Love Is Never Past Tense... (12 page)

Several days passed in silence: they clearly let him know just how insulted they were. But somehow, one evening they began a conversation. It continued over the next few days, heavy with splashes of emotions, the drinking of heart medication, tears, and other attributes of the sudden misfortune. There was a strong opinion that Janna had wrapped him around her finger and put a ring on his, taking advantage of his inexperience and even infantilism. What for? It was clear: to replace a Jewish surname, to achieve the coveted Moscow registration,
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or whatever else could be on the mind of this woman. When Serge tried to say that they loved each other, his explanations were either ignored or met by sarcasm.

There were almost daily calls from Janna, where she said she could not live another day in separation. She was ready to throw everything away and to fly like mad to the aid of her husband. Serge, though, considered her arrival premature and extremely inappropriate during this inflamed time. He had, he explained, two examinations left for the autumn. It was necessary to pass these tests, to prepare for the exams—but Janna’s voice was breaking up and she asked him to come just for the weekend …

At last, she could not bear any more and arrived herself. The terrible conversations were now directed towards her. Serge was not needed any more: it was necessary to find out what this woman had in her head. His parents were locked with her in a room, and the discussions bordered on torture. Janna sobbed.

“Were you a virgin? What do you want from my son? How much do you make? How much does your mom make?” asked Serge’s mother. More terrible conversations ensued. Janna ran out on the terrace to cry in private, which caused even greater hostility from Serge’s non-supportive father.

During one such conversation, Serge opened the door, approached Janna and lowered himself before her on his knees. He took her hands in his and began to kiss her palms. He then embraced her head, nestled against her cheek, and whispered: “That’s it … that’s it … calm down. Now everything will be over.” He turned to his parents, and in a quiet, but firm voice said: “You are all very dear to me, and I hope you are not indifferent towards me either. Understand: I love this woman. I want to be with her and I want all this hysteria stopped.” He got up, and pulled Janna to his room …

“Oh Lord! If it was only so!” he thought. “Lies, lies—I didn’t do this!” He sat by himself on an ottoman, like a little mouse, and listened to the commotion created in the next room. She flew one thousand kilometers to rescue him, to rescue them in the name of what—Moscow registrations? Bosh! In the name of the preservation of love? And he had not made two steps, though he could easily reconcile both parties. How much could he have done later to save their love, their sincere feelings? In this life, it appears, you need to struggle, fight, and tear with your teeth those who intrude on the sanctity of love between two human beings.

Certainly, tearing his parents with his teeth did not follow. They understood human words, and gradually, their tone began to soften. Janna managed to reduce their negative attitude towards her.

Conversations, already quiet and logically weighed, began. “Where will you live? You have three more years of school. Spouses should live together, but here in our house it is simply impossible. You have a sister who should study too and so on and so on.” The romanticism of relationships was replaced by real everyday questions. When Janna was getting ready to fly home to talk to her mom, though, more pressure was applied.

Serge, Janna, and his mother went outside. “OK Serge, let’s go,” invited Janna.

“He will not take you to the airport,” said his mom.

“He told me he will.”

“I know him better than you. He will do as I say.”

Serge stood dead in his tracks, silent. Janna left by herself.

***

Part Two

Overboard

The old man opened his eyes, and looked around. Everywhere, was the quiet dark blue sea. In the distance, about eight to ten kilometers, the big city glimmered. The strip of land running to the edge of the sea, departed from it, and was lost in a muddy perspiration of air. The boat rocked on soft waves. The sun ran almost three quarters of the day’s route. “Perhaps it is time to begin,” the old man whispered, and picked up his bottle of whiskey. He made two big drinks and accurately screwed on the lid. From a bag he took out ham and cheese sandwiches, and slowly, enjoying the food began to chew.

“Ah, memory, memory!” he said to himself, rubbing his forehead. “In fact I do not remember how or when I came to the firm thought of divorce. Little drops of water can change the shape of a stone.”

Once he went with his uncle on an electric train, and for a solid hour, in enough detail, his uncle convincingly proved that women grow old earlier, and lose their appeal. This by no means affects sexual life and men, being in the prime of life, seek carnal joys elsewhere, and the marriage collapses. You need to marry girls younger than yourself and mold them to you, so that everything is where it belongs.

Serge’s uncle himself was unfortunate in his marriage. But he did not get divorced: he lived with this woman whose mind was not a tenth share of his own, but continued to live with her, often washing down his sufferings with vodka. Serge respected him, and therefore trusted in all this rubbish.

The old man finished one sandwich. He again took a sip of whiskey. He started the second.

In his memory, the mean scene emerged when Janna arrived again in Moscow in late autumn. But she stopped at a girlfriend’s, in a dorm of the architectural institute. Serge plodded there with a portfolio with statements of the applications for Janna to agree to divorce. But Janna burned through them with a cigarette. She then said that she wished to make love to Serge, perhaps for the last time. And they loved each other, and then Janna declared that now she would have a child, and no divorce could happen. She took his things, and ran out from the room. He remained naked, humiliated, and suppressed.

What was it? Anger, that destiny turned out this way? The desire for revenge on this youth who has surrendered? Only Janna could know the answer. But this scene made it a disgusting business: his love that did not have time to become stronger in his heart, dissolved. This happened during the period, when this love had to be grown carefully, like a crystal in a test tube.

