"The Request," a story by Robert Klose

I am constantly amazed at the ends to which loneliness drives me. This is not to say that I am lonely by nature, but only that I am attacked by bouts of it, and always soon after a relationship has collapsed. I went to a psychologist and he told me that I was the type of man who needed a woman to take care of him, but that whenever I found someone, I didn't appreciate her. That's why these women left me. For this advice I paid one hundred and fifty dollars when I could have written to Dear Abby and received the same counsel for free, as well as the sympathy of countless readers.

Who knows? Maybe the psychologist was right. But knowing this does not assuage my need to be with women. In truth, I am a devoted lover. I have even sacrificed my principles to placate women. Two — or was it three? — lovers ago I found out, while we were active in bed, that Marya was a Republican with a slavish devotion to the president. It reminded me of how German women were said to come into heat when they saw Hitler. As we approached climax, Marya commenced a discussion of the Iraq war in order to delay orgasm. But it had the opposite effect. "We must find these weapons of mass destruction!" she gasped. "Even if it takes a million goddamn American lives!" To which I panted, "Yes! Onward to victory!" Then she screamed out in such ecstasy that I feared the neighbors would call the police.

I never told this to Galina Sergeivna. Galina was the older Russian woman who lived up the street from me. She had emigrated to Maine many years ago and never looked back. I did good turns for her: raking the leaves, picking up milk and bread, and giving her the occasional lift. In return, she gave me Russian lessons and monitored my relationships, always looking on first with approbation, then hope, and finally consolation when I reported the bitter end. "Maybe you should try an American woman," she remarked over tea in her small, knickknack-littered living room. "The Slavs are too complicated."

"I don't avoid American women," I told her. "I just seem to be attracted to the exotics." I didn't tell Galina about the Albanian woman who, in the middle of our relationship, reported her approval of incest as a way for fathers to introduce their daughters to the delights of intercourse.

Galina sipped her tea thoughtfully. She primped her flame-orange hair and knitted her brow. "You know," she said, "I have a Ukrainian friend who has been looking for someone for a long time. She's a professional woman and a wonderful cook. Her name is Lydia."

"Where does she live?"

"In Ukraine."

I sat back and observed Galina Sergeivna's searching expression.

"Do you mean…?"

"You would have to go to Ukraine to meet her, because she's never been able to get a visa to come to America. But if things worked out between you…"

"Do you have a picture of her?" Galina Sergeivna shook her head.

"No. But when I last saw her five years ago, during my trip to Kyiv, she was blonde."

My state of mind was such that I considered the possibility for only one night. The next day I returned to Galina Sergeivna and told her I was interested.

"If she's interested in meeting me," I added.

I had never seen Galina move so quickly. She seized the phone, punched in seemingly endless numbers, and waited. There was a harsh crackle of static. Then Galina erupted into a frenzy of unpunctuated Russian, studded with clusters of Da´s. After ten minutes she hung up. Her face was flushed.

"It's so good to talk to her," she said, and blew her nose.

"Well, what did she say?"

"She's still available and waiting for you. She said you should come as soon as possible because she's been laid off from work and has time on her hands."

"I thought you said she was a professional woman."

"Yes," nodded Galina as she resumed her seat and dropped an additional lump of sugar into her tea. "She is."

I was intrigued, but suddenly felt foolish for being so impetuous. Was I so desperate for another relationship that I would fly to — of all places — Ukraine, to meet a woman who seemed to be making no effort to hide her own desperation? Perhaps Galina was right and I should simply look closer to home, for an American woman. I decided not to rush things. I told Galina that I wanted time to think. She sighed.

Over the ensuing week I found that my interest in meeting Lydia didn't wane. No doubt I was building her up in my mind as something more than she could possibly be. But what was the worst thing that could happen? Still, it was another week before I was able to act. I reasoned that it was summer and my teaching year was over. I had all the time in the world to explore this new possibility. And I had never been to Ukraine, so I looked forward to the adventure of visiting an unfamiliar place. The next day I told Galina to alert Lydia that I had made reservations to fly to Kyiv.

The flight was a long one, and Kyiv was dreary with rain and low clouds when I arrived. I had to transfer to an overnight train that would take me south to the city of Mykolaiv, on the Dnieper. The train was a sad affair, dank and claustrophobic. In one passageway I noted a small glass case mounted on the wall. It housed a dusty swatch of lace entwined about a plastic rose, an attempt to suggest elegance.

