Loofah

 
                

Hanging on the wall of my bathroom is a loofah, a plain homemade thing made of synthetic fibers. It felt rough at first, but it’s softened with use. One of the loops has torn off, making it a bit awkward to use, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Something keeps me attached to it. What is it, the sentimental pull of old things? I’m not sure. In any case, I continue scrubbing my sinful body in various spots with this loofah…

There was a time, decades ago, when I was young, healthy, naive (or stupid?), and single. To be more precise, I was divorced. My marriage had been brief and unsuccessful. You might say it was a “trial run.” But this story isn’t about that marriage.

New possibilities were opening up for me. I was in a new relationship, and a new marriage was on the horizon. My future wife, a strong-willed woman, wasn’t one to mince words:

“Let’s get married. I’m not interested in any alternatives.”

I hadn’t quite achieved all the freedom I wanted yet—I hadn’t been able to fully enjoy being single again—but I couldn’t resist her insistence on marriage. And, frankly, I didn’t really want to.

“Let’s take a trip to Moscow,” my future wife suggested.

“What do I need to go there for?” I objected.

“It’s me that needs to go. I studied there. I spent part of my life there. I have friends and other ties.”

“Where would we stay?”

“I’ll figure it out. We won’t be bored.”

On the train, my fiancée told me about her life in the capital, about her studies and her college friends. We were going to be staying overnight with one of them, Alla Belskaya.

Alla was quite the character. She and my fiancée had studied together in the same group for five years. They knew everything about each other, down to the smallest intimate detail. Alla was a very passionate person. Or should I have said she was a person who had lots of love to give? She had started dating back in high school. In college, she had had a romance with a classmate, but it hadn't lasted long, because Alla soon got into a love triangle with a faculty member named Sapogov, an associate professor of scientific communism. Sapogov was neither young nor single. When the affair came to light, Sapogov was booted from his department and nearly fired for immoral conduct with a student.

After graduating, Alla had gotten involved with a restaurant owner from Maykop, but it hadn't led to anything promising a family life. She was living with her parents now.

Alla worked as the director of one of the largest bookstores in the capital. To use the lingo of the time, she was a “blat.” My fiancée’s relationship with her represented a real opportunity for me, a passionate book lover. Alla had access to rare, hard-to-find books, making her a very valuable person for me to know.

We met with Alla in her office at the bookstore. She was a striking brunette. Her makeup was flawless. She used expensive cosmetics that gave her a natural look.

“Cognac or coffee?” she asked.

“I’d like a bit of cognac, if that’s alright,” I ventured.

“Coffee with cognac for me,” my girlfriend said.

Alla’s phone rang on her desk. She picked up.

“Hello? Call back later. I’m busy right now.”

“Alla,” I said. “Ray Bradbury’s short stories are about to be published in English. Can you put a copy on hold for me when the book comes out?”

“No problem. Just send me a postcard so I don’t forget. Do you need theater tickets?”

“No, thanks. I have my own connections for that,” my fiancée replied.

“Well, fine then. I’ll see you both at my place this evening.”

That evening, we were at her apartment on Leninsky Prospekt, where she lived with her parents, stuck in a joyless and loveless situation with no way to move out. Two grown women, even as close relatives, don’t want to live together.

We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. Occasionally, Alla’s mother would walk in, quickly grab something from a wall cabinet, and hurry out. Her father didn’t show up at all.

The radio was playing in the kitchen. A popular singer was crooning…

Look up to the Christmas sky
And wish for all your dreams to come true…

“I’ll make a wish for you, you son of a bitch,” Alla grumbled irritably, pouring herself more tea from the teapot. “Don’t they have anything else to sing about?”

But the singer kept going, his powerful male voice emotionally belting out the lyrics:

With petals of white roses fair,
Our bed I will adorn,
I love you more than I can bear,
In madness, love is born.

“Drop dead, you bastard, you married scumbag!” Alla yelled at the trendy singer who was known for his womanizing, adding a curse straight from a dockworker’s lexicon. 

We chatted about the weather and trivial things.

“I’ve laid out a mattress for you both in the living room,” she said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable?”

“Perfect. The two of us will be comfortable anywhere,” I assured her.

“Well then, sleep tight, you two.”

The night was anything but peaceful. How could it be, for two young people of the opposite sex about to get married and alone together for the first time…

I don’t remember what theaters we went to on that trip or what performances we saw. Too much time has passed since then. My girlfriend and I became husband and wife. We have two sons, three granddaughters, and a grandson. It would be pointless and futile to describe our feelings for each other and for our children. Better not to, lest we tempt fate.

As for Alla Belskaya, we never saw her again. After that visit, my wife stopped calling or writing to her. Knowing my wife’s loyalty and devotion to old friendships, I found it odd. One day, I asked her about it. She answered me somewhat reluctantly:

“When we were leaving Belskaya’s place, and I was alone with her in the hallway, she told me, ‘You really picked a loser! You’d be better off staying single than marrying someone like that.’ I didn’t like what she said at all, so that was that.”

We don’t know what became of Belskaya after that. Mutual acquaintances told us she resigned her position as bookstore director. She became a warehouse manager, then a librarian, and then something else. We eventually lost track of her.

Recently, an old friend texted my wife a photo. It was a picture of a modest gravestone with the inscription: “Alla Vasilyevna Belskaya.” The dates engraved on it reflected a short life. She’d apparently passed away long before, but no one had informed us.

And that’s the whole story.

But what does the loofah that I began the story with have to do with anything? I’ll explain. A few days ago, my wife suggested we finally throw it out and replace it with a new one, but I refused.

“I understand,” my wife said. “You don’t want to let an old love go.”

“What love? What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.

“Belskaya gave me that loofah back when we were students,” my wife explained. “She made it herself.”

“Really? Well, I’ll be damned!” I was genuinely surprised. It turns out that I’ve been scrubbing myself for decades with Alla Vasilyevna’s handiwork. So, memories—and that loofah—are all I have left of her.

 

Translated by James McVay