Jazz with Ella

excerpt

arrived and Misha and Marta knew she would be back in Moscow by now. She dearly wanted to see them again, but how would that work with Volodya?
“Most immediate threats first,” she muttered. She pictured both Natasha and Professor Chopyk standing in the lobby of the hotel, handing passports to the registrar, counting…searching for Paul. Her stomach lurched. Once again, she must remind herself that she was not yet committed. If she did not summon Volodya then she had done nothing wrong. What Paul had done he would have done anyway—that was his problem. It would be at the moment that she asked Volodya to act that she would set the ball rolling. And that moment was galloping towards her.
She leaned forward once more, oblivious to Maria’s irritation. “Everyone exits from Sheremetev airport, right?”
David nodded.
“I don’t know whether to tell him to meet us at the airport given our tight time frame… Do you see what I mean? He might not be able to drop everything and leave Leningrad right away. If he can’t leave until tomorrow, he should just meet us at the airport.” Her voice had taken on a wheedling sound. She realized she needed reassurance like a child.
“I don’t know whether Soviet citizens are allowed anywhere near an international airport because there’s a lot of security,” David pointed out. “Better he come to the hotel, then you have time to prepare him.”
“Are you serious? And have Natasha see him?” What was wrong with everybody? Couldn’t they take this seriously?
“It’s a big hotel,” he snapped. Then as if reading her thoughts, he turned to face her more fully. “Look, we’ll help you with the Paul stuff. But you know, you’ve really got to make some decisions about Volodya for yourself. I don’t want to know more about how you’re going to do it. Do you understand?”
“Da, ponyatno,” she answered curtly. “I understand.”
Maria’s face wrinkled during this exchange but she kept her eyes closed. Jennifer leaned back in her seat.
Her thoughts were troubled. Natasha is not the only problem. It’s all the other border guards and officials who hang around and check up on us. Volodya’s going for his life here. And we have Paul’s future in our hands.
The bus rolled along the wide boulevards and tree-lined streets, past the giant GUM department store. As it neared the Hotel Rossiya, the group shifted in their seats. Dozers woke up and began to reach…

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

Canadian boobs a kind of hood ornament. I dreamed that
night of Corrine. Of a slow dance on a hot night.
We did not make it to the fairgrounds. A sunburn prevented me
from attending. I fell asleep on the beach and Larry thought it would
be funny not to wake me. My thighs and shoulders throbbed, my
nose peeled. He didn’t make it either. That afternoon, Mr. and Mrs.
Cameron on a shopping mission, he sneaked into their tent and
pinched a carton of Jumbo Chocolate Ding Dongs. Lenore had one
and I had two. Larry ate nine. While he was puking into a plastic garbage
pail, the rest of us played Monopoly. Even with the burn, it was
the best night of the vacation.
There is a long lineup of cars heading north. A Canadian official
poses the same questions we were asked on the journey south. This
time, however, Mr. Cameron is asked to park for an inspection.
– What’s going on, Reg? Mrs. Cameron frets.
– Silence, woman! Reggie barks. It ain’t nothing.
– You’re both dead ducks! Larry taunts.
– And you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, Lawrence— Mrs. Cameron.
We are ordered out of the Impala. Mr. Cameron unlocks the trunk
and pops the hood. The undercarriage is examined with a mirror.
– What’s this?
The officer rifling through the back seat has discovered a case of
undeclared Coors beer. Another unearths more contraband concealed
under a blanket. There’s school supplies, blocks of cheese.
There’s cartons of American cigarettes.
– Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about, sir?
– That’s it, fellas, honest, Reggie Cameron swears.
The door panels are unscrewed nevertheless.
– There’s nothing in there! Mrs. Cameron protests. Whatta ya
think we are?
But there is something behind the door panels: a tool set. And
stainless steel steak knives. And bed sheets. The flags are under the
front seat.
– Did they tell you they were from the Civil War? our interrogator
quizzes.
– From the Battle of 1812, Larry corrects. They’re collectors’ items.
– I bet you got a certificate to prove it, huh?

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Constantine Cavafy

Body, Remember…
Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay
but also, those desires that shone,
so clearly in the eyes that looked at you
and trembled in the voices, desires
that some chance obstacle forestalled.
Now that everything is in the past,
it seems as if you gave yourself
to those desires, remember,
how they gleamed in the eyes that looked at you.
Body, remember, how they trembled in the voices.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763823

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume VI

THE LIFT OPERATOR

Therefore, the houses can’t contain them, not even
the road. They go in and out, up and down, busy in
their unemployment with their sorrowful hands
clumsy in their void or in their awkward position
next to them, pretending they have nothing to do,
or doubled down in the silence of their pockets, like
two injured birds or two hand grenades. The hands
familiar with the touch of the pickaxe, the hammer,
the sickle, or even the pen, can’t settle in silence or
only with their cigarette, they can’t settle on the knees.
They are like heavy anchors discarded on the rocks,
hairy anchors made of old seaweed and dry limpets.
Hands in this position can’t endure the spring.
They want to grab a tool tightly, a breast, a knife.
For this, men don’t touch the heads of their babies,
they don’t hug their wives, so they won’t shatter
them in their need for a great deed.

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