Love in a Zapor

 

A while back, this turd of a vehicle cropped up in front of my house. It was a Zaporozhetz, a name often shortened to Zapor, which means constipation in Russian. No one knew whence came this marvel of automotive engineering that proudly and justly bore its aforementioned title. Once white, this specimen was now a dirty gray, with rust-eaten fenders and a busty naked chick painted on the hood, under which was a proud representative of the internal combustion engine family. The car's bumper, nearly falling off, was wired to the frame. The door handles were missing, replaced by—you guessed it—more wire. In short, it was a "super-deluxe" model in tip-top technical condition, a real pain in the ass on wheels.

My son declared it a gift from the heavens and suggested we strip it for parts.

"Who knows?” he said. “Something might come in handy. We've got a Zaporozhets in the garage, just in better shape." But I forbade him from doing any such thing. The car had a license plate (wired on, of course). Maybe the owner would turn up. You never know....

One night, I woke up to a horrible roaring noise at 2:30 in the morning. Half-asleep, I wondered if we were having an earthquake. I peeked out the window. Three shadowy figures were trying to start the Zapor. I doubted that they were its rightful owners. Why would anybody come for their own property at such an ungodly hour? The Zapor roared like a wounded lion but wouldn't start. It hadn't earned its nickname for nothing. The guys pounded on it, caressed it, spat on it, and kicked it. The Zapor didn't budge. It just kept howling. I went back to bed.

The next day, I heard a commotion outside. Looking out, I noticed that clearly there were people in the Zapor. I went out and approached the wonder wagon. Inside sat a young couple. What a pair! They looked forty, but considering how excessive drinking and smoking can age you prematurely, they were probably much younger. The male specimen was not entirely sober and therefore particularly chatty. He gleefully explained that the car had broken down on the road, so they pushed it to my house. His Russian was quite refined, with cursing entirely replacing his grammar.

He assured me the Zapor was the best car in the world. Worth its weight in gold, he said. But he'd sell it to me for just 10 bucks because he liked me. I told him I couldn't accept such a kingly gift... I mentioned that someone had tried to steal his wonderful car in the middle of the night. "That was me," he explained. "I came with some friends." I asked why at night. "Because we were drunk," he replied. Looking at him, I figured he probably hadn't been sober for a decade, and his girlfriend likely hadn't bathed in just as long...

"Listen," he addressed me in a very confidential tone. "You wouldn't happen to have some moonshine, would you?"

"What, you think I'm running a distillery here?"

"Ah, too bad! My insides are on fire!"

"Yeah, a drink would be good right now," his companion confirmed, snuggling up to him.

 

I went back inside and sat at my computer. Soon, my wife came and called me for lunch.

"Did you see those two in the car?" she asked.

"Of course. What are they up to now?"

"What a man and a woman usually get up to," she replied.

I looked out the window. Sure enough. A scrap of newspaper barely covered the window, and behind it, I could see the man's backside bouncing up and down.

"To each their own," I thought. "Some people experience life's pleasures on their private yacht in a blue lagoon. Others savor them in their car." The Zapor swayed before my eyes like a yacht on gentle waves, a true blockage on the street of life.

"Ah, forget them!" I said. "Let's eat."

 

That plug-ugly car sat in front of my windows for what seemed like an eternity. Its owners would show up from time to time for their love sessions. Grass started growing around it. I called the police to report that a vehicle had been parked under my window for a long time and was being used for purposes other than transportation. Nothing changed.

I looked out the window one day and saw quite a scene. That same woman was standing by the water pump where we get our water. Her face was battered and swollen. Twin streams of blood were trickling from her nostrils, and every now and then she'd spit blood. Her boyfriend stood next to her, yanking out tufts of grass, wetting them with water from the pump, and shoving them up her nose. Tossing away one bloodied clump, he'd rip out a new one. The woman didn't move. A third companion squatted nearby, thoughtfully smoking. All three were drunk, but still managing to stay upright. My wife came up behind me.

"Ah, those three," she said. "They were drinking in the Zapor. Now they've crawled out to freshen up."

The woman said something to her boyfriend. He tossed aside the bloody tuft of grass and walloped her across the cheekbone. Then he went to his buddy, bummed a cigarette off him, and lit up. The two men walked away. The woman meekly shuffled after them.

