The boy who had long ago sat upon the roof of the apartment building, searching the starless Russian sky for that torch of light, closed his eyes and allowed himself to forget. He forgot she was lying (to herself and to him). He forgot she was leaving Leningrad in three days. But more importantly he forgot his place in the world, his tiny niche. He left the boundaries that had been erected for him. He saw them, together, doing normal things, in a country whose only secret was how they kept freedom alive.
She watched him shut his eyes tight and wanted to brush her lips over those squished lids, to smooth that furrowed ridge between his eyebrows and nose. She was afraid she wouldn't hear his voice again, she was afraid of that train platform in her future, of the goodbye she would have to say, she was afraid of the red eyes that accompany tear stained cheeks. She was afraid they would take her journal and therefore erase him completely, it would be like he didn't exist. They would convince her that he was a figment of her mind, of course he was: that ambiguous Russian boy with the dark smile who adored Bob Dylan. The boy with the American bedroom and American idioms. The boy with hope. Such a boy, lost and beautiful, couldn't exist.
"I see the light." His arms shyly resting on the edges of her hips.
"What light?" Her head fit neatly under his chin.
"From the statue Liberty."
"Oh, you can see it from here? From this very rooftop?"
"Well, not so positive that it is her, exactly. But I tell myself it is her reaching to me. She speaks so softly, you can just hear her above the ocean's waves."
"Tell me what her voice sounds like."
"It's more of a feeling really. Like my hands." He held them up before his face, "they're in America right now, or they were before I took them off you, so now they're in Russia and they belong to a Russian.
Which really has nothing to do with her; her voice, feels like rolling down a hill when you're little. Head flipping over stomach, over grass and on your back, the world spinning. All the colors, windy and obscure and her voice just floats above it to your eardrums and it knocks at gates of your mind. It takes a while to register to be honest, you're not really sure you hear it at first, it's subtle, a shift in harmony, making life seem suddenly more melodious. Everything you do has the wail of a cello accompanying it."
His eyes were luminous.
"Listen" he cupped his hand behind her ear and whispered. Silence. "Can you hear her?" His arm around her, tightly, pressing.
"I'll stay with you." Her eyes pleading and hands shaking. Her hair swirling around her face, red whirling spirals, hiding her.
"No." The boy shook his head, "no, no, you will go back. To your home, America."
"I'm not going." She set her suitcase on the bench.
Final boarding for the train to Saint Petersburg. Final boarding.
"Please. Go, I don't want you here, I don't need you and your country. All your promises, red, white, blue, empty. Go. Leave. Get on the train and forget about what you have seen. What you have lived, forget it. Forget this." His arms spread wide, gesturing, palms upturned and nailed to the illusion that was Russia.
The girl looked at him, really looked. She saw the dark smile, close and hard. Those black eyes that nose with its ridge. The eyelashes that rested against his brow bones and cast shadows underneath his lower lids.
Her face, pale and void, "Do svidanya." Her final, sad wave, fingers barely bent. Her final, sad look, like a glaze upon the train's window. Her tears, baptizing the pane, trailing down in salty streams.
The boy stood on the platform. Hands in pockets, fingering her letter. Looking at her, willing her to hold his gaze. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. All for you, everything for you. Everything, everything, everything. Life for you, worlds for you, statues of you, novels about the way you look sitting on this train, leaving me. Words for you, dreams for you, sailing ships for you. A new life for you. A new adventure.
The girl pressed her hand against the glass, the boy's ring scraped the surface. A Russian lie, A Russian story-the lines blur between the two. I won't forget. Her lips on the glass.
The boy stood on the platform.
The train lurched forward, the girl's face was a blur but her hand stayed, imprinted in the air of a crowded train station, that pale honest hand. A promise. How could I forget the only thing worth remembering?
She watched him shut his eyes tight and wanted to brush her lips over those squished lids, to smooth that furrowed ridge between his eyebrows and nose. She was afraid she wouldn't hear his voice again, she was afraid of that train platform in her future, of the goodbye she would have to say, she was afraid of the red eyes that accompany tear stained cheeks. She was afraid they would take her journal and therefore erase him completely, it would be like he didn't exist. They would convince her that he was a figment of her mind, of course he was: that ambiguous Russian boy with the dark smile who adored Bob Dylan. The boy with the American bedroom and American idioms. The boy with hope. Such a boy, lost and beautiful, couldn't exist.
"I see the light." His arms shyly resting on the edges of her hips.
"What light?" Her head fit neatly under his chin.
"From the statue Liberty."
"Oh, you can see it from here? From this very rooftop?"
"Well, not so positive that it is her, exactly. But I tell myself it is her reaching to me. She speaks so softly, you can just hear her above the ocean's waves."
"Tell me what her voice sounds like."
"It's more of a feeling really. Like my hands." He held them up before his face, "they're in America right now, or they were before I took them off you, so now they're in Russia and they belong to a Russian.
Which really has nothing to do with her; her voice, feels like rolling down a hill when you're little. Head flipping over stomach, over grass and on your back, the world spinning. All the colors, windy and obscure and her voice just floats above it to your eardrums and it knocks at gates of your mind. It takes a while to register to be honest, you're not really sure you hear it at first, it's subtle, a shift in harmony, making life seem suddenly more melodious. Everything you do has the wail of a cello accompanying it."
His eyes were luminous.
"Listen" he cupped his hand behind her ear and whispered. Silence. "Can you hear her?" His arm around her, tightly, pressing.
"I'll stay with you." Her eyes pleading and hands shaking. Her hair swirling around her face, red whirling spirals, hiding her.
"No." The boy shook his head, "no, no, you will go back. To your home, America."
"I'm not going." She set her suitcase on the bench.
Final boarding for the train to Saint Petersburg. Final boarding.
"Please. Go, I don't want you here, I don't need you and your country. All your promises, red, white, blue, empty. Go. Leave. Get on the train and forget about what you have seen. What you have lived, forget it. Forget this." His arms spread wide, gesturing, palms upturned and nailed to the illusion that was Russia.
The girl looked at him, really looked. She saw the dark smile, close and hard. Those black eyes that nose with its ridge. The eyelashes that rested against his brow bones and cast shadows underneath his lower lids.
Her face, pale and void, "Do svidanya." Her final, sad wave, fingers barely bent. Her final, sad look, like a glaze upon the train's window. Her tears, baptizing the pane, trailing down in salty streams.
The boy stood on the platform. Hands in pockets, fingering her letter. Looking at her, willing her to hold his gaze. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. All for you, everything for you. Everything, everything, everything. Life for you, worlds for you, statues of you, novels about the way you look sitting on this train, leaving me. Words for you, dreams for you, sailing ships for you. A new life for you. A new adventure.
The girl pressed her hand against the glass, the boy's ring scraped the surface. A Russian lie, A Russian story-the lines blur between the two. I won't forget. Her lips on the glass.
The boy stood on the platform.
The train lurched forward, the girl's face was a blur but her hand stayed, imprinted in the air of a crowded train station, that pale honest hand. A promise. How could I forget the only thing worth remembering?
