Татьяна Толстая - Aetherial Worlds

My sister was right in observing that the female hypostasis of the lonely European is a lady over forty, often bitter, having coffee and a dessert alone in a pastry shop at lunchtime. Inescapable sadness in her eyes: her feminine charms are no longer in demand, there has been no happiness, or perhaps, having deceived, it drained away like water through a sieve, and there lies ahead an endless desert, where even an encounter with a camel’s prickly thorn is not guaranteed. We saw one woman just like this in Baden-Baden, in a pastry shop where we stopped for apple pie (with the shyness and audacity of a horny teenager at a brothel). She was sitting by the window—a plate with the ruins of a mille-feuille beside her—looking out into nothingness with such intensity that she was burning through all the oxygen in her line of sight. We saw another one like that in Florence—she was drinking espresso at a table outside in the square, that is, smack in the middle of the biggest crowds, the maze of flower beds, under the shining sun, in the midst of the vortex.

The Baden-Baden lady was hopelessly unattractive, and her heart couldn’t soar over this wall of unsightliness, barrenness, and social leprosy. And as it couldn’t soar above it, neither could anyone make their way through it, even if they tried. The Florence lady was not young—over sixty, but still capable of traveling solo. Varicose veins hadn’t yet carved up her legs, her nose hadn’t yet turned into a strawberry from a daily drinking habit; still, she was separated from this sunny world by her age, which she visibly hated and cursed, and in hating her age, she raged against the sunny world around her.

Sure, we might observe and ponder why a lonely woman is more likely bitter while a lonely man is more likely sad, although it’s pretty simple, really: an unwanted man is a buyer with no money, and an unwanted woman is a seller with empty shelves. That’s how, seemingly, the theme of the European financial crisis comes full circle.

Although we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.

Meanwhile—as you rightly know—a Russian man who is lonely and sad in a bar is unimaginable. Upon entering any establishment for the purpose of drinking, he immediately seeks out company, instantly infiltrates it, and, without delay, forges a quick, if shaky and dangerous, friendship while stepping on everyone’s toes and violating personal boundaries that his drinking buddies didn’t even suspect existed.

If a group of men are drinking, he’ll plop down next to them, uninvited, instantly “logging in,” so to speak, with widely accepted passwords: “This is some game, huh?” or “Those Sauerkrauts don’t know shit from clay.” And bam, he’s already found like-minded countrymen; bam, he’s entered a vague financial relationship fraught with catastrophe, such as “This round’s on me!” thus uncovering a snaky path to a snafu to be followed by fisticuffs. If there are ladies drinking, he’ll rush to them—the outcomes are obvious if diverse. Police reports usually detail only the fallout, the crowning glories of these encounters: perpetrator was drinking, got acquainted, continued party at new acquaintance’s apartment (or park, or basement), started an argument, assaulted victim (new friend / lady friend) with a wooden stool (or kitchen knife, ax, etc.). But the intentions, the intentions were perfectly openhearted and pure.

You can’t escape a lonely Russian on a beach: he doesn’t hide behind a distant boulder, as a European would, but instead unrolls his beach towel overlapping yours, and upon hearing Russian spoken proceeds with a tactless line of questioning. Thank God for iPods: these days everyone is wearing headphones, but just think, a mere ten years ago they used to bring boom boxes to the beach, NSYNCing for all to hear.

Russian women, as you and I have often discussed, love to flock together. The stereotypical picture of old ladies congregating on a bench by their building’s entrance is improbable in Europe—I mean real Europe, Western Europe. Not sure about Eastern Europe, but didn’t see it there, either. In Greek villages, however, you have solitary old ladies in black sitting solemnly and wordlessly on folding chairs by their open front doors, red chintz curtains drawn. Only once, in the magical village of Margarites, did I see a group of such ladies in black quietly talking, and they, upon seeing me, a stranger, fell silent. Greek men, by contrast, are forever and routinely congregating; they drink coffee outdoors, fingering their worry beads and talking about women, soccer, high prices, and politics. More precisely, they begin with politics, and only then move on to the rest. They people watch with lively interest, and so outdoor cafés by bus stops are especially popular: folks get on the bus and they get off the bus; this provides endless entertainment.

Today there was a German family at dinner: mother and father and two boys aged around eight and ten. All four of them ate and drank in complete silence—it made me want to reach out and turn up the volume. On their faces—I looked at them closely—was good-natured indifference, and in twenty minutes of chewing nothing transpired: no remarks, no smiles, no jokes. At some point one of the boys reached over and seemingly pinched the other, but I rejoiced for naught: there was no reaction. And soon, silently and synchronously, they got up and left.

I couldn’t help thinking: Fifty years from now, when their parents are gone and those boys are old themselves, everything good already behind them, they will go to sit alone at separate bars, somber drink in hand, among other dignified, lonely old gents, each of them honoring the great European tradition of respect for other people’s privacy, staying mute till his very last breath.

Oh, the life they could have had—fighting with their neighbors, banging on the radiator with a stick, writing querulous petitions to the courts, spoiling the fun of youngsters, imposing themselves on others with recollections of battles in Königsberg, and enjoying other debauched behavior.

No, if for some reason I were forced to choose—“Are you with us or with them?”—I would, after protesting, resisting, and throwing a tantrum, still choose our boorish yet warm, loquacious, and insufferable way of going through life, if only to avoid the polite, dreadful, and deafening silence.

Bought a local Russian-language newspaper. From the classifieds:

JOBS

—Night shift at funeral home.

GIVING AWAY

—Will give away iguana with aquarium and heat lamp.

—Will share my kombucha.

LOOKING TO SELL

—Wedding dress, sequined. Comes with veil, gloves, and tiara.

—Two-bedroom apartment in Athens, Kallithéa, 2 balconies, 75 square meters, €75,000.

—Apartment in Ukraine, Village of Nikolaevka, €60,000.

LOOKING TO BUY

—Roly-poly Russian tumbler toy.

—Arctic fox or badger grease.

PERSONALS

—Carefree gal, full of laughs, seeks a fiancé, plump, tall, under 75.

—I’m a doctor, 41 years old, attractive, slender, married. Looking to meet a beautiful young woman, not predisposed to weight gain, without insecurities or reproaches, for pleasant encounters 2–4 times per month. Will cover rent. Please call only on Monday and Friday mornings, or Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Can’t wait!

JOBS

—Russian-speaking family looking for a housekeeper under 40, hardworking, with a clean heart.

MISCELLANEOUS

—Have you consulted a weight-loss service only to be swindled out of your money? Please give me a call to discuss.

—At a remote and faraway monastery on Mount of Temptation (Israel) there lives a solitary monk. In serving our Lord, in seclusion from other humans does he spend his days. He has virtually no means. By his spiritual endeavor he atones for all our sins. If you’re inclined to help, please do so generously. Father Gerasimos Vourazanidis will mention you and your loved ones in his prayers. Phone # ****, Fax # ****, Ethniki Trapeza bank acct # ****, PO box ***, Jerusalem, Israel. Archim. Gerasimos Vourazanidis.