Moonlight in Odessa (29 page)

I didn’t want to tell her I wasn’t coming back, didn’t want my last moment with my Boba to be an argument, so I took the ring and slid it onto the silver chain that David had given me to celebrate our first month together, then tucked it back underneath my shirt. The diamond was worth enough that if the wrong people saw it, I would be in danger.

‘If you married Vlad, you’d need a bodyguard to protect that ring,’ Boba pointed out. ‘I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you so very much, my little rabbit paw, but you’re making a wise decision.’

‘I love you, Boba.’ Tears streamed down my face. I hugged her hard, pressed my cheek to hers. Our tears melted together. They were bitter and salty, like the Black Sea.

Chapter 14

To be in the sky, to fly through the clouds is a miracle. A miracle of man. We can do so many marvelous things when we try. I traveled twenty-four hours to arrive in San Francisco. From Kiev to Warsaw, from Warsaw to Atlanta, Atlanta to San Francisco. The obstacle course through the airports was nothing compared to the day of standing outside the embassy gate, waiting to receive a visa.

Odessa is a friendly town with many cafés and colorful architecture in the city center. Strangers grumble together while waiting for the trolley bus. It’s easy to meet people because Odessans are curious and open. Like America, Odessa recently celebrated its bicentennial. On the other hand, Kiev is over a thousand years old. People are polite rather than friendly. The capital is gray and reserved, its formal architecture meant to impress and even intimidate. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to explore the stately avenues and rich museums. I had an appointment at the American Embassy.

Once there, I waited outside the tall fence with dozens of other people. We’d been given appointments for the day but not the time, so we stood along the wall for hours until our names were called. Then we stood inside the embassy for hours. There wasn’t a single chair, not even for the pensioners. Also, there wasn’t a bathroom. I feared I would explode, but didn’t dare run to a restaurant down the block to use the ladies’ room. The official said that if we weren’t there when our names were called we’d have to make another appointment – and they were backlogged for weeks.

I had waited so long, I feared that they’d forgotten me. But all the girls said that. You wait and wait.
Stand-stood-stood
. I remembered Irina, a girl with a lovely sense of humor. She’d been denied a fiancé visa because of a little joke she’d made during her interview. When the official asked her about marrying John, and she replied, ‘If I like his house, I’ll marry him.’

The girls said that American officials had no sense of humor and no amount of goodwill could sway them. I practiced my answers to the questions they had told me they’d been asked. What day did you meet? Do your parents approve of the match? What do the two of you have in common? Where did you go for dates?

When it was my turn, I handed over the file with the visa application, color photos, his tax information, my passport, and proof that Tristan and I knew each other: pictures of us together, copies of his phone bill to prove that he called often, and a stack of e-mails. I was led to a small room and an official gestured for me to sit.

‘When did you become engaged?’ she asked.

For some reason this question fazed me. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought of myself as engaged. It seemed like a big step, somehow bigger than going to America. I was thinking in terms of months, not in terms of a lifetime. ‘We’re not exactly engaged. I mean . . . he asked, but I told him I’d have to think about it. It’s a big step.’

She wrote furiously.
Write-wrote-written
. What did I say?

‘So you’re here to apply for a
fiancé visa
but you’re not engaged?’ She sounded skeptical.

I gestured to the papers she had in front of her. ‘We’ve been corresponding for some time. It’s just that we only met for the first time a month ago when he came to Odessa. I want to get to know him more before I make a lifelong commitment.’ I continued to babble, talking more to myself than to her. Engaged. A new life. An irreversible step. What was the right thing to do? As I spoke, she smiled cynically. I could read every thought that passed through her beady little brain.
And you want to get to know him better in America. Or maybe even find someone better while you’re there
.

The woman looked at the photos of Tristan and me together and asked, ‘Are you really interested in this guy or do you just want a green card?’ Under her breath she muttered, ‘Goddamn e-mail order brides.’

