She had watched him sitting at the bar, and she had made up her mind. The swine with whom Tanya had thrown in her lot were so obviously after only one thing that she knew there was no future with them. They offered no real possibilities. But the handsome, boyish one at the bar. Perhaps he had something to offer. He was young enough to be unattached, to have more future to him than past. She decided he was worth an effort. If nothing else, she wouldn't end the evening being pawed by a middle-aged drunk.
"How about some more wine?" he asked her, with the bottle already raised in his hand.
"Oh, yes. Please. You see it is very good, the Russian wine. It derives from the Crimea."
She saw a slight frown of disagreement cross his face, evidence of further dissatisfaction. What on earth was wrong with this man? What did he want? What did he expect?
She decided that he was simply trying to impress her. Perhaps not in such a bad way. He was still so much a boy. And he wanted her to think he was a man.
Valya warned herself again to slow down, to stop eating like a stray dog. As a penalty for her bad behavior she forced herself to put down her knife and fork for a moment, to talk to the American.
"Jeff. You are such a nice man. I think you are married, yes?"
She watched his face closely. It did not change in a bad way. There was no sudden embarrassment. No stupid furtiveness. Just a barely visible stiffening, a look of pain in the eyes.
"No," he said slowly. "No, I’m not married. I was. But not now."
"Oh. I am sorry. Your wife is dead?
He smiled slightly, and the pain was gone. "No. Nothing that dramatic. We just weren’t right for each other. We're divorced."
The woman was probably some faithless American slut, Valya decided. A bitch who had so much she could discard husbands without a care. In America, every woman had her own private automobile.
"You have children?"
"No," he said. "No, I guess we were lucky that way. Then he changed his tone, leaning in toward her. "But what about you? I can’t believe you’re not married."
Valya finished chewing and looked at him with her most serious face.
"My husband was killed," she lied. "On the first day of the war."
He retreated into his chair. Sitting up very properly.
"Valya, I’m sorry…"
"I do not wish to talk about it," she said. "Tonight is the first night when I am not at home. My friend thought that I must come out."
"All right," he said. "I just…"
"It is not important. Tell me about your wife, Valya said, although she did not want to hear about the woman at all. "I think she must be a very bad woman. Then she slipped another piece of beef into her mouth, convinced that he would talk for a while.
"Jennifer?" the American said. "No, Jennifers not a bad woman. She just sees the world differently than I do." He smiled. "There's a joke in America that everyone is authorized one trial marriage. I guess that was mine."
Valya swallowed hurriedly. "Then you will marry again, Jeff?"
"I don't know. Maybe. If the right woman comes along. I don't think about it."
"Perhaps you still love this woman?"
The American thought for a moment. "No. I'm pretty much over her, I think. I mean, I'll always remember the good times we had. And I think I kept on loving her a long time after she stopped loving me. But it's all over now."
"I think you must find a very good woman."
The American smiled. He had a wonderful boy's smile. "Or hope that she finds me." He poured more wine, leaving her glass a bit too full.
Without the least warning, Valya felt her stomach cramp. The pain was brutal and very sharp. She stopped chewing, and her eyes opened wide. Then the pain receded, leaving her shocked and numb in the torso, with sweat jeweling on her forehead. Her right hand clutched the tablecloth.
She forced herself to continue chewing.
"Are you all right?" the American asked.
Valya nodded. "I am fine. There is no problem." She reached for the overfilled wine glass. "I think it is hot in here."
Just as she lifted the glass, a second blade of pain ripped through her belly. She moaned slightly, absolutely helpless. The first shock had opened her eyes. Now she had to close them. She swallowed, miserable. Cursing to herself as bitterly and horribly as she had ever done.
"Valya?"
She felt cold sweat on her forehead and temples. Then another bigger, sharper pain cut through her, and she realized that everything was coming apart.
"Please. You will excuse me." She had to hurry, she could not worry about correct stress and pronunciation now. She got up, unsteady, ready to weep, hoping only that she would not embarrass herself too badly. She reached for her purse with a blind hand, but felt only the confusion of the tablecloth and the hard line of her chair.
There was no time. She marched herself quickly across the room, with the desperate, stiff dignity that teeters on the edge of shame, heading for the nearest waiter, to whom she could speak in her own language.
The waiter coldly gave her directions, not interested in being polite to her now that she had separated from her foreigner.
She walked swiftly, growing dizzy and faint, trying to find the way. She sensed that she did not have the spare seconds a wrong turn might cost.
Shadowy hall, buckled carpet. Blistered paint on an old, huge door. She charged inside, past the thick, middle-aged woman who sat guarding a pile of towels and a little plate of coins. As she flashed by, Valya saw quick changes pass over the woman's face. First disapproval, then the forced, begrudged smile that hoped for a tip, then anger.
Valya rushed toward the first stall. Anxious to get down on her knees, yet not quite sure what to do first. In the background, behind an invisible membrane that separated her from the rest of the world, Valya could hear the attendant cursing her. The woman had followed her, and a part of Valya sensed her hovering over her as she shouted insults. But it was all too distant for real concern. There was only the immediacy of sickness, terrible sickness. The burning in her stomach and the strain in her throat existed outside of time.
Then everything grew slow and rancid. The attendant had given up on her and returned to her perch, muttering. Valya sat down on the cracked tile, unable to care now what happened to her precious dress. With all available energy, she reached up to release a gush of fresh water to cleanse her world. Then she sat back down hard.
The physical sickness decayed, leaving her with a different sort of discomfort. Thinking over her folly. She had eaten like an animal. The food had been too rich, too much. It was heartbreakingly good food, and, even now, in the acidic wake of her sickness, she could only hope that there would be more such food in her life.
She breathed deeply. Several times. Finally, she stood up. Her legs felt unsteady at first. But it was evident that the sickness was not serious. Sheer gluttony. Like a child gobbling down sweets.
She lifted her skirt to fix her hose. And the legs that had seemed so long and lovely to her in the mirrors of her life now seemed to have grown too thin. Her wrists showed too much bone. In a world, in the very city, where there was such hidden bounty. Valya caught a glimpse of her body, of her life, wasting.
She approached the attendant, who was sitting sullenly at her post.
"Please," she said, all the while trying to iron her dress with the flat of her hand. "Please give me a towel. I left my purse outside. I was sick."
The woman, mighty in her authority, looked Valya up and down with disapproval.
"The towels," she said, "are fifty kopecks."
"I know," Valya begged. "I understand. But please. I have to clean myself. I can't go back out there. I have to wash."