The Russian Guide

After six years as a tour guide, Martina noticed a creeping sameness in showing strangers her beautiful, historic, and artistic city.  The job paid well.  Hard to put her finger on it.  Perhaps there was not enough suffering, the Russian national pastime.  Happiness always held the promise of pain, like the momentary freedom of leaping off a tall building.   Today, a black and gray sky held promise.

Not counting the long days, long lines and schedule eruptions, Martina found strands of pleasure. Very unusual in her life and when they appeared, she held her breath.

At first the tourists' redundant questions were her security blanket. But these days she wished customers could be more inventive and insightful.  Her wishes blossomed and died in infancy.

It wasn’t personal.  People automatically warmed to her easy manner.  Came from being married for long years to Bruno, a hairy longshoreman who liked his beer and hot suppers.  Bruno also liked sex and Martina obliged him a time or two a month. It was that kind of marriage.  In other words, typically boring, with lightening bolts of despair.  Perhaps tonight he would be more inventive and make her do some really disgusting things.  Then she could cry.  The disgusting things she could count on, but inventiveness?  Dream on.

Besides being a tour guide, Martina wrote pathetically mundane articles for a monthly travel magazine.  The magazine was free, handed out on street corners, and paid Martina nearly nothing, but it dovetailed with her guide job and brought a sense of sad association with the Romanovs. When she chatted over a microphone in a cramped mini-bus, she relished describing Nicholas II and his family as being ‘brutally murdered,’ as though ‘thoughtfully and humanely  murdered’ would be something entirely different. 

Sometimes, to break the monotony, she fudged in bits that scraped the edges of accuracy both in her delivery and her writing.  Who cared?  Not the hopelessly ignorant tourists.  Not her magazine editor.   His expertise began with a capital and ended with a period.  Paragraphs and lucidity only slowed him as he raced to coffee with his mistreated girlfriend, or out for a bout of the vodka flu with his so-called friends.

In a piece about the famous Albert Hotel, Martina added some spice about a bellhop who consorted with animals.  All balderdash, of course.  His ghost, she wrote, could be seen grinning, barking, and humping the legs of guests.

The editor never changed a word and the hotel never complained.  In fact, reservations for people with female dogs increased 25%.  A keen sense of the perverse lives in all of us, she thought sadly.

Toward the end of each tour, Martina took her charges on a barge ride through the canals, pointing out palaces and cathedrals, intertwined with tales of saints and royalty, heaven and earth, as it were.

Martina also had a secret yearning to leap out from historical non-fiction and write short stories.  Most dreams are like that, thin and shadowy.  Shifting sand would be Gibraltar by comparison.

Today, a late afternoon in mid-summer, she toiled in the midst of a barge ride.  Halfway through, to the gentle lapping of the water against the hull, and with the sun burned to a deep gold.  Her customers basked in the afterglow of a hefty meat and potato lunch, washed down with icy glasses of complimentary vodka.  Martina noticed her charges slouching, then doubled over, their heads nodding like round boats on an invisible sea.

She breezed through the Romanovs by name, number, and nefarious deeds, then branched out and re-dug the shallow earth of history to sprout a new family tree.

Martina spoke excellent English, but with an accent that lent authenticity.

“On the left bank of the reever is the Palace of Ill Repute.  Many emperors sucked their last, piti-ful breaths there.  The entertainment of dancing chickens and a dance with meat cleavers also sucked, especially when changing partners. The chickens especially hated it. One Empress took to hay-vee drink and mopped the floor with her longhaired dugs.  She later become very devout and spent great sums to have the dugs bapi-tized.  The choorch adored her.”

Nobody budged.  Martina continued.  “Next comes the home of Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater, named because his wife, Olga-the-Generous, had enormous breasts.”

No reaction.

“Then, there was Alexander-the-Bold, and his little known son, Boris-the-Lunaticski.  History has little to say about Boris except that he kept an array of birds.  His very Orthodox wife, Alexis-the-Kneeler, insisted the birds wear condoms.  Several died from latex thrombosis and allergic reactions to celibacy.  Things came to a head when a great bustard’s eyes popped, due to testicular pressure, wounding two bystanders.  The mighty bird crashed into a small boat, with the loss of all hands, as well as arms and legs.  It is what we Russians call a happy ending.”

Gregor, who also spoke English, had settled himself among the tourists, behind a mountainous English woman, wearing a red rain-slicker, whose deep snoring resembled a Gregorian chant.

Gregor had seen Martina several times and although he would never admit it, seeing her again was the sole purpose of this trip.  It had cost him money he could not really afford, but such is love, which in Greg’s case resembled stalking.  In his thirty-five years he’d experienced love many times, lasting only as long as puffs from a cannabis pipe.  As he had with his other romantic car wrecks, he was certain this time would be different.

Once he had spoken with Martina hurriedly, from boat to dock, which he managed without loss of balance.  She’d smiled a courageous smile that firmed his interest in the sadness in her eyes.  Now he was back for another dose of cupid’s tonic.

When the boat docked, Gregor lingered, allowing the tourists to disembark before he wandered to the creaking gangplank.  His joyous heart was light, but he still dragged a long cloak of despair, left over from previous romantic struggles.

Martina appeared to be taken by surprise.  But, still she smiled.  Gregor smiled back, trying his best to round the corner of the conversation and get to the part where he asked her to dinner. 

The clouds gave him the help he needed and although it was only four o’clock, a light drizzle allowed him to cut through the preliminaries and ask, “Coffee?”  He said it without whining.

