Roman Proud, Wayward Widower

By Tino Calabia

Flower power, black power, and Woodstock animated the late '60s. But what of the early '60s? What of the golden years animated by America's thousand days of Camelot as John Kennedy presides over the White House, boldly turns back the Soviets by his naval quarantine of Cuba, and launches the Peace Corps? Idealism flowers, sweeping up young Roman Proud whose journey to the New Frontier goes from Columbia University to Peace Corps training at Cornell University, then on to service in South America's Atacama Desert. Along the way, Long Island debutante Regina, a Barnard College pre-med, and Ellen, a Smith College scholar-athlete recruited by the Peace Corps, shape Roman's formative years - by jilting him. Returning to New York in the mid-'60s, Roman signs on to the War on Poverty with a more subdued vision of life and work.

Decades later, Nadia, a once-aspiring ballerina, flees Russia to Washington, rouses Roman, now a widower, out of his apathy until he's on the verge of proposing - only to become jilted again. Yet, by spring 2005, unbeknownst to each other, Regina, Ellen, and Nadia take turns dazzling Roman with their newly rekindled passion. Avenged and reveling in their ardor, the gleeful, wayward widower betrays their trust. Will he care to retrieve his honor, choose to stay true to one woman again, and give thought to what he should do with the rest of his life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452081519

Tino Calabia

As President Kennedy began inspiring the world from the White House, Tino Calabia answered the call to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer. After teaching in Peru, he returned to New York where he had earlier earned a Columbia University Master's in English. Helping to launch the War on Poverty, he introduced programs like Head Start in the South Bronx. Recruited into New York City government, he soon directed community-based projects throughout many of the City's poverty neighborhoods. Moving to Washington in 1975, where he earlier won literary prizes as a Georgetown University student, he continued serving minorities through Federal civil rights work. As a volunteer, he rated foreign high school applicants vying for scholarships to study in the U.S., and then, during the year, counseled students and their host families. Visiting Russia, Ukraine, and other former Soviet Union nations, he led seminars for alumni of Senator Bill Bradley's initiative, the Future Leaders Exchange Program. He lives near Washington, his birthplace, with his wife, an international advocate for refugees and internally displaced persons. Both rack up air and road miles visiting their children and grandchildren. One son studied and worked for four years in Europe. A second son worked for four years in Japan and just completed his seventh as a Foreign Service officer in South America. A daughter studied in London, worked in Manhattan's hospitality industry, and is now earning a Masters at Oxford University.

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About the Author

As President Kennedy began inspiring the world from the White House, Tino Calabia answered the call to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer. After teaching in Peru, he returned from service to New York where he had earlier earned a Columbia University Master’s in English. Helping to launch the War on Poverty, he introduced programs like Head Start in the South Bronx. Recruited into New York City government, he soon directed community-based projects throughout many of the City’s poverty neighborhoods.

Moving to Washington in 1975, where he had earlier won literary prizes as a Georgetown University student, he continued serving minorities through Federal civil rights work. As a volunteer, he rated foreign high school applicants vying for scholarships to study in the U.S., and then, during the year, counseled students and their host families. Visiting Russia, Ukraine, and other former Soviet Union nations, he led seminars for alumni of Senator Bill Bradley’s initiative, the Future Leaders Exchange Program.

He lives near Washington, his birthplace, with his wife, an international advocate for refugees and internally displaced persons. Both rack up air and road miles visiting their children and grandchildren. One son studied and worked for four years in Europe. A second son worked for four years in Japan and just completed his seventh as a Foreign Service Officer in South America. A daughter studied in London, worked in Manhattan’s hospitality industry, and is now earning a Master’s at Oxford University.

His first novel is dedicated to his faithful and ever-intrepid wife, Dawn, who at the time of publication was working in Kabul and Kandahar in Afghanistan.

ROMAN PROUD, WAYWARD WIDOWER

Tino Calabia

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© 2010 Tino Calabia. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/03/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8151-9 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8149-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8150-2 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914532

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

1. NADIA IN GEORGETOWN

2. REGINA IN NEW YORK

3. ELLEN IN ITHACA

4. ELLEN IN THE ATACAMA

5. NADIA, REGINA, AND ELLEN IN WASHINGTON5

6… . THEN THERE WAS ONE

Chapter One

NADIA IN GEORGETOWN

Three, two, one… Roman counted down, warming up his voice as the phone kept jangling, …then there was none. Finally he snatched up the receiver.

