Last updated on 2024-12-17
Chapter 26: Meeting in Astrakhan
Rudy was just two hours in Astrakhan, the farthest Galina Filipovna had sent him, unusually far, to meet a supplier today, in ten minutes, and the Ring Group’s first corporate prospect tomorrow, when the black-haired woman bumped into him outside the bookstore. Or he bumped into her. Or maybe, Rudy thought later, struggling to clear away the wish and interpretation that obscure the most vital recollections, they bumped into each other, stepping forward at the same time to read the same title, Vladimir Sorokin’s new novel, Ice. (The title stood out, as if the book had reached out to freeze them both in this place, but of course it didn’t, it couldn’t, there’s no place for such dream nonsense on the street at four in the afternoon amid the mild Caspian breeze.) Rudy straightened and turned, and so did she. He saw right past the dyed-black hair and recognized her immediately.
“Ksenia!”
She took a second longer—maybe ten years in a foreign land had changed Rudy more than ten years in her homeland had changed Ksenia. But his voice saying her name tripped her wire, and they were quickly lost in their own swirl of squeals and cries and tears and laughs and hugs and looks and hugs again, heedless of passersby and anything else but their own shock and joy.
They both found it hard to settle down to speak. They would wipe their eyes, clutch each other’s hands, then stammer each other’s names and fall back into hysterics at creation’s brief digression from its typical indifference into cosmic prankery.
Rudy eventually managed the first words. “How are things? You, your parents…my God, what are you doing in Astrakhan?”
Ksenia gaped back at Rudy’s wide eyes. “All good, all good. Working, my parents in Galich, me, here and there. But you—in Russia! You have come back!! How has this happened?”
Rudy’s mouth went dry. His voice caught. “I… have a story to tell you.”
If he asked her to jump on his motorcycle with him (yes, he’d ridden to Astrakhan, 60 hours of hard riding spread across five days, Galina Filipovna’s broad indulgence of his road-lust—his bike was secure at the hotel, and he was walking to his afternoon meeting to get his legs back), if he asked her to ride to the Volga or the delta or all the way to the Caspian coast where they could spread a blanket and lie beneath the sky so he could tell her everything from the last day he saw her, would she? Would he?
But… he glanced at his watch—they’d been lost for minutes in their shock and each other’s arms. “Ksenia, I—“
Ksenia curled into his chest and raised his left hand to look at his watch. She looked up the street, slumped a little against him… then took a step away and faced him. “I know, I, too… Heavens! How long are you here, in Astrakhan?”
“Through Friday. I leave Saturday.”
“Tonight, are you free?”
“Yes. Dinner?”
“Yes. Restaurant Berlin, down this very street. 8 p.m. OK?”
“OK. Do you have a phone?”
They pulled out Blackberries, same model. She recited her number, which he immediately tapped and called to send his number to her phone. Ksenia’s device emitted an echoing hoot and a soft trill, hoot and trill, the call of some great bird across big water. Rudy laughed, and Ksenia laughed back. “A clip from home,” Ksenia said, muting the ringtone. Her eyes went misty, and she leaned close, eyes level with his. “It is wonderful that you are here. Wonderful. 8 p.m. I’ll make the reservation. Don’t be late.”
“8 p.m., promptly.”
She squeezed him again with girlish glee, and he swept her around three times before they released each other and headed opposite directions.
This, of course, is when I wake up, Rudy thought.
But the sidewalk stayed solid, his steps sequential, leading logically around the corner, to the office, up the elevator, into the cluttered office of the local supplier. The introduction and papers and questions and tour of the warehouse came logically, too, and prices and handshakes and arrangements for next contact. Rudy did not step around a forklift and find himself vaulted by his subconscious into the basement in Suzdal or his second-grade classroom or any-unlikely-unwaking-where else. Astrakhan did not dissolve in the Volga and slide into the delta. And no alarm clock went off. Astrakhan around him and his mission to the Caspian Sea remained firm and real… though not quite as firm and real as Ksenia’s arms around him and his promise to meet her at the Restaurant Berlin.
Ksenia in three hours, he thought as the meeting wound down and the supplier satisfied Rudy’s concerns about reliability. Ksenia in two hours, he thought as he pushed through the hotel’s revolving door with the Sorokin novel in one hand and a bag from the men’s clothing store next door to the hotel in the other. Ksenia in one hour, he thought, combing his bristly hair, brushing his new jacket, buffing his new shoes.
And then he sat down and thought about the letters he’d written to Ksenia, the short one and the long one. They both remained back in his apartment, on his bookshelf, hidden in Zoshchenko. Now the second, short, sensible letter seemed ridiculous; the first was the one he needed to send.
But now… now… joyful now, the point of sending any letter was moot. So were the doubts and rationalizations and plain bullshit that had kept him from writing to Ksenia. He’d seen her, he’d spoken to her, he’d hugged her, and she him, all of that, and they were going to see each other again tonight. Write? Ha! I’ll do you one better, Saran. How about I take Ksenia to dinner?
She’s making the reservation, Rudy heard Saran tease. She’s taking you. He imagined Saran’s reply in the dark, by the Little Yenisey. But yes, dinner is better. Talk with her.
For a moment, Rudy feared he might not be able to speak to Ksenia, that his tongue would tie when he tried to tell her the story he’d promised. He considered transcribing his long letter from memory and reading from that script at dinner. Maybe he would recite both letters, to prove his foolishness.
But no—he thought of their meeting, how easily they recognized each other, how easily the feelings and words tumbled out—no, he wouldn’t need crib notes to untie his tongue. They’d just talk and talk and close the restaurant down, and he’d walk her back to wherever she was staying. And tomorrow—tomorrow, yes, there’d be time—tomorrow he’d make his pitch and win the client, and Ksenia… well, whatever work she was doing, whatever work she would tell him about tonight, she would do it quickly and well, and she would make time to meet him again, and they would get on the motorcycle. He would wear her blue scarf and she would wear his red bandana and she would ride with him again, because sure, anything was possible….
Rudy checked his Blackberry—quarter ’til eight. It would take only ten minutes to walk to the Berlin. He stood, smoothed his hair once more, and tapped on my way into the phone. He sent that message to Ksenia. Before he stepped out of his room, his phone hummed in his hand. From Ksenia’s number: me too.