Serge sent the application for divorce to the Kishinev court—in place of the registration of marriage. He long looked forward to the answer. Only after a year did the summons come.

The students’ everyday lives dulled their former feelings, and he arrived in Kishinev with an empty and cold heart.

They sat again in some uncomfortable, smeared green painted room. “Is it true, you want a divorce?” asked the judge. Serge nodded. "Yes," Janna said, with an absent look around the room. The judge prepared the papers for a long time. Serge looked at Janna. She was quiet and proudly sat on a bench, and to Serge it seemed that once again in the Registry Office everything was done precipitately, incorrectly. In fact the valid reasons for divorce were really not there. He liked this woman. He even admired her. But it was difficult for him to understand whether he loved her then. He recalled Janna’s words then, on the Odessa train platform: “If you leave—we will never meet again.” How wise Janna was, when she authentically knew that separation—was a tomb for love …

“No! Don’t do this!” Serge suddenly screamed. He jumped to his feet and made a step towards Janna. “Janna, Jannoska, my darling, I love you. It is all a lie. I do not want to get divorced. Let’s get out of here.” He lifted her up, and crazily began to kiss her face. She embraced him, and they quickly headed to the door …

***

“Oooh, Oooh!” howled the old man. “Well why didn’t I do this back then? Why did I sit? What was I waiting for, and what was I thinking? That life was only beginning and that there were so many chances ahead. That I would find better. And life—blink—flew by. Don’t separate from your loved ones: just grow with your blood flowing through them … Did I sprout like that? Nope, I did not even try. He bobbed on the waves, like an uncontrollable little craft. Here he would be taken at the end, in the middle of the sea. At the end …”

“Yes-yes, it is time to clear out,” whispered the old man. He bent over to get a bottle of whiskey and he felt tears welling in his eyes. He placed his face in his hands and silently began to sob …

***

Since October, 24th, 1974, the date of their divorce, five years had passed. During this time Serge finished the civil engineering institute, and worked for about a year in his department at the institute. His work consisted of driving waves in a laboratory pool, and studying their destructive force on construction in the high sea. It is impossible to say that this occupation was very pleasant to him. He performed the most complicated formulas, making calculations on the huge institute computer, for which you needed to sign up for your turn. There was a lot of dry paper work. He wanted to dive into life and have communications with people, instead of spending time with books spotted by mathematical calculations.

An opportunity appeared. Somehow in a café, he got acquainted with the executive director of the regional newspaper—he was a fervent and funny guy of 32 years. He told him that there was an opening in his department for a correspondent, and after a while Serge received his first editorial task. After a second, and a third, he was hired by the newspaper and began to adapt to journalistic work.

In two years he decided “to go to the people”.
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He also went to a Komsomol
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for Outstanding Construction in Siberia. In each edition, he agreed that he would write about the glorious work of the Moscow building team where he went as one of its leaders. But he never had a chance to write. No work deeds were ever completed. They worked on the construction of the Surgut beer factory. And the whole group consisted of children and little girls who were not able to find work close to their homes. They came without specialties, and without desire to work, but with a greater desire to get drunk until they squealed like pigs. Not a night passed without a fight in some hall or in some room. They fought among themselves, then fought united—against the young people from the Kazakhstan group.

Bruises were raised, blood flew, and teeth were knocked out. What body of communistic propaganda could publish articles about such a life? Serge could not lie and write cheerful materials. At last, most of the violence was driven out, and many ran away from there. Life in the dorm calmed down and even achieved some civilized features. It formed a drama group, and Serge began to write and direct his own plays, reflecting everyday life on the “Outstanding Komsomol Construction” site. They started having parties with contests and dancing, and many started subscribing to the sports section, so that life began to get better, in comparison to the initial period …

One day when Serge entered the dorm, the senior babysitter (oh God, what a position!), who distributed the mail, gave him a slip of paper saying that he would get a telephone call at nine o'clock that evening. In full confidence that the conversation had been ordered by his parents, Serge sat in a waiting room and waited for the call. But the voice that came over the telephone line turned him to stone. On other end of the wire was Janna. His Janna! No, she was not his anymore. For a long time, she was not his Janna! The conversation was about nothing. Serge learned that she married and had a daughter, Allochka.
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She said she was doing well and had a husband in Kishinev, and asked how he was doing “in his poor Surgut”. “What are you doing there fool? You are ruining your life? Do you think it is given to you forever?”

In response, Serge mooed something unintelligible. The stiffness did not go away. The allotted call time was over, and the quick beeps of a hang up were heard. “Even here she found me again,” he thought. “She was not lazy: in fact, she needed to order a long distance call and eventually pay. What for? Almost six years after the divorce.” Serge went down a footpath, creaking in his felt boots. Pines, branches weighed down with snow, looked as if they wished to share the grief that unexpectedly tore into his core. “She is not indifferent to me. Otherwise, why would she call? Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe she wanted to tease me. And here I am. I live without you and everything is all right with me, and you are freezing there in Siberia. Yes, the husband, the child …” Something like a pain insultingly made its way to his chest and ruthlessly squeezed it.