Well? D’ya ask her? What she say? demanded Terry.

Yes. A ‘Hello’ and a gracious ‘Good morning’ to you, too, Terry. Roman seldom chafed at her directness, yet it was too early for an inquisition, even from the only woman left whom he trusted. Anyway, sarcasm wouldn’t faze Terry Rheema one bit, and his first words gave him a moment to mull over how to soft-pedal some answer. Uh… looking back, I guess it was a so-so evening. Not the end of the world. Nadia worked late. By the time we got to 1789, lots of diners had left. We had wine. We talked…

Roman, it’s thundering like hell. I gotta get moving. Bob’s giving me a lift on his way to the hospital. Did Nadia say yes or no?

Somewhat after Roman and Magdalena – most people called his wife ‘Madge’ – moved to Washington, Terry and Madge became dearest of friends. It didn’t take long for Roman to see in Terry what Terry must have seen and admired in his late wife. Much alike, they both were moms who had bandaged skinned knees, stood up to their teenagers, and ushered sons and daughters into sensible adulthood. The two taught at the same school, and were equally tough, assertive, often bossy. So how was it that Terry took a liking to Nadia? Nadezda Milayava was a teacher, too. But, unlike Terry and Magdalena, Nadia stayed single, wasn’t tough, nor assertive, nor ever bossy – just the opposite. Yet Terry grew fond of the Russian. Go figure.

Hey! You there, Roman? Say something. Terry’s nagging crackled across miles of phone line. Or do I have to ask Nadia?

Don’t bother. I never popped the question. Nadia cut me off. She acted nice, but we weren’t singing Hallmark ditties to each other. No pretty fireworks lit the skies. Look, we’ve had lots of fun, Nadia and me. Wants to stay close friends. She…

‘Close friends?’ How the hell much closer and friendlier can you get than in bed?

Aw, c’mon, Terry. Roman gave up. Okay, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. Maybe she’s decided I’m too old… way past my shelf-life. He shifted in bed, struggling to cradle the cordless phone between an ear and a bony shoulder. Nadia is nearer your age, almost fifty-one. I’m practically fifteen years older. Hell, I earned a driver’s license, even my first fender-bender, while Nadia was still in diapers, swaddling clothes… whatever Russians use.

Too old? Nadia said that? Before he could answer, Terry snapped, No way she dumped you for that. Nadia dated other guys in their sixties. She mocked some, but she always talked nice about you.

Then, dammit, why isn’t she still with me? Or one of them?

Because none of them was as good-looking and as sweet as you are, sweetie.

Yeah, right. Thanks.

"Look, Roman, you two didn’t stop at some fast-food joint. Dinner at 1789 is the opposite of fast. She must’ve said more than dosvidaniya."

"Sure. We talked a lot. About movies. Like When Harry Met Sally. Nadia loves movies about guys she can trust. Like Harry. But what’s not to trust about me? I was always faithful to Magdalena, right? I’m faithful to Nadia. People trust me… I dunno. It’s gotta be the age thing. Roman couldn’t think. He needed coffee. First he needed to get dressed. Look. I have no idea why suddenly she’s putting me off. Anyhow, I’ve got an eight-thirty. You need to go. How ’bout dinner tomorrow? Maybe I’ll have it figured out by then. He was really fishing for an invitation to Terry’s house for dinner with her level-headed husband, Bob. A star physician in the firmament of otologists, Bob forever joked that he kept his ear to the ground – and his feet, too. Terry kept Bob in the loop about her Roman-Nadia project, and, if the project crashed, Bob would stand up for Roman. How about it?"

Can’t. Gotta grade mid-year tests and essays tomorrow and all weekend. Prepping for a parents-teachers meeting, too. I’m bound to see Nadia at school today. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get her to explain everything. Terry seemed to offer him a second to react, but he couldn’t. Okay, how ’bout dinner the week after?

Sure. Thanks, Terry. He heard her phone click off without another word.