A few days later, the couple appeared in front of my window again. The Zapor howled in a peculiar way, the man behind the wheel yelled something, the woman gave it a push from behind, and... the Zapor moved off, leaving a bluish cloud of exhaust in its wake.

That pain-in-the-ass car and its owners never showed up on my street again. I sometimes wonder if I dreamed it all. But the depressions in the ground, bare of grass, tell me it was all real...

(Translated by J. McVay)

 

 

Moses

 The guy was a genius.  I only came to realize this many years after graduating. He taught us English majors "foreign lit" — the history of foreign literature. He was a man just over forty. Tall, skinny, with a seriously receding hairline on his fiery red mop, he looked a lot like the Nobel Prize-winning physicist Landau. His name was Moses Solomonovich. The department fairly buzzed with legends about him.

His lectures were like theater performances. Students from other departments would show up just to see the show, because there was always something worth hearing and seeing. Mid-lecture, he'd suddenly step out from behind the podium, take a few steps to the side, and start his sacred ritual. Closing his eyes, he'd launch into a Russian version of Hamlet's monologue:

To be, or not to be, that is the question....

He'd recite with feeling, in a slight singsong, swaying ever so slightly. The students would be spellbound.

"That's Pasternak's translation," Moses would say. "Pretty decent. But Mikhail Zagulayev in the 19th century did some equally brilliant translations. Listen to this...." And he'd give us Shakespeare as interpreted by Zagulayev.

It seemed like Moses could recite any foreign author off the top of his head. He'd pause for a few seconds, as if digging something out from the depths of his memory, and then he'd quote from a Russian translation:

I need a wife, for better or worse,
As long as she's a woman without a spouse.
Thin or fat — that’s all right.
Let her be ugly — it's dark at night.

"Whose masterpiece is this, my friends?" he'd ask.

"Burns?" someone would tentatively answer.

“Absolutely right. Robert Burns, Scotland's national poet. But whose translation is it? You don't know? Who wrote these little verses?”

A mouse sang in her hole at night:
Hush, little mouseling, don't you cry!
I'll give you a bit of bread to bite
And a stub of a candle by and by.

Remember now? Correct. That's Samuil Marshak. He could write for both kids and grown-ups. Anyone want to recite some Burns in English? Or even in Russian?"

But there were no such experts among the students.

"I get it," Moses would say. "Students don't have time for 18th-century poetry. You've got grammar to learn, modern vocabulary to memorize. And let's not forget the history of the Communist Party — no one's cancelled that for you. It’s such an essential subject in our society," he'd add with a smile.

Attendance at his lectures was completely optional. Don't want to come? Don't. Unlike other professors, he never punished students for skipping his lectures.

"If students are ditching a professor's lectures, it's the professor's own fault. It means he's boring. Students don't need boring teachers."

We had this this one serial skipper, Vitya Motorin. He'd even blow off seminars on Communist Party history, not to mention lectures on foreign literature. But one day, he actually graced Moses with his presence. Spotting the new face, Moses smiled and said:

"Nice to see a new face. Pleased to meet you. I'm Moses Solomonovich. I hope we'll be friends."

Vitya didn't hear a single reproach from Moses. And he got a solid 3 on the exam.

Sometimes Moses would give us a heads up:

"My friends, study on your own for a bit. I've got a part-time student coming who needs some special attention. She needs to take the exam early. She's due to give birth soon, so I'll bump her grade up by one point."

Pregnant part-time students were always coming to take his exams early. These girls — or rather, young women — weren't interested in Chaucer and Bacon even before they got pregnant, let alone when they were about to pop. Sitting in front of Moses, they'd bat their eyelashes and sigh sadly. Their knowledge of the subject? Zilch. But Moses would try to save them.

"So, you haven't read Romeo and Juliet?"

"No, I haven't."

"Hmm...." Moses would drawl. "Well, maybe you've at least seen the movie?"

"What movie?"

"About Romeo and Juliet. The English film."

"Oh, yeah. I've seen the movie."

"What's it about?"

"Love."

"Correct. See, you already know something. Can you remember anything else from the film?"

"Like what?"

"Like a melody, for instance." Moses would pause, take a breath, and in a soft, pleasant baritone, started to sing...

I can't sleep at night, from dusk till dawn,
It's not insomnia—I'm simply love-worn.
I used to think such things couldn't be,
But now I find I can't forget thee.