I found my sleeper compartment and stowed my luggage in the overhead. I thought I had the entire compartment to myself, but no sooner did I lie down to rest than a large, well-built man of perhaps forty, with close-cropped hair, exploded through the doorway and announced himself as Andrei. We shook hands and sat opposite each other on the berths. Andrei wasted no time in telling me that he was a Ukrainian expat living in Oslo, where he was the coach for the Norwegian Olympic wrestling team.

"What brings you back to Ukraine?" I asked him.

"Family," he clipped in his robust but heavily-accented English. "There's no other reason I would come back to this country."

I asked him why.

"It's hopeless," he said, throwing his hands up. "There are no rules, no laws, no optimism. And Kuchma has no interest in change."

I recognized the name of the Ukrainian president. He had recently been accused of ordering the beheading of an opposition journalist. "Ukraine is a democracy now," I offered. "Why not throw him out?"

Andrei looked at me as if I were an idiot. "Didn't I just tell you there's no law here? Everybody does what he wants. Whose head is it worth to kick Kuchma in the ass?"

Our conversation was interrupted by the bark of a dog. I watched as Andrei opened one of his bags and lifted out a chihuahua. "Ah," he said. "I had almost forgotten about you. Dogs are not allowed on the train, but he's so small."

I reached out to pat the dog's head but he immediately snapped. Andrei laughed as the chihuahua licked his chops. "That's how he says hello. Be careful. Look but don't touch. He likes to bite."

I smiled weakly. "What's his name?"

"Kuchma."

We continued our conversation, but every time I gestured, Kuchma made a lunge for my hand, as if he were pursuing an elusive bird. I could hear the click of his teeth at every attempt to bite me. "Why are you in Ukraine?" asked Andrei as he held his pet, stroking its head.

"To meet a woman," I said.

Andrei's eyes flashed with interest. "Ah, did you use the computer? If you Google 'Ukrainian women' you will be buried in hits. They'll do anything to escape this prison."

I smiled at his facility with English. "She was a recommendation from a friend," I told him.

"What's her name?"

"Lydia."

"And her last name?"

"Miroseva."

Andrei nodded and his eyes became dreamy.

"I once knew a Miroseva," he said. "She was a tiger in the bedroom. My God, how she liked it rough! That's when I became interested in wrestling. Would you believe she had only one eye? The other was clawed out by a Polish woman."

"Her name wasn't Lydia, was it?" I asked.

"No, no," said Andrei, waving me off. "Svetlana. Your Miroseva is probably as gentle as a lamb." And then he added, with a twinkle, "If you're unlucky."

Kuchma yipped and lunged for me again, although I hadn't moved a muscle. Andrei gave his nose a hard fillip. "Shut up," he said. “You two have to spend the night together, so get used to it."

When we eventually did turn in and the light was out, I spoke into the darkness, asking Andrei what he did before leaving Ukraine. "I was KGB," he said. But this revelation did not distress me as much as the sound of Kuchma's breathing, a high-pitched wheeze. I wondered how Andrei would manage to restrain him after nodding off.

I could not fall asleep, and it had nothing to do with apprehension over Lydia, Andrei's resume as a KGB agent, or Kuchma. It was the sheets. They were damp. "Andrei," I said. "Are your sheets wet?"

"Of course."

"What do you mean? It's so uncomfortable, like lying in cold sweat."

"It's normal," he confirmed.

"Is it always like this?"

"Since Lenin."

Kuchma's frantic yipping woke me at daybreak. Andrei had rolled over on top of him and the small animal was struggling to free itself. Andrei continued to sleep like a baby. Kuchma's eyes were ablaze with panic.

I reached out to push Andrei off his pet, but Kuchma, even from this death grip, snapped out at me. Well then, I decided, you've chosen your fate.

Andrei stirred and rolled over, freeing Kuchma, who bit him on his index finger. "You bastard!" he cried, and smacked the animal so hard that it screamed out with an otherworldly voice. Kuchma curled up on his master's blanket where he seethed before turning his eyes to me, as if to say, "Despite this, I am loved."

The train pulled into Mykolayiv station and I said my goodbye to Andrei as we stood on the platform. As he walked away from me a woman ran up to him, gave a brisk bow, and spoke animatedly. Then Andrei brought her over to me. "She thought I was you!" he laughed. "This is your Lydia." He winked at me and strolled off with the yipping Kuchma.

