be quite enough
for anyone.  Do not tell me you wanted to see the Dracula film that
badly!"  Nicolasha stayed close at my side as we walked to the
stoplight together while my eyes stared at the train station across the street,
as if its terminus were Treblinka.
 

Nicolasha
patted my shoulder, drawing me back to him.  "So?  How did you
like the film?"  

"I
love all those Hammer Films!  That wasn't a very good one,
though."  His nose and ears were red from the chill, and his hair was
its usual mess.  His face looked so kind and happy, sticking out from the
plump woolen scarf wrapped around his neck.  "I'm glad I saw it, all
the same."   

"So
am I.  At University, we all used to stay up to watch them on late-night
TV.  I like the Frankenstein movies best."

I
laughed.  "Besides, stuff like that never plays out where I live, and
I wanted to get out of the house."  My teacher noticed the slight
change of tone and expression as I mentioned home.  His eyes looked sadly
into mine.  I think he understood...  something.

"Are
you enjoying this very Russian weather?"

"It's
OK."  I looked at my Dad's hand-me-down Omega watch, a neat golden
job with a worn but elegant brown leather band that was a souvenir from my
rather quiet fourteenth birthday.  The boxcars would be arriving in a few
minutes.  I avoided Nicolasha's baby-blue eyes, but not the feel of his
hands on my shoulders.
 

"I
can tell something is bothering you, little friend."  Friend. 
Damn.  I had never thought of Nicolasha as a friend.  I guess my only
other friends were the guys I played baseball with during the summer.  We
hung out after our games, and I got invited to all their houses for barbecues
and sleepovers and birthdays, but when we finished playing, I mostly just went
home.  Damn.  "Would you like to go someplace and talk about
it?  The lake is just there.  Or perhaps over some warm
tea?" 

Two
pedestrians hustled past us into the street, cutting off a station wagon in the
middle of a turn.  I shook my head and glared at the pavement. 
"I don't usually talk about stuff like that, with anybody."  I
suddenly felt very empty again.  It never occurred to me to talk to anyone
about how I felt.  It always seemed safer to keep it in and wait for my
thoughts to go away.

"I
know what you mean.  That is why I listen to so much music." 
Nicolasha sighed.  "It is much easier than trying to say all the
things I want to say, and the music never talks back or argues.  It just
listens to my heart, and makes me feel better.  After all, it is hard to
find somebody who you want to talk to, and wants to listen, at the same
time."

"No
shit."  I watched my train roll to a halt on the platform up ahead,
looking packed, as usual.  Oh, well, I mused, there would always be the
next one.  "I guess that's what parents are supposed to be
for."  Or the next one after that.

"And
yours are not?"
 

"I
don't know.  I've never tried to find out."  Well, you know,
booking months in advance for a heart-to-heart can really be hard for a
sixteen-year-old, even an intelligent one like I used to think I was. 
What would I have said, anyway?  Ask my Dad what he thought a good dad
was?  Or why I didn't think he was a very good one, nowadays?  Ask my
Mom how to love people?  Or why I wasn't sure she could answer that
question anymore?  To hell with that.  I'd rather have just gone to
bed, maybe cried a little bit, and hoped I forget everything by the next
morning.  I felt like I wanted to cry right then, too, damn it.

Nicolasha
wrapped an arm inside of mine and turned us around, heading back toward the
city dusk.  The creepy orange street lights had switched on.  I
missed the plain white ones the city used to have.  He pointed to a small
storefront a block down from the movie theater.  "They have an
excellent used record selection in there.  Let me buy you something to
cheer you up." 

"Get
out of here, Nicolasha.  My Dad buys me off with a big allowance, and I
don’t get most of the music you really seem to like, Ligeti for one.  I
mean, I love the stuff, but it's all pretty sad, you know?"

Nicolasha
put his lips close to my ear. I could feel the warmth of his breath near my
neck.  My legs practically locked where I stood.  "Life cannot
always be like a Strauss waltz, little friend."  He tried to smile me
out of the dirty look I didn't really mean to give him.

"It
shouldn't always be like the
Trauermusik
, either."
 

"No,"
he admitted, acknowledging my reference to a past lecture on Hindemith with a
respectful glance.  Nicolasha kept our arms together as we trotted across the
street to the store, whose large front window was safely locked behind decaying
riot bars and was filled with posters of mostly dead jazz and rock
musicians.  A scruffy ex-hippie store clerk winked at us as we headed to
the back of the densely stocked shop, where the massive rows of classical
recordings awaited us.  My eyes gleamed.  There was the rest of my
fifty-dollar holiday allowance, I concluded with a thin smile.

