Hell and paradise. Марина Кужман

I went to the grocery to buy my coffee and sandwich. The owner of daily was a black man from Africa, and every time we were joking and laughing and people saw our happy faces, everybody who came occasionally stayed and bought his coffee and sandwiches, and he started giving me breakfast for free.

      I got new friends. I met one Russian girl. She was married to an American man. She loved him, but life in an American province was not fun for her, and she moved to New York and took a job in a Russian newspaper. Her name was Janna, and she was educated in art. She liked my poems, and she offered me to publish them in the newspaper New Word. I did not wake up famous the next morning; limited number of people were interested in poetry in the USA, and special poems were in Russian language in the Russian newspaper. But some people called me, and one woman who worked in Russia likes journalists. She liked my poems, and because she lived in Manhattan, we met. I read for her. She liked it and said that what other people wrote on four hundred pages, I wrote in a few words.

      Urin said the same – that my poems are like

      Japanese poetry style of tanka, in one world, all universe.

      We were in the bar and took some drinks. I was in a good mood. Fortunately, I met one young man. He was from the other state, from the provinces. He was so clean and fresh and sweet. I took him like a frustrated beautiful flower who occasionally met on the way and spent the night with him. I didn’t have any plans with him, but he was very pleasant. In the morning, when he left, I felt myself in good balance and unity with world and universe.

      Suddenly, the telephone rang. It was my father calling from Russia. The sound of his voice was irritated. My daughter was in the hospital.

      Something was wrong with her lymph nodes. My head briefly compiled gloomy thoughts. I was in horror that my daughter was seriously sick. Maybe she has cancer; maybe she was dying and I never would see her again. I called the hospital and talked with her doctor. He said nothing scary. But how do I know? In Russia, the doctors never tell the truth. They don’t want to get patients and their relatives scared. The troublous sound of the voice of my father bothered me and demanded immediate action. I started thinking of what to do. A long time ago, I applied for one dating agency, and pretending being husband started to call, and I met with some of them and because Steve’s divorce was delayed. I thought that maybe if I married somebody, I would get my green card and bring my daughter to the USA. I found the phone number of one of them, and I found that it was not necessary to be married. We could be just bride and groom back to the USA. He was a Syrian Jew, and he was ready to help me and even make some business.

      But Syrian Jew cheated me. I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t understand anything about credit cards at that time. He said if I would get a credit card soon, my money that I put would increase twice. But, really, he put almost all my money in his account. Another problem happened. I started looking for my Soviet international passport, and I couldn’t find it. Later after all before his death, Urin told me that he stole my passport because he wanted to keep me in the USA and thought that if I would be famous in the USA, then he will be famous enough too because he told on Russian American TV that he is my teacher. Often, he told me, “You are very talented, and if you will be famous, I will be famous too.” And he didn’t want me to go back to Russia.

      I went to the Russian consulate to make my papers to go back to Russia. It was a lot of effort to do this. But when it was ready, I found that I didn’t have money – that this Syrian Jew really stole my money. We were together in the bank, he gave me a copy of the application, but at the last moment, he put my money in his account. I went to a lawyer’s office close by. It was Jewish people. They said that they cannot help me because he was not afraid, they didn’t know all my story, and my situation just entertained them. I went to a police officer, who listened to me with attention, but it was not a crime and he could not arrest him and push him to give my money back. “You need a lawyer.” He gave an advice to me.

      I started looking for lawyers in Russian newspapers. I made a few calls and I found one that was ready to help me with my problem. But he wanted that I come to Brooklyn to his apartment. This offer did not make me enthusiastic. I had experience of how to be one on one in an apartment with a Russian man. They are not gentlemen, maybe one in a million. They don’t know the word “no”; always they

      are “ready” but your wish is not counted.

      There was really a storm in my brain; my thoughts ran one by one. I could not concentrate and make a decision, and in the end, I decided to go to Brooklyn to see the lawyer. Later, I saw here very often the situation when people need a psychotherapist, people go to a lawyer, and

      conversely

      It was the beginning of September, a sunny beautiful day. It was around four when I was near the subway going to take the train to Brooklyn. Suddenly, some incomprehensible wave caught me and suffered to the Irish bar on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Third Street. There I met with Steve, where he went very often. In that moment, I wanted to see him so much.

      And where does this power come from, this strong energy that pushed me to do not what I needed but what I wanted? But what was it that I wanted? I wanted to see Steve. I need his love right now, and, after all, things are going the right way and I can decide on all my problems.

      I didn’t come; I flew in the bar like Margarita, just without the broom. It was Tuesday, not so late, just afternoon, and there were just a few people. Along the rack and across there were three men and one fat girl sitting, a little far from the men; she was sitting alone. I sat near her. I looked around; Steve was not there. Maybe he will come later, I thought. I didn’t want to meet new people. I decided to relax and take time to think about my situation. The fat girl near me went downstairs, probably to toilet. Near her drink, there was big red apple and money. I ordered my drink. The bartender was a young boy from England and, like always, very friendly. We said a few words to each other. The fat American girl was back on her place and suddenly started crying. I was confused; I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had to ask her what happened and maybe console her. But I was not in that mood; I was looking for comfort for myself. I started looking around, and my eyes met with eyes of the man that was sitting a little far from us, along the rack. When I was coming in the bar, I noted his big head and confidence. Now he looked to me questioningly and, as he understood my condition, nodded to me, “Welcome.” I took my drink and sat nearby. He looked in my eyes, he has large face, massive chin, whiskers, high forehead, thick eyelashes that covered his very alive piercing eyes looking on me without covering interest. He was dressed in a green jacket that fit closely to his powerful body, dark blue shirt, and pink tie with white stripes that reminded me of the American flag. Some animal force emanated from him, and at the same time, there was something bureaucratic.