It used to be a cinch for me to fly from Budapest or Moscow to Frankfurt, and then board a plane for Chicago, and from there - catch another to the Midwestern city where I live and work in a publishing company.
No matter how tight the flight schedule, I almost never missed a connection. It was sort of a diversion for me: run, my bags in hands, through the busiest airports in Europe, maneuver from one terminal to another, and, without even breaking a sweat, make it to the connecting flight precisely on time. I used to take great pride in knowing how to navigate those airports all but blindfolded. Always able to negotiate the fastest shortcuts, while easily and defiantly evading less seasoned vacation travelers who slowly and sullenly moved toward their gates.
Not anymore.
I am slowing down now. I even adopted a rule of always staying overnight somewhere before catching my transatlantic flights.
I tested London's Heathrow, Brussels' BIAC, and, finally, decided on Frankfurt-Main as my favorite overnight spot. There is a nice and clean hotel directly adjacent to the airport terminal, and you don't even need to set your foot outside - just roll your bags up the escalator, and then cross a glass-covered bridge right to the hotel lobby. The floor of the passageway is made of a very soft rubber-like material with numerous thin grooves, running diagonally - so the rolling luggage wheels always make a comforting little noise, like the sound we used to make as kids running a wooden stick over some old tin washboards, to make the sound of a roaring motor. The moment I'd reach the passageway and hear that familiar sound of my childhood, I'd instantly feel relaxed. I like the hotel's exquisite and fresh seafood buffet served in a little restaurant tucked in the cozy depths of the building, where even outdated but always neatly vacuumed carpets promise tranquility and calm.
Or, at least that is my biased perception because the hotel, the service, and the scrumptious buffet are in stark contrast with the places I usually stay in East European cities.
There is another little convenience I really appreciate. A tram connecting the airport to what we'd call in the States Downtown stops right at the hotel lobby level. Again, you don't even need to set your tired foot outside until you disembark somewhere in the center of this unnaturally clean city. Inasmuch as I like Europe, to my shame I find most of its cities tediously similar. Of course, I know better than to volunteer my opinion. It wouldn't be wise to mention this to many of my acquaintances of European descent. I have no intention to be labeled a snob or something else, for they always passionately talk of going back to Europe one of these days, and spending enormous amounts of time and money re-exploring the continent from north to south and vice versa.
Well, that is not my idea of a well-spent vacation, but while on a business trip, I enjoy finding myself somewhere like Frankfurt, in a small street away from the tourist traps, instinctively trying to blend-in with the busy and self-absorbed afternoon crowd.
I think I do blend-in. But again, that's what I think. I have absolutely no idea how the locals see me. Not very approvingly, I suppose, because I often go into the town wearing my dress pants and my good old white-on-blue Nike's. This is a "no-no" even in Germany, which has never been known as a fashion trendsetter. But, I suspect, most of the time the locals are oblivious to my shoes, and such nonchalance makes me feel quite content.
This time, I discovered a little coffee shop cleverly linked to a tiny store that sold periodicals from all over the world. Perhaps, this concept had yet to catch up with the locals, for the coffee shop (I cannot even pronounce it's name in fear of brutally maiming it - my German is not good at all) was empty, except for a clerk behind the counter. The boy was about 18 or so, with bright blue hair. His head was adorned with very thin, almost transparent red ears densely littered with earrings of various sizes and shapes. He was obviously working on his homework, but took his time to greet me in German, and then indifferently switched to English, when I said "Good afternoon" to him in return.
I asked for some coffee. The boy, demonstrating the same indifference, dove under the bright aluminum-coated counter, and a minute later produced a cup of excellent coffee. I looked at him with surprise - he knew what he was doing - and clumsily complemented his coffee in German. He muttered "Bitte Seihr", and again became absorbed in his books.
I moved closer to the shelves with fresh newspapers. Some were neatly folded and stacked by their countries and languages, but some others were just scattered around five or six plain pine tables. The tables' light, honey-colored surfaces were thickly smudged with the printing ink. The whole room was filled with a keen scent of printing ink mixed with the aroma of fresh coffee.
What a wonderful air it was - the air of my youth. When I worked in the daily paper in the old country and spent my time as a night editor, I sat in a small room off the main floor of the printing plant. I shared this tiny room with a few other kindred spirits, with whom we read, read and read never ending proof sheets before signing the paper off to press, and then went for a beer and, of course, long, heart-to-heart talks.