The splendor of Washington’s spring with its fabled cherry blossoms lay dormant somewhere, still days away, and morning light had yet to seep through the Venetian blinds. Though hearing a crack of thunder, Roman slouched forward, mesmerized, trying to will himself back into the lovely nightmare before Terry’s call. Nadia, young Regina, and the even younger Ellen were mocking him once more – hell’s belles flitting through Moscow and Manhattan, swooping over the sands of the Atacama Desert – yet he yearned to be back in the dream. No use. Squinting through the gloom, he kicked aside the sheets. He garbled a half-remembered line from Dante, "‘So I woke up in some damn dark forest.’ Yeah, he added, swell."

Roman splashed through a shower and shaved. Minutes later, dressed and hoisting his umbrella, he rushed out into the rumble of mid-March thunder and rain. Not a taxi in sight. Taking Metrorail was the speediest way to downtown, but, exiting at the Foggy Bottom-GWU stop meant dashing more blocks to his office through the downpour. Then the urban planner, a champion for mass transit, got rewarded. Roman’s favorite, the Number 37 Archives Metrobus, came lumbering along Wisconsin Avenue. It would turn east at Massachusetts Avenue, coast down Embassy Row, and let him off near Washington Circle close to his firm.

He boarded, found a forward-facing seat, and unfolded the Post. His eyes roamed around several pages, yet for three stops, he mostly saw Nadia. Then a big Post photo of women and children trudging past rubble in Baghdad took his mind off Nadia until his thoughts resumed hop-scotching hither and yon. Within minutes, over bagels and lox, his partners and he would review a project nearing completion. What would he tell them afterwards about possible work out West? By noon, Virgil Maroon, his Peace Corps buddy from the early ’sixties, would phone again about an affordable housing project for Las Vegas service workers. Near Death Valley, Virgil croaked in his signature voice during his initial call. Although a retired professor of architecture in his mid-eighties, Virgil still busied himself at his firm’s ancient drawing board or wore his scuffed-up hardhat, inspecting some smart-growth new town in the making.

Peace Corps service taught you about living in deserts, said Virgil. "Okay, for the nth time, I apologize for not flying over the Andes to check out your barriadas in the Atacama. Those shantytowns became so famous, I still kick myself. But come talk to some local officials and agency heads, then say you’ll do the social needs analysis for me. Afterwards, we’ll drive a few hours from Vegas to Dante’s View and see a desert there. It’s near Death Valley. Ever been there?" Getting soaked sloshing to work was bad, but the idea of driving from sin-city Vegas to some desert, even one in Death Valley, didn’t make him feel better.

Roman refocused on the Post. Mortgage rates were plummeting lower. Time to sell his house and buy a small condo? But his thoughts free-associated back to Nadia, then ricocheted to Terry Rheema. Terry and he served as volunteers for an international exchange program. They counseled foreign high school students who came to live with American families and study for a year. Twelve years ago, Terry coaxed Roman into volunteering when his own children began launching careers and starting families beyond Washington.

Terry and he managed other duties as well. Flying alone into nations of the former Soviet Union was daunting at first, but meeting new students to escort to the U.S. opened new horizons. Roman even began studying Russian – bolstering Terry’s arguments that he should meet Nadia. She teaches Russian. Plus she’s gorgeous, but not some Slavic hottie out to trap a millionaire. Bob thinks she came with money. How else can she keep a Prius and a garden apartment in Georgetown on a teacher’s pay? She could jet off to Moscow, London, wherever, like those Russian oligarchs you read about. But she doesn’t. Calls herself a RIPO, Terry chuckled, a Russian In Passport Only. She’s happy staying put right here. Trust me. Would I push you into this if it would go badly? Bad for you – or bad for Nadia? Besides, if nothing clicks, at least you’ll be circulating. Where’s the only place you’ve gone to these last couple of years? To my house for dinner. You’re a planner. You boss a planning firm. So what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?

Eighteen months.

What?

A year-and-a-half. It’s just over eighteen months since Madge died. Roman knew Terry was making sense. He should move on and mix. But how? Pub-crawling to bar after bar after bar? Not in this life. Speed-dating, a musical-chairs gamble with women half his age or younger? Scary. Sure-fire serial humiliation. He was the wrong demographic. Venturing on-line to an Internet service? Or puffing himself in an anonymous Personals ad? Pathetic.