But she granted the visa.

The Warsaw airport was nothing special, but Atlanta’s was like a dream. I hadn’t realized how hazy my life in Odessa was until I entered a building where it seemed as though no one had ever smoked. Everything was so pristine and dazzling – the walls, the windows, the carpet. It was day, but the lights were on. There was art on the walls, as if it were a museum. No one pushed or shoved or grumbled. I took in the waves of English, the smiling people, the restaurants, the boutiques. I was in America now. Yes, this is what I want.

Yes.

I boarded the next and last plane to San Francisco.

Though I was tired, I bounded off the plane to start my new life. While waiting for my luggage, I went to the bathroom and closed the stall door. Stall was the right word – like a horse in a barn, anyone could see me. There was an inch between the partition and the door! Also, the door didn’t go down to the floor. How odd! When I finished, I swear I heard the roar of a large jet taking off behind me. But when I turned, it was the clean water rushing into the porcelain bowl. I thought of the public toilets in Odessa. Even in the opera house, they were just porcelain footprints around a hole. In their finery, women had to squat like dogs.

I moved to the sink to wash my hands, but couldn’t see how to turn on the water. I watched the woman next to me. She ran her hands under the silver faucet; water poured out. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was starting to come out of its chignon, so I brushed it out and put it back up. A little girl looked up at me and said shyly, ‘You’re a pretty lady.’ I thanked her and handed her a sweet. She stared at it, but didn’t take it. No matter. As I ran my hands under the dryer, I couldn’t believe that I was finally here. Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Perhaps one day I would be an American citizen.

As I waited at the luggage carousel, I looked at the people. Tall, short, thin, plump, completely natural, totally plastic. Such a variety of faces and features. The fashion surprised me. There were a few businessmen and women in suits, but nearly everyone else wore faded jeans and scuffed tennis shoes or flip-flops. The young people wore their jeans low on their hips – underpants and folds of flesh visible. How odd that in the richest country in the world, people looked so poor and wore such ill-fitting clothing. In my black suit and heels I felt overdressed.

I collected my suitcases and made my way out the door. Tristan was the first person I saw. I smiled tremulously, he grinned and came forward. He looked much better than when he arrived in Odessa, he was tanned and his cheeks were rosy. I was the pale, tired one. He hugged me. His hands roamed my back, my arms, my hair.
Hold-held-held. Run-ran-run
.

‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘You look tired. I hope the flights weren’t too long.’ He seemed to vibrate with excitement. I, too, was thrilled to have come so far.

Tristan led me to his vehicle, a dusty truck. He opened the passenger door for me. ‘Do you want to stop and eat something?’

I shook my head, embarrassed at how we’d force-fed him when he arrived in Odessa. I didn’t realize that a person felt nauseous after a long flight, as if they had a belly full of helium.

‘We’ll head straight home then.’

On the freeway, I looked at the cars. So many colors and sizes. Everyone drove so fast, like it was a race. In the distance, I could see the high rises of San Francisco. Tristan was talking to me, and I tried to listen, but my ears seem to close as my eyelids did.

He squeezed my thigh. ‘We can explore when you’re not so sleepy.’

The road was smooth. Although I was excited to be in America, the hum of the motor lulled me to sleep. When we pulled into the driveway, Tristan shook my shoulder. He pressed a button and the garage door went up. Unbelievable! An automatic toilet, automatic faucet, automatic door opener. Automatic everything. When he saw my delight, he said, ‘Here, press the button.’ I did and the door crawled back down. It was silly to be enchanted by such small things, but they truly did underline the differences between my old world and the new one.

Tristan took my hand and led me to his house. The dark wood went well with the surrounding plants and trees. There were pink roses near the front door. The windows were large and didn’t have any bars. It must be a safe neighborhood. I noticed a chimney – was there a fireplace, just like in the movies? He surprised me by lifting me up and carrying me across the threshold.
Bite-bit-bit. Sweep-swept-swept
. Clearly, he already considered me his bride. Back on the ground, I felt touched by his romantic gesture. Surely Tristan wouldn’t sleep with me only to disappear.

