The first part is Ivan in 1964. Six years after 1958 when he met Alfred, fell in love, almost died, rescued people and almost died again. Just remembering they weren't officially together before 1961. Remember last chapter? This is what happened in America a few months before Elizabeta received the woman on her door in 1965. The timelines aren't that important for you to remember, all you have to know is that this happened the same year from the events in Vietnam and Switzerland.
* •
America
October 27th
1964
When the night was unravelling, the train was passing next to him and he was panting from walking kilometres, Ivan found the box. There was nothing amazing about it, merely cardboard and messages every box has. At first, he thought with a dark feeling Joseph sent Toris' head to him. Regardless when Ivan saw the chocolate bar tightened with tape, he lost his balance. He knew it belonged to Nora before he knew he was in the middle of the train rail for too long in Texas and without going home for a week. Alfred would be feverish with him one way or another. He forgot his boyfriend for a minute to give space in his brain to that box.
Nora sent something to him. This was against every rule spies have. The espionage has been basically thrown in the trash when she sent something from Siberia, Russia, to the Russian Embassy in America and they delivered his mail in a specific railroad. He was supposed to be rootless, nonetheless, even the smallest people in his life were sticking in his blood as family.
Ivan sighed and grabbed the box.
This was two weeks ago. He came back to New York, gave an excuse to Alfred and he seemed to believe. Ivan hated lying to him. Although he was basically a walking lie and protect him was the first thing on every list. But, by elimination, lying was still on the list. Two weeks and he still hasn't touched that box. He waited until Alfred went to work to grab it under the bed from Alfred's mom old room. Ivan never lost his habit to save everything under the bed. Books; weapons; boxes with Stalin's head, probably.
He ate the chocolate after seeing it was still edible. It had peanuts as Ivan's favourite. He opened the box.
At first, he saw a letter being held by a tape on the box like the chocolate. He didn't see his name, but a variation of it that only Nora could acknowledge flawlessly. Written in perfect Russian and held the characters Nora used to write in a cursive way even if she was writing in a capital way.
Vanya.
Ivan felt sick as if the letter was something from an enemy. He couldn't bring himself to open the letter, so he looked at every other thing in the box instead. There was a key he couldn't even imagine what it opens and thousand of letters. He saw them organised with strings and names. He saw names he should have forgotten long ago, but he didn't.
Li Xiao.
Toris Laurinaitis.
Gupta Mohammad Hassan.
Maxim Popescu.
He went to the Pub. Then he went to the cemetery. He went to decode things from American letters. He spread fake news around a neighbourhood. He met with federal police for a drink and went to his house only to torture him to gain useless information and bury him under the floor. It was sunset when he came back to Alfred's house and to that box. He had to think, however, his mind was empty and his stomach was hurting. Many times he felt like he was going to faint and he remembered it has been a day since he ate for the last time. He drank a bottle of wine Francis left to him instead of eating and started to read the letters.
He started by Li Xiao. The letters were short and had several errors in Mandarin. The boy never appreciated the language and did mistakes on purpose. After some letters, the language changes to English. Beautifully written English as if Li Xiao was always meant to write in that language. His characters in Chinese were awful. His letter didn't hold anything big besides his months and they stopped after 1955. Ivan didn't want to think about what happened. He didn't know if he prefers to think Li Xiao forgot about him or... No, definitely this is the best scenario.
Then he grabbed the letter from Maxim trying to picture what words would be written in it. He comprehended Maxim was probably living in Switzerland with the people who should have adopted him. A few years ago, Ivan discovered his father was living in Libya with a new family and his mother was in a mental hospital in Bulgaria. He heard from Toris last time they spoke three years ago that Basch talked with the boy and Maxim didn't want to meet his family. He wanted to stay with his adoptive parents and Basch. Nevertheless, Ivan didn't know why Maxim would write to him after he found his parents and cut relations with Toris in 1960.
