First Love And Pornography

THREE STORIES
I. FIRST LOVE AND PORNOGRAPHY
We did not have St. Valentines Day in Russia. Instead, we had something called Red Army Day and it was celebrated every February 23rd. On that day, the girls gave the boys presents. Thirteen days later, on March 8th, we celebrated. The Day of the Woman and the boys had their chance for revenge if the presents they received had not met their expectations.
To avoid hurt feelings, insults and conflicts, the teachers in our school assigned a particular girl to purchase a gift for a particular boy. These assignments were made on the basis of alphabetical order.
To my good fortune, I was assigned Roma Malkin, who, aside from being good-looking, was also, according to my mother, from a good Jewish family. "Baruch Ashem!- she exclaimed. -A Jewish boy! I know his Papa! He is a hairdresser! And I hear that they have a piano in their home! Wow! They have a piano in their home, I thought. How do I impress people who have a piano?
My mother, hoping to obtain much greater rewards through a good match in the future, decided to invest the substantial sum of one ruble for the purchase of an appropriate gift. I decided to throw in my own humble savings of 83 kopeks on top of my mother's generous donation.
I had one ruble and 83 kopeks, but knew most of the gifts would consist of toys and games I just couldn't afford. Moreover, I was at the mature age of 12, and had already divested myself of dolls and other children's toys for over four years. I wanted to obtain something sophisticated for the son of a family who owned a piano.
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The sign above the store said, "Books and Antique Prints." As I pushed open the heavy door, the musty smell of old books immediately embraced me. I was surrounded by books with gold letters on the bindings, hand-painted tin serving trays, and stacks of complete sets of magazines available only for veterans of the Great Patriotic War. Once I overcame my delirium, I saw a small sign which said,"Sale of Reproductions of Russian and Soviet Artists."
Sale! My excitement was limitless though short-lived. The prints averaged anywhere from 15 to 20 rubles! "What kind of sale is this?" I asked myself. Totally crushed, I began to walk out of the store. Suddenly, my eye caught a small but lovely framed reproduction of a painting by Brullov called, "Italian Noon."
She was a full figured, young peasant girl collecting grapes in the Mediterranean sunlight. Her low-cut white cotton blouse barely covered her ample bosom. Her naked shoulders were in direct competition with the golden grapes that she was picking - and the grapes were losing.
Brullov's meticulous attention to realistic - and rather suggestive - detail stole my heart. I was in love. But the object of my love cost the eminently reasonable sum of two rubles, and I had only 1 ruble and 83 kopeks. Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to take a chance and left a small, non-refundable down payment. I ran home and began to describe to my mother the pretty young woman collecting grapes somewhere in sunny Italy and how I needed her help to purchase this impressive present. Despite my mother's earlier reveries about a good match for the future, she parted with the additional 17 kopeks with great difficulty. Alone in my room two hours later, I gazed lovingly at the beautiful object of my desire.
The day that I began to dread - Red Army Day - soon arrived and the moment was fast approaching when I would have to say goodbye to my Italian beauty. Before the lunch break was over, she would be in the hands of another.
The ringing school bell announced the lunch break. Our teacher solemnly and gravely began to extol the virtues of the great and powerful Red Army that single-handedly defeated the venomous Nazis and made it safe for us to be able to sit there and open presents.
Her speech seemed to drag on forever. As she went on and on, I gazed around the room and was able to determine from the shapes and sizes of the packages, an array of teddy bears, trucks and a couple of airplanes. She finally finished her speech and gave the boys the green light to open their presents according to the order of their seating. From the first row emerged two stuffed animals and a truck. The second row held no surprises. Nor did the third. I was dying of anticipation!
Roma Malkin looked at his gift with great curiosity. He picked it up, weighed it in his hands, and then gently shook it. I thought I could actually see his thoughts. "Maybe a book? No - too light. Maybe a game? No - it's not making any sounds. What the heck is it?"- Confusion and premature disappointment were written all over his pretty face.
"Go on already! Open it!"- I screamed at him.