Suddenly I knew what to do. I had to find my old rag in this pile of newspapers. I wondered whether that paper still existed. After all, over 30 years had passed since I left. I have never had even a remote interest in resurrecting my distant past, and deliberately detached myself from everything that might have drawn me closer to the life I so abruptly and eagerly abandoned.
I am not saying that the way I choose to live my new life was the right one. Perhaps not. My purposeful immersion into my adopted culture did very little good for my standing in our large and, I must add, very opinionated immigrant community. I always felt more at ease with my American colleagues, while my former countrymen all but accused me in being ostentatious.
After I married an American woman, a cute pediatric nurse named Annette, the things became even tenser between my former countrymen and me. They openly disapproved of my marriage to Annette. They never talked directly to me about it, and once in a while Annette and I were even invited to some big social events. But I always knew they'd prefer me to be married to one of "our own."
All this did not prevent Annette and I from living a reasonably happy life together for 25 years, and raising our twin daughters, Jessica and Erica, while doing all the things as the Joneses would.
Well, it seemed my former countrymen jinxed me anyway.
Later, much later, when Jessica and Erica moved out, and Annette left me, I found myself madly and hopelessly in love with - what do you know? - a talented classical pianist, Elaina, who came from St. Petersburg.
Of course, our affair is doomed. Actually, what we have hardly even qualifies as an affair. We seldom see one another, because she lives in an obscure coastal city in Georgia - the only place where her husband, also a musician, could find a job in the struggling local symphony, and where Elaina takes computer classes, while also giving piano lessons to a few good-for-nothing rich kids.
Elaina and I write long e-mails to each other. It seems to me she is not totally indifferent to me. Or, again, this is just my own perception of things, which may not at all be a reflection of reality. I don't want to admit it, but deep inside I think I am giving myself too much credit. OK, I am an interesting man in Walter Mathau sort of way - not necessarily handsome, but charming and clever, and I probably can charm a willing young woman with my fascinating life stories told in both languages. I am not sure, though it's likely for a beautiful young woman to fall in love with me. But, again, after reading Elaina's letters, I can never tell what her true feelings for me are.
I never know things like that.
During these past two years we have seen each other exactly four times, and this counting the evening we first met. The other three times we were never even alone. So, we are stuck on a strictly intellectual plateau. Much to my dismay.
Of course, Elaina is 23 years younger than me. And, like all this isn't enough, she is the daughter of a Russian couple, who lives in my town and whom I occasionally see socially. They are a nice couple. When I was married to Annette, we were very much in touch with Serge and Lisa. They were the first to call me after my divorce and to offer help.
They even invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. It was, as I think now, a bad idea. None of this is Serge and Lisa's fault. They meant well, they did not want me to be alone on Thanksgiving.
It was a bad idea for me to accept. When Lisa coaxed me to say `yes' to her invitation, I knew I'd be in trouble. Especially considering that I already made crafty Thanksgiving plans of my own. I persuaded one lady, a fashion magazine editor from my publishing house, to share Thanksgiving dinner with me in my new condo. We were good friends with Sandra for many years, even flirted occasionally, and recently spent a totally unforeseen, but fervent week at a boring convention in Vegas. Naturally, I was looking forward to the evening with Sandra. I don't think I had a clear vision of the sequence of events that might have happened after dinner. What I planned was just a deliberate attempt at resurrecting my social life, which, frankly, was severely dented since my recent divorce.
Sandra cancelled at the last minute. I guess she did not have a clear vision of the after dinner events, either. Of course, Sandra said she was sorry, and she'd rather spend this evening with me but her son wanted her to be with the family.
I was sorry, too. But most of all I was terrified by the prospect of a long evening vis-Ю-vis a tedious supermarket-cooked turkey, which I bought in advance. Actually, my secretary bought it for me. I wouldn't even know how to buy a ready-to-eat turkey. When I was with Annette, we always made a big deal out of cooking turkey at home. I always liked Thanksgivings. It seemed to me a very sincere holiday, and my girls loved it, too. But now my girls are living their happy lives in California - where else? And, no doubt, cook their own perfect turkeys.
I suppose they do cook turkeys in California?
I shoved my dull bird back into the freezer, shaved one more time for no good reason at all, firmly decided against wearing a tie, picked out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from my rapidly depleting bar, and went to Serge and Lisa's.
