Love Is Never Past Tense... (4 page)

Serge lowered the bottles next to the receiver and gallantly invited Janna for a dance. They embraced as close as was fashionable at that time: she grasped his neck, and he placed his hands on her waist, so low, that you could hardly call it a waist. A few other couples joined in on the improvised dance floor. Janna joyfully looked into Serge's eyes. Her lips melted away into a smile. Serge gently touched the very edge of her lips, drawing her closer to him. But the melody stopped. The news nobody needed started and the crowd which had just gathered started dispersing.

"Well folks, I am done playing with you," said the guy, watching the departing crowd, almost on the verge of tears. He bent down to pick up the transistor. He noticed the bottles. And he became frozen like a statue.

"Oh no, everything is fine guys!" He became more cheerful, and with an unsteady hand he picked up a bottle. "Is it for me? Like payment for a choreographer?!" he asked.

“You already drank your scales, buddy.” Serge slapped the guy’s palm. On the palm remained fifty kopecks. “That’s for keeping us company.”

The guy thrust the coin into his pants, saying: "This good,
dzhenkuju
”.
¹¹
Moving his face closer to Serge's, he breathed on him with fumes of alcohol.

"The girl you have is top notch! I feel it! Don't miss it!"

"All right, pops. Where are you from?"

Pops didn't hear a thing. All he could do was blankly stare into the distance as he started singing about his enemies burning down his little hut. Slowly, he began to wander back his own way.

***

… On the beach it was twilight and chilly. The wind, though warm, blew in violently from the sea. Serge and Janna settled themselves on a slope. Next to them was a large acacia bush, which provided them a cozy shelter despite the howling wind. The loud, grey sea surged below. It frothed and splashed along the concrete seawall and rocks. The waves hissed when receding back to the sea, fighting with their sisters who rushed headlong towards the coast. The picture was frightening, but bewitching. Serge could have sat like this for hours and watched the surf, that is, if he were able to tear his eyes away from Janna. The waves and Janna were aesthetic equals, and there was no need to spin his head from one to the other.

Serge placed the bottles on the limestone. He took one and pushed the cork inside. Janna took two sips and passed the bottle back. Suddenly, she became gloomy and pensive. Such mood swings in people always discouraged Serge. He never knew what to do in such cases. There wasn't even a visible reason for change.

"Want some more?" he asked.

"Nah," she replied sharply.

"And why not?"

"Don’t ask."

"You want me to finish this all by myself?"

"At your discretion."

"Oh yea, then I'll be singing drunken songs, like ole' Pops, and hover over you."

"I'll run away."

"What for? You wouldn't want to miss it."

"Well drink. Maybe then you will start talking and will say something amusing … You mute."

Serge put the bottle to his lips and sucked down about three-quarters of its contents. He wanted to drink it all out of anger, but it almost caused him to vomit. He put the bottle back on the ground and looked at her. She remained stone-faced. Serge got out his cigarettes, put them next to him, took one up, and lit it. When he put out the butt, Janna was shivering.

"What's the matter? You cold?"

"Nah, it's nothing."

"Are you reminiscing?"

"Mind your own business."

"Then drink. In wine is truth, they say."

She grabbed the almost empty bottle of wine and stared into it, deep in thought. Serge felt his body warm as the first alcoholic fumes weighted his brain. He looked at her drawn-in legs, the arms which clasped her knees, and her face with full lips. No matter how hard she tried to appear boyishly outgoing, it was clear to Serge that next to him sat a woman. Moreover, her womanhood manifested itself so intensely that his body, soaked in the fresh, aromatic wine, wanted so badly to caress and kiss her—just as badly as he longed for the stormy sea. The only thing he did not want to do, however, was to dig into her thoughts and try to understand what was inside of her. Forces of nature drew him to her. He didn't give a damn what she was thinking or what she would think later. How she lives, what are her interests, or who she is in general. Next to him sat a woman—young, attractive, and surely passionate. All passionate types have their sudden changes of mood. It's like the ebb and flow of the tide. If she were half as temperamental, she would still have plenty. But how could he turn this temperament to his favor? …

Serge grabbed the second bottle, put it between his legs, and turning to Janna, said, "I wouldn't have ever imagined that you'd become like this. We came to have fun, to act up; but if you've had a change of heart we can just call it a night. What’s the point of sitting in silence? It's as if we're dragging our feet … "He stopped short. Her eyes stared into the distance, and her lips began to whisper:

"Odessa sleeps silent,

Breathless and warm,

The night is mute, and the moon adorns,

A curtain, light and transparent,

Enveloping the sky. No sound can be heard;

'Cept the Black Sea's surge …"

And then she quietly added, "Oh, my precious boy, I know what you want."

"Of course you know. It cannot be hidden."

"But it won’t happen!" she sternly retorted, without the slightest hint of a joke.

"Well, that makes it easier for us to go our separate ways then. And never, ever get together again? You torturer, sadist!"

Serge clearly understood that now the day was practically lost. Why should he bother anymore with this strange girl? Now he'd hear some stories about her past romantic mishaps and how she didn’t want to repeat those mistakes. She may even tell him that she has a child (which doesn’t look to be true at all) and that she couldn't be immediately intimate with a complete stranger. And all in all, he was not her type. But glancing at her, he saw tears. Their eyes met; two big drops trickled naturally down her cheeks. But suddenly she began to laugh loudly, and Serge began to feel goose bumps running along his spine. Then, through her laughter she grabbed the wine, focused on the bottle for a minute, and tossed it away.