"Can you continue the song?"

"No, I can't."

"But did you at least recall the melody?"

“Yes. It's very sad, but pleasant."

Moses looks thoughtfully at the girl (a young woman with a small belly).

"Tell me, please, what grade should I give you?"

“A 3, if possible."

“If I give you a 4, you won't be offended?"

"Oh, not at all!" The happy student leaves the classroom in tears. "I love him! What a man!! He's a genius!!!"

 

I have a clear memory of taking an oral exam from him. I happened to get the works of Bernard Shaw.

I came face to face with Moses in our Institute’s tiniest classroom, which was located in an 18th-century architectural landmark. Tolstoy's children had once studied within these walls. A few desks had been crammed into this tiny cell-like room. Moses settled down behind one. He peeled and ate an orange while I was preparing my answer. As I sat down opposite him, he pulled out a Belomorkanal cigarette and lit up. It's hard to imagine now, but smoking wasn't banned in the institute back then — students could smoke in the corridors during breaks. The more liberal professors even smoked in the classrooms themselves during lectures.

Puffing out a cloud of smoke, Moses noted: "I see you haven't read the textbook. Though there's not much to read there anyway. The material's pretty weak. But I can tell you've studied Shaw's biography as interpreted by Hughes. That's a good source. I approve. Did you pick up anything personally meaningful from it?"

"I like some of Shaw's thoughts."

"May I know which ones?"

"For example, about love."

"What exactly?"

"If a person hasn't fallen in love by forty, it's better not to fall in love after that."

"I assume that's not a threat for you?"

"Nope, not a threat."

"Thank God, not for me either. Anything else?"

"Yes. About patriotism, for instance. It's supposedly a naive delusion that one country is better than others just because you were born there."

"I can't disagree," Moses nods and takes a deep drag. "Being a genius, Shaw understood perfectly that paradox and truth are often one and the same. Honestly, I never cease to admire this Englishman's wit and keen observation. Where's your grade book?"

He gave me a 5.

 

Only our institute's rector, Professor Shustikov, nicknamed "The Bolshevik," could match Moses for the brilliance and originality of his lectures.

He was short and chubby, with plump cheeks and a very friendly face. When he walked down the institute's corridor, students greeted him respectfully and sincerely. He responded just as sincerely. Everyone respected him, and it was impossible not to. They said he was a brave man who feared no one. He could show up unannounced at a collective farm where his students were harvesting potatoes, check how they were being treated, and give the farm’s chairman a dressing down. He could speak the plain truth to the regional party secretary’s face in a meeting. Despite his high-ranking position at the institute, he still handled his fair share of the institute’s everyday teaching duties. He gave lectures and administered exams.

His lectures were unforgettable. He'd start them in a barely audible voice, speaking with a noticeable effort, as if he were recovering from a severe illness or a wild bender. Gradually, his voice would strengthen, taking on a metallic edge. And then he’d start waving an arm as his strong bass voice boomed through the large, acoustically perfect auditorium:

Hostile whirlwinds blow over us,
Dark forces oppress us viciously.
We've entered a fateful battle with enemies,
Unknown fates still await us.

After singing a couple of verses, The Bolshevik would pull out a handkerchief, wipe his sweaty bald head, and say: "We Bolsheviks know where to go and what to do."

I remember taking his exam. I had to talk about the formation of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party and the goals set by the newborn Bolshevik revolutionary organization. I didn't know everything, but I got a question I knew how to answer. "I see you've read Lenin. And that's the most important thing," said The Bolshevik. "Give me your grade book."

 

One day, I came to the institute and saw The Bolshevik's portrait in a black frame on the bulletin board. Heart attack. It was a shock for the entire institute. He was only fifty-four.

They carried the body out of the Officers' House. Moses was among the funeral organizers. He moved through the crowd of students and mourners, giving instructions on where to stand and what to carry.

At some point, he ended up next to me. "A great man has left us," I said to him.

He looked at me sadly and said: "It happens to us all, the great and the small. Help that girl carry the wreath." And he led me to a student I had long wanted to approach but never dared.

Moses! How did you know I had a secret crush on that girl? Did you notice it during lectures and decide to bring us together?!

Funerals are long affairs, so I got a chance to open up to my future sweetheart. Thank you, Moses.

Some time later, Moses's portrait appeared on the same bulletin board for the same reason.

