In telling the story, Sveta claimed she knew right then. Her fate had been disclosed. Weeks later she ran into Pasha in Brooklyn, and the coincidence didn’t surprise her, not least of all because she’d been hanging around Brighton bookstores for days on end in hopes of bumping into him. By the end of the year, she’d convinced Artem to apply for a professorship at Odessa State University, and the rest was history.
But the problem, for a long time, had been quite literally in the telling of the story — namely, that it was forbidden. Odessa was small, and Pasha’s renown had been steadily on the rise throughout their affair. (Artem lasted two years in Odessa — when he left, it was on his own.) It was as if the city were shrinking and Pasha expanding. When Odessa was unsure about anything, it turned to Pasha for his input. No matter that it was never to the liking of the public. His voice regularly flowed from the radio, and his stooped figure freely ambled into and out of the local TV stations. As long as he was with Nadia, Sveta couldn’t shout from the rooftops about their love. It was ironic — his wife had wanted to keep him a secret but couldn’t, and now Sveta had to keep him a secret but didn’t want to! She could tell only her best friend, Korina, and, post-divorce, her mother. Her best friend and her mother, two women Pasha was sure to find unbearable, were made to sit through countless iterations of the story.
He wasn’t about to leave Nadia, said Sveta. For all the drama in his life, Pasha will go to any lengths to avoid confrontation.
It took a long time for the inevitable to happen. At first Sveta had lived in dire fear of a run-in, then she’d desperately tried to psychically summon it, and by the time it actually occurred, she’d resigned herself to the fact that a cosmic force was against it, probably for the best. She’d been sitting with Korina at one of the wobbly metal tables outside Klara Bara, a café nestled in City Garden. The park was roughly the size of a city block yet had been laid out in such a manner that even natives lost their way there. This space-warp effect was useful to criminals, who fortunately had pieties and stuck if at all possible to the purses and wallets of out-of-towners.
Despite the heat, a cashmere shawl had been draped over her friend’s shoulders. Shawls were made to be fiddled with, but Korina took it to the extreme. She was rattling off her non sequiturs and taking calculated sips of her cappuccino, oohing and aahing. She calls herself a life connoisseur, said Sveta. It was a struggle. In those days I was still trying to mimic her sips. Suddenly Korina froze mid — shawl toss and said, Don’t turn, your poet’s here. Pasha walked by — no hello, nothing. He was trailed by Nadia and Sanya and a morose girl who was Sanya’s girlfriend. About ten minutes later, he emerged from the café with the most unfathomable expression on his face and introduced himself formally to Korina. What a pleasure, and I’ve heard so much about you (if Korina only knew…). He made this altogether genuine effort to engage a woman among whose wisdoms was that a Virgo and a Cancer should never mix except for in the bedroom and who saw logic in wearing a crucifix, a kabbalah bracelet, and a bindi simultaneously. Sveta had kept up the friendship not least of all because she’d needed someone to listen, without growing weary or skeptical, to the legend of Pasha. But here was the famous poet, her illicit lover — in a stained, oversize polo with golf clubs on it, his left eyelid thick and oozing, clumps of dried food lodged in his gray beard.
So what did Pasha do? He squeezed my fingers under the table and went back to his family. As he walked off, I remember, Korina gripped her straw and said, That man is terribly libidinally charged.
So what did I say? I’m going to leave him!
And I did, said Sveta, experiencing a resurgence of pride. Your uncle, who isn’t the most proactive man, was forced into action — or rather into pathetic, hushed, late-night beseeching. He was a very disoriented gift giver (one week I got antique ivory incense canisters, a bag of cotton balls, anal beads, and a used toaster). None of that worked, so he tried anger and silence. Then, finally, after two months, he moved into my place.
What about Nadia?
What about her? said Sveta. She was put on suicide watch. But she’d never do it! I said this to Korina at the time, and I was right. At long last Nadia has reason to live — to make sure that Pasha gets no peace. Her goal is to take away the little that he has and torment him by any means, the more trite and disgraceful the better. Nadia has no qualms about being perceived as a hysterical, deranged old shrew. And do you know what Korina replied? She said, What else would you expect from a Scorpio?
Sveta laughed to herself. Too bad Korina’s no longer here, she said wistfully.
She died? said Frida.
God, no! An older man appeared, she was offered a position as a radio host, then the offer was rescinded, but not before she made the move to Lvov.
• • •
PASHA DIDN’T FEEL GOOD about leaving Frida alone and unentertained — though was he really a viable means of entertainment? Dreams of Georgia was the highlight of his year. Fifty-one weeks of isolation were made tolerable by it. Socially ravenous on arrival, starved for acknowledgment, by festival’s end he was sated not only for the time being but for months. To refuel was imperative; a guilty conscience wouldn’t deter.
The morning of their departure to Tbilisi, Frida was awoken by a hushed phone conversation (loud conversations rarely woke anybody), Pasha’s voice leaking from the kitchen. Nu, nu, he said, followed by a pause. Aren’t you being rash about this? When Frida’s feet stirred — they were in the kitchen — he hastened the conversation to a close. If you say it must be so… But I beg you, give the matter some time, let it sit, and then see how you feel— Fine, I won’t, good-bye.
A fly came down the pockmarked runway of Pasha’s nose, resting a moment on the tip before resuming its frenzy of flight. Frida opened the fridge, contemplating the interior as if it were a composition made with artistic intention. She pretended to chew something and swallow. She wiped her palms on her shorts and looked out the window onto a dull courtyard that resembled the inside of the fridge.
The engagement is off, said Pasha.
Frida shook her head.
Sanya and his lady friend had an argument. They came to the conclusion that they shouldn’t be getting married.
I thought she was pregnant, said Frida.
Pasha shrugged. I don’t think she’s pregnant, he said.
So it’s that simple?
It’s as simple, or as complicated, as one chooses to make it.
Really? thought Frida. How horrible. She opted to disregard that sentiment or put it aside for future analysis, suspecting that it had only the ring of truth. Does Sanya even know that I’m here?