Lydia looked me over. I couldn't tell whether she was disappointed or paralyzed. She was blonde, as Galina Sergeivna had said, although it was clear that it was not natural. She was a tall woman, only a couple of inches shorter than me. And so very thin. Her brown eyes were large, narrow, and wide-set, giving her a vaguely Asiatic look. She clutched a small purse to her light jacket. "Well," she said. "My English is not good. How is your Ukrainian?"

"Worse."

This made her smile. "Okay, then," she said, accepting the reality of my existence. "I have a driver. He will take us to my house. Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"It's only an hour."

We got into a small, immaculate, red East German Trabant. Lydia sat up front and I took the back seat. The driver was a big man in a blue silk shirt. He had jet-black hair pomaded back, a ruddy complexion and piercing black eyes. "I am Tigran from Armenia," he said in halting English, laughing. Then he poked me in the ribs, as if cueing me to a joke. "We will be okay," he said, and drew out a jewel-encrusted dagger from beneath his seat. "Look! Just like New York." He laughed again and didn't stop until I smiled.

We pulled out onto the main road and headed south. Tigran the Armenian commenced a running commentary on his family, the political situation in Ukraine, and his car. Whenever we passed a woman — even a heavy-set, swaying babushka — he honked. "I have six children," he announced.

"Big family," I said.

"My brother has ten." All the while, Lydia sat with her hands folded, looking out her window, her expression one of world-weariness. I found myself already longing for home.

"Son of a bitch!"

The car screeched to a stop, raising a cloud of dust. Tigran the Armenian clambered out and inspected his tires. When the dust settled I saw a pack of dogs before us, in the middle of the road. There were eight of them, mangy and half-starved. Tigran reached back into the car and took out his dagger. He approached the pack, waving the weapon and cursing. Lydia shook her head and looked back at me. "Dogs everywhere," she said. "Ukraine is full of dogs. Who knows where they come from? It is best to stay away from them. All the children know this."

I watched as the mongrels circled about Tigran, who was still waving his dagger and swearing. "They're going to attack," I worried. Lydia reached over and honked the horn. This startled the animals. They regrouped and loped away into a neighboring field.

Tigran got back into the car. "Why did you beep?" he demanded of Lydia. "I was about to skin them."

"How can a dead man skin a dog?" she said, and then giggled, as if she had hit upon a Ukrainian proverb. "

I'm desperately hungry," said Tigran. "We should stop."

We drove on a ways and pulled over into a roadside restaurant. It was pleasant inside, and we were the only patrons. We sat at a small table, where Tigran was still sweating profusely from his encounter with the feral dogs. Both Lydia and I had chicken cutlets with coleslaw, while Tigran ate ravenously — pork cutlets, rice, fries, a salad, beer and cake. When he finished, he got up and walked away. "Well, it's time to pay," said Lydia, but she made no move to retrieve any money. "I'll take care of it," I said, and she nodded.

We drove on for another forty-five minutes and arrived in a dusty, weatherworn village which was redeemed, in part, by its location on the shores of the Black Sea. "It's lovely," I remarked.

Lydia threw me a questioning look. "You really think so?" she said. It was the first time I felt that she was truly aware of me and not just speaking offhand.

"Yes," I said. "You have the sea, the sky, the charm of village life. What more could you ask?"

Lydia stepped away from the car. Tigran flashed a gold tooth at me and said, "Well, you're here." Then he ran a finger along the roof of his Trabant, as if inspecting its contours.

Money was the only thing that would break the awkward silence, and so I paid him in hryvnias. Then he drove away, waving happily. Lydia led me to her apartment building. The vestibule was dark and reeked of urine. A half-starved cat cowered in a corner, lapping at a bowl of water. It eyed us suspiciously as we ascended the concrete steps.

We entered Lydia's apartment, where an elderly but stout woman in a faded housedress and slippers sat on a worn sofa with a little boy of about five. "Mama!" he yelled as he leapt up and ran into Lydia's arms. She turned to me. "This is Vladek," she said.

I put my hand out and Vladek examined it. Then he looked up at me. "Papa?" he queried.

I looked from Lydia to the babushka, both of whom smiled at me. "No, no, Vladek," said Lydia in Russian. "This is a friend. From America."