And that's how I met Elaina.
She smiled at me, and we talked at length. And then we talked even more and drank wine, and laughed a little. She played the piano, and we talked again. Her parents, Serge and Lisa, were looking at us with amazement, and Serge warily asked Elaina to call her husband and she said `later', and I think she never called him, at least, while I was there. I was - how should I say? - smitten by Elaina from tip to toe.
I am not sure whether `smitten' is the right word to be used by an experienced guy like myself, but for lack of better definition of what happened to me that evening two years ago, perhaps, I will stick with `smitten'.
Smitten or not, but I often feel myself very uneasy about the whole situation. That is, until I heard about that actor Michael Douglas, who is my age, and a middling starlet named Katharine Zeta-Jones, who is Elaina's age. It made me feel better for a while. Then I remembered an old Latin maxim I knew since my college days: "Quad licit Jovi non licit bovi" (What's permitted to Jupiter is not permitted to a bull...) Of course, Michael Douglas was Jupiter, and I was the other one in this ancient Latin proverb's cast of characters.
My love for Elaina is my most serious and, I must confess, the most painful attempt to reconnect with my distant past. I cannot get rid of an unsettling notion that I spent a quarter of a century being married to a woman from a strange world to which I was transplanted, but was never fully accepted by.
The surest way to dismiss this ludicrous thought is to talk to my daughters. And, of course, I do so often, and each time I forget about my doubts immediately after I hear either Erica's or Jessica's strikingly similar voices inquiring "Are you OK, daddy?" I feel extremely lucky to have twins. This gives me an opportunity to call one of them every other day and never be perceived as overly annoying old daddy of two independent daughters.
...And now, in this obscure little coffee shop in Frankfurt, I sharply felt I absolutely must find my old newspaper. Why - I was not sure, and am not sure now. It just suddenly seemed very important.
I know I happened upon this coffee shop for a reason. Maybe there were the answers that I was subconsciously looking for the last several years, since my twins married and moved out, leaving me with too much debt (two weddings in one year!) and too much free time to think my life over.
I found my old paper. It was buried under many newspapers from the region. It didn't look like they were particularly in demand among the few accidental customers of the coffee shop. The papers were relatively current, though, and I eagerly opened mine.
The masthead is redesigned. The paper's name isn't even spelled out anymore - instead, it is brazenly reduced to just two initial letters entangled into one indecipherable combination. All of the pages are mostly taken by ads, leaving very little room for articles.
My fingers were tingling with excitement while I feverishly leafed through the pages as if I was in a hurry to find something very special. And I did - it was a theater review, written smartly and with so much respect to actors and the director that even the harshest of words somehow did not sound offensive. I knew of only one person who could write with such great precision. Tanya Gregorian.
I read the review once, then a second time, then a third. The words, the manner in which Tanya built her sentences, her veiled humor, - I remembered it all now, vividly and sharply, as though these past 30 years had never happened to me.
I was again in my late 20s, a promising and rebellious young reporter, running up and down the stairs - with no problem - in the three-story editorial office. It was a modest building in the homeliest of labyrinths of my medieval city. The city I loved so much, and which was then home to the people I loved.
"Say, do you suppose I can take this newspaper with me?" I asked the clerk.
He was still in his books and notes, and just quickly shook his blue hair. I was not sure whether he approved of my taking of the paper, but I chose to interpret his gesture in my favor, and left. Just in case, I put a dollar bill on the brightly polished aluminum counter.
...My room in my favorite hotel was comfortably cool. From the 12th floor window I could see some tiny people in miniature uniforms working on the airport field. The sun was about to get some rest for the day, and I suddenly felt much calmer than I was in the tram going back to my hotel. I have these sudden spills of anxiety, especially when I am about to sit down and begin writing, knowing exactly what I want to say, and - better yet - knowing exactly that the story would come out really well. This was not the case. Obviously, I was not about to write a story. The story was unfolding all by itself.
And then I did the next best thing. I looked up the phone number of my old paper, and, without thinking twice, dialed it. God only knows what I expected to hear. Perhaps, just the long ringing sounds. It was late in the afternoon, and the paper's offices were, most likely, closed. Just in case I also looked up the night editors' room's phone number. There were still people there, I was sure. There are always people in the night editors' room in any newspaper.