"Open the next bottle," she commanded, rubbing her lips, reddened from the last bottle. Serge hurried to hand her the second bottle. She took several more sips, ate a chocolate candy, and began to smoke …

Serge drank almost the entire bottle, leaving a bit in the bottom, and lay down on his back, attempting to understand something, but couldn’t understand anything. She took the last hit of her cigarette, had a sip of wine, and started down the slope towards the asphalt.

They went along the riverbank, Janna again holding her silence. Both thought their own thoughts. Actually, Serge really wasn't thinking about anything. He had become a bit down. But the wine had done its job, he felt that emptiness in his head, and he decisively didn't want anything. Even her shapely, firm legs couldn't grab his attention.

On a stone guard rail sat an elderly woman selling boiled shrimp. Serge bought a bag and walked along eating them, spitting the shells to the side. If she had turned around and left, he would just deliberately walk his way. He cooled towards her. He became indifferent to her.

He turned on a breakwater where at the end, some fishermen sat covered with tarps to protect themselves from the sea spray, trying to catch smelts. She walked along beside him, but if she had decided to turn around at that very moment, Serge would have hardly followed her. In fact, now she was following him, and he liked it. It was dark on the pier, the wind tossed their hair, and the sea was spraying, smacking into the concrete flood wall. Gazing into the mutinous waves, they had no desire to become better acquainted with them.

"Are you up for a swim?" suddenly inquired Janna.

Serge handed her the shrimp and began to tug off his shirt. Janna waited, while he undressed, then grabbed him by his hand and said:

"Listen, let it go. I was just joking. I forgot that you are a bit drunk.” And then laughingly added, “The sea seems shallow to you now."

"Where was your pity when I was undressing? What am I supposed to do, get dressed again? What am I, a puppet? If you want—you undress me. If you want—you dress me. And then, what does it mean that I am drunk? …” Serge, considering that he had a fairly firm and sober head on his shoulders, was insulted.

"I'll drown. Then you’ll bite your elbows.
¹²
Or maybe you won’t. Whatever you’d like."

And he dove into a rather tall wave. He had a devilish desire to just drown so that his body would be ejected onto the concrete. Janna would fly over; tear at her hair and wail, "Poor me. I brought a poor young boy to his death. Oh my boy, my precious, come back. I beg you! Ohhhh! I fell in love with you! Ohhhh! Someone give him a magic elixir …"

Serge drew up this scene in his mind, diving through the waves. But the desire to drown was gone. He floated out to open waters, and then returned … but he couldn't see the shore. The next wave picked him up, and then the shore came into view. Serge imagined Janna rushing along the concrete shoulder, and he turned back to shore.

He crawled up onto the wet concrete, almost scraping his knee. Janna was sitting silently. Serge stood by her side, not embarrassed to take off his swimming trunks and wring them out. Then he put his pants back on his wet body. He wanted to move close to her, kiss her, and spit to the side in disdain like they do in the movies, but instead he picked up his bag of shrimp and started walking away.

Up above, in the shrubbery, was a stone gazebo. It seemed that nobody was there. Serge turned around. For a long time they stared unblinkingly into each other’s eyes. Then he took her by her hand and pulled her along a steep trail. But climbing up like that wasn't comfortable for either of them, so they switched places, and Serge helped Janna up, supporting her by her hand and reveling in this presumptuousness. Soon they reached the stone terrace. The gazebo was constructed in the standard post-war style. Round columns supported the massive roof. The only thing lacking was an alabaster statue of some horn player or a girl with a bowl. Instead, there was a different, live girl. She sat in the depths of the gazebo, on a pile of straw from God knows where, and next to her sat a guy who looked like a gnome in the grass. Serge went up to the edge of the gazebo and stared down into the dark expanse, where below, almost invisibly, hissed the sea. A distant ship flickered its lights, pointing out where the water ended and where the sky began.

Janna approached Serge, resting her elbows on the fence, which was thick as a boa. In the dark, her shape seemed timid and even tender, although, he certainly hadn't noticed any tenderness coming from her the whole day. She abashedly looked at the ends of her fingers. She clenched them together as if she were asking for forgiveness for their unwarranted interruption of the sentimental couple below. Serge sensed a timid request to leave. But he knew he wouldn't leave. Now, he felt a power over those bodies hiding in the shadows. He felt a power over Janna, remembering how they reached the gazebo, how he touched her firm legs with his head, and how carefully and quickly she planted her feet on the sharp stones of the trail. She hadn't left or deserted him. Recalling this, he experienced a new sense of security. How the hell could they have known that this place was occupied? After all, there was no sign.

The straw rustled. Serge turned around, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and asked for a light. Darkness responded—no matches.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to use my own then,” Serge replied like a high school sophomore. He took out his box of matches and struck one, lighting up the gazebo. On the straw sat two offspring of humanity: a man of about forty, with a large belly and the pitiful countenance of one of Chekhov’s officials, and a woman of about the same age. She quickly shuffled her skirt up to her knees, moving farther off into the shadows. The match’s flame exposed those guilty eyes, and it seemed the couple would get down on their knees and pray: “We are sinners, father. Sinners. May our souls repose …” Janna sputtered with laughter. Serge made a supercilious grimace and lit his cigarette. He wanted to shout, “Get out of here you shameless! …” But turning to Janna, he took hold of her elbow, gently pulled her close to him, saying: “Let’s leave them.” They took a few steps before noticing two silhouettes slithering through the shadows, abandoning the solemn spot of straw.

“Well isn’t that nice of them,” Serge said, sitting down on the warm straw, leaning up against a column. Janna mirrored his actions.

“Give me a cigarette!” The word “please” was clearly not part of Janna’s vocabulary.

Serge handed her the pack. While Janna tapped her cigarette, Serge watched the match burn his fingers; finally Janna lit it up:

“Well that was amusing, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. We’ve been amusing others all day. Now it’s their turn to amuse us.”