"Michael Jackson," said Vladek.

The apartment consisted of four rooms — the sitting room with the sofa, two bedrooms and the very small kitchen. It was a peelpaint affair. In every room some of the plumbing was visible through broken plaster, the rusted pipes continuing to provide service despite the lack of maintenance. The floor in the sitting room was hardwood that someone had painted yellow, which was now coming off in broad flakes.

"This is my mother," said Lydia, introducing the babushka. Her gray hair was pinned back and her glasses were so thick they distorted not only her eyes but her entire expression. Despite this, her smile shone through, bright and welcoming. She slipped into the kitchen to prepare tea. Lydia lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, with Vladek nestling in her arms. The boy was handsome, with straight blond hair and pale blue eyes. His expression was knowing, almost wry, making him look wise beyond his years. "I wish I had known about your boy," I volunteered from my seat in an overstuffed chair across the room. "I would have brought him something." And then, "Galina didn't tell me you had a son."

Lydia blew a smoke ring for Vladek to run his finger through. "He was born just after I last saw Galina Sergeivna," she said. "I thought I had told her in a letter. Surely she must know."

"Well, he's a beautiful boy," I said. "He looks just like you." This wasn't exactly true. The boy's features were sharper, more Russian, than his mother's.

But Lydia did not respond any further to my remarks.

We had tea, we chatted about the village, while the grandmother sat quietly through it all, volunteering nothing. But in the middle of our conversation Vladek detached himself from his mother's side and climbed into my lap. "I've never seen this before," said Lydia. "He's usually very careful with strangers."

"Dyadya," said Vladek. I looked pleadingly to Lydia. "Does he still think I'm his father?"

"No," she said. "Dyadya means man or uncle. Don't panic."

For the first time the babushka spoke up, her voice a harsh rasp, perhaps presaging Lydia’s fate should she continue to smoke. She directed her comment to Lydia, but in Ukrainian. Lydia nodded. I asked for a translation. "My mother wants to know if you love him."

"Love who?" I asked.

"Vladek." I looked down at the boy, who was kneading his fingers as he snuggled against me.

Then I looked back at the women. "In a moderate way," I said, thinking this a reasonable feint.

Lydia looked confused. "What does that mean?" she asked. "How can I translate that for my mother?"

"But I don't even know him yet."

"So I'll tell her that you like him and are going to love him."

"That sounds a bit mechanical to me."

"I don't understand," said Lydia. "Doesn't liking come before loving?"

I scratched my ear. "I think that's the way it usually works."

Lydia nodded and then said something to her mother, who smiled at me before getting up and returning to the kitchen. Before coming to Ukraine I had harbored two culinary fears — borscht and liver. When we sat down to dinner around the small table with a green-checked, vinyl cloth, I found myself confronted with a great steaming bowl of what looked like blood. When I stirred it with my spoon several diminutive beets rose to the surface. My throat instantly closed.

I forced down a few mouthfuls before the babushka brought another dish to the table. She seemed like a terribly shy woman, but this didn't stop her from occasionally addressing me in Russian in the throaty, Marlene Dietrich voice of the unrepentant chain-smoker who had apparently given up the habit, but not before the damage had been done. "Pichonka, Pichonka," she croaked as I hovered over the plate of rice and meat she had prepared for me. I threw her a look of non-comprehension, so she ran her hand over the side of her body. "Pichonka." Liver.

As I said, I have often compromised my principles when it comes to women. I ate the borscht and chewed the liver down. The entire meal passed in silence, although Vladek's manner of eating was an interesting gloss. I watched as he rhythmically lifted spoonfuls of borscht, blew on them, and slipped the food into his mouth. In his other hand he held a chunk of bread, his pinky angled delicately aloft.

After supper, Lydia directed Vladek to bed. He hugged and kissed his mother and grandmother and then ran to me. I reached down and gave him a reluctant hug. "He's affectionate, isn't he?" said Lydia.

"I'm very impressed with your son," I said.

"We should go for a walk."

It was already nine o'clock, but there was still a skyglow in the west. As we stepped out onto the street Lydia placed her arm in mine and set the pace as we strolled along. I had been in other Slavic countries and knew this to be nothing more than a friendly gesture. "So you hate borscht," she said out of the blue.

I began to equivocate, but then decided not to. "Could you tell?"

"With every spoonful," she said. "And I thought you would choke on the liver."