Finally, after Terry spoiled another of her great suppers nagging Roman, he psyched himself up and trudged to Chevy Chase Circle for a church Silver Singles Night. Cowering in a corner, Roman spied a pair of classy fifty-somethings studying him. He was stumped about what to do. It turned out he hadn’t needed to stir. The women eyed each other and then, by some unspoken code, one waited, as the other moseyed over. Fitting snugly into black slacks over stiletto heels, the first woman, who sported silver bangle earrings accentuating her raven hair, astounded him when she introduced herself. No way! You? A grandmother? asked Roman. Her unlined face was stunning. Was he staring at the miracle of botox or collagen… or both?

Yes, she tittered, three grandkids in New York, three in Phoenix. I visit each set three times a year. I’m having more fun traveling at fifty-four than when I was a Pan Am stewardess flying high at twenty-four, she giggled. You like flying? Roman had nothing against dating airline alumnae or visiting Phoenix, but ended up merely distracting her with wallet photos of his own six grandchildren.

The second woman was a trim, silver-haired Bethesda widow. She didn’t give away her age but confessed to spending too many noontimes as a lady who lunches. Still, she had a knack for organizing charity benefits at museums and embassies. The Hermes scarf hugging her shoulders suggested some limo just dropped her off after an event she had staged. Her eyes widened when Roman touched on his Peace Corps years. Would they take me as a volunteer – at my age, with no paid skills? It’s time I did more than throw soirées for the rich. I’m an events producer, a proven organizer. I know the Peruvian ambassador. Will that help? Roman wasn’t sure but promised to look into it as they traded business cards. Afterwards, he felt bad because he couldn’t bring himself to contact either woman or return.

So, dreading another dinner tirade by Terry about meeting her cute colleague, Roman caved. The September evening he was to meet Nadia, he fell victim to the worst bout of jitters. It was well beyond three decades since Roman had dated a woman other than his wife, leaving him clueless about what to expect on first dates in the Twenty-First Century. He never watched cable shows, but ER was enough to floor him with how casually the hook-up generation, even health professionals, hopped on and off the merry-go-round of sex. What about him, a pre-baby boomer on a first date? What if the Russian took a real liking to him? Then what? His best guess – his hope – was that they needn’t bed down on Night One. Such never happened when he was young. But nowadays? He must’ve been crazy to let Terry dupe him into this.

***

Hello! Terry keeps telling me so much about you. Nadia’s smile lit up the foyer as she swept into Terry’s house. You often travel to Russia, Terry said. Nadia served up a smart icebreaker, dissolving Roman’s anxiety about his clammy grip during their handshake. Tightly strung-out seconds before, he was now so grateful that by dinner he cruised into overdrive spinning story after story about his six trips to Russia. How gracious a listener Nadia was – or acted – the whole evening, he thought. Leaving Terry’s house, Nadia clung to his arm as they jauntily descended the terraced garden stairs to his car. Roman never looked back to wave goodbye but imagined Bob smacking Terry’s palms in a two-handed high-five of congratulations for how well Terry’s scheme was working.

The couple’s debut date alone found them at Kennedy Center for an American Ballet Theatre gala benefit performance of La Bayadere. At intermission, near the monumental bust of Kennedy, Nadia and Roman sipped champagne among other contributors also attired in evening finery. La Bayadere premiered in St. Petersburg a century before Nadia rose as a promising dance student in Russia’s old imperial capital. "Dozens of times I’ve seen it. I even danced segments in rehearsal as a stand-in with our corps de ballet." Roman struggled to concentrate on her words, but succumbed to what he beheld… A ballerina’s swan neck. Cupid’s bow lips. Long locks wound and pinned up in a classic ballet bun. Perched at an angle towards the back of her head, the auburn bun rested there like a small halo.

Suddenly he and Nadia turned and stared in awe as a stately woman and a child, both similarly coiffed, strolled by. The little girl looked nine or ten. Narrow ribbons of gold and blue, the signature colors within St. Petersburg’s famed Mariinsky Theatre, trailed from the girl’s blonde ballet bun. Without pausing, the woman nodded, Zdrastvuitye.

Zdrastvuitye, Nadia returned her greeting as the two glided past, a painter’s dream of elegance and poise.

She said ‘Hello.’ In Russian. You know her? Spellbound, Roman watched the pair promenade, parting the throng of gowns and tuxes as they approached.