Roma tore the wrapping paper away in an instant and froze with his mouth wide open. And then, his throat produced an ear-piercing unearthly howl:
"Pornoooooooooooooooooooooooogrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaphyyyyyyyyyy!"
He was immediately surrounded by all the kids in the class. A chaotic, hysterical wrestling match began as they tried to get a view of Roma Malkin's gift. Pornography! Everyone wanted to see the dirty picture. Our teacher frantically banged on desk with a pointer in an effort to restore order, while screaming in her high pitched voice: "Order! Order! Order! Everyone get back to their seats! Tylkina! What have you done now!? This is a disaster!"
The pieces of the shattered pointer flew around the classroom like shrapnel from a Red Army artillery shell as the school bell announced that our lunch break was over.
My unappreciated, insulted, and now molested love disappeared into Roma Malkin's schoolbag while he looked at me with a salacious conspiratorial smile on his lips. Within minutes, my desk was overflowing with notes containing questions regarding my knowledge of human anatomy and adult entertainment.
By the end of the day, the word "pornography" spread through our school like a dry brushfire. By the end of the week, the stories that were circulated about my gift had taken on so many different shades and colors that could not be found in the work of the brilliant Russian painter Karl Pavlovitch Brullov (1799-1857), a contemporary of our immortal Alexander Pushkin. And many boys had a sudden, incredible desire to know me better. At the ripe old age of 12, my reputation was destroyed.
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The next day, even before I sat down at my desk, our teacher ordered me to proceed to the principal's office immediately. As I walked down the hallway, I could hear the shrill, angry voice of Mrs. Malkin emanating from the school principal's office.
"I demand an investigation! What do you mean by "gift"? Girls from good families don't bring gifts like this to school! I will not allow anyone to corrupt my son! Do you hear me? What kind of society are we living in? Believe me, I will report this to higher authorities!" Before I could even knock, the door flew open and an exceedingly large, red-faced woman stormed out and almost ran me over like a Stalin tank.

Upon seeing me through the open door, the principal ordered me to come inside, close the door, and sit down. He began to pace back and forth in total silence behind his desk while holding his hands over his mouth as if engaged in deep meditation or silent prayer. Finally, his voice broke the silence like a clap of thunder.
"Serious students do not have time for frivolous amusements! I understand the importance of fine art. School, however, is a temple for education. There is no place for fine art in school. As our beloved Vladimir Ilich Lenin wisely observed: Study! Study! Study! From an early age, we must be aware of the consequences of our actions and prepare ourselves to be useful citizens of our Soviet society. Remember, Tylkina, we have a bright communist future behind us - I mean, in front of us - and with art we cannot do it. Remember this, Tylkina, and carve it on your forehead! Promise me you will behave yourself in the future, otherwise there will be grave consequences. Do you promise? Good. You can go now."
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Woman's Day, March eighth, arrived and Roma Malkin presented me with a large pancake-faced doll wearing a dress with lace frills. It looked like a miniature version of his mother. I said to myself: Its over when I say its over.
At the end of the school day there was commotion outside the boys� bathroom. A doll was found hanging upside down suspended by a string from the ceiling with its head wrapped in black electrical tape, and a sign attached to it read: The end has arrived!