"The pichonka."

"You learn fast. My mother only wants you to be happy."

"She seems like a lovely woman."

"She is," said Lydia. "Even though she is sick."

We turned a corner where several young men were sitting on the curb, two of them with their heads in their hands. "They're unemployed," said Lydia. "Most of the country is unemployed. That's what's so dangerous about this place. When young men only sit with their heads in their hands, it's like a bomb waiting to explode."

"Your mother is sick?"

"Yes. She has diabetes and high blood pressure. She's also had three heart attacks. Would you believe she's only sixty-three?"

It was hard to believe, because I had taken her for being well into her seventies. "Is she seeing a doctor?"

"She has medicine."

We walked on toward a park. The grass was trampled down to the bare earth, and the small, crooked trees looked sickly. Two elderly men passed a bottle back and forth, and on another bench were more young men, waiting for nothing. "It's cooler here," said Lydia. "People like to sit here."

We found a bench for ourselves. "Galina told me that you're a professional."

"Yes," said Lydia. "I worked in a laboratory at the hospital. I examined tissues for signs of disease. Cancer and infections and other things. But now I don't have work because the government said the hospital was too big. But nobody even protested. Certainly not the know-it-all doctors, because they will always have work. In this country, if something happens to you, you're made to think that you deserve it. Don't forget, here it's the Orthodox church and everything is a question of guilt."

Lydia pulled herself close to me.

"I don't mean to scare you," she said. "I just want to rest a minute."

"Then rest."

I had been with Lydia only a matter of hours, but despite my initial apprehension, I was coming to feel comfortable with her. I liked her, and liking, of course, is followed by loving, if things progress normally.

"Let's walk on," she said as she sat up and slowly got to her feet.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said. "Just tired." She slipped her arm into mine again and we went down to the beach. The sound of the small waves of the Black Sea washing up onto the shore obviated any need to speak. The three-quarter moon shed a subtle light upon her face, highlighting a certain sadness. I felt her hand slip down into mine. For the rest of our walk neither of us said a word.

When we got to the house I hovered awkwardly on the threshold of her room.

"I don't think we should sleep in the same bed yet," she said. "If that's something you were thinking about."

"I wasn't thinking about anything."

"There's another small bed in Vladek's room. You can sleep there. It will excite him."

Lydia kissed me softly on both cheeks and escorted me to her son's room. The boy was sleeping soundly, his head near a window. The same moonlight which had darkened Lydia's aspect made Vladek look like an angel. I turned in and listened from my bed as the child breathed steadily, shuddered, hesitated, and breathed again. It reminded me of the anecdotes told by new parents of incessantly looking in on their first-born children to see if they were still alive.

In the morning I was awakened by Vladek as he gently poked me in the face with a stuffed bear. "Mishka," he said.

"Yes. Bear."

"Baaeer," he repeated, with effort, as if manipulating a small potato in his mouth.

I took the bear and made it dance across my chest while I whistled "Yankee Doodle." Vladek laughed and clapped his hands. Lydia came to the door and smiled. "So you're liking him more," she said.

"Who couldn't like this child? He has two wonderful virtues: he doesn't cling and he doesn't whine." "What is a cling?" asked Lydia.

"When a child won't let go of an adult."

Suddenly Lydia barked, "Vladek! Step back. Let this man breathe!"

"No, Lydia," I said, pulling myself up in bed. I reached out for Vladek and rested a hand on his shoulder. "He's perfect the way he is."

Lydia's expression eased. "Breakfast is coming. My mother is already in the kitchen."

I arose, washed, and shaved. There was only cold water and I nicked myself several times with the blade. When I came out of the bathroom Lydia upended me. "Oh, your face," she said as she reached up to touch my wounds.

"It's nothing. How can I help you this morning?"

She withdrew her hand. "Please help Vladek to get dressed. He's so slow."

Vladek impressed me as nothing if not self-sufficient. When I went back into his room he was buttoning his shirt. Lydia came in and thrust a brush into my hands. "Please do this too," she directed. And so I bent down and gently brushed Vladek's hair, which fell into place like silk threads. It had been a long time since I had brushed a child's hair and I had forgotten how pleasurable it was. When I was done, Vladek took my hand and led me into the kitchen.

Lydia was at the sink. She caught sight of me and gasped, dropping a number of pills to the floor. She flew after them and gathered them up like coins. "Excuse me!" she apologized. "Sit down. Eat. Mama! They're ready."