The phone was picked up rather quickly. A man with a sleepy voice (probably, a night guard) answered, stating the paper's name.
"Sorry for waking you up," I said in Russian. "Listen, I need to get in touch with Tanya Gregorian, she gave me her home number, but I seem to have misplaced it. Please give me that number, would you?"
"Who? Tanya who? I don't see any Gregorian here on the list."
Probably, Tanya is married. She changed her name, but still signs the reviews with her maiden name. This happens all the time. The guard, though, is not much of a reader...
"Oh, I am so sorry. I had too much to drink tonight, and... Do me a favor, give me all the Tanyas you have on that list of yours... Do me a favor, huh?"
"You are in luck, pal. There's just one Tanya. And her last name is not what you said. Now, you better sober up. Can you manage to write the number down?"
The sleepy guard, who was convinced I was drunk, slowly read me the number, and hung up.
I complimented myself for being such a good Thespian, and suddenly realized that I needed to have a cigarette. I desperately wanted a cigarette. I put my shoes on and decided to go to the lobby. By the time I reached the elevator, I changed my mind. I'd rather have a drink. Otherwise it would sound like I shamelessly deceived this wonderful night guard a couple thousands miles away.
I took the elevator to the bar, and found a table by the window. It was the time which my wife - my former wife - Annette would call "the Twilight Zone", when you dare yourself to catch that precise moment when day turns into evening, and the entire world sort of holds its breath in anticipation of this obligatory transition.
The bar was almost empty, because it was still dinnertime, and other travelers - certainly much more sensible and reasonable people than I - were sitting there in my favorite restaurant and enjoying my favorite seafood. I wasn't even hungry. I was looking forward to an evening with my favorite summer drink, gin and tonic with lime. Lots of lime, as I always insisted. Not that I particularly liked the lime, but somehow I learned to state my desire for lots of lime in such a way that I managed to command a considerable respect from waiters, especially the least experienced of them all.
I realized I was sitting right by the narrow phone booth, so I could call Tanya any time I wanted to. Maybe even right that very moment. I hurriedly finished my first drink, ordered another one, and as soon as the waiter left, I went into the booth and dialed the number.
"Hello?" Tanya's voice was slightly hoarse, and as always, she intoned like she was asking a question, not making a statement.
All the words I prepared as an opener while the phone was ringing were lost at once. I said simply "Good evening, Tanya."
She was silent just for a very brief moment, and then responded confidently and calmly "Hello, Alex? Are you OK?"
"Tanya," I was slightly taken aback by her matter-of-factly reaction, as if she had expected my call to come, after thirty years, at precisely that moment. "It's me, Alex. From your past. From... our past."
"I know." Tanya was not about to fall from her chair in astonishment and surprise. Is that what I was hoping for?
"Are you in town?" She asked. To my own amazement, I said "Yes. Just for a little bit. May I see you tomorrow?"
"I'd like that," she said. "Come to my place, I'll be home in the afternoon. You remember where I lived before that job I took before you left? The same place by the Art Museum?"
"I'll be there. But tell me, how are..."
"We will talk tomorrow, Alex." She interrupted gently. "We will talk tomorrow."
My hotel's concierge, a petite Turkish woman in her thirties, who wore a majestic fragrance, was professionally patient with me while she tried to explain that there were no major airlines flying to my desired destination until the next evening. Of course, she realized the price was not an issue for me and she was extremely happy for me being so financially well (I wish she knew the truth!) but if there are no flights, no money in the world could buy me a ticket... Except, of course, if I'd be willing to take a flight that we in America would call a "red-eye flight". Then I can be there by breakfast.
The concierge looked at my neatly combed silver hair, at my expensive suit like she was evaluating my chances of surviving this flight, and, while I was deciding whether I should feel guilty for my dapper appearance, she added with poorly hidden sarcasm:
"You may not feel comfortable on this flight, Mr. Turovsky. I see you are mostly flying first class. You know, it's a start-up national airline, and very seldom there are passengers clad in pinstriped suites... Perhaps, you should wait until later tomorrow? I could arrange a first class seat for you."