He opened Maxim's letter from January 1963. The calligraphy was a mixture of creative ways to write letters, a fast speed as if writing is a routine and pressing the pen to the paper perfectly; not too tightly, not too light. It was in Russian.
Dear Ivan,
As I would say when I was ten: Dear White Angel.
I know you probably won't receive this letter. According to uncle Toris, you lost contact with him and a lot of people. Whatsoever, I wanted to thank you. In the beginning, I pictured you like my big brother. Maybe, I saw you as a reincarnation of him, even if he was apparently much younger than you. You hugged me. As a child without anything left to know about care for a year, that was comforting. For a second, you made me remember him and think I wasn't crazy picturing Vladimir. I thought I imagined him to make everything feel better as an illusion. And that simple hug made me remember something actually concrete in my mind as a void finally being fulfilled. You gave my brother back and you made him true. For a glimpse of my life, you were something special. The hero who gave me my freedom and, in a way, created it. The person who held me and held the answer altogether. Vladimir was real and I will remember him and put fire on something for him every day with supervision, of course.
I thought about it and I missed knowing you in my journey. It's like I'm ignoring the person who saved my life and that made me sad. One way to heal after my trauma was to put meaning in every shape, spot and figure. I do it with people too. Since Basch, which is the most amazing person I know today, to the person who smiled at my direction when apologized for bumping into me. You were special before, you shall be special now. I want you to have meaning, Ivan.
You see, I want to be a writer. Basch is already helping me write my first book, even if I'm only fourteen years old. I thought you will be glad to hear it's a scenario that goes in Russia during the Revolution. The name is Red Century and I want to end it in a place between Moldova and Romania in a peaceful shack to represent two places I will always belong to. Toris is happy to know that. He was never able to write a book to honour Feliks as he told you. Since he and Tiên Huệ saved me, I wrote it for him, don't you think? Well, Ivan, I'm telling a little about my life now. I wanted to know about you. Toris talked about you once or twice, but he seemed sad every time. As if he hasn't done all he could with you. And, conceivably, I haven't either. He also couldn't remember much things about you. He doesn't remember your last name, can you believe? Is it that difficult? I would enjoy knowing you and watching uncle Toris say happy things about you from now on. I know you lost contact and you disappeared a little, but can I convince you to change your mind? My mother knows Russian and my father knows how to play several classical from Russia, would you like that? Eike can draw you if you want to. And Toris can speak with you again; Raivis and Eduard can come too. Would you like that? Basch told me I shouldn't invite strangers to my house, but I was a stranger too. I'm inviting you to at least know me and see who is the person you saved.
Thank you for everything.
Maxim Popescu.
Ps. There is a script of the thanks from my book I would like to share with you.
Ps. There is also a drawing from me. If you never see me in person, then you can see me in a drawing made by my sibling.
Ivan clasped the other paper.
All I have today, even in a matter of who I am, is because of my brother, Vladimir Popescu. You were the person who raised me and I think I should consider you my real family. The blood in our veins means nothing compared to the red ink on the wall and I'm grateful for you. Every day without you is a thousand years I will burn and remember you.
There were more words. About Toris, Basch, his brothers and Tiên Huệ. He also thanked a woman named Elizabeta and someone with a terrible name. Roderich. There were thanks to Gupta Muhammad Hassan because his letters are inspiring and thanks to Eike for their colourful intellect. At the end of the paper, at last, a single paragraph.
Thanks to Ivan. Don't know his last name, don't know his face, don't know him. I still thank him, though. He gave me the chance to meet and remember my family.
The other paper was drawing. The art was a portrait of Maxim and his skin seemed like broken porcelain. He was holding a flower in his hand and smiling from his chair with two strands in his black hair. The texture made Ivan remember of ocean waves in the paper and the style made him think about mosaics made with porcelain. The drawing was so colourful it almost made Ivan lose himself in the colours. Maxim seemed truly happy in a wise way as if he was broken, but he made a mosaic with the pieces. It was extremely colourful.
