Two months earlier I would have initiated a conversation straight away. But now things were different. Even if I had resolved to feel free, an unwelcome change that having a girlfriend had brought to my life was guilt. I felt guilty, not about seeing other girls on the weekend, which was necessary if I wanted to sustain my relationship with Tatyana, but about having to lie. The stories I made up to account for my weekends made me uncomfortable, especially since Tatyana believed every word I said. Her blind trust only made me see her as vulnerable, in need of protection. My protection. As a result, the more I lied to her, the stronger my feelings for her became.
The dyev with the flowery dress stared at me and I felt my entire body heating up. I could no longer keep my eyes on my book. It crossed my mind that, at that moment, it would be best to stand up, leave the café, forget about her. Let it be 1905. I’d done this before so I knew that, if I moved on — if I walked away and tried to fill my mind with different thoughts — in an hour or so I would beat the urge to be with the dyev with the flowery dress.
She went for a second cappuccino and returned to her table.
In my head, I summoned the image of Tatyana and tried to remember how I felt when I’d first laid eyes on her, in Kamergersky. Surely something like this. I knew that what I felt for the dyev in the flowery dress, the ferocious desire crawling up from my stomach, was not a long-lasting feeling. I knew this. I knew this. I knew this. But this knowledge was rational, self-imposed, totally useless.
Next thing I knew, the dyev was talking to me.
‘Do you mind keeping an eye on my stuff for a minute?’ she said.
Her voice was deeper than I had imagined.
‘Please,’ I said, nodding.
After a couple of minutes she came back from the toilet. She had put on fresh make-up.
‘I love the coffee in this place,’ I said.
Her smile revealed perfect white teeth. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Tolstoy,’ I said, holding the book up.
‘War and Peace, interesno. We were forced to read it in school, but I never finished it. Such a long book.’
I smiled.
‘I prefer modern writers,’ she said. ‘Do you know Akunin or Pelevin?’
‘I’ve heard about them. Haven’t read anything yet.’
‘Vika, by the way.’
‘Martin.’ I took my book and my empty mug and moved to her table.
Twenty minutes later we were wandering down Tverskaya. The air was warm, the pavement full of people strolling leisurely, in summery clothes. The scent of coconut oil rising from Vika’s tanned shoulders provoked in me a flash of feeling, a half-memory of salty beaches and childhood summers. When we reached Kamergersky, we turned left and passed Chekhov’s statue — where I tried not to think about Tatyana — and walked among tables and chairs that were now busy with people gathering for lunch.
Vika asked for my coming-to-Russia story, and, for no particular reason, I decided not to tell her about my research. Instead, I told her that I was in business, that my business partner owned a car dealership in Prospekt Mira.
‘And you don’t have your own car?’ she asked.
‘I prefer to walk.’
‘What about long distances?’
‘Moscow has the best metro system in the world.’
Vika smiled, partly satisfied, but obviously puzzled that I was able to afford but did not own a car. Then she told me she was studying journalism. She wanted to become a foreign correspondent.
Vika was petite but, unlike Tatyana, she walked with determination and self-confidence. At the end of the pereulok we turned left and walked along Bolshaya Dmitrovka, keeping on the shaded side of the street. We then reached the Boulevard and walked down along the central dirt path. I was looking for a place to sit, but all the benches were occupied by young people drinking beer, smoking and kissing. Then I spotted an empty bench in the shade. We walked towards it, and, without saying a word, took a seat. Vika sat on my right and I put my right leg through the space between the seat and the back.
‘It’s so nice that we met,’ she said.
‘Sudba,’ I said, sliding myself closer to her.
We kissed. I wrapped my hands around her waist, pulled her against me. My entire body was electrified. My hands, which I no longer seemed to control, began to move up and down her body. We went on kissing and I found myself fantasising that Vika was not someone I’d just met but my actual girlfriend. The thought filled me with an unexpected sense of well-being. After a few minutes we took a breather. I was sweaty. Vika was blushing.
‘This is so weird,’ she said, smiling.
I had four hours before Tatyana came back from work.
‘I live nearby,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Would you like to come to my place for a cup of tea?’
She remained silent for a moment, staring at the ground, which was strewn with the empty shells of sunflower seeds.
‘Maybe better if I don’t come,’ she said.
‘I understand.’
‘I really like you.’
‘I like you too.’
We kissed again.
‘Maybe we can meet tonight and go to the cinema?’ Vika said with a wide smile, her brown eyes sparkling.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to take Vika to the cinema. I wanted to kiss her in the darkness and, after the film, I wanted to take her to Café Maki. I wanted us to drink loads of wine, share a plate of blinis with preserved strawberries and mascarpone. And, after that, I wanted her to come to my place for tea.
‘I can’t tonight,’ I said, feeling a squeeze in my chest.
Vika looked confused, disappointed.
‘Maybe we could meet over the weekend?’ I said.
‘Sure, that would be nice.’
We exchanged phone numbers and walked down the Boulevard, towards the metro. We kissed one more time, said do svidaniya.
As I walked home, I texted Yulya Karma, who I hadn’t seen for a while, and asked her if she was free to meet for a quick cup of tea.
46
FOR THREE DAYS I’D been picturing Vika in the flowery dress she wore when we met, so when, on Saturday morning, underneath Pushkin’s statue, I was approached by a girl wearing sunglasses and a bright yellow dress, it took me a few seconds to realise it was her.
‘You no longer remember how I look?’ Vika said, lifting her sunglasses.
‘Of course. You look beautiful.’
She laughed and kissed me on the cheek.
It was a sunny morning and Muscovites had taken to the streets en masse. At least ten other couples had agreed to meet by Pushkin at the same time.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said.
We crossed the perekhod, emerged on the other side of Tverskaya, and passed through the terrace of McDonald’s, where all the tables were occupied. We reached the Boulevard and strolled down the path, under the trees, as we had done the day we met.
‘I remember the first time I went to McDonald’s,’ Vika said. ‘Just after it opened, during the perestroika.’
‘You must have been young.’
‘I was a little girl. A friend in school had gone and he told us about the Happy Meal. For days and days I asked my mum to take me to McDonald’s. Finally, one day, she took me and my cousin. When we arrived, the queue was so long that people were waiting outside the restaurant, all the way to Tverskaya.’ Vika pointed back, to the corner of Tverskaya and the Boulevard. ‘We had to wait for at least three hours.’
‘Three hours for McDonald’s?’
‘It was the first McDonald’s in the Soviet Union, everybody wanted to try it. It was something exotic, from the West. Everything that came from the West was considered superior. Besides, people were used to queues at the time.’