"I promise I'll fly in jeans, and I'll pull a few wrinkled shirts from my suitcase... Just get me the tickets. And one more question, if I may. What fragrance are you wearing? You smell just as great as you look."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Turovsky," The concierge was visibly pleased with my undisguised blarney. "It's Dolce & Gabana, Light Blue... You can get it in the duty free shop at the terminal. And your tickets, Mr. Turovsky - you can pick them up in 30 minutes at my desk. Or we can deliver them to your room. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Looks like I had made myself a very busy evening. I called the States, woke up Linda, my secretary, and offered her a quick lie about a good business prospect in my old country. I will need to stay there for a few days. Linda answered wryly that she'd inform the boss tomorrow about my unexpected change of itinerary. I had a feeling she did not believe me. Linda was a very perceptive but very reserved woman...
Then I called Elaina. When her husband answered the phone I wisely decided not to ask for Elaina. "Sorry, wrong number," I mumbled cowardly.
It was quite inconsiderate of me to call Elaina at home. I almost never call her at home. I think of myself as basically a nice person, and I am not about to hurt people. But this time I desperately needed to cling to the familiar. I was afraid that after my visit to Tanya the things would change forever.
And there was no way in hell to say whether it would be a good change...
At the duty-free shop I picked up the fragrance that the concierge recommended. It was quite expensive, but I really liked it, plus there was no time to shop for something else. I couldn't even think what this "something else" might be. I was never good at choosing gifts. Annette always was taking care of things like that, and I was relying on her intuition so much, so I never developed this gift selecting skill. But I felt like bringing Tanya a gift.
The concierge, who was now flashing me her most charming smiles, handed me the tickets.
The red-eye flight, the ride from the airport to the hotel in a taxi with a nauseating smell of cheap gasoline, the scenery I was able to see on the way, a quick breakfast in the hotel's lobby - all these left almost no impression on me.
I was tired. Plus, my shin hurt badly. A little boy in enormous tennis shoes, who was sitting next to me in the plane, accidentally kicked me in the shin so hard I almost shrieked. His mother was scared more than I, and, after apologizing to me, perhaps a thousand times, she held her son in her arms for the rest of the flight. The excitement I anticipated - I-am-back-to-my-home-town-after-thirty-years - did not come at all, and this made me upset. I was not prepared to be so numb, because I always saw in movies and read in books, that the nice and sensible people are supposed to get excited about things like that.
I barely got settled in the hotel - just a block away from the University I graduated from a thousand years ago, - and decided to walk to Tanya's apartment. I needed that walk. Even though my leg hurt and I limped slightly, I needed time to put my thoughts together. So many thoughts that I'd probably need much more time than the twelve-minute walk. There were so many things I tried so hard to forget over the years, to overlap them entirely and thoroughly with my new events, my new feelings and habits, my new family, new situations, my new friends and even new language.
I made it to the third floor without a single stop, without a single short breath. Exactly the way I used to run to this floor when I was in love with Tanya, and could hardly wait to see her every evening.
I rang the bell.
Was she waiting for me behind this door, which was still padded in the same brownish leather-like material.
What was she thinking about? How did she imagine me being older?
Was Tanya, like me, trying to resurrect the past? Our past? Or may be she did not need to dive deep into the memory to recall our love because she kept it close to her heart, unlike me? Maybe it was me who betrayed the past and now deserve to be...
Then I saw Tanya.
She was standing right in the center of the doorway, her long hair (gray like mine? Or still that luscious red mane?) was permeated with light descending from the narrow window behind her. And before I was able to say anything, she extended her arms, hugged me, and saved me from the uncertainty and the awkwardness of the moment:
"You came back to me? You came back to me, my Tur?"
She talked the same way that made her so irresistible back then - like she was asking a question, always a little bit worried of what the answer might be. And she still called me Tur, a nickname she assigned to me a long time ago, and which really stuck but only among my closest friends.
We talked. But the more we talked the more I realized, with sadness, that our talk never really evolved into a... dialog. Tanya was telling me the story of her life without me, and I listened, feeling upset for not understanding the nuances she was trying to convey. But at least, I could capture the essence. When it was my time to tell her my story, I was sure she lost me somewhere between my first job in a restaurant where I washed dishes for a year, my twins' softball practices on Fridays in the city park, the concept of "tee-pee-ing" the football team's houses, and my marketing job at the publishing house.