No. But surely she is Russian. Perhaps she sensed that I am Russian. From my hairstyle tonight, perhaps she guessed that I once danced. Many mothers who studied ballet bring their daughters here. Nadia’s gaze followed the pair. "Years ago, at Vaganova, my ballet academy in St. Petersburg… ah, seeing them at Vaganova, I would assume that the woman was a ballet teacher and the girl, her protégée. What’s nice is that we Russian students have scholarships. We live together at school, away from home. What’s sad is that so many mothers live too far to visit often.

How different here. The Washington School of Ballet is where Chelsea Clinton studied and Caroline Kennedy, much earlier. Their mothers could leave the White House to watch them dance whenever they wished. Other ballet mothers can visit, too. Nadia’s sigh counterpointed her customary perkiness, thought Roman, as she took his arm to return to their seats. "This final act is my favorite in all of ballet. You’ll see why. The corps de ballet slowly appears in arabesque penché. We were thirty-six in our corps, but the twenty-four here are sufficient."

When the moment arrived, Nadia nudged Roman. From upper stage-left, in single file, one after another, the dancers floated down a long, sloping ramp into the netherworld. Each descended in profile, the perfect mirror image of the others, until the twilit stage was awash with gossamer tutus. At the final curtain call, cries of "Bravissima!" cascaded upon Paloma Herrera, the soaring South American ballerina who had portrayed Nikiya, the tragic temple dancer.

Suddenly Nadia leapt up applauding. "Why didn’t I bring a bouquet! How often my teachers chose me to go present an armful of roses to the première danseuse!" The ovation was so thunderous that Roman could barely hear Nadia who might as well have been conversing with herself. Later, taking the escalators down to the garage, Nadia hung on his arm, still bubbling over with praises. After Roman left Nadia at her door and got in his car to drive home, he unknotted his bowtie. Despite his early bouts of anxiety, everything proved relaxed when they exchanged goodnights. Nadia’s was a slow, deep curtsy, with a sweep of her arms and a graceful sinking to one knee, as if acknowledging some faraway curtain call.

For their third Saturday evening, Nadia welcomed Roman to her garden apartment in a row house on Georgetown’s N Street. He studied the scenes of faerie tales hand-painted on small lacquer boxes and the other Russian collectibles in her front room. Twin bookcases were laden with language textbooks, dog-eared novels, and slender volumes of poetry in Russian, Ukrainian, French, or English. Between the bookcases, Degas’ statue, The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, graced a lighted pedestal. Hey, I like your Degas. I once took an art history course in New York. On a class visit to the Metropolitan Museum we stood dazzled in a roomful of Degas’ other bronze ballerinas surrounding this little dancer. But our National Gallery here has the wax original.

Nadia emerged from the kitchen untying her apron. I love the original one here. Mine’s a modest copy. Marie stands in fourth position, her hands clasped behind her back, but Degas poses Marie gazing upward, her abdomen pushed forward. Why? It makes her appear awkward. Bony and skinny, too. See? Although I never thought so, I guess I was skinny at her age. Roman caught Nadia unconsciously brushing off her curvaceous slacks that cast doubt about how skinny Nadia might once have been, if ever.

"When I was Marie’s age, my dreams of starring as a première danseuse collapsed. Students always suffer injuries. We dance through it, but some never recover. Vaganova graduates just half of the sixty students admitted their first year together. At least my talent did not fail me. Only my body. One morning, my left knee locked up, became so swollen I could not stand. Three weeks of rest, and it still was not better. In those days, we had no arthroscopic surgery. So, konyets, the end. The end of my dreams.

One good thing about leaving ballet early – I escaped with no disfigurements, not even bunions. Only my little pear-shaped calves are souvenirs of my ballet past, she laughed. Anyway, young Marie fared better. Stepping to the room’s dining alcove, Nadia waved her hand sweeping away dreams and the frown on her face.

Roman turned to Nadia’s wall art, while on a small round table, Nadia set out supper. After supper, she caramelized the top of her homemade crème brûlée with tiny flames hissing from a miniature silver blowtorch. While he spooned down his dessert, at her mini-bar Nadia measured out crème de cacao and crème de menthe, blending them with Stolichnaya vodka. "Vot! There, Dr. Zhivago! Your Siberian Sleighride!" Upon Roman’s third Sleighride, balalaikas began plinking Lara’s Theme. Inspired by the vodka, Roman marveled how radiantly Nadia’s windows had frosted over with snowflake crystals. More sips, and her apartment morphed into the ice-covered farmhouse in Dr. Zhivago’s village of Varykino.