Nicolasha
stood beside me as I rifled through the stacks of records, nodding at works or
readings he thought were good enough to buy.  We each ended up carrying a
large box filled with my purchases out onto the dark street, where it had
gotten even colder.  I was flushed with the odd thrill of spending a lot
of money on things I knew I would love and my parents would hate.  Hell, I
wouldn't have time to listen to half of these by the end of the weekend!

(I
saw Nicolasha checking out a boxed recording of Massenet's
Thais
and
snuck it into my haul without his notice.  He would appreciate that, I
thought.)

"I
do not think you will be able to take all of these home with you, little
friend."  Oh, man, I hadn't even thought about that.  I could
see myself, lugging the boxes out onto the platform in my old neighborhood to
change trains and getting jumped over my thin supply of Al Green.  "I
can give you a ride home, if you would like."
 

A
gust of Arctic wind hit us, almost blowing my beret off of my head.  To
hell with the train, I thought.  "That would be great.  Thanks,
Nicolasha."  I didn't know he even had a car.  I hoped it was in
better shape than his wardrobe.

*

Nicolasha
led the way to a clean, attractive block, lined with thin trees and a
collection of vintage, World War One-era dwellings.  Despite the bulk of
my record haul, we walked quickly, driven on by the frightful wind chill in the
air.  He stopped at an imposing three-flat walk-up that would fit right
into any of the Hammer films I've seen.  “Here is my flat.  It often
reminds me of my old home.”

A
silver Volvo sedan that looked brand new was parked in front of the
granite-faced building.  Nicolasha set his box onto the edge of the
Volvo's bumper, opened the trunk, and put the records into the tidy
compartment.  I did the same.  He wrapped a heavy blanket over the
boxes and slammed the trunk shut.

"Cool
car."

Nicolasha
smiled proudly.  "My mother and father gave it to me when I earned my
doctorate.  It is my first car, so I treat it like a baby."  He
gestured to the passenger door.  "Are you ready to go, little
friend?"

"Can
I use your bathroom first?"  My breakfast Coke had become painful,
and I suddenly wondered what his apartment looked like.
 

Nicolasha
slapped his forehead gently.  "I am sorry for being so rude.  I
should have invited you in.  Please."  He practically ran up the
porch stairs to hold the front door open for me.  The entryway was small
and dark, lined in aging pine.  There were three brass mailboxes on the
wall.  The staircase, set against the side of the wall, was even darker
than the vestibule.  Nicolasha unlocked the door to his first-floor
apartment, switched on a light, and beckoned me in.

He
took off his black loafers and set them beside the door.  "The bath
is in there," pointing to the half-open door in the middle of the narrow
hallway.  "I will make some tea to warm us up."  I smiled
at my teacher as he headed to the kitchen and I pulled off my cold hiking
shoes.

The
room was spotless, even though the bathroom fixtures showed the age of the
building.  Everything was done in bulging, white porcelain.  The bathtub
was gigantic and stood on four legs, like the one in our old Roseland
apartment.  The light switch was at the end of a thick, fabric-covered
wire that hung from the middle of the high ceiling.  The chilly floor was
made up of hundreds of tiny white and black square tiles.  Good Lord,
Nicolasha had a bottle of Mr. Bubble near the tub.  Did Soviet Russia
produce a rival equivalent, I trifled?  What did they call it? 
Comrade Bubblevitch?

The
harsh echo my pee made was embarrassing.
 

I
passed through the plain dining room to join Nicolasha at a small coffee table
set against the wall of the kitchen, just in front of the apartment's back
door.  He poured the hot tea from a stainless steel pot into a pair of
small, clear glasses with ornate copper bases and finger-holders.  The
kitchen was small but fluorescently bright.  The gas stove, sink,
cupboard, and refrigerator all looked fairly antique.  I couldn't help but
think of one of the bakery ladies, Antonia, and the constant warmth of her little
apartment near the train tracks.  She always had me and my Mom over for
huge Sunday dinners, wonderful dinners, when Dad was still off in the Navy,
defending democracy or some stupid thing.   

Nicolasha
spooned some honey into our glasses.  "This will take the chill out
of you."  The tea was delicious.  He pulled a small loaf of
black rye bread and a block of dark orange cheese from the oven and cut them in
half.  A wave of contented warmth swept over me.  "I am sorry I
cannot offer you dinner, little friend, but I usually eat out on the weekend,
and do not go to the store until Sunday night."

"It
can't be any worse than my Mom's turkey."  Nicolasha laughed.  I
took a bite of the rich, salty bread and the sharp cheese.  Where was the
vodka?  "They're great."  I finished my glass of tea in one
gulp.  My teacher smiled and served up another for me.  "Where
do you get bread like this?"

"Three
old brothers from Brody have a delicatessen over on
55th Street
. 
They bake it fresh for me when I come in, which they enjoy doing, because we
gossip in Russian."