What can I say - I was a foreigner, a damned foreigner. I had no business to be in my old girlfriend's poorly furnished apartment, where my exquisite and very expensive fragrance looked grotesque and completely out of place. Tanya didn't even bother to open and smell the fragrance when I gave it to her. She just glanced at the elaborately wrapped box, gently touched silk bunting on the box, and put it on the top of her drawer equipped with a clapper block that still doubles as Tanya's writing desk. I was sure the fragrance would be there forever, because Tanya would never find an opportunity to wear it.
I woke up the next morning in Tanya's bed. She was sleeping by my side, and her face was peaceful like long ago, when we... when I was in love with her, and when she was talented, whimsical, and totally unpredictable. I was never sure what she'd do next - jilt me, and disappear for a week, without even saying a word, with one of the young actors whom she just gave a rave review in the paper.
But, on the another hand, it would be quite in Tanya's style to emerge from her absence, and call me, unapologetically, from the bus station's pay phone, demanding to bring her something to eat, and then ask that I kill this miserable son-of-a-bitch actor, and marry her just as soon as I'd accomplish the first two requests. And, not believing myself, I would obligingly do what she'd ask, except, of course, killing the no-good young actor. That would be a bit of an extreme measure.
As for marrying her, I was hesitant. That would be yet another extreme measure. I was not anxious to get married. Even to Tanya, although I was sure I loved her.
Gosh, she was beautiful and talented! Of course, by today's cover girl standards, Tanya would never make the top ten lists. Her beauty was very unusual, asymmetrical, if you would. She seldom wore any make-up, and was very negligent to her hair. And yet she managed to look superbly well groomed. She emanated mind-boggling power and sensuality that drove men crazy. When she chose me as her steady lover over some athletic guy with movie star features, I was really proud of myself.
If only I knew what I was getting into. To love Tanya was - how should I say this? - a difficult pleasure. She'd let me totally enjoy her slim and silky body. Her whispers during our most intimate moments were so hot, so inviting and so unexpected, so I came to believe she loved me, too. But then, after a few days when I was convinced I needed to marry her just to keep her for myself, she'd suddenly get up, pick up her things and leave again.
The last time I saw Tanya was when she took a job at a small newspaper in the nearby town, and in exchange she was given a two-bedroom apartment. That was quite a prize for a person who spent almost all her adult life living in dormitories and empty summer cottages - the last resort for poor journalists, whose chances to get state-distributed apartments were nonexistent.
Tanya was lucky for she was talented, and her name was largely recognized. So, she took this awful job of editing this small newspaper, full of slogans and bravado. I knew she hated what she was about to do with her life, and she was aware I knew her true feelings.
But when she moved into her new place, and our entire motley crew of young writers, artists and actors came to her housewarming party, I couldn't find it in my heart to tell Tanya anything. She had her own kitchen now, and her own hot and cold running water, and her own balcony, which was so cinematically covered with the first pristine snow of the season, and two (two!) her own bathrooms with shiny tubs, and her floors were also shiny and smooth. How could I rain on Tanya's parade?
Tanya and I stepped out on the balcony to talk, because it was too noisy inside, where our friends, languished from vodka and, most of all, from the unusual comfort of a very real, very new apartment, yelled, laughed and argued all at once.
"You are disappointed in me, aren't you, Alex? Can't you understand why I did what I did? I just wanted to have a home, my own home. You don't even know how much I want to have my own home..."
"I am not disappointed. I am happy for you. What are you going to do now to complete the picture - marry one of the local bureaucrats and write about the communist party meetings?"
It was quite cruel of me to say this to the woman I loved, but I was slightly drunk, and... Yes, I was envious of Tanya's firm decision, and her new place where even the balcony was so beautiful and covered with the pristine first snow. Her reaction was as unpredictable as always - she slapped me on the cheek with all her might, and then kissed me on the lips, the longest and the sweetest kiss I have ever had from this woman, who caused me so much pain and who brought so much delight into my life.
In the morning, when the first snow had become the first major storm of the winter, I left Tanya's new apartment, and very soon - as circumstances presented themselves - I left my city, my country, and my first love forever.
Or so I thought at the time.
Now, in another morning, and in another time, I was about to leave her once again. It was the only right thing to do, and I knew that Tanya knew this, too. We ate breakfast that she fixed - she still was an awful cook - and we talked more. As usual, Tanya sensed something about me that even I myself was not sure:
"You are in love with someone, Alex? Tell me."
How could I not give a straight answer to Tanya?
"Yes, I am in love. She is a Russian woman. There is a problem, Tanya. This woman is very young. And she's married, too."
