Dance Me To The End Of Love Volume 1: Dance Me To The End Of Love, #1

By Regine Rayevsky Fisher

The short stories in Dance Me to the End of Love reflect the real day-to-day life of ordinary people of different ages, genders, professions, and ethnicities with connections to a believable world of imagined events. They take place in the former Soviet Union, in the United States, and in the emigration in-between. Love, marriage, infidelity, disillusionment, intimacy and the lack of it, rootlessness are subjects that move from an improbable reality to surreal events, as the American novelist Maureen Howard noted,"¿ is Regine Rayevsky Fisher's strong suit, one she shares with many of the best writers who have emerged from the Soviet Union that was and the Eastern bloc, such as Kundera and Berberova¿Fisher knows when to fade from a scene, when to draw conclusions that have the double vision of innocence and the informed telling."Some of the stories slap you in the face, some make you want to cry your heart out-they are wonderfully entertaining and also very wise. The author has a satirical talent for exposing so many of our human flaws and showing how people behave from insecurity and their fragile egos. But there is tenderness and forgiveness too. These tales about simple people pose more questions than answers about morals, respectability, and roads taken and missed. Most of all they are about love that holds everything together on our planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desert Wind Press
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781956271218

Book preview

Dedication

In Memory of My Mother

Waiting for my mother’s arrival is my earliest memory. I have asked my mother many times where it took place and described the countryside, myself in a carriage near a lake, my grandmother’s face close to mine as she laughs, Soon Mama will come. Do you hear how the train is coming, how it’s bringing your Mama? And then soon my mother’s aroma, as if through a stream of warm air, and an enormous bar of chocolate that had melted in her pocketbook during the long journey to us at the dacha. I am flooded with the memory of her running to the lake holding the chocolate, her familiar face, large white teeth, the puffed sleeves of her dress that fit her figure so well, the taste of the melted chocolate. Where did this all take place, Mama? How old was I? Her answer was the squinting of her eyes she always made when she wanted to remember something, her look into space. She was not sure. But I remember that round blue lake and tall pines and myself in a carriage, though not anything else. Only the moment of joy in waiting for her.

I have always felt myself and my mother and my grandmother and everyone else related to me as parts of each other, and together we comprised a part of something big that had neither form, nor limit, nor end.

Confession

Berlin, July 2009

In a small cozy tavern, four married couples were sitting by flickering candlelight around a rustic table covered with bottles and dishes. They were talking loudly. The conversation was focused on a fifth couple who, that particular night, was not there. The discussion centered on the infidelity of the husband of the fifth couple. It is, of course, much more pleasant and comforting to discuss the follies of others as an abstract matter than to discuss one’s own. After all, what is civilization if not for courtesy and comfort? Good manners, politeness—these are the very borders that protect us from discomfiting unpleasantries. Everyone was speaking at once without listening to the others, and everyone was having a grand time.

With the opening of a fifth bottle of an exquisite Bordeaux, the atmosphere changed ever so slightly, and the husband of the absent couple, whom everyone—particularly the women—had exhaustively despised and judged, started to receive praise and even pity.

Suddenly, one of the wives, her cheeks flushed from wine, with a charming smile raised her wine glass and proclaimed, How about we go around the table and each one of us tells the darkest deepest sin he or she has ever committed! Everyone immediately settled down, as muffled coughs and nervous laughter filled their corner of the room. However, after the cloud of silence lifted, the joyful atmosphere was restored, and everyone began to argue over who should become the night’s first victim.

Everyone unanimously agreed that bright, kind Stanley with his slightly naive outlook on the world, should stand first and confess. And so it went that all fingers pointed to Stanley. A bit intimidated by all the attention, Stanley, as usual, started to object, as it was his nature to consent only through negation. Well, I see that there is no way out, he said finally, folding his napkin then fixing the rim of his eyeglasses.

Everyone settled down to hear what would be forthcoming, including Stanley’s wife, Julie, whose lip corners had fallen into two sharp vertical lines, rendering her a portrait of nervous sarcasm. This all happened relatively recently, Stanley’s confession began. Actually, very recently …well, to be exact, as recently as last summer when Julie and I were in London on one of my business trips. Stanley became quiet as if expecting a question about what business matters he had in London, but no such question was raised. A bit distracted, he continued, Knowing my wife deserved an award for the patience that she showed by accompanying me to the various boring meetings …

He looked at his wife, hoping she might contradict his use of the word boring, but her eyes were studying the empty wine glass in front of her. So, exclaimed Stanley, "as her reward I took her to Harrods, the well-known and venerable department store in the center of London— as all of you know. Julie and I agreed to meet in an hour in a café that was located opposite the front of the store, and we each went our separate ways. I walked aimlessly through the first floor, sprayed on some French cologne, and in exactly an hour, found myself a seat in the café at a table waiting to meet my wife. Soon she came in with her purchases and excitedly started to tell me about them. I was listening, but I was also studying the menu at the same time. Having decided finally what I would order, I lifted my eyes, and suddenly I met the glance of a woman sitting at the next table.