Ivan didn't recognize how to feel about that letter. He didn't notice he cried and caressed the names written on the letter.
Maxim.
Ivan.
When he noticed his surroundings, he hugged the drawing. Something in him was stronger than gratitude in a form of a hurricane and he didn't understand how to deal with those emotions. He felt he lost something. A life that he could have lived. A person he could have loved. He kept the three papers as a revolution against his duty. He wanted to have, at least, one rebellion. He tried not to think about Taalay. Every time he recalled her he would crumble inside and wouldn't be able to breathe. He cried in Alfred's arms several moments telling about the friend he lost without many details and being comforted with "You can still talk to her". No, he can't. He doesn't know where she and Aizhan are and he could destroy everything in getting in touch with her. He imagined her handwriting after she learned how to read and write. Would she write to him in Russian or in Kazakh? Perhaps, in Kyrgyz. Even if he doesn't understand the language. He imagined her words as a soft wave lifting him from the sand and every teardrop he shed thinking about her would be the sea. He wanted to be forgiven. But there was nothing from her on the box.
He wished a letter from Taalay. Since he couldn't, he wished a good journey for her.
He drank more wine and started with the next letters. He read Gupta's one and everything was weird about it. It was in terrible Russian as if the Egyptian used a dictionary to write. A single item was written in a paper from a person Ivan didn't know.
If your mind is cloudy, you don't need to allow the sunshine to make the clouds leave; you need to let it rain.
Ivan ripped that letter.
He placed himself for another paper that would make him crumble inside. Toris' letters started natural and superficial as if they were friends encountering themselves every weekend. Ivan thought about the long phone calls that would end with fights and begin with an apology from the last fight they had. The letters were a little easier than the phone calls where he stopped receiving after 1960. They were related to Toris' life in Amsterdam. Apparently, it took him a long time to find a job because people are a little tough with immigrants. He and his brothers spent bad times. But they maintained the house. This was a need according to him. He found a job as a doctor in a small clinic and now he helps people on their last days. Palliative care seemed fine for him, according to the letters. He has always been a devotee of lost causes. He talked about Eduard and Raivis. They still talk with Basch, Sadik and Gupta, though only Basch is still in contact with Tiên Huệ. They seemed fine. There were several letters that displayed a natural conversation as the middle of the phone calls, but there was one, obviously written in a drunk state in 1961, mixed with the surface.
A patient died today due to a melanoma that spread to her stomach. She was suffering from an abusive relationship since she was younger and she claimed for his name at the end. I compared that person with you. She died. I couldn't save her and I only thought about you and how much I wanted to help you. But you didn't allow me and I am tired of it. Why do I think about you? You were terrible. You made me fear for my life several times, you have threatened me and I had nightmares involving you. We fought all the time we were together, even during phone calls because you are rather sensitive and defensive. You are completely insane sometimes. You are not comprehensive or peaceful. And the worst part is that for a second I would have given you a home. A place in my family that is suffering since birth. You are a monster! Why did I ever think that?
There were scratches on the paper as if he tried to write something, however, he wasn't looking at the paper.
You don't want to be saved. Yet people keep trying. It's hideous. You are hideous. Get out of my head! It feels like I'm talking to a wall.
The letter ends like that.
Ivan didn't read the other letters he wrote. He thought the void in his chest would only get deeper and more hurtful if he did. Although, the Russian clasped several letters after that and put them in front of the lamp to glimpse at the words without opening and seeing with clearness. He wanted to find a steady surface again to lend his tears. Not apologies or critics. He wanted to have the illusion of the fake convivence Toris created on the other letters because they seemed more real. In a dream, they could live together, right? Ivan and Toris could never hate each other completely or love each other completely. They would always be a passive-aggressive grey, so the letters should never be read and should never be ignored. He saved them under the bed and promised to look at them when he can't sleep.