Students hurried along the corridors. The girls' eyes were wet. Some were sobbing quietly, others crying aloud. Moses was gone....

 

… A lot of time has passed since then. But I remember this unusual man well. I understand now that I was dealing with a genius. But I didn’t know it back then.

(Translated by J. McVay)

 

It Happened One Evening

 

It was evening, and I was bored out of my mind. The weather was awful, and my mood was in the gutter. I thought to myself, "If I don't have a drink, I'll die." So, I shoved my feet into some rubber boots (to save time on lacing up shoes) and hurried off to the store.

As I walked, I realized what a mistake I'd made with my footwear. Our street in March is slippery as hell, and in rubber boots, I was like a cow on ice. I kept sliding around, about to wipe out at any moment.

Our street in this old Russian town is one of a kind. In spring and fall, you can't walk or drive on it. Walking is possible in the winter, but snow-covered potholes make driving a nightmare. In summer, every car kicks up such a dust cloud that you can barely see through ten meters ahead, and breathing is so hard it feels like you're in a gas attack.

I've complained about our street's condition to various officials countless times (I mean, what can I do besides clean up the bit in front of my house and plant some trees?) I've written to the district administration and even met with our people’s deputy.

The deputy, a pensive young guy with a full beard like some delegate from the Second Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party, didn't quite get what I was asking for at first.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want the street paved," I replied.

"That costs money. There's no money in the budget."

"The businessmen have money," I said. "Look how many of them have popped up! They've built parking lots on every corner. That's private business exploiting public spaces, by the way."

"What, you want to expropriate their businesses? That smacks of Bolshevism, my friend. That's not our way."

Long story short, I left empty-handed. We just didn't see eye to eye.

A couple of years back, an Englishman named John Stark visited me one day in November. He was a credit advisor from the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development, here to help set up new capitalist relationships in our city. It was autumn, and this guy showed up in shiny dress shoes. The moment he stepped onto our street, he started swearing like a sailor. And when he slipped and landed with his black macintosh in a puddle, he used words you won't find in any dictionary.

We washed his coat at my house. While it was drying on the kitchen stove, we drank vodka in the living room, and I showed him some family albums. John particularly liked a wartime photo of my dad next to his T-34 tank near Kursk. He said you'd need a tank like that to drive down our street. Those Brits, always cracking jokes...

 Anyway, I made it to the store without a tank. I grabbed my usual favorite, Golden Muscat, in a cardboard box. The fact that it's not in a fancy bottle doesn't bother me one bit. It's a tried-and-true drink. The taste, the alcohol content, and the price all work for me.

I hurried home. So slippery! My feet were doing pirouettes like a figure skater on ice. I was about ten meters from home when my latest move failed, and I did a triple axel, landing right on my tailbone.

Holy crap! What else could I say? I got up and brushed myself off. No big deal, nothing serious happened. And thank God I didn't have a glass bottle in my bag.

I got home, kicked off those treacherous boots, and carefully snuck into my bedroom past my mother-in-law's room (well, technically my wife's stepmother). I didn't want her to see or hear me, especially when I'd been drinking. We had a complicated relationship. Or more accurately, practically no relationship at all. In fact, she hated my guts. The feeling's mutual. Her name was Roza Borisovna. When I’m talking to my wife, I call her "Rosie."

In my bedroom, I took out a plastic cup I keep in the bottom drawer specifically for occasions like this. From the top drawer, I grabbed scissors to cut a corner off the box. The weather outside might be crap, our street might be crooked and impassable, and grumpy Rosie might be snoring in the next room, but now I was about to enjoy this elixir, a product of the warm Crimean sun, and forget all these troubles...

I tilted the box to pour out some wine, but only a few drops came out! What the hell? The box was empty! I took a close look. One side of the box was torn open. So that’s what happened! Cardboard packaging doesn't shatter when it falls, but it tears easily. Especially when it's full.

Oh, woe is me! I was all set to have a civilized drink, like a proper gentleman. I'd even grabbed two candies from the kitchen for a snack. Fat chance of that now!

I cursed the people’s deputy and the entire city administration (and didn’t stop there). Has it really been impossible to fix this street in the thirty-two years I've lived here? A normal person can't even go buy wine without incident!