Martina hesitated.  Who was this man?  His face looked familiar.  Still, the drizzle was beginning to show its muscle and one of her favorite coffee shops was across the street.  The street was in a good section and the coffee shop looked crowded, so, she nodded yes.  Coffee and harmless conversation might be just what she needed to unwind before she drove over an hour to reach her house, prepared dinner for her thankless husband and attended to household drudgery.  Traffic in this city was beastly.  Maybe it would take her two hours.

Gregor was in luck.  As they walked in, the couple at the table by the window got up.  Gregor and Martina sat down while the waitress cleared dishes and swiped a wet dishcloth across the scarred wooden tabletop.

“Two coffees,” Gregor said before the waitress could get away.  Hurriedly, he looked at Martina.  “Unless you want something else.”  If he expected disappointment, he didn’t get it.

“No, coffee is just right on a damp day.”

“I enjoyed your lecture,” he said and laughed, sounding almost as if he really had enjoyed it.

“It was the updated rendition of very worn stories.”

“I noticed.  But, you left out a lot.”

“Such as…”

“Gomez-the-Drinker, the first Emperor to distill vodka instead of waiting for sheep’s milk to ferment.”

“Forgot about him.  If I recall, he was later called Gomez-the-Kind.  He cycled vodka through his kidneys and donated it to the peasants.”

Conversation continued over yet more coffee, drunk from chipped china cups.  Gregor loved looking into her somewhat sunken eyes and didn’t want the tête-à-tête to come crashing down.  As any man knows, he saw what he wanted to see.  He’d waited so long for this moment.  Her eyes sparkled.  She was perfect in every way.  It was time to cut to the chase, stir the stew, fish or cut bait, ferment the potatoes.   Still, he hesitated.

“How is your day going?” she asked, looking down, taking another sip.  Such a cute little mole on her chin, he decided, and the deep circles only made her more attractive, in a perverse Soviet sort of way.

“So far, so good.  My therapist says I’ll be better soon.”

She laughed.  “You’re married, too?”

It was a bolt of lightening, but he dodged.  “The first time wasn’t too bad.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t like the way I spoke to her.”

“For example…”

“Started with good morning and went down-hill like a bull with mad-for-cows disease.”

“That bad?”

Worse.  Then came wife deux.”

“More bad luck?”

“She liked the heavy beatings at first, but soon tired of the salt baths.”

“Silly woman.”

“Yes.  She had it made.  Ice in her cup of thin tea, a stale crust of bread.”

He shifted gears.  “So, tell me what your husband is like.”

“He’s a brute.  I cheat on him often.”

“Really.”  He said it in passing, not wanting to interrupt the story.

“Yes.  I gave him a fabulous STD for his birthday.”

The sagging pathos was beginning to stir Gregor’s inherent Russian need for suffering.   While not actually lifting the table, he was at least wiggling the edge of the tablecloth.  He gripped his napkin tighter in his lap to avoid popping the zipper and unleashing the dragon, or in Gregor’s case, the gecko.

This infinitely sexy woman knew exactly what she was doing, he decided.  The more she spoke of sadness and pain, the greater his passion.  He suspected she wanted him just as much, always a man’s foolish miscalculation.

“Sometimes he deprives me of coffee and we have a wonderful shouting match.  The neighbors sell tickets and enjoy a jolly time.”

Gregor could barely contain himself, in the literal sense.

She reached under the table.  It was only to put a hand in her own lap, but still.

“Dear god!” he thought.

“It appears you’re furious with me, too.”  She smiled.

“Raging,” he said.

“Perhaps we should work off that rage.  Share a few precious moments of utter despair.”

“Yes, and perhaps the sun should rise and set.”  Was there sweat on his brow?  Felt like it.  His mouth tasted salty.

A man leaned across the table and asked him a question.  The language was Spanish or Italian, Gregor couldn’t decide.  He barely listened.

A moment later, when he started to settle the bill, he found his wallet was missing.  The man who’d asked the question.  Of course!  Gregor forgot his passion for a moment and raced to the door of the coffee shop, stumbled onto the street and looked both ways.  No one.

“They never run outside,” Martina told him when he got back to the table.  “Check the men’s room.”

The door was locked.  Gregor could hear someone inside.  He rattled the door handle.  It was loose.  He pulled, pushed and the door came free.  The guy inside was the same guy who’d asked a question.  He was shuffling through something and tried to hide it.  Gregor wasn’t big, but he was big enough.  He shoved the guy against the wall.  Money and papers fell to the floor.  The wallet fell in the urinal.  The guy brushed past him.

Gregor didn’t care.  He didn’t even care about the money.  The wallet was the important thing.  His license, his identification.  His condom. All there. Even the money.

When he came back, Martina was still at the table.  She eyed him, as if it were no big deal.  City girl.  Used to it.

“Where were we?” she asked as he slid into his chair.

“I was being robbed.”

“That’s Pietor.  He’s not a very good thief.”

“You know him?  Why in hell didn’t you say anything?”  He was rapidly losing the focus of this conversation.  Confusion was making steady progress toward disgust.

She shrugged. 

He got up to leave.  Martina clutched his sleeve.  “Don’t go.”  An obscure scene from Doctor Zhivago.

He looked down at her as if she had lost her mind.  In fact, he had lost his, but now he had it back and he wasn’t going to give it up again.  For the first time he noticed how ugly the mole on her chin really was, and the way one eye drooped a little, the thinness of her hair.

When he left, Martina sighed. She sighed again.  For anyone else it would have been sadness, but for her it was contentment. The perfect romantic suffering at the end of a dark and drizzling Russian day.