•
America
November 5th
1964
The letter on his diary became a bookmark on the spot he stopped writing. Every time he opened his diary, he would see Vanya in Cyrillic. He felt he couldn't breathe properly many times he took a glimpse on that letter until he was drinking. Something about a piece of paper was devastating.
He finally decided to open it.
The Russian was in the living room with Alfred while he was listening to the radio and talking. They had a dinner in which Alfred tried to make Mac n' Cheese and ended up making some kind of lasagna, but it was good. After some music, they were kissing and after that Ivan was in the sheets embracing the American in his arms. Hearing his slow breath and moans was something he would always remember. He held Alfred as if it was the last time every single time. He couldn't help it but encompass his hand with his fingers every time he felt something good in his belly.
They were talking about nothing important after they were exhausted, but the letter was calling Ivan on his coat next to the bed.
"How is Matthew?"
He wanted to forget that. Nora abandoned him. Why does she have such an amount of power over him in a piece of paper?
"He is distant. I don't know if he is okay, Ivan." Alfred answered and lowered his blonde head. Time made his hair longer and his glasses thicker. He was more mature than before and he had wounds Ivan didn't want to think about since he was working on his duty around New Hampshire when it happened. The idea of losing him made Ivan gather every work around New York so he never leaves again. Even if it made his work more dangerous and difficult. He can handle it. "I saw bruises in his legs and arms last time I spent the night in his house. Do you think he is dating someone that is hurting him or is he getting beaten by someone?"
Ivan caressed his hair and hugged him more tightly. Alfred was in the middle of his arms and in front of him for so long he was already memorizing the pores in his cheeks. He was also tremendously close. Thus he was kissing the Russian's neck every now and then. He was smelling like cheap soap and pen ink.
"I'm worried about him, too. He is worse than he was a few months ago. Have you tried to ask him?"
"He is wearing bandages to hide the bruises. I don't think he is willing to tell me if I asked. You talk to him sometimes, don't you? Can you discover anything?"
Ivan chuckled at the thought of being a spy for Alfred for a change.
"I'm good at keeping secrets, but I'm terrible at getting secrets from people, Fred. He wouldn't tell me since he knows you are going to be the first to know."
Alfred sighed in his neck and he avoided to smile with the shivers.
"I'm worried as hell." He admitted with a sad voice. "He is not the same since our dad's disease. He is obviously stressed and nervous all the time and he doesn't tell me anything."
The Russian remembered the time they went to visit David Nathaniel Williams in Ottawa. The man recognized Matthew, regardless, he didn't recall Alfred. The Russian tried not to think about how the American was devastated with that. And how Matthew was devastated when David finally stopped remembering him too. Alfred's stepmother was dealing fine with him, even if he calls her "Virginia" sometimes. Piper was also very gentle with Ivan, even if he was a man dating her stepson. She was marvellous. The Russian could understand why Matthew seemed closer to her as if they were from the same star.
"We will figure something, okay? We can invite him to come here at dinner every night if you want to. We can be more close to him. What do you think?"
"He is always busy with work."
"Then what if..."
"Let's change the subject..." The American asked closing his eyes. Ivan knew he was completely devastated when he didn't want to deal with whatever was devastating him. He would avoid the problem until he is in a better mood, then he would put in words how he could describe the problem and the solution. Ivan thinks it's beautiful how he always face difficulties as a superhero. "I don't want to think about it now. I'm going to sleep a little."
He turned around on the bed and the Russian faced his backbones.
That was his chance.
Ivan clasped his diary under the coat and clasped the letter. It was the first time he would let his diary that easy to be found by Alfred. But he needed support to read that, even if it was just his boyfriend's sad presence whilst the summer rain was falling on the window behind him. The vision with the white sheets gave him courage and he embraced it.
He opened the letter.
