Marc and Mark

By Mark L. Williams

After an injury robs pairs skaters Marcea Schmidt and Mark Lindstrom of a "chance at the big time," they dissolve their dozen-year partnership and go separate ways. Years later, they long to renew their friendship. Because they discover no trace of each other, they must rely on chance to bring them together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952835766

Mark L. Williams

Born in Ohio, Williams grew up in Oregon. After graduating from university, he served four years in the army before earning a MA in Iowa. He taught English and history for thirty years in the United States, Germany and Japan. He currently resides in Lake County, Oregon.

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Copyright © 2020 by Mark L. Williams.

ISBN 978-1-952835-75-9 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-952835-76-6 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America.

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For

Samantha and Johann

Marc

Marc was sensitive about her hands. She thought they were too big, too ape-like. When ambulatory, she stuffed them in her pockets (even her skirts and dresses had pockets) to keep them partially hidden. During an interruption of her summer holiday, she wore jeans. Her hands sank into her back pockets, leaving only her thumbs on public display.

She was impatient. It was uncomfortably warm in the Republic of Georgia. The prevailing signs carried the promise, or threat, of a hot spell. In the semi-tropical climate, a spell might last several days. Her traveling companion and friend, Irina, was Russian – oops, correction: Belarussian. Since the demise of the Soviet Union, formerly autonomous and semi-autonomous regions were eager to crawl out from under the shadow of the Kremlin. Irina got testy when mistaken for a Russian. Strictly speaking, it was not an insult; however, Irina preferred a non-Russian identity. East European was acceptable or, even the archaic and unflattering White Russian.

The tour or drive about was Irina’s idea. Marc agreed to it without a second thought – or even a first thought, to be brutally honest. Irina was her best friend; her company was far more important than any venue. Irina, however, lusted for adventure. She could endure a sedentary existence only so long before developing itchy feet.

Irina was a former compact and muscular athlete. Her face and shape invited a blizzard of flattering adjectives. In Marc’s estimation, however, Irina’s natural beauty was severely blunted by the length of her dark brown tresses. She detested fussing with her hair and had most of it shorn. Save for her seductive bangs, what remained resembled a 1950s male executive with a part (straighter than a line of West Point cadets) over her left ear.

Marc had nowhere to go and the rest of her life to get there. Had Irina suggested they explore Hell (the one in Norway), Marc would have agreed without qualms. Friendship remained the top of her list of priorities, but the heat was wearing her down. Marc needed a cold drink and a bathroom. The Georgian toilets Marc experienced, thus far, were primitive. In truth, the word primitive was exceedingly complementary. Regardless, stone-age toilets were better than stopping along the road and sprinting for the bushes.

Irina, as ever, was not inhibited; she was unflappable.

When ya gots ta go, Irina giggled, imitating an English-language broadcast she heard a dozen years before. Ya gots ta go.

Marc was invisible when with Irina. There was no way she could ever be half as beautiful as her Belarussian friend. However, she envied Irina’s lack of inhibitions and hoped to acquire this frontier quality for herself. Alas, it was a work in progress.

For beautiful Irina, impromptu potty stops added to the adventure. Marc, however, continued to observe social demarcation lines. To her credit, Irina never teased her American friend for her prudishness. If anything, she was sympathetic to Marc’s plight.

Friends do not make fun of each other’s foibles.

Irina and Marc were only a few klicks outside the town of Jumbleofcyrillicletters. Irina spied an ancient Lada half-on and half-off the highway. Two young men (boys, really) were changing a tire.

We should see if they need help, Irina said, slowing and inching off the road.

Marc had been warned about Georgia. Stalin was Georgian, and locals, to this day, take perverse pride in him; the local boy who made bad! Though Georgians, thus far, had proved friendly and helpful, there was no point in tempting fate. Irina was weary. Should these boys take offense at getting the high hat from a pair of foreigners, bloodshed was a real possibility.

The older boy was, perhaps, sixteen. He was lank and puny. His t-shirt was more holes than cloth and what it showed of his torso was hardly complementary. The younger boy was a pre-teen. He wore a red pullover, spotted with grease and oil and much too heavy for the temperature. His jeans had a huge hole exposing one lily-white knee.

A tire had shredded. Chunks of rubber traced the car’s path for three or four hundred meters. The spare was tread-worn. In fact, much of it had no tread at all. There was one suspicious bulge on the inside edge where a tire should be.

The boys had completed the repair work. To access the tools (a euphemism for a rusty collection of metal) they removed their cargo, two burlap bags filled with turnips, rutabagas, or some Georgian variant. The boys enjoyed a gravity assist while emptying the trunk, but neither of them (or both working together) had strength enough to heft their cargo.