She was looking at me, most likely by accident. Possibly she didn’t even see me. I, in turn, began to examine her and as if the world went mute, I completely lost anything my wife was saying. The particular beauty of that woman struck me like a thunderbolt—it was the kind of beauty there are no words for; it is impossible to describe. Shortly afterwards, she turned her eyes away and spoke quietly with the person sitting next to her. But I secretly stole some glances at her again and again …"

Deep in thought, almost as if he was seeing the woman again, Stanley went silent. Well, that’s about it. That’s the whole story, he added, and after what seemed like an infinite minute, he looked at his wife. Julie raised her eyes, in which Stanley could decipher absolutely nothing.

In the next moment, with an awkward laugh and burying his sheepish expression, Stanley addressed his neighbors, Well and now you …But the others had already started looking around the restaurant and clicking their fingers for the waiter to bring the bill. It had become obvious that the evening was over.

Afterwards, each time Stanley remembered this incident, he thought that perhaps he should not have spoken so openly, that he had insulted his wife for no reason, and that the others were most likely better and purer souls than he. But somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, he was happy that he had shown himself to be, perhaps not a libertine, but definitely intriguing. And from time to time, a wandering smile would appear on his thin lips.

Father and Son

Zach sat in his dad’s study on a brown leather chair to which he felt stuck for so many years while his father recited for hours all the bad points of Zach’s behavior. Today was different. Zach had planted himself in the chair voluntarily. Actually, he had asked his father to meet him in the study to talk with him. Zach thought, Whatever the outcome, it will not be a waste of time. I will try to explain everything to him. I will tell him that it’s a calling, and even if he disapproves, I’ll stick to my plan.

Zach’s brain was searching for the right words for the inevitable arguments. The palms of his hands were sweating, his heart was racing. His father arrived and sat down as well, squinting at Zach impassively over the big desk. So son, you asked me here to thank me for everything I’ve done for you over the past twenty-one years?

Well, said Zach, That too …Thank you, father.

It was my obligation, son, to teach you everything I knew. To put a clear idea in your head about what really matters. I hope I accomplished my goal. You’re twenty-one today, and I am proud of you. Stanford, good grades, scholarship—great job, son. Zach’s father got up and walked over to the bar. He poured brandy from a crystal decanter into two glasses and gave one to Zach. Cheers! he said. Let’s drink to you, son. You deserve it.

Zach took the glass and said, Dad, do you like what you do? I always wanted to ask you. Are you passionate about your job? Does it satisfy your ambitions? Was this your aspiration to become a doctor —a dentist? To deal with people and their problems?

Why are you asking, son? Why now?

Because I want to know. Because I respect you. I’ve always respected you. Zach smiled, remembering something. There’s one moment in life I’ll never forget. The moment that turned you from being a father into a hero. Raising one eyebrow, Zach’s father looked at him curiously. I was thirteen at the time. I was kind of small and weak and wobbly and didn’t have a lot of friends. My voice was changing. In school I felt very insignificant. There were these three guys in my class, whom I admired. Everyone feared them, for they were cruel and kind of sadistic towards other kids. They announced that they were nihilists—in other words, against everything in society. They were fearless and therefore very powerful. Out of everyone in my class, those three were the ones I wanted to be friends with. But every time I tried to approach them, they laughed at me and then would forget about my existence.

Stroking his beard, Zack’s father said, I remember. Of course I remember those three. You were a target for their bullying, and that was the only connection they had with you. Otherwise, they were completely indifferent towards you. You explained all of that very well to me that night, and I understood, and I believed you. That’s why I defended you. I told the policeman that you were harassed into hiding the stuff they had stolen, that you didn’t even know what was inside of that big black plastic bag. They had just come and thrusted the bag onto you, ordering you to hide it until they would pick it up. No questions answered, not that you even asked any. You did what they told you to do. You confessed to me that you kind of stupidly felt proud that they trusted you. There’s always a drama between strong and weak children. Not that you’re weak, but at the time you behaved in a submissive way.

Zach said, The only reason I brought it up, Dad, is that when in the morning the police showed up, you were so incredibly brave and courageous. You told them it would be very unfair for me to be punished for a crime I had not committed. You managed to convince them that I was a wonderful son and human being. You mentioned that the relationship between father and son is always difficult, but the two of us had an intimacy in which it was possible to really know each other, and in situations like that the son could tell the truth without fear of being punished or losing his father’s love—that you realized those three boys pointed to your son as guilty for the stolen goods, but it was simply a lie. You told the policeman, ‘Trust me, it’s a lie.’ And I will never forget that.