But cursing doesn’t solve anything. I grabbed some money and headed back to the store. This time, I put on my Spetsnaz boots. They lace up to the ankle and it takes over a minute just to tie one. But the sole is thick with treads and spikes. You could climb Everest in these babies without slipping.

Ten minutes later, I was home with a new box of Muscat. So, it cost me double today.

I poured some wine into the cup... The first few sips quickly spread through my body and calmed me down. I turned on the computer and found one of my favorite websites – views and descriptions of an island in a far-off sea where I once worked. The walls of a fortress built by knights seem to rise from the water, protecting the island from invaders. Behind the walls are clusters of low white buildings, as if bleached by the sun under a pale, cloudless sky. Clean, straight, smooth streets. And it’s hot, hot everywhere...

The Golden Muscat made me all warm and fuzzy. I lay down on the couch and felt like I was sinking into a warm sea of memories...

...Emerging from a green wave, I walk onto a sandy beach. There’s a young woman lying on the sand. I could tell she was young right away from her slim figure. She’s wearing nothing but a wide-brimmed soft white hat and tiny blue bikini bottoms. She’s topless. Who’s there to be shy around on this deserted beach?

My appearance distracts her from reading. She puts down her book and looks up at me. I glance at the cover. An avid bookworm, I immediately recognize "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo. So, she at least speaks English.

"Hi, good woman!" I say to her in English.

"Hi, good man," she replies in the same tone. I hear a British accent.

"Hope I'm not intruding," I say.

"Not at all. This little island is big enough for the two of us."

Ha! What a friendly lady. And what a figure! I try not to stare at her small, firm breasts. It isn’t easy...

"Where are you from?" I ask.

"The UK. And you?"

"What's your guess?" The girl thinks for a moment.

"Your English is fine. But you're definitely not a native speaker. Are you Polish?"

"I'm Russian to the backbone," I reply with a phrase from Maugham.

She absolutely loves that phrase. We get to talking. Her name is Jane. She works in a clothing store in Bristol. Divorced.

I know tons of English jokes (not to mention Russian ones). I’m on fire. Like a peacock, I spread my tail in all its glory...

"My gosh! You're such fun. Where are you staying?" she asks.

"The Luna Hotel."

"Really? Me too."

I grow bolder. "What's your room number?"

"Want to pop in?" She laughed. "Two oh two."

Her laugh is melodious, like a bell. And what a pleasant accent. Charming girl!

That evening, I find myself walking down the hotel corridor. There it is, room two oh two. A thought flashes through my mind – what if? I knock on the door of room two o two.

"Who's there?"

“Just me, Jane."

The door opens. Someone grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into the dimly lit room. Jane! But why do you look so much like my wife? Why are you shaking me?

 "Wake up! Wake up, I'm talking to you!" I see my wife's face in front of me. "Wake up! Something's wrong with Rozochka. Come help me."

I shake off the last vestiges of sleep and follow my wife into the hall. There are two women in white coats standing there. My wife must have called them while I was asleep.

From the hall, my wife and I go into Roza’s room. She’s lying face down on the floor, next to a sticky puddle of blood and vomit. Roza was a large, heavy woman. We can’t lift her. My wife and I start pulling her across the floor. Mixed smells of blood, vomit, and feces hit my nose. Roza is moaning. Can’t those two ladies help us? They stand still, watching indifferently as we drag the immobile sick person like a heavy sack of potatoes.

Finally, we get Roza to the middle of the hall, and I go back to my room. I lie down on the couch. I hear rustling, muffled conversation, and the clinking of medical instruments in a metal box.

Suddenly, Roza lets out a loud groan. "Oh, I'm dying. I'm dying..." And then all goes quiet...

About a minute later, I get up from the couch and go into the hall. "What should we do now?" my wife asks one of the doctors.

"There's nothing more for you to do. Here's the number for the funeral home. They'll take care of everything."

The doctors close their bags and head out. My wife goes with them. I’m left alone with Rosie in the hall.

She’s lying on her back, completely naked, arms and legs spread out like a huge letter X, as if carved from a bar of soap. Her large, sagging breasts with brown nipples have fallen to the sides. Sparse reddish hair peaks out at the base of her belly...

I go to the kitchen and sit down at the table. Well... Who would have expected that? On the table, there’s half an orange lying on a saucer. Rosie had eaten one half in the morning and left the other for the evening. The orange was still waiting for her.