Marc knew no Georgian and remained clueless about the boys’ excited babbling. Obviously, they were highly agitated. Irina interrupted them, employing the Russian tongue. They boys replied in that language readily enough. They must get their goods to market. Failing in their mission would arouse parental umbrage.

Marc’s Russian was rudimentary, but she had no trouble understanding the situation. When Irina sent Marc a pleading look, all linguistic nuances were shunted aside.

Cold drinks and Georgian septic nightmares were on hold until some action was taken. Marc was no showoff. She signaled to Irina to lend a hand. Irina, however, dropped back a step and smiled.

Irina was more than strong enough to heft the bags, but Irina tacitly insisted this was Marc’s show.

I’m driving, Irina reminded. I might break a nail.

Irina Gadun was as prissy and fastidious as a mud wrestler. Her nails remained unpainted. She kept them short. Her concern was as phony as a counterfeit ruble.

Marc Schmidt was as prissy and fastidious as a mud wrestler. The difference, alas, was the fetish of her extremely huge hands. They offended her; she kept them out of sight whenever possible. Irina was, so to speak, forcing Marc’s hand. It was not a malicious gesture, however. Irina was proud of her friend and wanted to show her off. Marc habitually employed similar tactics with Irina, so no offense was taken.

Quickly, Mark hefted the bags into the trunk. Just as quickly, she shoved her offending appendages back into her pockets.

The eyes of the boys grew large with wonder.

You’re very strong, the younger boy reported.

Farm work at home, Marc lied.

My friend is from America, Irina injected, proudly.

You speak good Russian, the older boy said.

Was he mocking her? Likely, he was merely incredulous. Marc’s Russian was good though embarrassingly limited. Without Irina, she would, soon, get (linguistically) swamped.

American? The younger boy asked to make certain.

"Da."

You’re lost!

Marc shrugged.

The boy could have been speaking geographically. However, he might have speculated about her fate. Marc’s shrug communicated that she really did not give a damn either way.

Marc’s father succumbed to cancer, and her mother followed six years later with her first (and only) heart attack. Her elder brother and sister were killed by a drunk driver. Her marriage was destroyed by her husband’s drug habit. If Marc feared for her safety, she would have eschewed the Georgia adventure. Save for her bladder and her thirst, Marc had no concerns. Her first life ended in tragedy and profound disappointment. Her renewed life had yet to prove much better.

I’m just out for the ride, she announced.

Well, not exactly.

Marc glanced at Irina. She realized – for the hundredth time – that their friendship was the greatest possible reward. No matter what happened, and despite all that had happened, Irina Gadun was there for her. It was Marc’s mission to be worthy of Irina’s friendship.

They followed the boys into the village at thirty kilometers an hour. When the car turned off the main road, a local euphemism for the poorly paved and pot-holed sidewalk, the women thought their obligation ended.

They stopped in a shady spot near a derelict building. In Soviet days it was a major retail complex. Now, doors were sealed, windows were boarded up and chunks of plaster and masonry littered the roadside. Under a makeshift awning, a former display window (broken glass removed) was converted into a counter for street-side customers. Interior seating was relegated to a space along a crudely repapered wall. The seven tables were an eclectic collection of discarded domestic furniture. There were two, non-matching wooden chairs; the rest were of a plastic sit-at-your-own risk variety. The remainder of the shop was dominated by large kegs and patched up USSR refrigeration equipment. The sink was a round, aluminum tub adjacent to a platoon of plastic containers. There was no way of guessing the location of the water source – or its quality.

Justifiable sink activity was sparse. The beer was dispensed in large, clear-plastic containers. The amber fluid came with a thin, frothy head and, blessedly, cold – not chilled, not cool, cold as in glacial-ice cold.

Predictably, the toilet was a hole in the floor behind a squeaky-hinged, wooden door with no latch. It reeked and, of course, was BYOTP. For Marc, however, it was as welcome as the powder room of the Ritz.

She was, formerly, very prissy about her Johnny-do activity. However, Irina’s influence was beginning to rub off. If some drunken loon mistook the facility vacant and hurriedly pulled the door open preparatory to an emergency evac, he would catch Marc squatting and defenseless.

I’m rushin’! she would announce with a smile.

It would have to be in English, of course. The pun was untranslatable. Maybe, Irina could provide her with a witty Russian phrase to blunt her embarrassment should the occasion ever demand.

Fortunately, Marc was not interrupted. She felt much better and was anxious to face her next great adventure.

