Lola Smirnova - Twisted

Eventually she told her parents everything. They knew that she would not be able to stay safely in the village if she kept the child. But Ayshe refused an abortion, and they decided to send her and Ruslan to Groznyy, to their only relative, Aunt Fatima, for good.

It turned out that Fatima had some – as she called them – ‘useful acquaintances’, with whom she’d kept in contact for a rainy day. Luckily the old woman was kind, and without hesitation used her contacts to help Ayshe and Ruslan to escape to Moscow. There, they met with some more of Fatima’s ‘useful acquaintances’, who helped to organise passports and refugee papers so that the two could immigrate to Europe.

The next few weeks were hell for fifteen-year-old Ruslan and pregnant Ayshe. Money was so tight that they had to change from buses to trains to hitch-hiking, almost starving every day. Ayshe’s labour started in Ukraine, when they were about to enter Poland. Luckily they met a hauler who helped them through the border crossing without problems or delays, and then took them straight to the closest hospital.

But another tragedy awaited them. The baby boy was stillborn. As doctors tried to explain, it probably happened because of Ayshe’s physical and emotional exhaustion. She was devastated. But she couldn’t afford to collapse under this tragedy; she had to take care of Ruslan.

For the next year they wandered throughout Europe, from one low-paid job and homeless shelter to another. Until one day Ayshe met an old man somewhere in Germany, who was looking for a live-in housekeeper to do cleaning, cooking and grocery shopping. His wife had died a few months earlier and he couldn’t cope on his own. He didn’t mind Ayshe’s son also staying with them, on condition that the boy went to school and spent his spare time helping around the house.

Things worked well until the old man started to intimidate the poor woman. First there were vulgar jokes and suggestions, then his harassment became more demanding and aggressive. The old man started threatening her: ‘I will go to the police and report on you and your bastard son, and you will go to jail or be deported back to Russia.’ He kept repeating it until Ayshe couldn’t resist anymore and let the prick climb on top of her.

Ruslan couldn’t understand why his mother cried at night, and why the lusty, satisfied smile wouldn’t leave the old man’s face. But it was not in his nature to question his mother and get involved in the adults’ lives.

With time, Ayshe complied, for Ruslan’s sake. She and the German even started living as husband and wife. Five years later she died of cancer. Ruslan left the house and never saw the man again.

He moved to Luxembourg, where he found a job at an IT company. In just a few years he progressed from being a clerk to a programmer.

My heart bled listening to that. The image of the boy who’d been through more at his young age than most people had experienced in a lifetime, tore me apart.

I hugged him tightly. ‘It’s all good now… it’s all behind you. You were a very brave little boy who’s grown into a not-so-smart but very handsome man,’ I teased Ruslan, and his face brightened with a smile.

It is the last week of our trip and I am busy packing. It turns out I’ve bought too many clothes and shoes during these six months. Damn shopping therapy. Half of my stuff doesn’t fit into my bags; I have to mail a few extra boxes to Ukraine. I’m doing all of these chores – including buying souvenirs for our family and a few friends, having goodbye lunches with some of my regular clients, and, most important, going to the post office to draw all the money I’ve made – with a great thrill and an irrepressible smile on my face.

Yay! I am going home!

I take off the night before my departure. Ruslan invites me to his favorite Italian restaurant. I look forward to a pleasant night with the person to whom, in just a couple of weeks, I have got so attached, even more so than to my sisters.

It’s an amazing night. As always, there is a lot of laughter, easy-going fun and interesting conversation about everything and nothing. However, I notice a shade of sadness on Ruslan’s face. Obviously, he is thinking about me leaving tomorrow. Both of us try not to talk about my departure. I think we both know that there is no point in planning anything or giving each other useless vows that neither of us can keep. It is unspoken, but we both know that we’ll try to keep in touch, and that if there is a chance, we will meet again.

The dinner is easy and pleasant. A bottle of vintage Chianti, some home-made pasta, a cheesecake to share for dessert, followed by a shot of grappa and a cup of hot and sweet espresso. Then Ruslan pays the bill, rejecting my offer to contribute, and insists on walking me home. As we get closer to my place we both fall silent – neither of us want this evening to end. I cheer up when Ruslan, fighting his usual sweet modesty, suggests stopping somewhere, getting a bottle of something and coming up to my place for one last drink.

It’s club policy that no men are allowed in the girls’ accommodation. Us girls never break those rules. But it is my last night and I don’t give a shit about the rules. I smile ‘yes’, relieved that I don’t have to say goodbye to him yet. We stop at a 24/7. Ruslan gets a small bottle of whisky, complaining that there are no good wines or champagnes available.

We make ourselves comfortable on my bed because I don’t have any chairs. The room looks pretty messy with my suitcases all over the place. Instead of glasses, we use cups. It turns out to be a Soviet realism improvisation, which we keep joking about. As Ruslan pours the whisky, he accidently spills some onto the floor and his knees. I go to the kitchen to bring a cloth. When I return he is standing in the middle of the room, holding the cups and looking at me. His whole face is screaming love, tenderness and great pity at the same time.

I drop the cloth on the floor and step right in front of him. He hands me my cup without taking his eyes off me even for a second, and whispers, ‘I want to drink to you, my new but precious friend, who…’ he hesitates for a second, clears his throat and continues, ‘…who I’ve fallen in love with… with all my heart…’

It is so moving; I’m unexpectedly emotional. We empty our cups, lean into each other, and lock in a long and passionate kiss.

The floor starts moving under my feet… my head insanely swinging…

The vigorous whack on my door wakes me, painfully echoing in my head. It is Natalia: ‘Jul, the cab is downstairs! Come on, the plane is not going to wait for you, princess!’

I find myself on the floor, without any comprehension of what is going on or what my sister is talking about. I rush towards the door but unbearable dizziness forces me to sit back. I feel a sudden surge of nausea. Strange, I’ve never had such a bad hangover before… and I didn’t drink that much last night. I try again – slowly this time – holding onto the bed. As I move towards the door, it feels like I am on a boat riding the waves during a storm.

When I finally manage to open for Natalia, I race to the toilet because I can’t fight the retching anymore… a couple of minutes of hugging the lavatory seat and I feel relieved for a moment… but a second later, I hear Natalia screaming the tonsils out of her throat. I come out and see that all my suitcases are open and my clothes scattered on the floor, all over the place.

‘I can’t believe you haven’t finished packing yet!’ shouts Natalia. ‘Don’t you know what time the flight is?’

I am staring at the floor, trying to understand why the suitcases are open. I know I finished packing them yesterday morning. I struggle to recall the events of last night, but my head is spinning, my temples pulsing painfully.