The babushka cooed to me in Ukrainian as she shoveled eggs and little silver dollar-size pancakes onto my plate. She poured me tepid black tea. Then Lydia joined us. "I'm sorry," she said. "I do not feel so well this morning. I could lie down, but sometimes that makes me feel worse."

I felt strangely on the outside of events in Lydia's home. I had many questions but did not yet feel entitled to ask them. Who was Vladek's father? Did the babushka live with Lydia and the boy? What were those pills she was taking? Why did things seem to be moving so quickly?

The next three days brought me no answers. I became of two minds about Lydia. On the one hand, I was attracted to her and was already indulging in images of us as a couple. I had done this before, of course, with other women, many of them; but as we drew closer to that reality the entire relationship suddenly evaporated. It was always as if I had flown too close to the sun and my wings had melted. But with Lydia I felt only warmth when we were alone. I was unmanned by her blunt honesty and childlike trust.

My other thoughts about Lydia concerned something deeper, some dark pearl she kept well hidden. I had the nagging feeling that she wanted to say something to me of great importance but that in doing so she might drive me away. I eventually asked her about this, but she quickly dismissed my suspicions in so overt a way — with hand waving and vocal protest — that I became more certain than ever that she was hiding something. And it was this something that kept me from drawing too close and singeing my wings. I remained, in other words, within her orbit but at a safe distance.

One day, after breakfast, Lydia had some sort of spell. She leaned against the door jamb between the kitchen and the sitting room, but forced a smile when she realized I was watching her. "Are you all right?" I asked as I moved toward her.

"Of course," she said. "I live in an unhealthy country. Compared to everybody else, I'm superhuman. Let's take a walk. Fresh air is the best medicine."

We strolled along the streets of her village, with Vladek between us, holding our hands. I whistled until Vladek looked up at me, then I stopped. When he looked away I whistled again. Over and over. He had an infectious laugh. I noticed how others on the street regarded us with mild distaste. "They know we are not a Ukrainian family," said Lydia.

"How would they know that?"

"Because you are laughing," she said. "Do you see any other people laughing?"

"Surely people must laugh now and then, whatever their circumstances."

"No," said Lydia. "No one in Ukraine ever laughs. Except the children, because we are responsible for their happiness." She hung her head and shook it. "Oh, how I wish things were different," she lamented.

Vladek looked at his mother and then at me. I squeezed his hand and smiled down at him. His eyes danced.

Was Lydia looking for escape from Ukraine? Of course she was. Why deny it? I saw nothing wrong in it. It seemed clear that she saw me as the ticket for a long-sought visa to the States. But what then? I felt myself drawn to her, that liking was becoming loving. And Vladek seemed like the perfect child, lovable and clearly able to give love.

And yet I hesitated. I knew the words demanded by the moment, yet I couldn't bring them to my lips. At the age of forty-four I couldn't say "I love you," for fear of all that might entail. This was why most people married young — it afforded them the opportunity to build something together. For people who remained single into their forties or beyond, marriage was all but impossible not because there were no available mates, but because their entire lives had been centered on themselves. A luscious freedom, but then, in the quiet moments, the paralysis of loneliness.

I conducted our little group toward the beach. Lydia held her head down and quietly cried as I sat her down on a bench. I removed Vladek's shoes and socks and turned him loose, watching as he headed for the water's edge.

I lifted Lydia's chin until her eyes met mine. They were brimming with tears. "I've been here only a few days," I said, "and have already broken your heart."

She shook her head. "You have not broken my heart," she said.

"Then what did you mean when you said that you wished things were different?"

"When I said that those people knew we weren't a family because you were laughing, that was only half the truth. The other half was that they know I don't belong to you because I look so sad."

"Why are you sad? Because you lost your job? Because of Vladek?" And then it leapt from me, as if it had wings: "Lydia, do you and Vladek want to come to America with me?" I hadn't even thought of the babushka.

Lydia sighed. She peered headlong at me. "Impossible," she said, and I suddenly felt that I understood nothing.

"But why? Is it your mother? Would you prefer to stay here? Are you sick?"

"Sick," she peeped and looked away.

"How sick?"

"Very."

"But…"

"I'm dying."

I froze, peering through her, at the slats on the back of the bench, at the dandelions blooming at our feet. "All those pills…?"