II. HIDE AND SEEK
The three of us stood at the bus stop, and racked our collective brain trying to figure out what adventure we might pursue within the boundaries of our provincial town. My two girlfriends Svetlana and Svetlana, and me, all of us mature and sophisticated eighteen year olds.
The bus arrived, the door opened, and a young man got out. He wore a three-piece suit, was tall, dark haired, attractive, and carried a stylish attache case. He stopped and looked long and hard at us and we returned the dirty look. Then, he smiled. There was something familiar in that smile.
Roma! Malkin! Orsha High School Number 2! Class of 82!- I screamed at him: Is that really you? You are a real dude now! Roma enthusiastically spread his arms and gave us each a friendly hug. We talked about this and that, about so and so the usual stuff. He informed us that he was in his first year at the University in the Department of Civil Engineering. In response, I pointed out to Roma that he should be particularly nice to my girlfriends, since they were both new practicing nurses and had access to penicillin and rubbing alcohol. Connections like this could be very valuable in our times. And what about me? I am just a freelance artist. In other words: a bum!
Clearly intrigued by us, Roma mentioned that his parents were visiting the countryside for a few days. Yeah, right: The countryside! As if our hole in the ground village was not �country� enough for them! Hey, how about a small party, Roma continued. Well, what are you offering? We were playing hard to get. He promised three star cognac and chocolate from Moscow. Right on!
First Roma gave us a tour of the apartment. A foyer, a living room, a piano, rugs, crystal, a kitchen, a dining room, three bedrooms, a balcony! The humble abode of our town�s hairdresser, Mr. Malkin, made me dizzy. In Roma�s room, I noticed a small reproduction of Brullov�s �Italian Noon� on the wall. I pointed to it and exclaimed, �Oh my God! Is this art or pornography? Roma, you should not show good girls like us such things! Are you trying to corrupt us or something?� We all laughed hysterically.
Moments later, Roma was pouring three star cognac in crystal glasses, while we girls gorged ourselves on Moscow chocolates. �Well Comrades, if this is what they call rotting bourgeoisie decadence, I must say that it gives off an awfully fine aroma!� I exclaimed amidst the laughter. My gastric system was doing a waltz of joy with the warm glow of the three star cognac, while Roma danced cheek to cheek with Svetlana and Svetlana. �Roma�, I said,� Its good to see that your education hasn�t been wasted on you. You know how to please fine ladies, but how about playing a game?�
Roma appeared confused: �Cards, you mean, or chess?�
�No!� I said, �We girls will hide and you then have to find us and the first girl you find, you get to�kiss.� Roma clapped his hands in excitement. He closed his eyes and began to count: one, two, three�
I downed one more shot of cognac and ran to his parents� bedroom to hide in one of the closets. Choking with laughter, I hoped he would find me first. The closet was dark, warm and cozy - so warm and cozy, in fact - that I dozed off. I awoke and opened the door of the closet. Night had fallen and it was dark. Yet, I was neither afraid nor confused; I felt right at home. I went to the bathroom, flushed, gargled and washed my face with cold water. I was ready for a new adventure. I marched straight to Roma�s room.
�Hey, what happened you dumb putz? How long should I hide for?� I yelled. Roma jumped out of bed, grabbed me by the arm and screamed, �What? You�re still here! I looked all over for you! I thought you�d snuck out of the apartment so I threw out your stupid friends! I didn�t care about them anyway. It�s you I wanted�.
Before I could respond, he pulled me to the sofa bed and jumped on top of me. �Are we having sex yet?� He asked joyfully. �Idiot!� I screamed as I pushed him off of me. �I�m fully dressed, you schmuck! Get off me! We�re not frogs, you imbecile! Did you study the art of seduction at your engineering school?�
�Tell me what I�m doing wrong! I�ve never done this before!� he cried.
�I know you�ve never done this! Who would degrade themselves and have sex with you anyway?� I snapped back.
�But I thought you wanted me,� he replied and pointed to the Brullov painting that I had given him years before.
�I was twelve years old then and I wanted to impress your parents!� I answered. Angrily, I turned away from him and stared out the window. The full moon reminded me of pancakes and bagels. My stomach roared. I turned around and asked him if he had some real food in the house. Anxious to please me, he led me to the kitchen, put on an apron over his underwear and, like a master chef, began to do his kitchen magic. In no time at all, the spotless, white, hospital-clean kitchen was filled with the aroma of Kielbasa, omelets, and fresh ground coffee. As I stuffed myself with the tasty breakfast I checked out Roma as he whipped the pancake butter in a large bowl.
�I�m glad to see that you are enjoying yourself� he happily exclaimed, �I can�t stand girls who are always on a diet. You know, it�s a crime what women do to their bodies these days. Do you know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? So don�t leave anything on your plate! Would you like more coffee?�
We ate and talked until sunrise. I promised to call and walked out into a crisp midsummer morning. I thought to myself: Roma has nice legs; he is hospitable, clean and � quite boring. He would make a great housewife.
III. THE FAREWELL
On March 22nd, 1989, I would say my final goodbye to my country. Like Cinderella parting from her stepmother, there would be no tears, no regrets.
As Sergey Yesenin once said: �Leave your sentiments behind you. We are all strangers in this world. We come and go as we please�
Our house was already sold. The new owner�s unassembled furniture and countless packages cluttered each room. For over a month, I slept on the floor in a makeshift sleeping bag. But there were no complaints - my soul was already in America. The body, after all, is just a container for the spirit - and anyway who worries about the wrapping rather than its contents.
During the last three days, there was a pilgrimage through my front door of all the people who knew my family and me, and felt compelled to come and say goodbye. I heard a knock that I became so accustomed to during this time. When I opened the door, there stood Roma Malkin in a Soviet Army uniform, replete with tall, black-leather boots. I had not seen him for over five years. He embraced me with the passion of a long absent soldier coming home after the war. I was stunned.
�Lena, please come with me to the cemetery, my Papa passed away. Please.�
The Jewish cemetery was not far from my home, situated on a hill overlooking the city. The headstones with Stars of David inscribed on them stood next to Orthodox Russian crosses. The Russian cemetery had been destroyed as a result of a sinkhole and the Russians received permission from the Jewish community to rebury their dead.
The strong odor of rotting leaves emanated from the patches of earth between the melting snows. Our steps on the crackling white snow whispered kaddish - a prayer for the dead, a prayer for yesterday. The blue dome of the sky rested on columns of black poplars. We had entered a Holy Temple, a place of cleansing and forgiveness.
Roma wept on my shoulder. I hugged him and gently stroked his freshly shaved head. He looked so handsome in his uniform.
�Lena, Papa is gone! Gone!� Roma cried as he collapsed upon his father�s grave. I tried to comfort him. �Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I�m here. Everything will be all right.� I helped him stand up, and suggested that we visit my grandfather Yakov�s grave.
As we stood next to Yakov�s tombstone, he reached into his army bag and pulled out the small reproduction of Brullov�s painting, �Italian Noon� that I had given him many years before in school in celebration of Red Army Day. He said that he loved me since that day. He asked me to stay and marry him. He said that we would be happy together living in the apartment that he had just inherited.
�Please say you will marry me! Papa would be very happy.� It was a sweet moment. I kissed him on his lips. He still had not learned how to do it.

I thought to myself, my dear friend, don�t try to seduce me with a warm bathroom and hot running water. I absolve everyone for their blind simplicity. I am not even here any longer. I am already far away across the sea��� I am in America.


� 2001 YELENA TYLKINA