‘Here we are,’ he said, looking at me expectantly.

‘Indeed,’ I replied, feeling awkward. I didn’t know how to behave with him or what he expected. In my experience, men always wanted something. He held his hand out as if encouraging me to look. The whole house felt as if it were bathed in light. White walls, beige carpet. Framed posters of Yosemite National Park. Photos of smiling children on the refrigerator. Did he have kids? My mind raced. He said he’d never married. Had he lied? Or were they illegitimate? I shook my head to empty it of these horrible thoughts. I had to learn to trust him. This wasn’t Odessa, where I always had to be on guard. This was America, this was Tristan, my gentle schoolteacher. He’d gone to Odessa to meet me, asked me to marry him, and paid for my ticket to San Francisco. Clearly, he was a decent man with good intentions.

I walked from the entryway into the living room, through the kitchen, into the dining room. It was all one open space. No barriers between rooms, only light. I loved it, especially the brick fireplace.

‘Your home is
lovely
. So light, so airy.’

‘I designed it myself,’ he said, looking proud and happy. I was happy, too.

He showed me the bedroom, office, and bathrooms which were down the hall from the entryway. I had just started to relax when Tristan put my things in his bedroom. Surprise robbed me of my speech, but only for a moment. ‘We’re not married yet,’ I reminded him stiffly. ‘I’d be happy to sleep on the sofa.’ Boba said men don’t buy the chicken when they get the eggs for free. I’d learned it was true with Vlad and wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Tristan said he respected my feelings and moved my things into the office. We made the sofa there into a bed. Although it was only 8 p.m., I went straight to sleep. I didn’t even wash my face.

I awoke at 6 a.m. like I always did at home. Jane had once told me that jetlag was terrible, but it didn’t seem to affect me. I lay in bed and listened. No cars honking, no babies crying, no neighbors yelling, no one stomping overhead. It was so calm. If it hadn’t been for the birds chirping, I would have feared I’d gone deaf.

I got up and made coffee. Tristan’s machine wasn’t as sophisticated as the one David had given me. While it brewed, I looked out of every window which looked out onto trees. It seemed more like the country than a suburb. Where was I?

Tristan came out of his bedroom already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Sorry to leave you on your own today, but I don’t have any vacation days left since I used them up in Budapest.’ Was his tone reproving?

‘And Odessa, where we met, where you enjoyed my Boba’s hospitality,’ I reminded him. ‘Do teachers in America work in the summer?’

He looked surprised by my question.

‘Do they work in the summer?’ I asked again. ‘Do you have to clean your classroom? In Odessa, teachers are responsible for their own rooms and must do all maintenance before September the first. My teacher friends painted their own walls and one even laid linoleum to hide the cement floors.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Teachers don’t have to do anything like that in America. We have summer school.’

‘Summer school?’ I asked skeptically. I’d never heard of summer school.

‘For kids who need extra help.’

‘Maybe I could come with you today. It would be interesting to see where you work.’

‘No!’

My eyes widened at his instant refusal.

‘No, you should rest up. Take it easy on your first day here. Besides, the kids are shy.’

I supposed that if they didn’t do well in school, it made sense they wouldn’t want to be observed.

He opened a cupboard, took out a large box and poured its contents into a bowl, then added milk. He sat at the counter and crunched down on the dry bits. It reminded me of a recent arrival in Odessa – commercial pet food. Our foreign neighbor bought it for her cat.

‘Want some?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘What is it?’

‘Cereal. It’s good for you.’

He slid the box over the counter to me and I read the ingredients and couldn’t pronounce most of them. I asked for oatmeal, which is what Boba always made for me. I asked to call Boba to tell her that I’d arrived. He mumbled, ‘Hit speed dial one.’