My son came in from outside. My wife must have called him, and he'd rushed over on his bike from another part of town.

"Where is she?"

"In the hall." My son went into the hall. In her own way, Rosie had loved him.

Soon, a specialized service vehicle arrived. Two guys came into the house. "Do you have an old blanket?" one of them asked. My wife gave them a blanket.

The men put Rosie on the blanket and, throwing the ends over their shoulders, carried her out feet first.

My son and I followed them.

Outside, in the same spot where I had earlier slipped with my Muscat, one of the guys lost his footing and fell to his knees. Rosie's head lolled, and her loose hair dipped into a puddle.

"Damn it! Can't they pave this fucking street?" the guy exclaimed.

They shoved the body into the open doorway of the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and climbed into the cab.

The vehicle drove off.

My son watched it go with blank eyes for a long time.

"One day, you'll carry me out like that," I said to him.

He didn't reply.

"All right, son, don't mope. Let's go back inside. We've got things to do now."

(translated by James McVay)

 

Olga Goldshtein

Everyone in our department disliked her. Actually, you could say that our almost entirely female team didn't like her at all. And how could anyone like somebody like that?

Slim, with a sculpted figure, brown-eyed, with a straight Semitic nose (and a very sharp tongue), with long dark hair that didn't need dyeing, despite her approaching middle age. Looking at such a woman, a Polish nobleman might exclaim: “Jaka postawa!” — That woman’s got an attitude!

I would occasionally visit her in her office, a small room at the end of a long corridor, lined with shelves of folders. Among the shelves, she sat at her desk, the archivist and registrar of scientific inventions at our All-Union Research Institute of Polymers.

"Want some coffee?" she would ask, reaching for the electric kettle.

"Sure," I would agree.

With sugar or without?"

"With, of course."

"I'll have mine without sugar. It's bad for the heart."

We got to know each other better at the kolkhoz, a place of frequent work trips for scientific employees during the Soviet era. Once, while hacking at weeds in the beet patch, I caught up to a woman sitting in her own row alongside mine. It was her, Olga Goldshtein.

"Taking a break?" I asked her in a cheerful, almost overly upbeat tone.

"Taking a break, Sery," she replied, lowering her eyes sadly.

"Something's wrong with the motor," she placed her hand on her left chest.

"Hey! Need some help?"

"Thanks, but no. I'll sit for a bit, and it'll pass on its own. It's not the first time. You go on, meet your quota."

She never mentioned her heart problems to anyone. Because of this, she was considered healthy and a perfect candidate for weeding beets, harvesting potatoes, drying grain, gathering hay, and other types of agricultural work during sowing and harvest seasons.

At one department meeting, where among other internal issues, the topic of who and when would go to help the Motherland with the food program was discussed, she bluntly stated:

"I'm not going to the kolkhoz."

"What do you mean?" The party organizer leading the meeting was taken aback. "Are you, Olga Abramovna, disagreeing with the party's agricultural policy?"

"I disagree. It's fine to help out once or twice in an emergency. But it seems we have emergencies every year. They send schoolchildren, students, soldiers, and scientific staff to the kolkhoz. Yet the stores are still empty."

"So, you're not going to the kolkhoz?" the party organizer persisted.

"No, I'm not going. I'm an archivist, not a milking machine operator."

"Fine," the party organizer hissed. "We'll remember this."

"Remember away," Olga Abramovna concluded under the frightened gazes of her colleagues.

When I stopped by her office again, she asked me unexpectedly.

"Seryozha, will you help me?"

"What's up?"

"I need to learn English."

"Why?"

"I'm planning to go to America. I'm tired of wallowing among bootlickers and kissing up to the bosses. I have an uncle and a cousin in Los Angeles. They'll take me in for the time being."

"Learning a language is like biting a rock," I said, offering a banal piece of wisdom.

"I'm a persistent and curious person," she replied.

"Really? Do you know what your surname, Goldshtein, means?"

"What?"

"Golden stone."

"I'm not a just any old rock, Seryozha. I'm flint."

She bought a self-study book. We started lessons. I came to her office during lunch breaks, explaining grammar, teaching pronunciation, and giving and checking homework.

She turned out to be a very capable student. She absorbed the language easily and quickly. During our lessons, we exchanged information about ourselves. She was divorced. Her husband had been a lazy drunk. Her son was serving time for drug dealing.