Dear Vanya,
Shall we be straight after so many years with this catastrophe in our trunks? We have never discussed, my child, nevertheless I recognized and I never explained anything. I want to apologize for abandoning you at that time. I recognize you were devastated. I understand it's been several years since we spoke in person, regardless, I want you to comprehend you have always signified something to me, my beloved child. You were twelve when we encountered. Do you recall? You mumbled I looked like someone's mother and I was. Our lives haven't been simple, Vanya. I still recollect how you were miserable about leaving your elderly teacher and the soldiers were behaving toward you poorly because they assume it would make you strong. I felt disastrous for you. From the first time I saw you, I discovered how aggrieved you were about everything around you. The way you were always frightened by speaking to someone and you would tremble at every minor movement. In every limited circumstance, since your life seized shape, you were treated like a weapon to be enhanced. And after you accomplished things they seek, what? You are a weapon before you were a person and you are going to be advised to disclose peace.
He traded that.
You don't retain your family. They didn't authorize you to possess that. They attempted to rehabilitate that. Some even were gentle to you, right? Even Joseph used to walk with you in his shoulders as you told me. He was the one schooling you how to walk and talk. He taught you poems as you told me. Nevertheless, the scene rewrote itself, Vanya. You grew up and you can't preserve the innocence that used to protect you.
I'm asserting this because KGB doesn't need me anymore. I'm extremely aged and I can't have sex with politicians to make them proud of my endeavour anymore. I'm a broken sexual toy. Then I am too aged to assassinate people for them. They are going to arrest me, Vanya. I can see the signs. I saw agents relinquish their lives all the time; when they didn't perish by work, they would be arrested for any justification or found slaughtered without investigation. I annihilated some. I know. I don't know when, how or where, nevertheless, I won't come back to my lovable house in Siberia next time I go to the city. I can dwell here for more time, nevertheless, not for long. I barely have nonentity left to eat. I'm going to KGB next week and they can have me since they provided me with a deadline to submit myself indirectly.
I have resided enough and I'm keen to join Ivan Ilya and Lev and all my friends who fought in the Revolution to make this country tremendous and ended making it tremendously problematic. I believed in Communism and I still believe it is the only system that can keep people safe and sound. What Stalin was doing it's nothing analogous to it and I ratified it. I have always submitted to creatures easily, right? Perhaps, inhabiting with my parents swivelled me into a sociopath. I still think about you, though.
I guessed we were going to settle a few years together, yet I was misconstrued. I had to resign because performing something like that to you would be against everything I acknowledged and I didn't want to be recalled by you as an abuser. You were a child. They explained they wanted to instruct you with this before the violence. Either way, you were a child who shouldn't haggle with stuff dirty like that. They never recognized you as a child. You were always a weapon. I abhor them for that. I abominate myself for not carrying you with me, nonetheless, I was younger and frightened of them. I despise myself for not taking you to the theatre as I vowed and the foremost thing I bestowed to you was chocolate bars behind their back. I should have offered you the freedom you merit.
I can give it now.
My house is on a spot in the north part of Siberia. Near Nordvik for a few kilometres south. It's next to the mouth of the Khatanga Gulf on the Laptev Sea. There is not an isolated character for kilometres beside the city that is basically in ruins. I don't assume people think there is life here, nevertheless, Lev and I have always cherished the cold and harsh Siberia as our home. We wished to reside here when we were old and we constructed this house with wood and simple things. It's elegant, though. I can behold the Ocean by my window and my house is very equipped against the destructive frostbite and the heavy winds because Lev and I worked hard on it. I yearned to be an engineer before life compelled me to attain inside Lenin's police. It was more miserable after Stalin. Lev and I always brought food and resources with us so we can be living here for a year without going to the city. What I'm striving to announce is that I'm providing a home to run to. They won't disclose you here. No one will discover you. You can live in peace. Alone, but at harmony without having to low yourself for your country like a dog. You are clever. You can concoct yourself to live forever without many trips outside the island.
