Debbie quickly took another tack, and started crying.
“There’s no problem. Just explain to me why I’m not good enough! He’s the one who’s not good enough for me: he’s little, and he probably doesn’t have a penis at all! And he’s useless—and he has some weird profession!”
“Debbie, what does his penis have to do with anything? Or his profession? We had an agreement…”
“To hell with the agreement!” Debbie burst out. “What’s wrong with me, Pierre? Why doesn’t anyone want to marry me? Even your little Sanya? I am an independent, self-respecting woman! I don’t give a damn about men! But why don’t they want to marry me? Maybe I don’t even need to get married! But why? I just want to know. Why?”
Pierre realized the whole endeavor might be in jeopardy. He picked up the fur from the floor and threw it on the couch. He poured two more glasses of whiskey. He sat down next to the large woman and placed a glass in her hands.
“Debbie, I can’t answer for all men. You know yourself that you’re an extraordinary woman. But everybody’s different. I can tell you something about Sanya. Sanya is depressed. I told you he was an extremely talented person. He’s special. Have you ever lost anyone who was close to you? In the same month, he lost his grandmother, who raised him, and his best friend, who committed suicide. He himself is … on the edge. He’s just not up to marriage. And the problem is not with you. He has to save his own life.”
“Yes, but he could marry me, and I would save his life. Why doesn’t he want to marry me for real? Not a fictitious marriage, but a real one?”
* * *
Now there was just one last chance.
* * *
“Debbie! Did it never occur to you … Ilya always had a lot of women. Mikha, his dead friend, was deeply in love with his wife. He never had any other women. But I’ve never seen Sanya with a woman at all.”
Debbie’s eyes grew wide with sympathy.
“Oh, do you think he might be gay?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t say that. I just said that I’ve never once seen him with a girl or a woman.”
Debbie made a new decision: “That changes the picture. Then it doesn’t hurt me. If he’s not gay, then he’s just afraid of women. And maybe he’s a virgin?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out. But that doesn’t affect our agreement.”
Debbie calmed down and began to think about the future. She had an intriguing task before her.
* * *
“Well, tell me, how was your trip? How’s Eugene?”
Debbie pulled a packet of photographs out of her purse.
“Here you go! Photographs! Eugene took them. They’re funny. Pierre, the city is amazing! And the people are amazing! I was only there for four days, but it felt like I was there for a whole month. So much happened, and I saw so many new things! Oh, and did I say that the wedding is in four months? So long to wait! You have to wait in line to get married! And then we’ll have to file Sanya’s application with the U.S. Embassy. For a visa. And he’ll have to wait for that, too; they explained it all to me.”
Debbie was a little tipsy.
“Listen, Pierre, I want to learn to speak Russian. Will you give me lessons?”
“Why do you want to do that? It will be expensive. You’ll have to spend a lot of money on gas, driving back and forth. It’s an hour and a half one way. I’ll find you a teacher in San Francisco.”
“I need a good one!” Debbie pouted.
“Fine, I’ll get you a good one.”
Pierre realized that his male honor would not be lost if Debbie would get good and drunk, and she was halfway there already.
He poured her another glass.
“I want Sah-nee-a! If I can marry him for real, I won’t take the money from you.”
“But we made a deal about a fictitious marriage!” Pierre was doing his best to protect Sanya’s liberty.
“What do I need the money for, anyway? I have money! I want little Sah-nee-a as my husband!” Debbie wailed, and burst out in hysterical weeping.
Looks like there’s only one way out, Pierre thought, and put his arm around her. Instantly she went quiet, and became pliant and limp.
Pierre didn’t approve of adultery. He had sown his wild oats before he married, and he took his family commitments very seriously. But his wife and his daughter had been staying with his in-laws in Milan for the last three weeks. Moreover, he attributed his fall solely to his devotion to his Russian friend and the furthering of his friend’s interests. Still, the lack of spontaneity of the situation did not detract from its pleasantness.
“If you marry Sanya for real, you’ll owe me for both the plane tickets and the hotel!”
“No way! Whatever you spent is already gone. I’ll pay you for the Russian lessons.” She placed her hands, holding them both in an obscene gesture, over her ample breasts. This was something she’d picked up in Russia.
“All right, if everything works out and we manage to get Sanya out of there, the tickets and the hotel are on me.”
They continued kissing gently, rounding out the session.
And now I have the added stimulus of trying to draw him out of his shell, Debbie thought with satisfaction.
* * *
The wedding took place in May, as indicated on their application. It was a rainy day, which promised to bring the young couple wealth, according to folk superstition.
Debbie O’Hara was wearing a big white dress. Her hands held a round wedding bouquet of plastic flowers, which she had brought with her from America. She wore white high heels. Sanya wore a black corduroy jacket with a zipper and old blue jeans.
Eugene, wearing a tweed jacket and a tie, looked much more like a groom than Sanya did. Olga, Ilya, and Tamara were all there, dressed in their best attire.
The bride and groom stood side by side, and Eugene took a photograph. Ilya photographed them from the other side.
They entered a hall, the matrimonial holding cell. Several couples were already sitting there: two Africans with blondes, one Arab with a girl with oriental facial features, and several indeterminate Eastern European couples: Czechs or Poles. There was a line.
* * *
They sat without speaking. Sanya studied the faces of the couples about to be married. The Africans were most likely from the Patrice Lumumba Institute. One of them, a handsome, dark-lilac-hued fellow, pulled out a deck of cards and asked his bride whether she wanted to play. She declined. He began laying out a game of solitaire. A second young man, small and homely, was holding his bride’s hand, admiring the paleness of her skin. He ran his finger across her wrist. The Arab man was older. His profession was unclear, but gold dripped from all his fingers. His bride was also covered in gold, and it was obvious that they were eager for the ceremony to be over. He put his hand now on her waist, now around her shoulders. She luxuriated in it. One Czech (or Pole) was reading a newspaper.
It’s in Czech, Sanya observed.
* * *
Debbie was visibly nervous. Sanya amused her with conversation. Finally, they were summoned into a long room. A red carpet runner led up the aisle to a table, behind which was sitting a stately woman who looked like the actress Alla Larionova, with a thick red sash over her shoulder—a smaller version of the red runner. The witnesses—Olga, Ilya, and Tamara, and Eugene, with his camera, were admitted through another door. Along the way they got rid of the local photographer. They also got rid of the Mendelssohn.
Then the rigamarole begins. The woman in the sash stands up. She announces:
“Citizen of the United States of America, Deborah O’Hara, and Citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Alexander Steklov, have applied to be married in accordance with the laws of our country…”