"Very young?"
"Very, very young. When you and I were... Well, when I was in love with you, she was about three."
Tanya looked at me with curiosity.
"And what's the problem? There's no age limit for being happy. You should know that by now. Does she love you, too?"
"I don't know. I don't know things like that. I never know. Did you love me?"
"What do you think? But I'm your past. She very well may be your future."
"There's really not much I can do, I am afraid."
Tanya came closer and kissed me:
"Afraid to love? You'll figure what to do, I am sure. You always were a smart boy."
She said she would call her son and ask him to take me to the airport.
"You didn't tell me you have a son."
"You didn't ask. I told you I don't have a husband, remember? You assumed the rest, Alex."
She was right again.
"Tell me about your son."
"His name is Victor; he's a software engineer, not married yet. He helps me a lot - money and stuff, you know..."
"Are you coming to the airport with me?"
"You don't want to see this old woman cry at the airport, do you, Tur?"
I wanted to spend a few more hours with Tanya, but I knew it was useless to make her do what she didn't want to, so we... we said the longest goodbye to one another. I wanted to offer her some money, and even went to the bathroom, counted my cash - I had about $400 left - and put it in an envelope so I could give the money to Tanya. As soon as did this, I prudently decided against it - I was sure Tanya would never take money from me. Or from anyone else, at that matter.
Victor, a tall, skinny and quiet young man in his early thirties, drove me to the hotel first, where I paid for the room I didn't even use, and then to the airport. On the way he tried to speak with me in English about some small things, but never even once asked me about my connections to his mother.
When he dropped me off at the curb by my airline (this time it was a real airline, not the red-eye national start-up), Victor handed me a small envelope:
"My mom asked you to open it when you are back in your world. That exactly what she said, I think. When you are back in your world."
As my plane took off, I broke my promise to Victor, and opened the envelope. It was way beyond my willpower to sit for two and a half hours without knowing what Tanya wrote me.
There was a handwritten letter:
"I always loved you, you foolish old Tur.
Victor is your son, but he does not know it, and I want to keep it this way.
Tell Elaina you love her because there is no shame in loving someone."
The letter was signed "Tanya. From your past."
... I landed in Frankfurt, and ran to my room in the hotel. I called Tanya, but there was no answer. I call the newspaper, and the same guard answered the phone. He said he thought he saw someone at the Movie & Theater desk working quite late, but he was not sure if this person still was there. I asked him to go there and check. When he came back he told me, quite guiltily, that the woman was already gone. I did not believe him, he sensed that, became angry and recommended to call tomorrow.
I was sure Tanya knew I would try to reach her, and made certain I wouldn't find her easily.
I had a terrible headache, but pulled myself together and called my publishing house. I told my boss that I was tired and needed some time off. Reluctantly, he agreed to three days. I asked for a whole week. He added a day, and I decided not to haggle anymore - my boss was notorious for changing his mind frequently and suddenly.
Then I called Elaina. This time she answered the phone herself, and I told her what I thought of on the plane. She did not say a word, just listened to me. I was exhausted, and I said:
"I'll be arriving in Chicago tomorrow afternoon. I want to see you. It is very important."
"Important to whom?" She interrupted.
"To both of us."
"There cannot be us, Alex. I am very sorry. Please try to understand." And she hung up.
Well, it looked like my last chance to change my life was definitely and rapidly evaporating. I was okay, except I felt, as they say, my age. My shin, bruised on that red eye flight just two days before (two days only?) started to hurt again, and my head was now throbbing.
I left the plane in Chicago. Dragging my luggage to the exit, I noticed that the walkway was covered with a rubber-like material with diagonal grooves. The wheels of my suitcases were making the same disgusting noise as on that poorly ventilated glass-covered bridge, which connects Frankfurt airport with the dilapidated hotel where I used to like staying overnight.
I made a firm decision to go to the Magnificent Mile, get a quiet room in a good hotel and waste all four days of my (now perfectly useless) vacation sleeping until noon, sitting by a pool, and watching old movies on TV. May be I'll go for dinner to my favorite sushi place by the lake. Yes, I will definitely go for sushi.
With lots and lots of sake.
I slowly walked to the exit, holding my passport. When a custom officer welcomed me back to the States, I saw a young woman in a white dress who stood quietly, afar from the crowd, looking tired and bewildered.