Yulia Andronova - Margarita and Luca, book 1

CHAPTER 1

His letter.

“Ciao!

Do you remember me? I’m that insistent Italian from the plane to Cuba ?

You were the nicest person in the whole plane and I didn’t even take a picture of us together… I was about to kill myself after.

Still not sure… Did we really talk? Or was it just a dream?

How are you? How was the vacation?

Luca”

Her letter.

“Ciao!

I wouldn’t forget you even if I wanted: you were the only person I’ve talked to during those two days of travelling.

The holidays were wonderful and a bit crazy! I parascended… rose too high cause of my small weight and were hovering above the Caribbean sea! I was close to soil myself! I could never imagine landscape is so scenic if looking from the sky…”

She stopped for a moment. The reminiscences were still fresh.

A thin man fastens the belts on her waist, she thrusts her legs through the straps and a small rivet clicks. Two hooks are being joined to the parachute. Two tiny pegs. “What the fuck is that? They are not even soldered!”: a panic thought passes through her head… few metal things which she entrusted her life with.

“Go!”: shouts a lively Afro-American to the other and the cutter starts with a jerk. The cloth gets smoothed dramatically and next second her feet come off the board. The boat rushes again, up to the heaven the parachute soared. Higher and higher! Now the sea is far underneath. The flimsy construction is dangling in the air. The strap she is sitting on starts to shift. There is mere beauty around, but the girl sees nothing, but the hooks. Each of them is the same size as her little finger. They are the only things that attach her to the cloth. If one of them has a flaw, the girl will fall down, tumble against the water.

The steersman yells grinning: “Three hundred feet!”. Horror chilled her fragile body to the bone. She will plop down dead against the waters of the Caribbean sea, which’s been dreaming to see… She has always thought that death can be not only tragic, but also inimitable. For instance, if you have given the Q-sign because of liver inflammation after an unforgettable week in the capital of love Paris… Having visited the most fashionable restaurants and tried the best food, the famous pumpkin soup or scallops, and got pie-eyed with the best French vintage wine in Lido while enjoying international dances performed by absolutely beautiful women with resilient bare breasts and buttocks. This would be a perfect death, wouldn’t it?

She is trying to relax: “There is no sense in being shriveled with eyes screwed during the last minutes of my life. Since I’m here, I should open my shoulders out and revel in the moment”. The girl opens her eyes wide and looks into the distance. An imposing white castle reveals itself through the density of leafy trees and palms as if it were a prince’s palace. The endless sea changes its colour from turquoise by the shore to deep blue in the main sea. The cutter turns back to the bay. The wind pulls the parachute. The strap nearly slips from under her bottom. Margot’s heart is wrung with fear, the fingers awkwardly clutched at the damned hooks. And there is nothing poetic in the moment. You can’t even think straight, but feel adrenalin which stones every centimeter of you body and, it seems, your soul too, if it exists. The brain is turned off: no pondering over your life. Nothing.

The Afro-Americans release the blond down and seat her to the bench. Margot senses that her body is strongly trembling almost as if she was having an epileptic seizure. Her movements are nervous and inaccurate, but she is carrying it off, smiling. Two hours in a row.

Finding herself overland, with Shtirlez’s self-control she thanks the sailors and heads to the bar. The girl comes up to the boiler, hands shivering, hot water splashing over her legs. Mint tea doesn’t help.

– How’re you doin’, beautiful lady? – sings a merry afro-American guy in a deep voice.

– Can I have a shot of tequila and a piece of lime, please…

The man smiles broader, protruding his first finger in the sign of approval. They made a lot of use of the gestural language there, especially during the beautiful animation nights at the hotel bar: reggae, multinational audience, Caribbean breeze… On seeing you, the barman gives a signal. In a few minutes the same cocktail you’ve had last time is in front of you, on his clean-shaved brown head. The wind was oddly strong that evening. The refreshing breeze from the sea in heat was like a gulp of life. On coming back to Russia a week later, she learnt tsunami on Cuba had carried away about three hundred lives that night.

She’d made a cup of gentle Jamaican coffee and continued the letter.

“Besides, I flied the plane! Some Italian from the crew came up to me with the suggestion. I thought I had lost my reason after the eleven-hour flight. But the guy was so insistent…

An incredible feeling! I saw the Hawaii and the ocean! Waters by the islands are emerald green…

Another thing that struck me was the cheerful people’s spirits, unbroken by poverty. How can one smile so shiny living in such conditions, having the history like that… I admire them!

And, I guess, weed help ;)

How was your week on Cuba?

Oh, I’m so sorry: I haven’t hit on any marihuana field, so no photo for you”.

The Italian asked Margaret for the favour, while smacking the smell of an opened pack with few butts. After many hours without a single puff, all he could think of was tobacco, any kind of…

“Ciao!

Now I know who to refer to if I’m in need of a pilot!

We had much fun and knocked about the island quite a bit: boundless beaches, cigars, seafood… For ten dollars any Cuban is ready to arrange a sumptuous feast for you in his own house! You are to choose the kind of fish, crab or whatever, and he catches it right away. His wife cooks the meal with spiceries and serve it to you with rum at the appointed hour. So at seven you are an honorable guest!”

“That kind of rambling around wouldn’t work if you’re a single young blond in the poor country populated with Afro-Americans”: she dropped her eyes.

Her letter:

“Buongiorno, amico mio!

Happy for your great vacation!

I know nothing about Italy, forgive me my ignorance. Would you mind educating me a bit? Do people live in blocks of flat or principally in detached houses? Where do you live?

Margot”

Luca:

“Good morning!

Don’t worry – me too! You have to enlighten me about Russia.

I live close to Bologna, at the bottom of Apennines. It’s a quiet place, but “civilization” is close as well. Everything here is marked by history…

Now the answer to your question.

Depending on where you are: the north is more industrial than the south. Most people live in blocks of flats, but there is also a great deal of detached houses, especially in the suburbs. The situation is not the best: we are getting too many meanwhile the territory is rather small.

And now a surprise: I live under a bridge!”

Sipping fresh-ground coffee the girl was trying to fancy the place, but finally decided: “Seeing is believing! I will ask him to take a picture!” Curiosity engrossed Margaret for the following days of pending.

Her mail to him

“I like the surprise about the bridge, though that's not that unusual for people to live under bridges in my city too. The only thing would make me worry: aren't U afraid of floods?

And to live not far from a mountain range – seems a great deal exotic to me. Could you send me some photos?”

His mail

“Ciao,

here are the pictures of the surroundings and the river not far from my house. The mountains are really close, I see them every morning driving to work.