BETWEEN ROMANIA & RUSSIA

(A Ukrainian Fairytale: How I met a girl named Virya)

(Достое́вский . . . not Dostoevsky)

(Wallets & Opiates)

(Not so Happenstance)

(Sorry for saying damn)

 

I was waiting for that damn train.  All I ever do anymore is wait on that damn train to come up around that damn bend.  There is nothing more boring than a damn train.  It comes and goes . . . It opens and closes.  But I resolve a guy has to get places in this world so I guess I’ll keep waitin’ on that inconspicuous and oversized slither of metal.    

 

I had a Powerade stained mouth and a patch around my arm.  The patch was hidden under my grey jacket but it was clawing and digging its way into my story.  That is what Plasma will do to a guy.  In an attempt to ease the drab melancholy of modern life I thumbed the fresh $40 in my pocket.  Two Andrew Jackson’s sure does make a guy feel better about waiting on a damn train.  It brings a little comfort. 

 

Now I’ll go so far as to say that money has become the morphine of modernity.  Drip…drip…drip into the wallet it goes.  And how sad is it for me that most of you have more “morphine” than I.   Will somebody please pass the drugs?  I regress because to many people have written about the depression of man inside the modern city. 

 

At the train station I overheard two blocky old women dressed in earth tones (grays and browns).  I didn’t understand a word they said.  But I listened.  They reminded me of the post-Soviet-war-torn-women-of-Eastern-Europe I encountered during my summer in Romania.  I wanted to know where they were from and what they were speaking so pulled a prop from my bag, “The House of the Dead” by Dostoyevsky.  My guess was that they were from Russia, but just maybe they were from Romania.  There was no way of knowing unless I spoke up.   

 

I wanted to break into on their conversation . . .  but I didn’t want to all at the same time.  The train was taking its sweet time as usual and the 40 dollars was losing its draw in pocket so I forced my way in.  I am shamelessly rude sometimes.  But then again there are rewards to being uncouth and barbaric like me.  You get to meet people.  Interesting people . . . people with stories.  

 

As I nudged my way in one lady began scowling while the other began smiling.  The scowling one stuttered my tongue so I turned to the smiling one.  Scowling people are just harder to talk to that’s all.    

 

I was just hoping that the glaring one wasn’t a biter and so I calculated that there was about a 58% chance that she wasn’t so I took the bet and asked, “What language are you speaking?”    

 

They looked at each other and explained that they were speaking Ukrainian.  My estimate was close . . . Ukraine is literally in between Russia and Romania. 

 

The scowl slowly began to melt away.  She didn’t bite after all but she kept a keen eye on me.  A cautious shrew she was.   

 

The train came up around the bend as we were standing in between two carts.  I reasoned that I didn’t want to come off as being too pushy and since satisfied with the conversation I turned left as they turned right.  I looked out the window and carouseled through my summer in Romania.  And before the train took off the two women waddled their way to the seats next to me.  The smiling one was pulling the scowling one along (It was obvious).  Boy, she didn’t like me.  But her stop came first (reflecting on it now I think her early departure saved my life). 

 

So it was Virya and I.  Virya is a very sweet old lady with a harsh yet endearing Ukrainian accent.  I showed her my book again and asked her to say his name (Dostoyevsky) for me.  And she did.  It sounded like the glassy sea rumbling through the thrown room of God.  She said his name the way it was supposed to be said.  She emphasized all the right syllables in all the right places.  I have never heard anything more beautiful in my whole life.  I will never say his name the way I used to.  How foolish was I back then.  She did not merely say “Dostoyevsky” no, she said “Достое́вский.”  There is a big difference.  Was I falling in love with my 82 year old Virya?  

 

She told me that she moved to America sixteen years ago.  And that her husband died ten years ago.  She kept repeating the phrase, “I am one person.”  This was her way of telling me that she was all alone in this world.  She told me of her disappointment about her son not giving her grandchildren.  I asked her why that was and she tried to explain to me that a mother could not have that conversation with her son . . . maybe her daughter . . . but definitely never with her son.  And she smiled as she told me that her sister has five grandchildren and that she (Virya) spoils them with candy and treats as her own.  She told me that she lives alone in government subsidized housing . . . again she says, “I am one person.” 

 

My heart throbbed as she leaned over and garbled, “Достое́вский was a Christian, you know?” 

 

“I know . . . I know.”  I was a giddy as Christmas morning.

 

“Do you go to church?” I asked. 

 

“Oh yes, it is a wonderful place!”  So I asked her where and what it was. Thinking for sure she would say an Orthodox service. But she didn’t.

 

“It is named Ukrainian Bible Church.  Erik, you come and we will sit by one another.”

 

“I would love to.  Where is it?”  I mean, I could not turn a command like this down.  

 

She grabbed my pen and wrote 22820 Halsey in the back of my book.   

 

And then she smiled “We have many good looking young people like yourself.”

 

I guess I’m still good looking.  

 

The train came to her stop and before she left I asked her to say his name one more time.  And she did.  And it was as glorious as it was the first time.   

 

Well, I know where I’ll be on Sunday.  I’ll be at Ukrainian Bible Church next to my new friend Virya.  Where will you be? 

 

And to think, I almost got on that damn train without speaking up.  Hey, I will take a Ukrainian Princess whispering sweet “Dostoevsky’s” in my ear over $40 bucks any day. 

 

-e.p.allen