Washington’s winter was weeks away, yet even were a Siberian blizzard miraculously to strike, Roman could never have felt warmer, never more relaxed. Nadia, his Russian gamine, so playful and perfect, made it easy for him to feel at home, so natural to snuggle in bed with. And, fortunately, so understanding when he tried but pitifully failed to get it on.

As Roman gave up the struggle, tossing aside the useless condom she had surprised him with, Nadia’s words came to him as half-heard whispers of tenderness and sympathy. She caressed his brow, attempting to soothe away his feelings of humiliation and unmanliness. Dearest, I understand, she purred. With the faintest touch of a fingertip, she guided his face to look toward her eyes. Then he felt her enfolding him into the warmth of her supple arms. Terry often told me how wonderful your Magdalena was, how deeply you have missed her. Your loyalty does not exist everywhere. Really. How lucky Magdalena was to have you.

Roman twisted away, clamping his eyelids shut to seal in the shame. Still cradled by Nadia, he barely listened to her attempts at solace. Was her intuition right? Being not yet over Magdalena? Or was it the vodka? Or something else. Fumbling, anxious and unable to apply the condom – was it that which contributed to his flaccid collapse? Monogamous from his wedding day on, decades before the scourge of AIDS, Roman never needed a prophylactic. Yet, whatever led to his disgrace, he was touched by Nadia’s sympathy. Slowly yielding, he nestled into the arms of her compassion, finally letting go, swooning, free-falling into sleep.

The next morning, Nadia took charge, patiently helping Roman with their lovemaking, and upon success, they clung together, luxuriating in each other’s nearness. Behind shuttered eyelids, Roman imagined seeing motes dancing in the sunlight. A lone balalaika strummed Lara’s Theme once more, lulling him into a restful nap. This time, Nadia lay enfolded in his arms. When she stirred awake, she remained quietly in Roman’s embrace, but he, too, awoke. Nadia, he said, slowly releasing her. He propped himself on an elbow and studied her eyes and face. Her tousled hair was as lustrous as polished Russian amber. I don’t know how to tell you how wonderful you are, he stammered. So understanding, so kind. You’re…

Enough. Lifting a hand, Nadia pressed a smooth palm over his lips. It’s me, Nadia. Just me. Please, don’t try turning me into an angel. After a steamy shower scrubbed away flashbacks of last night’s shame, Roman walked Nadia to Georgetown’s Martin’s Tavern, an Irish pub offering hearty brunches. In Booth Three, where some believed young Senator John Kennedy proposed to his Jackie, Roman washed down bangers and mash with mugs of coffee. Nadia picked elegantly at an omelet. Customers crowded the waiting area, but the manager, who had greeted Nadia by name, left the two to enjoy their Bailey Creams.

***

Winter advanced into its high season of ballet, operas, and art exhibits. Roman warmed himself in Nadia’s affection, and was blissfully at ease by New Year’s. Early one morning, snowflakes fluttered outside his office windows. While coaching his top-tenured partner, Roxanne Vainqueur, through a PowerPoint dress rehearsal, Roman found his thoughts drifting off. Terry was right. Nadia and he had become a superb match.

Then came last night. Oh, Nadia was charming. Lit from the side by the fireplace glowing in the quiet of 1789’s John Carroll Room, Nadia lingered over the chef’s signature rack of lamb and reminisced about her life after ballet. I limped away from Vaganova, heartbroken. What did I know beyond ballet? I had no skills, no plan, no new dream. My teachers said I was imaginative, expressive, I could project emotions, I should go on stage. But, no, I did not. I would not. A bookstore hired me… taught me how to run a cash register and reckon rubles at day’s end. Months later, I began studying again. Finally I went to Moscow to stay at my grandmother’s and take the admission exams for Moscow State University. In Russia, rubles talk. My bookstore savings assured my admittance on my first try.

