The Secret Lives of People in Love Read Free Page B

Moscow.
    I used to think when I was very young that each door led to a different village and to a different life. I wondered how many souls would pass through my father’s doors in their lifetime, and later, as a teenager, I imagined couples closing the doors and then making love in moonlit rooms.
    I was proud of my father’s job because it was work for the good of the people. Once I had a dream that I was on an American beach notunlike the one I am on now. In the dream I fell asleep on the hot sand, and when I awoke, the people had all been replaced by my father’s doors. Imagine that—a beach with no people, just a thousand doors, all freestanding in their frames.
    When the government in Moscow changed, the factory closed, my father died, and I joined the Russian navy.
    I think I’m going to ask my girlfriend Mina to marry me. She was born in Florida. She likes to hear the stories about my father, because her own was no good. I think she will say yes, but I shouldn’t assume that, because I am gruff with her sometimes, and I find it hard to tell her my true feelings. Out of everyone in the whole world I believe she is the most important person.
    The young men next to me are in the water, and the girls are watching. The onshore waves are as big as wardrobes, and I can see that some of the young men are frightened. The girls are frightened, too, but the scene still takes place.
    During my first five years in the navy, I was taught how to fire missiles from a submarine. It was exciting because the submarine would shudder with each launch. It was quite an important job because everything had to be perfectly synchronized or the missile would not reach its intended target. On firing days, none of us dared sneak vodka into the launch room.
    It wasn’t a bad life. I remember having some very nice experiences with my friends in different ports. There were always girls who liked our uniforms more than they liked us. I was so young and nowhere near as fat as I am now. When my submarine was to be decommissioned wewere all quite sad. It was our workplace, after all, and we had grown quite fond of it.
    I met Mina at a Russian restaurant in Queens where I was a bartender. She was there with her friends for a birthday party. They seemed like very nice American girls, and I enjoyed having their laughter within earshot. I was fired from my job as a bartender at the restaurant on the night I met Mina. It was actually because of an incident with Mina’s friend, but I didn’t mind because Mina had written her telephone number on a piece of paper and then looked at me with eyes as big as teacups.
    It is strange how some of the Russians I know don’t like Americans but choose to live here. I think that their bitterness has more to do with themselves and that if they were back in Russia, they would find something there to complain about.
    As Mina and her friends drank more and more wine, they became louder and even knocked a glass off the table. But they were such a jovial bunch that I didn’t mind—it actually reminded me of the long nights with my comrades, when our K-159 submarine was the pride of the Russian navy.
    When one of the Russian men at the bar began to talk about Mina’s group, I tried not to listen. Mina’s friends were not the only people in the restaurant drinking heavily that night. When the girls ordered coffee and chocolates, one of the drunken men at the bar began saying sexual things in Russian about Mina and her friends. I went into the back and washed glasses and tried to forget it because all men become pigs when they drink.
    As the restaurant emptied I went back to my bar and started tidying up for the night. One of Mina’s friends wanted one last drink, which I gave to her on the house, because I liked them and hoped they would come back.
    As she turned around and started back to the table, the man at the bar who had been saying things took hold of her arm and she spilled the drink. He then began to say