Irina paid for the beer. She had taken a satisfied sip from one plastic vessel and offered Marc the other. It was cold and, thus, welcome. Of all the satisfied drinks she had enjoyed over the years, the Georgian beer was the most recent.

There were seven customers crowded into the orifice, but they all stood, and none trusted the tables enough to rest their beer upon them.

The only other female within sight was the proprietor, a thin woman of middle years. She smiled. Indeed, everyone smiled. The men were graying and haggard pensioners (or bums) who regarded any stranger as a celebrity. Their Russian was crude and ungrammatical. This pleased Marc. Once her polished Russian was depleted, she was reduced to mix-and-match genders and verb tenses that came out in hesitant phrases. Suddenly, she had no fear of projecting herself as a freakish, illiterate oaf. Indeed, Marc felt instantly at home among equals.

The patrons were friendly to a fault. Two additional women to brighten up their daily coffee break made the assembly congenial and talkative. In a hold-over from their life under communism, they were careful to avoid undue curiosity. No one asked Marc where she was from. It didn’t matter. Irina’s announcement that their vacation began in Minsk was more than satisfactory. Big-city girls were assumed to be eccentric and ignorant of country proletarian culture and society.

One beer was just shy of enough. Marc’s thirst wasn’t completely satiated. There was no chance to conference with Irina. The conversation was at full gallop. When Irina motioned for a second beer, Marc followed suit. The day’s travel, however, was at an end. Irina was very aware of Marc’s feelings about alcohol and automobiles.

Is there a hotel in town? Marc asked, struggling against the conversational din.

The gathering exploded. The men, without exception, began barking in Georgian. For a few moments it looked as if the explosive discussion would graduate to a geriatric barroom brawl. The genial hostess, however, reestablished order by beating against the washtub with an ax handle. Marc assumed that this item had found much use – and not merely as a method of gaining attention.

The congregation fell silent. Indeed, the men – all of them – assumed penitent expressions.

There’s one on the highway just ahead, the weapon wielder informed in a calm, rational voice. There’s another further on –

Three of the men sucked in a lung full of air and made ready to impose their individual opinions. They were, however, stilled when the barmaid gestured with the ax handle.

The furthest one serves an evening meal, but I don’t recommend eating it. Otherwise, they are both safe.

Where may we eat? Irina asked, seizing the chance.

Seconds later, the women received invitations from five men to five dispersed venues.

Marc studied the beer lady. The woman, sensing Marc’s angst, took two steps in her direction.

Any of these men will be happy to go with you. They will, likely, provide you with food in exchange for your company. They’re all crazier than a drunken weather cock in a hurricane, but there’s not a one who will lay a hand on you. If that’s what you want, the village is stuffed with young Romeos.

The friendly woman who commanded obedience by brandishing an ax handle won Marc’s confidence.

To avoid combat, Irina suggested the men draw straws. They eagerly agreed.

Thus, an aging gent with a washboard face, thin white hair and dressed in spotless work clothes accompanied the girls to the nearer of the hostelries. He insisted upon carrying their luggage, meager though it was, and introduced them to the owner, another smiling pensioner.

Marc and Irina had discussed matters hours previously.

This is Georgia, she reminded. Two women sharing a hotel room might generate hostility. I don’t know that to be true, but I don’t care to find out. These people are stuck in nineteenth century morality. Political correctness is shat upon and single women are fair game.

Marc shrugged. It made no difference to her. Judging by the amount exchanged for a pint of cold beer, she was satisfied that Georgia, or at least this town (village more like) was one place where five American dollars could see you through the day.

Marc was pleasingly surprised when she opened the door to her room. There was a spacious entry nook to hang coats and place luggage. The bathroom was very cramped but clean and complete. She had a flush toilet, a shower, and a sink. The bed was comfortable though the counterpane was worn and tattered about the edges.

She turned the sink faucet and sighed with relief when clear water issued forth.

For the equivalent of four dollars a night, she was more than satisfied. She vowed to leave a handsome gratuity on the morrow.

She rejoined Irina. Together, they returned to the lobby. Their escort was conspicuously absent.

Gregor is off home to tell his wife there will be guests for dinner, a man with a nearly useless left arm informed them. He wants you to know he will return at seven.

They thanked him, left their room keys, and set out to explore. They didn’t know the name of the place, but they felt fortunate and happy.

He’s taking us home? Marc asked for clarification of her Russian translation.

Irina replied with what was becoming her stock phrase.

We’re in Georgia.

That, apparently, covered many incongruities and a substantial amount of weirdness.

Mama Babushka was the quintessential Slavic grandmother – half as wide as tall, and every square inch was jollity and hospitality. Moreover, one cannot