Mishka Ben-David: Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

THOSE WHO LOVE the city as much as I do simply call it Peter, said Anna. We were standing on a narrow bridge straddling one of the canals that flow into the River Neva and on into the Gulf of Finland. It was a clear, chilly evening. A thin layer of snow covered the streets. We leant on a steel railing, feeling its patterned engravings, admiring the old mansions on both banks of the canal, so rich in colour, so elegant with their porticos and carved cornices.

The cobble-stones beneath our feet may once have allowed for the easy passage of horse-drawn carriages, but now created a difficult surface for cars to negotiate. But there were no vehicles crossing now, and the few pedestrians to be seen were scurrying to get to their homes in the small lanes on either side of the waterway. On the bridge itself there was nobody but us.

Anna covered her mouth and slender, straight nose in a white woollen scarf. I gazed at her. Between the fur-topped hat, also white, and the scarf, all that could be seen were her high cheek bones and almond-shaped brownish-green eyes. As she caught my stare a few creases appeared in the corners of her eyes, giving her that special look–something between laughter and astonishment.

And you do love it, your Peter.

Yes, I do, very much, she laughed ruefully, her eyes glowing, their greenness sparkling. We both knew that her love of the city was weighing down one side of the scales on which our own love was balanced so precariously. I couldn’t, after all, stay here for long. As if to postpone the obvious next question about where we would live, if indeed we were to be together, she told me about the long line of the city’s names.

What is it? she wanted to know, as I continued to gaze at her. The creases of laughter and astonishment assumed a tinge of anxiety.

A wisp of black hair escaped from her hat and settled on the bridge of her nose, forming an arc over her eyes. Anna blew at it lightly, making it flutter. She smiled, her eyes once more changing expression, turning childlike and mischievous. My heart missed a beat. Just a pair of eyes and yet such beauty.

There was a slight movement under the scarf and I imagined her moistening her lips in the way I had found so alluring months earlier when I first saw her sitting a few tables away from me in that tiny neighbourhood restaurant.

I brought my face closer, gently lowered the scarf, my lips lightly brushing hers.

They’re dry, she said, moving away slightly and passing her tongue over her lips. Again I drew my face closer, my tongue adding its wetness to hers.

That’s better, she said, and placed her mouth over mine, lightly at first, then as if searching for the right angle, and finally with desire.

The pale light of the ancient lamp-posts at both ends of the bridge, the silvery streaks across the water, and the blanket of snow around us, somehow coloured her eyes a shade of purple just before she closed them and pressed her body into me. I was giddy with the delicacy of her perfume and intoxicated by the taste of her tongue against mine.

Anna, my Annushka, I whispered, as we drew apart for a moment to catch our breath.

And you are mine, she said, her eyes filled with laughter. We’d come a long way since I told her, with uncharacteristic daring, that her eyes reminded me of Sophia Loren’s.

She shook her head slightly from side to side as her nose rubbed mine in an Eskimo kiss. If only I could swallow you whole and not just your tongue, she murmured, and once again sucked at my lips.

I hadn’t felt like this since I was sixteen. Not since I used to pinch myself, finding it hard to believe that Orit was really kissing me back with such passion and allowing me to caress her tiny but very desirable breasts. I didn’t think that I would ever feel that way again. Nor could I believe that this beautiful solitary woman was so completely mine and I so totally hers. These things simply did not happen twice in a lifetime, I warned myself–at least not with such intensity.

Then I felt the full force of the blow to my back.

The punch landed on my shoulder blade and sent a paralyzing current of pain through my neck, head, and every part of my back. My knees buckled and I lurched forwards headfirst into Anna. She screamed. I saw her terrified face and from the corner of my eye spotted something moving. I quickly pulled myself up, turned round, and raised my arms defensively.

But the large ungainly figure had fled, clutching Anna’s handbag.

Are you OK? I asked, holding both her cheeks. Anna couldn’t utter a word but nodded a yes, her eyes deadly serious.

I didn’t stop to think as I pulled away from her and chased the retreating figure. Running on the snow-covered paving stones slowed me down. But the assailant, perhaps not suspecting that he was being followed, was even slower than me. He apparently didn’t hear my footsteps until reaching the junction of the bridge and the street where he could have upped the pace but didn’t. Instead, he stumbled on, only once looking over his shoulder in my direction.

The handful of people on the street were all heavily wrapped up against the cold, and were all in a hurry. I knew that they couldn’t have seen the attack and didn’t expect that any of them would help. Nor did I want them to interfere.

Even though the blow to my back had been powerful, it was not particularly professional. Had the mugger aimed his strike ten centimetres higher and to the left, and hit me in the neck with that kind of force, I would have been knocked out. His sluggish pace suggested that he wasn’t in very good shape. All the same, I was taking nothing for granted, so when I caught up with him, instead of grabbing him by the throat I leapt up and kicked him in the back.

He staggered forwards and stopped, but didn’t fall. He quickly spun round to face me. His grey eyes stared straight at me in a way I found surprising. This was certainly not the glazed look of a drunk, nor the defeated look of the homeless. Apparently he was still feeling the pain of the kick and the exertion of the run–yet he was focused and purposeful. For a moment I even thought that I detected a flicker of irony as he offered to hand over the handbag.

I could have just taken it and with that the incident may well have ended. But it might have been a trap and I was far too hyped up by then to simply let it go. I extended both hands, but instead of going for the bag I grabbed his wrist firmly, gave it a mighty backward twist, and ducked beneath our locked hands. I swiftly bent his arm to an impossible angle. The faint but sickening sound of a bone cracking could be heard, then a cry of pain from his clenched lips, and the man was hurled to the ground, dropping the bag. When I knelt to pick it up, he suddenly kicked my thigh with surprising force. As I stumbled, I saw him trying to get up. But I was able to straighten up more quickly than he was, and prevented him from standing by kicking him hard in the ribs.

He rolled over, then tried once more to get up. Beneath the heavy coat there was obviously a strong physique. It was clear to me that the man had no intention of giving up easily but, now that I was holding the bag, my moves were limited and the will to continue fighting had deserted me. I wanted to get back to Anna but the mugger was now upright and facing me. His large head and bulging neck tilted forwards as he lunged at me like a raging bull.

Had his head rammed into my stomach the blow would surely have sent us both reeling to the ground, and I wasn’t sure I would have the advantage in an ensuing scuffle. But hundreds of hours practising evasive tactics was time well spent. A split second before impact I moved aside and kicked him in the face with all the force I could muster.