ALLA MICHELLE WATSON

Michelle was born and raised in Ukraine. She now lives in Missouri, where she is a member of Saint Louis Writers group. Her latest projects include a novel about Russian immigrants and designing/developing a website for the writer's group.

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MRS. ROMOVA BUYS A TICKET

Mrs. Romova hates everything. The milk tastes like chalk; the bread has no crust and this apartment! Oh, this apartment keeps her up at night, every night.

"Why don't you like it, Mama?" asks her son-in-law Pavel, a systems analyst who designs web pages, whatever they are.

"I don't like it," she tells him, "because it's too large. It's not cozy, you understand? And the view--just look outside."

The view is less than inspiring: two story brick-fronted buildings scattered along the hill, like matchboxes.

"The buildings are nice," Pavel says.

"The buildings look like barracks," argues Mrs. Romova and sighs. Two months since she's come to America, and all she can think about is her tiny apartment in Moscow, where pigeons cooed on the ledge and trolleys clamored by, a sound comfortingly familiar.

But this small New Jersey suburb! So quiet, so desolate! Even the television she cannot watch; the English language seems like rapid-fire: She catches certain words, but they quickly slip away in the avalanche of new ones.

"What did he say?" she asks her daughter as they watch the evening news.

"Hush, Mama, I'm trying to watch," Svetlana says and turns up the volume.

Back home, Mrs. Romova had a simple routine. In the morning, she would turn on the radio, hear the announcer's deep baritone, "Good morning, Muscovites!" Then, a darling overture by Bach or similar, followed by the news, all in Russian, all so dear to her heart. Breakfast wasn't fancy, but wholesome: Buckwheat kasha, black chai and farmer's cheese blintzes. Not like this dry cereal and half-burned toast. After breakfast, she would close up the apartment and cross the busy intersection to buy morning paper at the little corner kiosk. A shortcut through the alley, past the Pushkin monument, then a pleasant ride on the palace-like metro to visit one of her sisters.

Now here, without a car, Mrs. Romova is a bird in a cage. Trapped! She thinks to herself every morning. Trapped in this village, and what can be done? Pavel and her daughter Svetlana travel often, and leave their son Igor at home. A darling boy, but so spoiled, so Americanized. Everything is permitted!

"When I was raising Svetlana," says Mrs. Romova gently, "I employed strict rules of discipline."

"Mama!" Svetlana says.

"Discipline is no longer in style," says Pavel.

On Thursday, Mrs. Romova's spirits soar. Her daughter has set the table with fine china and crystal. "We are having company!" she says and gives her mother a quick, probing smile. What does that mean? The guests arrive, a young American couple with a child Igor's age.

Mrs. Romova counts the settings. Six. Six? "What about me?" she asks her daughter.

"Well, of course, Mama. But...I just thought. They don't speak Russian, you see. And you don't speak English."

"Oh, that's all right," her mother says. "I'll just have something later. Yes. All right." She walks to her bedroom, shuts the door and sits on the edge of the bed. The bedspread is old and a bit tattered; she'll mend it in the morning. She listens cautiously to the conversation in another room, then tiptoes to the phone and snatches the receiver. The ad for the low air fare was in the paper New Russian Word, and Mrs. Romova memorized the number. "One-eight-hundred..."she whispers and dials, whispers and dials.

"Alloo?" This, from the other side of the ocean.

"Yes, please. One ticket. I'd like one ticket, New York to Moscow, please--"

A door creaks open and Igor walks in. His grandmother nestles the receiver between her neck and shoulder. "Oh, hi!" she says. "All done with dinner? Where's your little friend?"

Igor comes over and places his small hand on Mrs. Romova's damp cheek. How warm his hand is, how lovely he smells! "What, darling?" she says.

"Alloo, alloo!" says the woman.

Slowly, so slowly Mrs. Romova returns the receiver to its cradle.

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SINGING KALINKA ON A COLD NOVEMBER NIGHT

I know it was past midnight, because my wall clock chimed several slow, dejected strokes.

Someone was knocking on the door, forcefully, and I tiptoed to the hallway, sleepy and mad, and glanced through the peephole and saw Victor, this guy from Moscow, a new addition to our little Russian expatriate circle.

I swung the door open, but stood on the threshold, barricading the entrance to my house.

Victor is a very large guy, Russian-bear kind of large; in other words, impressive in the middle of the night, at my doorstep. A little scary, too. I tied my robe tightly around my waist and said, "Do you know what time it is?" He nodded solemnly, and produced a bottle of Absolut from nowhere.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice drowning in the lazy silence of the night.

"I want to come in and tell you about my heart."

I shook my head. I didn't want to hear about his or anyone else's heart. I wanted to go back to my lovely bed, and my blanket that smelled so nice, and curl up like a shrimp and fall asleep.

"I have an achy heart," he said in his deep voice, in Russian, with great emphasis on achy, and I thought, Shit! I had a meeting in the morning, an important meeting and I didn't want to sabotage it.

Victor swiveled his body a half-turn and said, "I was an architect in Moscow. And now I am what? A cab driver! I read you a poem, no?"

"No," I said. It was November, miserable, and the cold air gushed into my house and made me shiver.

"Yes," he said, and started to recite a poem, words flying out of his mouth like freed birds:

Yes! Now the decision is clear
I've forsaken my native land
And poplars no longer trill
Their winged leaves.

He recited it in Russian, a famous poem by Yesenin, and he did it quite well. "Now your turn," he said, and took a gulp of Absolut.

I didn't want to argue, so I said, "Humph," and then I racked my brains for a quick poem, but couldn't come up with any on such a short notice, and with Victor's impressive body pushing his way into my house.

"Maybe a song?" he offered, his vodka breath slashing the air like an insult. "How about Kalinka?"

"Will you leave then?"

"Yes," he said, in a tone that said maybe, but what choice did I have? "I don't have a good voice," I argued, but he waved me off, like a pesky fly. "Just sing, please."

I cleared my throat. Kalinka is a lovely, old, nostalgic song that requires a big voice that I don't have. And if you don't pull off the first note, on "Kaaaaaa!" you might as well give up the whole affair.

But I sang it, and I sang it beautifully. Something happens to your voice on a cold, clear night, when all the cosmos' particles have been swooshing around, bored, and then comes your voice out of nowhere, and the particles attach themselves to it, and hitch a ride to the sky, taking your voice with them.

Yes, it was a beautiful rendition, and Victor cried, and then he scooped me up, and whispered Spasibo-Thank You, and it was very melodious and sincere.

"Can I come in now?" he asked, and I said yes, because the night was sort of ruined anyway.