Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

Eventually, they had been assigned a 1995 Chevrolet Celebrity, white, with a blue cloth top.

It was in Brevard that night that they first discussed what they had not discussed before.

Misha, tall, with light-brown hair and looks that often resulted in his being compared to Liam Neeson, was acknowledged to be the leader of the duo, a degreed aeronautical engineer, a voracious reader, and a man who perhaps thought too much but kept most of what he thought to himself, his primary goal in life being to survive in safety and to continue to hide his homosexuality, a homosexuality he had not engaged in for the past six years since becoming a cosmonaut. Ivan knew nothing of his fellow cosmonaut’s sexual orientation. Misha was certain, however, that Mikhail Stoltz was very well aware of it. Soon after their return from space, Stoltz had a meeting with Misha in which he made it clear without really saying so that he knew. He also made it clear that secrets could be kept for those who could keep secrets. Misha had understood and agreed.

Ivan’s solid body and dark face suggested an intellectualism which was not there but which he had learned to feign. In contrast to his fellow cosmonaut, who was now his friend, Ivan’s sexual urges were decidedly heterosexual and open. Women, however, were in short supply where the two of them had been sent, and their lack of ease with the English language did not help his pursuits.

Coltan’s Bar just outside of Brevard had a reputation that had eventually made its way to the two Russians. The reputation was that people could be met there for friendly encounters, possibly free, possibly for money. Ivan and Misha had money, a more-than-adequate amount for their needs.

Both men hoped to make contact. Both men hoped that they could do so separately and move on with discretion.

The bar was crowded and since they were wearing American casual clothes no one seemed to pay attention to the men who made their way through the noise, past a few tables, and into a booth. Both men knew they were here for sex. Ivan did not know that Misha’s idea of what that might be was quite different from his own.

“I suggest we separate,” said Misha, scanning the room as a waitress made her way to their table and a woman’s voice, over, two badly balanced speakers, sang plaintively, “if you loved me half as much as I love you …”

“Name it,” said the heavyset woman with clear skin and a body that very much suited Ivan.

She wore no uniform, just a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt with an order pad and pencil in one pocket in case she needed it.

“Name? …” asked Ivan.

“What are you drinking, eating, buying?” she said, shifting her weight to her left foot.

“Beers,” Misha said.

“Germans?” she asked.

“Germans,” Misha said.

“My name’s Hoffer,” she said. “Helga Hoffer, German.”

“A pleasant coincidence,” said Ivan. “You are married?”

“I am not,” she said, turning her eyes from the handsome one to the intense dark one, who was cute in his own way.

“You accept invitations to drink from German customers?” Ivan said.

She smiled now. Her smile was good. Her body was better.

“We don’t get Germans in here,” she said, leaning over and showing her ample breasts as she lowered her voice. “No young, good-looking ones.”

“Then it might be possible to? …” Ivan asked.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “I get off in half an hour. You have a car?”

“I do,” said Ivan.

“Then maybe we can go somewhere and talk,” she said. “Two beers.”

She turned and walked back toward the bar.

“I can’t believe it,” said Ivan.

“It is probably that touch of French blood in you left over from Napoleon’s short-lived vacation in Rostov,” said Misha.

“I don’t care,” said Ivan with a grin.

“She is not young,” said Misha. “Perhaps forty-five.”

“Age means nothing,” said Ivan. “She is my kind of woman and I am very, very much in need.”

“I understand,” said Misha, looking toward the bar where two men in their twenties were looking at the two cosmonauts. One of the men caught Misha’s eye and the two men exchanged a look that Misha well understood.

“Shall I ask her if she has a friend?” asked Ivan.

“No, thank you,” said Misha with a smile. “I will see what I can do on my own. You go off with Miss Hoffer. I’ll make my way back to the house. If worse comes to worse, I’ll get a cab.”

They listened to music and drank two beers each.

Misha and the young man at the bar glanced at each other from time to time, and eventually Helga Hoffer, minus pencil and pad, made her way to the booth and wedged in next to Ivan, who enjoyed the touch of her hip against his.

“I think I’ll leave you two,” said Misha, standing and placing a ten-dollar bill on the table.

“We’re gonna leave too, aren’t we?” Helga asked, looking at Ivan. Their faces were no more than six inches apart.

“We are certainly leaving,” Ivan said, letting his nose touch hers, feeling her breath against his mouth.

Misha waited till Ivan and the woman had left and then he sat back down and waited. It was probably no different here than it had been in Moscow, but it had been a long time. Misha was definitely nervous, but he did his best not to show it. He had purposely nursed his second beer and now reached for it. Both of the young men approached the table and the one whose eyes had met Misha’s asked, “May we join you?”

Misha showed his best smile to the young men and said yes.

It was more than twenty minutes later and Ivan was still no more than fifty yards from the bar. He was now parked at the dark, far end of the gravel-covered parking lot. The nearest car was about twenty-five feet away. He would have preferred to be someplace more private, possibly even their house, but Helga had reached down the front of his pants and between his legs before he could ask her where she suggested they go.

The experience had been wonderful. She had proved to be experienced and he had been quite durable and willing. Now he was spent from her hands, her mouth, and, finally, from her surprisingly firm body in the back seat.

She sat up and began to dress. She turned her head toward the entrance to the club as he sat up.

“You wish to continue elsewhere?” he said, quite naked except for his shoes.

“Not tonight, honey,” Helga said, leaning over to give him a moist, open-mouth kiss that tasted of her, of him, and of something quite sweet.

“Then I can see you? …” he began.

The door on his side suddenly opened. Helga, not yet fully dressed, opened her door and hurried out, saying, “Sorry, honey. I had fun.”

The two men pulled the naked Ivan from the car. One of them kicked the door closed.

“ Bi’str iy, ‘quick,’” said one man to the other in Russian as they pulled Ivan toward the nearby trees, shredding his bottom on the gravel.

Ivan struggled, but the men were strong and his leverage poor.

A few seconds later Ivan lay in pain, naked, on his back, and the two men over him, behind a wall of bushes and trees.

“What is this?” Ivan demanded.

“You’ve talked,” one dark figure over him said.

“Talked? About what? To who?” Ivan demanded, wishing he had something to cover himself.

“You know,” said the second man.

“I … you mean? No, I have not.”

“But what is there to stop you?” asked the first man.

“I wouldn’t,” said Ivan.

“Why are we talking?” asked the second man. “Let’s do it and get out.”

“You are going to kill me?” asked Ivan.

The first man reached under his jacket for something. Ivan knew what it was.