The key opens the house and you turn it twice, push and turn it a third time. The coordinates are on the keychain. Enter and I have a surprise for you there. It's not chocolate this time, my Vanya. I'm living in poverty for the first time and it's enough to make me hate how they twisted my ideology.
Perhaps, I'm having an epiphany over death on my last days. What a pathetic thing to do, right? The only thing I should accept with bravery and I'm a coward. No, Vanya. I won't wonder what is going to happen to me. Whatever comes I will do what I did all my life. Survive. Regardless, you should dwell as I dwelled in my latter days and my days with Lev and Ivan Ilya. I lived merrily calm in these years. After a life of negligence, violence and hustling, I lived peacefully for a few time. I don't recognize if you did the same anytime in your life. I wasn't a part of it. Nonetheless, Vanya, you mean the world to me. You made me think about my son.
She traded that too.
Do you remember our dialogues? On music and art and plays. You didn't know anything besides national pieces. You didn't even realize how the world is distinct from USSR and how massive and gorgeous that difference was. You hungered for a family and have three names. My husband said once that a child dreams about impossible things and it made me get attached to you. I used to dream things similarly. Good parents and don't be alone all day.
I'm losing the point, ain't I? Close to death and I'm being this soft. Pathetic. Perhaps, it's promising I'm letting my sentiments fly one more time since they have constantly been governed by KGB.
Ivan, please facilitate yourself to maintain peace once. Have an adequate life. Depart from this slavery before you end up like me. I'm sorry I left you, however, I want to make it right. You can be happy. Look at all the people who cared about you enough to send letters to you. There are names I don't even know how to pronounce and they are beautiful.
Goodbye, Vanya. When this box full with letters and stories reaches you I won't be here anymore. Perhaps, I will drown on the Arctic sea and I can be part of Siberia forever. My husband and son are on Siberia too. You can join us, Vanya. When you are old and peaceful, you can join us and have the peace you never knew, my sweet child. Use the key and go to my home. It's yours, now. Ivan Ilya is going to like you and Lev will definitely clench your cheeks without realizing his strength. I am dreaming again. Pathetic.
Nora.
June 8th, 1964, Siberia.
Ivan jumped from the bed. He was feeling a hand tightening his chest and his throat while his lungs were at a dangerous heat. There was a trembling vision in front of him as if the world was suffering an earthquake in slow motion and he was feeling the world in normal speed. His mind was a race to see which thought would win the highlight.
I need to go to Russia.
I need to save her.
I can let her live in Yao's house.
What if she is still alive?
What if I can trade something for her life?
What if Boris can arrange new documents for her in Bulgaria? Or anywhere?
The Russian was already planning to go save Nora and find a safe place to let her live at peace. He helped Toris, Eduard and Raivis to find each other and he brought Maxim to Basch and Tiên Huệ to be truly saved. Now they were living peacefully. Nora deserved the same. The Russian started to plan everything in his mind. He could talk to Boris to make a fake document, a fake passport, etc. He would kill him if he didn't. Even if Joseph is watching every movement he was doing and restraining him from anything, he would save her. He would save her.
He can't even save himself.
He was crying on the ground until he sensed arms around him and he wondered if Nora ever hugged him. She did. But only when she thought he was sleeping. She used to kiss his cheeks in the French style, instead. He was crying to the point he was making loud noises and he wondered if Nora cried before drowning. If she was really dead, can he visit her and make gravestone for her on her house? So she would be remembered. A gravestone to give flowers every month when he is living at the basis as Alfred does with Virginia's gravestone. Like he did with Mei Chan's and Yao's. He could accomplish this with his long-time ally and the only family he had after Yao and Alfred.
He thought when she appeared years after disappearing when he was twenty years old. She was looking almost dead and she begged for Ivan to listen to her.
"I can be your ally."
