The Russian Returns

After an absence of several months, the resonant voice of The Russian rose from the group of old men sitting near the pool, and I could discern they were conversing in Russian. There's just no mistaking his voice, and the last thing I ever want to do is interrupt him and make him stop talking. Being surrounded by tile and water, we were in a unique sound chamber that amplifies every layer of acoustics, especially those palatized Slavic vowels, so I sat in the 105 degree hot tub with my eyes closed to not miss any nuance.

Someone re-starts the tub motor and enters, some women leave chatting, and I hear the voice right above me, "So hello Laow-ra, what is new in your young life?" and he's making room on the shelf seat next to me, looking exactly the same as he did when I first met him 6 years ago. Who cares about me, let's give him a chance to go on and on, and I volley the question right back to him.

"Well, I am officially retired January 1st!" he pronounces.
"Oh oh, so now you're going to take up golf?" I laughed. How capitalist.
He laughed, too. "No no, never to my taste, not at all. Now I want to do some traveling, you know, while I'm still sharp," pointing to his head and rolling his eyes. He had put in 27 solid years of work history since arriving in the United States, working well past 65, so now he wants to play a little. So I let him tell me all about it.

First there's the season in Provence in a pensione, cheap local wine and market shopping, day trips here and there, maybe coasting down to the Spanish Riviera, "Is cheaper," then to Italy and Germany, Austria. "You know Austrian shoes?" he asks. I don't. He tells me all about them, how many years they last, not flashy like Italian ones, unique craftsmanship, worth the trip.
"But you're not going there to shop, I don't imagine," I said.
"No---stuff---who needs it? But shoes, you need shoes," he reminds me. I do, it's true, like he knows somehow.
"How far East are you going?" I lean over to ask.
"East." He sits up and looks at me for a few seconds. "Not that far," he finally says.
"Prague?" I offer. Thinking Moscow and Petersburg, of course.
"Prague. Yes, most definitely Prague, it's beautiful, the architecture, still unspoiled, cheaper than Paris---and the food---" he breaks off. He goes on about the European food he can't wait to enjoy again, and what a shame it is that the dollar is so low to the Euro right now, that's why he's not that interested in London or Paris, he wants to go to Germany, Bavaria, Austria, the Czech Republic, Budapest, and it sounds very food-oriented. I imagine sitting down to a meal in a Graz restaurant and letting him order for us, bring it all, take the whole evening, talk and wine and reminiscences.
"Going any further East?" I press.
He leans towards me, "No, you mean--"
"Moscow."
"No." He sits up again. "Nothing to go there for, not a good idea, you know, things happen, you never see it coming."
"Like Litvenko."
"Anyone, anywhere, it's just not a good idea, I'm not interested anymore, I wish them all well, I want them all to be well and have good lives. It has nothing to do with me and I won't go back."

I decided to shift the topic a bit, and told him about the Nikita Mikhalkov movies I'd seen, and the Russian painting series the director did for Russian TV, so then I got to hear about all his visits to the Hermitage, the Winter Palace, and we branched off onto museums and Comcast Cable's Russian Channel One.

Thirty minutes in 105 degree water is a tough stint for anyone, so the Russian stood up to leave. I thought his wife was going to show up to let him know she was done working out, but she never did. Maybe he was there alone to hang out with the old Russian guys and shoot the breeze in Russian. I'd like to schedule an appointment for the next time he plans on spending the morning there with the Russian guys, so I can be sure to show up early and get a good seat. There's just so much more ground to cover, there's Cuba, and more dirt on glastnost, and what a joke the New Revolution was, what good capitalists the young Russians became, and why he wouldn't talk about Siberia when I mentioned Shaman mummies discovered there on TV.

Always, I remind him he needs to write his book, especially now that he's retiring. He just laughs and waves his hand at me dismissively. "Please," he says, "for insomniacs," and walks towards the outer doors.

Valentine Steam Room

Not being a big observer of what I snarkily think of as "Hallmark Holidays", I went about the Wednesday February 14th morning by packing up the gym bag and heading out. I wanted to check out the new yoga class while it was in progress, to see if this was going to be my thing or not, and robustly swim some laps and do the jacuzzi-steam ritual. Weekdays at the gym present you with a completely different crowd than the weekend and after-work groups, and there were a lot of the regulars in the pool aerobics class, all over 60 and doing more chatting than kicking & stretching.

Over the weekend a friend had asked me about The Russian, and I had to admit I hadn't seen him in a long time, and the last time I had, he seemed fragile and disengaged. I thought about him this morning, knowing he was one of the weekday members, maybe someone could tell me how he's doing.

Entering the pool area, in the midst of a large class in the pool, without my eyes on, I glide through the noise and fog in the direction I need to go, and almost walk into a man extending his hand to me. It's The Russian, and he's got color in his face, he's smiling and shakes my hand firmly. We both step into the jacuzzi and he is eager to tell me a new joke, "Thees is polite," and while two other women step in behind us, he delivers the punch line with the worst attempt at a Yiddish accent I could ever imagine. Then he explains the joke to me, and I frankly am just so happy to have run into him today that I let him labor on with the tangents just to hear his resonant Moscovian tones burr off the tiled room. If only I could have called my pal so she could hear his voice and know why this unexplained magnetism pulls me in every time. When the heat gets to be too much, I get out and sit in one of the seats beside the pool so I can still hear him telling stories in the jacuzzi, he has a droll sense of humor, and is totally authoritative.

One of these days I am going to get brave and just tell him I want to hear more of his stories, let me write the book, there are hours and hours of his voice to be immersed in, to travel inside the Soviet Union and Cuba and the other places he went as a "consultant". There hasn't even been the occasion in the years I've been acquainted with him to tell him I studied Russian in school, have Russian cats, read Russian literature, studied Russian history...he may have been a Soviet, but he's from Moscow and is Russian. His English is perfect, absolutely perfect. His accent, however, is absolutely 100% Boris & Natasha, Cold Warrior Incarnate. What do you call someone who is completely carried away by vocal qualities (other than ridiculous)?
Today you can call me pleased, and feeling maybe this Valentine-thing has glimmering facets Hallmark could never imagine.