Nadia had previously spoken little about her Moscow years before her struggle to land a work visa to teach Slavic languages in America. Now she contrasted the rowdiness of some Moscow men with the kindness of the very few who seldom got drunk and rarely pawed her. University classes weren’t difficult. But understanding men? A minefield. While studying ballet, I had paid no attention to boys. Girls had to partner with boys in class. Some were nice, but it was the girls, who I – what is the phrase? – obsessed about. We became friends yet competed fiercely to graduate at the top for a precious place in a major ballet company, the Kirov above all. Anyway, departing ballet, I arrived in Moscow a ‘babe in the woods,’ easy game for predators at the university and afterwards.

At first Nadia dallied with gifted students. After graduation, tempting fate, she dated a few bold thirty-somethings. Their talents were the kind that fueled Russia’s booming crony capitalism once Yeltsin seized power and privatization began to be preached. But in reality, when the earliest takeovers of utilities and oil and gas companies became rigged, Nadia’s friends were no longer in their thirties, no longer daring risk-takers with little to lose. Years of drinking coarsened their behavior, but, as suave and as gentle as one or two had seemed, Nadia confessed: she began idolizing the faraway gentle men of America. The funny, sensitive ones she saw on bootleg VHS like Meg Ryan’s friend, Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. Over her plum crostata dessert Nadia paused. Remember the beginning? Harry insists that a man can’t be a friend to a woman without wanting to take her to bed.

Yes. And he’s right.

Not so! Nadia was horrified. No, no. Harry becomes Sally’s best friend. He’s there when Sally desperately needs a friend. That was it, don’t you remember?

What? Roman couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They did bed down together.

Yes, but near the end. Nadia switched on the sunny smile that melted Muscovites and Washingtonians alike. The problems started then. Surely you remember, she teased.

Roman loved films. After Madge died, he drove to the movies alone, sometimes three evenings in a week. Now, taking Nadia and hearing her spin kooky interpretations afterwards was fun, a riot. Yet he wondered about this perky Russian. Nadia would finagle discount tickets so her students could experience Chekhov performed on stage. She assigned heart-rending stanzas from Anna Akhmatova for them to memorize. The résumé of Russian affairs that Nadia glossed over meant she had been led around the block more than a few times. Was that why she delighted in Hollywood romances, seeking solace in celluloid froth?

"All right, consider Audrey Hepburn’s bittersweet Roman Holiday," Nadia prattled on. Gregory Peck played Joe Bradley, the broke yet charming newspaper man. Remember how Joe tricks the young Princess into taking that hilarious tour of Rome? But sex on her brief, secret holiday? No, though I counted three kisses. Joe does let the Princess sleep off her medication in his apartment, yet he honors her youth, her chastity. Completely. At the end, what does he do with his news scoop? Expose the incognita Princess finally enjoying real life as a commoner? No. Desperate for the cash promised for this once-in-a-lifetime scoop, he scraps the story to protect the Princess’ secret and her dignity. Ah, Joe is generous, so noble. All alone he walks out of that ornate reception hall and leaves the palace and the Princess forever.

"Roman Holiday? Wait. I’m Roman. That’s why you stay hanging out with me?"

I never thought of that, laughed Nadia. Yes, Nadia is on holiday with her own sweet Roman! Nadia’s Slavic-accented English entranced Roman. A smoker from her Moscow days until emigrating to Washington, she commanded a husky, sensual voice that could suffuse her words with touches of world-weariness. Yet in moments of jubilation, she occasionally lost control, and her golden voice would break into a throaty laugh. Of course, that’s why.

Her grin faded. She sipped the last drops of her tea. Her normal voice returned. I don’t know what the reason is, why I’ve kept ‘hanging out’ with you. She peered into the cup, as if reading invisible Russian tea leaves. Many reasons lie behind this kind of thing, yes? She looked up, searching for where to steer her thoughts. Perhaps you suspect that after Terry introduced us, I sometimes saw another man.

Reviews for Roman Proud, Wayward Widower

[websilk · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Grilled Cheese Please! is not a book that you even want to glance at when you're hungry! The multitude of sandwich combinations has something for every palate. The cheese variations alone will have you standing at your local deli counter getting samples and discovering the various ways that cheese will taste on different breads and with different condiments added. The book explains which sandwiches work well with sandwich makers and on the stove top. If you have a bread maker, this book will trigger that creativity also.If you are looking for ideas for a brunch, potluck, or get together, this book has tons of easy ideas. Your idea of a grilled cheese sandwich will be forever changed.

[dms02 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

it was okay...just okay.