He wailed in Alfred's arms when he noticed his surroundings. He could hear the American whispering console. He could sense the calm hand on his hair and his worried heartbeat. He embraced that person even tighter because he felt his skin would loosen from his muscles if he didn't hold tight. He would crumble and lose his tissues because he couldn't hold onto Alfred.
"I dreamed about you last night." He heard him whispering. "You were saying crazy things like how you would take me to the moon and we would never have to expect another burn. Since you can't light a fire in the moon."
Ivan felt the tears falling gently on his chin when he closed his eyes. He always understood feelings were something trivial. They can be organized, managed and rewrote using discipline. He knew how to cry as an actor and how to laugh as a joker. But, somehow, he was still desolate on his core. He couldn't falsify what he felt inside. Nora made him feel things inside according to his outside. Toris did when they talked so openly with each other. Alfred did every day with several minor details. Maxim did in a second where he thought the boy would die in his arms. All the people he loved did and that was how a ghost knew love.
"I thought 'I have never been burned before, Ivan. What are you talking about?'. Then I noticed you had a flame on your skin. Right on your neck. It was blue like in our stove." He said caressing Ivan's scar. "Right where you tried to kill yourself and I thought that, maybe, fire is not the only thing that can't hurt us at space. People wouldn't hurt you in space, Ivan. But the most dangerous person that can hurt you is yourself, dude. You can't run from you, even on the moon. And I will never allow you to do that to yourself again. I'm not doing that to myself again either. But you have to let me help you like we discussed and even fought a month ago. Can you please tell me what happened this time? Please. It's all I'm asking from you. Something to lean on when I'm helping you. I need to know you and I know you aren't going to tell me anything like you usually do, but you need to share things, Ivan."
In a moment, Ivan thought about the letter in Russian on his hands. He ran from Alfred's embrace and ripped it. The last thing he had from Nora similar as the last thing he had from Yao, Maxim, Toris and Li Xiao.
Alfred was looking at him horrified. He was making the same posture he would make in every beginning of a fight. He would bend his body to diagonal, clench his fists and he would present his most disturbing semblance as if fighting was only a distant legend for him.
"Ivan, what are you doing? What was that?"
He shredded every piece and let it plunge on the ground before he looked at Alfred. He was shirtless on the ground and his chest was covered with tears and nail marks.
Did I hurt him?
"I need to drink."
He held his sleeve with anger and Ivan almost shout at him because of the fast movement he did. The Russian couldn't control the anger for a whole moment before he pictured the last time he lost it and Alfred looked at him as if he was seeing a monster. Sometimes it was impossible to repress it, so instead of hurting Alfred, he had to flee, or drink or scream a little.
The American saw his face and stepped away.
"You promised me to stop drinking before bed. What happened? Tell me, Ivan. Please!"
He sounded desperate. Completely lost.
Ivan gulped.
"The letter said my mother died."
•
In a moment, Alfred was starting to cook breakfast at midnight. Music came from the phonograph with the vinyl disc tinkering with their atmosphere. They would share their ears to classical and jazz but, on that particular day, they were hearing only a pianist from Austria they liked. The American wasn't an amazing cooker. He was actually abnormally bad, to say the least. Although Ivan affirms to like everything he makes.
"I can cook, Fred."
Alfred laughed while grabbing waffles and strawberries. Ivan was sitting on the bench of the kitchen with his head on his hands.
"I know you despise cooking." He said with a delighted smile. "You can wash the dishes later."
The kitchen was very common to the eyes. A little black and white truly naturalised in the several colourful paintings circulating the place. Virginia loved abstract art and colourful paintings. The accommodation had a balcony with bar benches in the middle of the place where they ate more than in the dining table. It was less lonely.
"This mountain of dishes?"
The Austrian was playing on the phonograph when Ivan chuckled as he saw the big pile on the sink. He walked to change the disc and passionate music started playing.
