Once they were outside, she persuaded him, with considerable difficulty, that this wasn’t the time for a scenic drive through the countryside. “All right, fine, but where are those waitresses of yours?” he asked. Their first stop was across the street, a place run by Turks, where he trudged through an endless love song, teaming up on the karaoke machine with some blubbery, mustached, glistening old woman, and then trying to tip one of the customers. All the patrons at this establishment were Turks, so figuring out who was an employee and who was a customer wasn’t too easy. Then Olia dragged him from one shady establishment to another. They popped into all the burrows and basements she could possibly think of—paid the Arabs a visit, of course, stopped by the Vietnamese joint, naturally, became best buddies with the guys who worked at the McDonald’s (they were used to this kind of thing by now), enjoyed a few rounds, arms intertwined, with the staff of the TB clinic, tried to order some champagne at Health, the local sauna, though their efforts were thwarted, reminisced about their respective childhoods in a dark basement across from the synagogue, and looked for escorts at a family restaurant where they were cleaning up the aftermath of a children’s birthday party—he spilled a milkshake on his lap and kept trying to scrub the stains out with herbal liqueur. He asked for written directions at the pizzeria, and caught some cognac fumes back at the Georgian joint, because every other place was closed by then. They had live music, and he performed some Irish folk dances, getting in the waiters’ way and driving her into a joyful frenzy.
Sometime after midnight, they wound up in front of his apartment building, and he said, firmly, or at least that’s how it sounded to him, “You’re not going anywhere. You have to stay with me. That’s how it’s gonna be.” He made a convincing case, so she didn’t even bother objecting.
“Okay. If that’s how it’s gonna be, then go ahead and show me the way, because I’m beat. I’ve been lugging you around all night.”
He turned around and walked ahead, derailed by the July darkness and listening to the whispers in his own head. He kept talking and talking, so she wouldn’t lose him in the night and drop back too far, so she’d gravitate toward his voice, moving along and sticking by him. He said that he wanted to see all her boyfriends’ girlfriends, duke it out with the boxers, and trounce some valets. He said that he’d have a talk with her girlfriends and figure out who they slept with and what promises they made before doing so. He said that he knew everything there was to know about boyish haircuts, black dye, and drained teachers, implied that you couldn’t hide anything from him about her attitude and behavior, stated that he absolutely had to kiss her shop teacher and drink with her homeroom teacher, dropped menacing hints about blood flowing too close by, questioned the veracity of her countless stories, and wrapped things up by holding forth about precious suitcases in other people’s houses, demanding that they be brought to him without delay—he just couldn’t give it a rest with those suitcases, discoursing on them with laughter and anxiety. He went on and on, thinking, “Just don’t look back. Just don’t stop talking. She’ll gravitate toward my laughter as long as I keep walking and talking; she’ll be forced to listen as long as I have something to say. She’ll get to the end, she’ll hear me out, and she’ll stay with me tonight. After all, she has to know how this is gonna go; she has to wait for this night’s culmination. Just keep talking and don’t stop.” He strode powerfully—more or less—over to his apartment building (gotta give him that!), flung the door open, stepped into the darkness with a sufficiently carefree air about him, ascended the steps laboriously, fiddled with his keys slowly, and didn’t turn on the light (he was thinking ahead!); speaking and not looking back, passed down the hallway, kicked off his shoes, walked to his room, peeled off his shirt, and plopped down onto the bed.
She waited outside for a little bit. Once she’d heard the door of his apartment squeak shut, she exhaled and left.
He woke up early, in his own bed. He was surprised to discover a McDonald’s flier in his pocket. Herbal liqueurs had seeped through his skin and there were blots of dried soy sauce on his shirt. Somebody called him from work and said their clients wanted to have a meeting. He thought for a bit and decided it’d be best to reschedule. Then he thought a little more and decided against rescheduling anything, but he took one look at his shirt and reconsidered yet again.
Olia started texting him in the afternoon, when he had begun to feel better.
“What was that stuff about suitcases?” she asked. “How are you hangin’ in there? You didn’t mug anyone, did you?”
“Don’t think so,” he answered. “But I couldn’t tell you, honestly.”
“You were scaring me with all that talk about suitcases,” she texted. “I was sitting on a terrace wrapped in grapevines talking of music and astronomy with my girlfriends, observing the birds, and struggling to fall asleep. Not even rum could do the trick.”
“Her life is so interesting and mysterious,” he thought, as he slowly recovered from the previous night. “So many unexpected and mystifying things happen to her every night. What kind of life does she lead? Who are her friends? How many of them does she have? She probably gets along just great with them; they love her and they always have something to talk about. They reminisce about their travels and adventures, wild parties and nights of lovemaking, seacoasts and the damp underground passageways of the city. They talk of love and betrayal, show off their new jewelry, and tell each other of their latest triumphs; their pockets are stuffed with cash and train tickets—they’re always willing to skip town and dissolve into space, bursting toward the sun and escaping their fatigue and melancholy. I’d just die to have all of that,” he thought bitterly. “I’d just die to have a chance to live like she does, easy, uninhibited, and inventive—I’d just die to not depend on anyone, indulge my every desire, experience real love, real passion, know that everything in my life is up to me. What have I seen in my life? Have I ever been in mortal danger? Have I? Have I ever been madly in love? Have I? I’ve never even slept with a waitress before. There was the restaurant owner’s daughter, sure, but I’ve never slept with any waitresses, ever!”
The restaurant owner’s daughter was his first wife. It just kinda worked out that way—they met at somebody’s wedding, then went to somebody’s wake together, celebrated somebody’s birthday, and rang in the New Year in somebody’s apartment. They slept together somewhere along the way and just kind of got used to each other. She suggested they get married, and he went along with it. Her dad gave him a Volkswagen as a wedding gift. Honestly, he’d rather have just taken the Volkswagen. It’s a shame that he had to give it back after they got divorced.
The next day, he dragged Olia out to the countryside in the late afternoon. He talked to her about his job and told her some funny stories from his past, cracking himself up in the process. It was around eight when she asked him to take her home. Over the weekend, he invited her to his place. She turned him down, suggesting they just meet and chat somewhere in town. Once again, he told her some stories, trying to get her to loosen up. She’d make offhand comments, not always understanding what he was trying to say, but listening courteously. The next week was a busy one—he’d get off work a little after nine and call her up; she’d say that she couldn’t meet that night because she was going out, staying with a girlfriend, or having some people over. They agreed to meet on Friday. They met. He kept blabbing about something or another, explaining what he thought were simple things in a convoluted manner, made some passionate reassurances, and kept stubbornly repeating himself.