Thank you, Son. Zach’s father blinked away a dropping tear. So what is it that you want to discuss with me?

Dad, I left college. I want to be a musician. In the silence of the room, one could only hear the wall clock ticking.

How serious is this? Zach’s father asked.

Very serious.

Suddenly Zach’s father covered his face with both hands, and his entire body started shaking in convulsions. There were some strange sounds coming from under his hands, and Zach got scared that his father was having a stroke or a heart attack. The room felt cold and hostile. Zach waited, then asked What’s wrong? How can I help you? Should I call someone? Should I call Mom? Are you okay? You’re scaring me.

Finally his father opened his face, tears coming down in thin lines. He took out his handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his eyes, nose, mouth. I knew it, he said. I knew it. After all, you are my son.

What are you talking about, Dad? Zach was totally flabbergasted, seeing his father suddenly burst into laughter.

What’s going on? Zach’s mother’s agitated voice broke into the room. She ran to her husband.

Moira, Zach’s father said, unable to stop laughing. Zach wants to be a musician. He really is my son.

He is your son, Zach’s mother echoed.

What are the two of you saying? Am I adopted or something? Zach said, a bit indignantly.

Your dad’s dream was always to become an actor, preferably a comedian. But he didn’t have the guts to go against his parents, and so he became a dentist. A good dentist, but still a dentist. Anyway, his most wonderful and perhaps only performance was … Zach’s mother picked up one of the glasses with brandy, gulped it down, and continued, Zach, remember that stunt your so-called friends did when they were caught for stealing? They said that you were the main ringleader, and the evidence was in your house. She chuckled and looked at him fondly. One of the officers turned out to be a patient of your father. Your dad happened to have saved his tooth or bridge or whatever. The officer was forever grateful to your father for that. He knew that your dad had a son—your photo was on dad’s desk at work. He knew dad’s last name. Dad had even mentioned your first name to him. She paused for a moment looking over at her husband and smiled with admiration before she continued.

So when those three guys were caught and accused, and the three of them argued that they were innocent, that you were the real criminal who had orchestrated the whole operation, the officer put two and two together and realized who you were. He called your father and told him the whole story and that the next morning you were supposed to be arrested, but out of respect for your father, he would not do it. You were only thirteen, after all. He said that your father should talk to you himself and bring the bag to the station. Your father thought for a moment and then said to the officer, ‘No, do me a favor. Please come. Let’s make it a good lesson for my son, so that he will remember it for his entire life not to be friends with bullies. That if you’re honest, you don’t have to be afraid of anyone.’ So the officer agreed, and the rest is history. Dad performed beautifully – you have to give him that. I guess there are no secrets that go unrevealed.

Zach sipped his remaining brandy, thinking how much he loved his father and that actually, yes there are some secrets that should not be revealed, that he had known about this farce all along. The officer’s son, who was in his class, had told him, and Zach had kept it to himself and intended to continue to do so.

A Visit from America

My girlfriend wrote in a letter to me, I thought I would never return to your damn Moscow, but life has taken a different turn. A local newspaper is sending me to collect material concerning AIDS in Russia, so I’ll be staying with you, Verochka. If possible, arrange it so that the children aren’t there. That’s what she wrote in black and white. Take the children away as far as possible —I’m sick and tired of my own —and spend time with me. What she meant was that I should be completely at the disposal of Her Highness. Well, I thought, all right, I’ll take a break from the children and in general from this dog’s life of mine and spend time with my American girlfriend.

And so, she came. I met her, as is the custom, with flowers, but she did not notice them and started yelling. WATER, she screamed, DO YOU HAVE HOT WATER? Or have they again shut if off for the whole summer?

There’s water, I said, and we’ll get some hot water. We’ll boil some, and that’ll take care of the problem.

I knew it. Why did I ever bother to come? Is there any milk?

There’s milk. I bought some at the market, straight from the farm with lots of cream in it.

She started yelling again. I’M TRYING TO KEEP MY FIGURE, she shouted. UNDERSTAND? Oh, you don’t understand anything and never will. Why do I love you? And tears almost came to her eyes.

Why was she crying, I thought. My husband Genka had left me for a young girl, but I was not crying. He kept on working nights. When he came home in the mornings, he would start yelling at me. You sit here whole days at a time growing your ass, while some of us lose all our strength at work. He was losing strength, all right. Only not at the kind of work that results in a salary to feed a family, but at the kind from which children are born. One time he came in the morning, and I hit him with a wet towel. He sat down on the floor suddenly, sat and cried. I can’t live like this anymore. Help me, Vera, help me! You’re my very own. There isn’t anyone closer to me. No one understands, only you do, Verochka. And I felt so sorry for him, a big grownup man —a bit younger than I, it was true, but for all that over thirty, not a boy —but he was crying like a little child.