"You haven't washed since last week I told you to wash it, right?"
"Right." He answered when Vera Lynn was singing on the phonograph with her "tiptoe" voice after the pianist. Alfred loved how his mother would always listen to women because she said they should be praised for singing. Or praised for anything. "Let's be honest now, Ivan."
"Fine."
Ivan smiled with a sadness that gave Alfred's chest a spasm. He will never get used on how sad those amethyst eyes can be and how haunted his life was. Ivan told him about the days he suffered criticism because he was always doing something wrong. He told Alfred about his father teaching him languages but saying horrible things to him when Ivan wasn't perfect. How his mother would submit herself to the capricious of his father easily but would distance herself from her son even if they were the only ones in that house in Chester. Ivan told Alfred his mother never gave him a good night's kiss, but she used to make an amazing chocolate cake on his birthday.
"I mean it."
The British closed his eyes for a second and he looked like he was dreaming.
"I used to dream about getting close to her someday. You know she distanced herself from me since I was little, but I have always dreamed we would go to the theatre together because this was something that connected us. We would talk to each other the same way we used to and we would be the family I knew she wanted. When she appeared again I was so happy but so afraid. Then she started to treat me coldly like an adult, but I wanted to have someone to treat me like the child I still was. The same way my father always treated me harshly, she would treat me like a child, you know? But she didn't. Nora spoke to me like I was one of..."
He stopped for a second. He pressed his hands between the strands of white hair and sighed deeply.
"I should have told her that, I think. But I still hadn't forgiven her and I felt opening up to her would leave me vulnerable somehow. The problem is couldn't forgive her and she has never apologized. She didn't try and I didn't try, even when she was right next to me. I will never forget her hematite eyes and how strong she was, but the way she left me alone in a place I didn't understand sticks with my bones. Even when she proposed to save me in her way." He explained. "We can't do that now she died."
Alfred felt his chest aching because he noticed the pattern. Ivan couldn't explain his feelings properly since he can't understand them. He will never say "I'm sad." or "I'm happy" because he can't picture those feelings and he can't explain them in words as Alfred performed. Then the American compelled him to dream. Say what he wanted to happen instead of what is happening and then Alfred can work on something to join the feeling. He would say what he wanted to make him happier when he was comfortable and say how he can get angrier when they were fighting. Ivan was a dreamer. He only knew feeling when he was dreaming.
He closed his eyes and placed his forehead on his hand. Alfred researched his mind on how he could help his boyfriend. Ivan didn't like console using words. He prefers to be hugged until he is feeling better when he is feeling terrible. But he wasn't crying on the ground now. Then the American tried to think about another strategy. He had an idea when he looked at the lonely bar benches.
"Ivan, go take a shower upstairs and come back here in a minute. You are stinking."
He hesitated.
"Okay. I'll be right back."
When he left Alfred noticed he left the book in the dining table. He grabbed that thing and hid under the sofa.
* •
Written in perfect Russian and held the characters Nora used to write in a cursive way even if she was writing in a capital way.
Something like that: ваня.
Lev (Nora's husband) can represent the Siberian military oblast. I imagine him similar to Russia, but with a more mundane face and dark hair. Imagine him as someone very handsome, but with deep and dark circles under his green eyes. He is strong and tall as Ivan, but he was wiser, slower and softer. He and Nora met in a protest in Hungary for Communism in the country.
Near Nordvik for a few kilometres south and very near the mouth of the Khatanga Gulf on the Laptev Sea. There is not an isolated character for kilometres beside the city that is basically in ruins. I don't assume people think there is life here, nevertheless, Lev and I have always cherished Siberia as our home.
Well, the exact coordinates more close of this place are 76°16'19.6"N 113°10'52.6"E so you can search on Google maps if you like. This place is actually in ruins. I tried to search for the reason, but I couldn't find anything.
This is the beginning of the end. Thank you for experiencing my story until this point.