"Yes, but they aren't helping. They've slowed things down, but there are times when I wish they were poison. Vladek's father was a Russian from one of the merchant ships. Nikolai. I met him when he came to the hospital. He said it was for a cough, but how could I know the truth? He was big and blond, like those idealized Russian soldiers. I was already thirty and desperately lonely. I thought that I loved him. I wish I could tell you the ends to which loneliness can drive someone.” Then she giggled and sniffed. "Oh, but I see I am already telling you. I let him have his way with me. He was kind and a good lover. He never hit me or even yelled at me. But he did leave me with this."

I swallowed hard for the two of us. "What happened to him?"

"He went back to his ship and said he'd return for me. How stupid. What was I, a schoolgirl with stars in her eyes? Women can do all the professions that men do, and sometimes better. I could have been a cosmonaut. But when it comes to love, women are idiots. If we don't have a baby by the time we're thirty we will give up everything to get one. A surgeon will put on an apron and cook borscht if it will get her a husband. They should build a statue to us. A statue to female stupidity."

"Is Vladek sick too?"

Lydia's eyes widened. "Thank God in heaven, no! He's clean. If he had it too I would have hunted Nikolai and torn off his manhood with my bare hands. They say it takes only sixteen pounds of pressure."

She wiped her nose with a tissue and sighed. "So you see, I am not an unscrupulous woman looking for a visa to America. I knew a long time ago that there would be no America for me. Now you know why I lost my job. And why I lied to you when you first came to my home."

"How did you lie?"

"When my mother spoke to me in Ukrainian I told you she asked if you loved Vladek. What she really said was, 'I'll put the food on the table.' I was the one who wanted to know if you loved Vladek, but I was too embarrassed to ask directly. I mean, how could you love someone you had only known for five seconds? I wanted you to see me as an educated woman. But desperation drives us to lunatic ends."

"Have you told Vladek?"

"I don't want to upset him."

"Don't you think he'll be upset when he wakes up one day and finds himself alone?"

"It doesn't have to be like that."

"Will your mother take him?"

Lydia seemed to harden, as if she were not getting through to me. "My mother is old and sick. She is not long for this world either. I have, God forgive me, been praying she would die first, to preserve the natural order of things. But she will survive me. However, not to care for Vladek. A growing boy needs someone with energy, who will throw a ball with him and run, lift him up in the air. Oh, my God!" she wept. "There are no other relatives. The state will put him in an orphanage, and that will be the end of my bright, shining boy. They'll keep him there until his sixteenth birthday. Then they'll throw him out like garbage. He'll start drugs or — I can barely say it — sell himself on the street."

I was almost choking from the knot in my throat. "So this is why you asked me to come to Ukraine," I managed.

"Yes! Yes! I knew that Galina Sergeivna, that saint of a woman, would send only a good man. Not a Nikolai, who by now is probably dead, which is what he deserves, although I have no emotions left for him, good or ill."

"Did Galina know why you wanted me?"

"No. That's the one truth I told you. She knew nothing of Vladek. All she remembers is a happy, beautiful woman who knew how to smile like an American."

I turned my head toward the water and spotted Vladek. He was squatting in the sand, digging a hole with his hands. The breeze was blowing his fine hair about his face. "Lydia…"

"You should go home immediately," she said. "I misled you and added insult to injury. Isn't that what they say in English?"

"I have never been a father.

"Then go," she repeated. "Did you think I could actually bring myself to ask you to take Vladek?"

"Done." A light seemed to pass across Lydia's face as she searched my eyes. "Don't speak without thinking. There's so much paperwork," she said. "So many officials. The judge."

"I have a substantial amount of money with me."

I found that Ukrainian lawyers were as capable as they were corrupt. The adoption process waxed in velocity as Lydia's energy faded. I saw to it that she had the best final care, and her mother provided a hospice touch. As Lydia slipped away I spent more and more time with Vladek. We took long walks, returned to the beach, and ate in small cafes. I helped him to learn some English. By the time the end came he had, in effect, recentered his life on me. As a final act, he kissed his mother's cheek while it was still warm.

Three days later, after Lydia had been lowered into the cold earth, he took my hand and, with all the necessary papers, we boarded a plane for New York. I never asked myself what on earth I had gotten myself into. I simply recalled something I had once read in a book, that one never begins an important venture for which one feels adequately prepared.