Well, let it out, I had said. What happened to you? And I stroked his head. My heart was already in my throat because I knew what he was going to say.

I’ve fallen in love, he said in a broken voice and tried to hide his head in the collar of his shirt. I glanced at the shirt and saw lipstick on the ring around the neckline. I don’t use lipstick, just never got used to it. So, he told me everything then, sitting on the floor. The morning was so rainy and somber. But I did not notice the rain nor how I had come to be on the street without stockings, in slippers and a bathrobe. Upstairs in the apartment in the corridor on a hook, a new raincoat was hanging, almost never worn, white with gold buttons. My girlfriend had sent it from America.

And now that girlfriend was crying because of some hot water. Well, I gave her a pile of compliments, that America had now caught up with Russia in fashion, since the last time she had come in some rags with a horse embroidered on the vest pockets. She had not noticed that her clothes were ugly. The main thing was for that horse to be on them, even though they had cost a lot of money. I thought then that my girlfriend had gone nuts in that America. I told her so to her face, and she screamed at me, "You don’t understand anything at all, you country hick.

These clothes were bought in the very best stores. Just look at their quality." I did not care about the quality. I had seen through those clothes, seen that my girlfriend was living without love, was hiding in those clothes so as not to see the world and not to show herself to it. My heart had broken.

But this time she came looking just the opposite. Her skirt was higher than her navel, and everything was very tightfitting. She could carry if off since she had the figure for it. I have a figure too, of course, but of a different kind. When Genka and I had just met, he would say, You Verochka, are a real Russian beauty. Your beauty is limitless. And then he would giggle and touch my breasts. Can it be that they make bras this big? Let me examine it, Vera Vasilievna. Mashenka was born as a result of those examinations, and after her birth we went and registered our marriage like human beings. Why did we bother to register? I don’t know. Soon after, we went to get a divorce. Now we are living together again but divorced. He came back to me, that is to say, but not completely …but that’s another story.

Where are the children? my girlfriend asked and looked at me severely.

I’ve taken care of everything. Don’t worry, Galyochka. Masha’s with Genka staying with Genka’s mother. And Grishka’s staying with Tanya. Tanya is my daughter from my first marriage, from my first junk, as they say in Russian, a good Russian word for what happens when you get married. And a precise one, too. Everything ends in divorce. Things are good here in our country, everything is easy. If you want to marry, marry. If you want to divorce, divorce. Pay ten rubles, sign something, nod your head in agreement, and that’s that. Thus Tanya, I repeat so as not to lose the thread of my thought, is my daughter from my first marriage. She is already over twenty, while her son Grisha is two years old. He lives with me as if he were my own child. This way Masha has a little brother, and Tanya is more free. After all, she is still young.

I saw that my American girlfriend had calmed down and was even smiling. Did you arrange for a car? she asked. I had rented a car and driver, just as she had ordered. With dollars it’s possible to roll around like cheese in butter here. How much does it cost? she asked.

Thirty rubles a day.

She made a calculation in her head and said, Three dollars. Why, that’s nothing. Here, Verochka, here’s three hundred dollars. That should be enough for you and me for a week. You take care of the spending, since otherwise I’ll get all mixed up with the changes that have taken place here.

A fact is a fact. She was generous. And why shouldn’t she have been? She had a rich husband. An American. An interesting-looking, heavyset man. Imposing. Intelligent. Made you want to yawn the moment he opened his mouth. Of course, that was due to my insufficient education.

We loaded up the luggage into the car, got in, and started out. My girlfriend swallowed Moscow with her eyes. Such dirt! Such ugliness! Lord, at least they could paint the houses!

Galyochka, I said, they’re painting mine at the moment. Both inside and outside. It’s already the fifth year they’ve been painting. So be careful, don’t mess yourself with the wet paint. What beautiful things you’re wearing. Last time you came dressed in God-know-what, but this time it’s pleasant to look at you. Like the girls in the discotheques here whom I’ve seen on TV.

My girlfriend grabbed me by the arm. I’ve fallen in love, she said.

My hearts started beating. What’s this? How come? An American?

No, one of ours, an emigrant. Why, you probably know him— Tabachnikov’s son.

The film actor?

Uh-huh. The son? Uh-huh.

How old is he?

She did not let go of my hand but kept squeezing it as hard as possible. I was hot enough without her doing that. The weather had lately become suffocating, without any breeze or wind, like the desert; heavy dust had settled on everything, in people’s throats and eyes. "Young,