"What more did the fool need? I clothed him, shod him, found him a decent job. But the parasite didn’t want to work. Fifty percent Jewish blood, but two hundred percent Russian stupidity. Just like his father."

"Is he getting out soon?"

"Next year. I've already bought everything for him. No matter what, he's still my son."

Once, she handed me a bag.

"Take this."

"What's in it?"

"Salmon and butter."

"Why? I’ve got a job, don’t I?"

"Don't be proud, Seryozha. You have two small children. I work two jobs. I’ve contracted with a company to clean floors in the mornings. I have money. So, take it..."

One day, perhaps noticing my gloomy mood, she asked directly, as usual.

"What's wrong with you? You look like you're drowning."

"Nothing. Just a temporary funk."

"I know why you're down."

"Why?"

"It’s because you weren't sent to Japan with our institute's delegation."

"As if I care about Japan!"

"You do care, Seryozha, very much. A translator without overseas assignments is like a swimmer without a pool. Our party organizer sent his favorite — excuse me, his lover — instead of you, even though her English is nowhere near as good as yours. And unlike you, she doesn't know Japanese. That's why you're gloomier than a storm cloud. Am I wrong?"

I said nothing.

"I’ll take your silence as agreement," Olga said. "All right, don't be sad. Here's an address and a phone number. It's a young company with potential. They're involved in foreign trade, meaning they sell off the Motherland bit by bit. The pay is decent. Tell them you were sent by Olga Abramovna."

I went to the address she gave me... I started a new job, and business trips followed. I flew to Malta, Germany, the UAE...

One day, after a significant break, we ran into each other on the street. She had the same proud posture, the same dark, undyed hair, but now with significantly more makeup. I was very happy to see her and told her so.

"Glad to see you, Olka. You look great, makes me want to kiss you."

"What's stopping you? Why not kiss a beautiful woman?"

I kissed her on the cheek.

We chatted. She had retired and working part-time for some Azerbaijanis at the market, selling vegetables.

"Ahmed is a great guy. He pays well, no tricks. But I'm on my feet all day. I'm as tired as a dog. And my heart aches. Sunday is my day off. Come over and we'll have a drink."

She gave me her address. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out a cardboard packet.

"Here, take this."

"?"

"It’s a cleaning product for the kitchen stove. Take it, take it. Your wife will thank you."

After coordinating by phone, I visited her. She greeted me with business-like cheerfulness, showing me her not very large but cozy and tastefully furnished apartment.

"America's canceled," she said. "My uncle died, and my brother needs me like a rabbit needs a stoplight. I’m staying in Russia. Do you like my new apartment?"

"Yes, I do."

"And I have a new husband, Vitya. He's at work now. He's a great guy, a jack-of-all-trades. He cherishes and loves me. What more does a woman need? We're saving up some money to buy a little house in the country. We'll live surrounded by nature. It'll be wonderful!"

In the kitchen, she treated me to some delicious red wine, pouring herself just a little. I felt like I was talking to a wise woman, almost like a mother, even though she was only a couple of years older than me.

"Don't be a stranger," she said as I left. "Call me."

I called her from time to time.

One day, I heard some news. She and Viktor had bought a house thirty kilometers outside the city. Well, it was little and old.

"Vitya renovated everything; we can even live there in winter. We're building a greenhouse now. Come visit."

"Which district?"

"Dubensky. The village of Kaznacheevka."

"Really? That's where my father and my uncle who died in the war are from!"

"All the more reason to visit."

"But there's no road. You can't get there."

"There is one now. Come on, it's beautiful here!"

"Okay. I'll get ready and come."

Finally, I got ready. I convinced my wife and son to go with me in his car. I just needed to call first and arrange the details.

I called.

"Hello! Olga?"

"No. This is Viktor."

"Can I speak to Olga?"

There was a long pause... Finally, I heard Viktor's muffled, strained sobs.

"Tomorrow, it will be nine days since she passed away..."

"Oh no, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. What happened?"

"Her heart. Please remember her in your prayers."

"Yes, of course, I will..."

The next day, I went to church though I’m not particularly religious. I stood by the icons, remembering her, paying my respects. Once again in life, I was too late. How can I thank you, Olga? God willing, someday I'll write a few lines about you...

...And so, as best as I could, I wrote this.

(translated by James McVay)