Everything’s Coming Up Josey (13 page)

She smiles. More gold glinting.

Yikes, now what? How rude is it to push an old lady toward the door? It's not like I'm going anywhere, is it?

I'm contemplating my next move—what would Lara Croft do now?—when the doorbell rings again. Wow, I'm popular, and I've only been here twenty-four hours! I open the door without peeping through the eye hole because, you know, I have another Russian in my midst so I must be safe, and I'm startled to see a young woman with long tawny brown hair and brown eyes, dressed in a turquoise suit and matching coat. And boots, the kind that I only dream about, all leather, over the calf, three-inch shaped heel. Wow.

“Hello,” she says in sweet, clear English, and I nearly fall over.

“Hi,” I say back. Silence, as if she might be expecting more.

“I'm your translator.”

Oh, right, my contact! I grab her by the arm and pull her into the flat. “Hello!” I say again. “Can you help me talk to this woman? I think she's my neighbor.”

“My name is Larissa,” she says, glancing at the woman.

Yeah, yeah, we all have a name, but I want to
talk.
“Nice to meet you. Would you ask her who she is?”

Larissa hesitates a moment, no smile, and suddenly I'm feeling like a jerk. “Please,” I add, in English because I want to get it right.

She shrugs, turns to the woman. It is amazing how effortlessly she speaks Russian. Like she's been doing it all her life.

The woman replies and Larissa turns back to me, armed with information. I want to yank it from her mouth. “She's your neighbor and she says you're to call her ‘Totye-Milla,' which means Aunt Milla.”

One day and already I have an aunt!

“I'm Josey,” I say to my new relation, as if she can understand me, and Larissa translates. I catch my name. It sounds like
Zhozey.
Aunt Milla jabbers back and suddenly I'm in a riveting conversation. She's glad I'm here, and wants to welcome me. She wants to know where I'm from. She has no idea where Minnesota is and asks if it is near New York. She asks me what I'm doing here, how old I am, how long I'm going to stay. And if I'm single.

Why?

Larissa is listening to her, a grim look on her face as Aunt Milla begins to gesture. Wildly. Big arms, lots of gold teeth. Then she finishes and grins.

“She's got a grandson, just a bit older than you she'd like you to meet,” Larissa says.

Oh. Um…wow. I'm picturing gold teeth, a gaunt wrinkled face. Padding. “Thanks, Larissa. Tell her I'll…be looking forward to that.” Would that be lying? Or rather, a half truth because it's similar to my perspective on a typhoid shot. Looking forward to…getting it over with.

Aunt Milla beams. I've made her entire decade. She shuffles out, matchmaking deed completed.

“Oh,” I say, catching her. “What kind of goodie did she bring me?”

Larissa translates, and the first hint of a smile appears on Larissa's elegant face. Auntie Milla leaves and I close the door behind her.

Larissa grins, a glint in her golden eyes. “They're
peroshke.
Deep-fried sandwiches.”

“Yum. What's inside?” So they aren't Jasmine's. They're puffy and made with butter and flour and inside could be strawberry preserves, or even—

“Liver.”

Liver?
I have no words for that. I just stare at the liver
peroshke
and something similar to grief pools in my stomach. “Want one?” I ask Larissa.

She raises one groomed eyebrow.

Okay, other missionaries can eat worms and bugs, I can eat liver, right?

Or, not. Diet, day one. No liver.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I gather up my backpack, sans passport. I'm wearing a jean skirt, a short orange Gap T-shirt and my classic brown Polartec, waterproof hiking boots, with the black rubber treads I got on sale for $95.49 at our local Ben Franklin department store last fall during the Moose Madness days. I'm feeling perky. Thin (sorta), and brave.

Larissa eyes my footwear. The eyebrow stays up.

“What?” I ask. I note that she's wearing three-inch heels. And looks fabulous.

“Nichevo,”
she says and turns to leave.

What? What? Oh, not fair speaking your native tongue!

I follow her out of the flat (we take the elevator—it seems to me I should be opting to take it
up,
and hoofing it
down,
but I'm in no position to argue. I'm pretty sure she and I aren't going to be soul mates.)

Russia doesn't look any different than last night. Crumpled wrappers swirl at my feet, and the smell of trash lingers in the air. I could use a glimpse of a bistro right now. Instead, we hike through a weedy field that is occupied by kids playing soccer with a watermelon, (Miss Hoity-Toity sure wishes she had hiking boots now!) and descend to the Metro.

I don't subway surf. Not only would Turquoise Woman probably backhand me, but the subway is standing room only, and I note a definite difference in personal space. As in, Americans have it, Russians don't. I barely avoid a full body smush next to Mafia Jr. in a black leather jacket and crew cut, and opt instead to tower over a hunched babushka sitting on one of the seats. She pulls her purse in tight to her chest. Yeah, lady, I'm going to boost all twenty rubles and your bag of potatoes.

“Where are we headed?” I ask. I'm thinking that perhaps it might be wise to obtain this information prior to leaving the apartment next time. Just in case I offend her. Further.

“Moscow Bible Church. Matthew asked me to pick you up.” She has one hand wrapped around an overhead bar. She's not even glistening in that silk suit. I, on the other hand, wouldn't lift my arm that high if my life depended on it.

“Do you work for Matthew?”

“Yes,” she says, and gives a slight smile. Hmm. Am I reading something into this? Maybe Turquoise Girl has feelings for Matthew.

We fall out of the subway with the masses, ascend on the escalator and I gulp in fresh Moscow air as we walk the two more blocks to Moscow Bible Church.

The church building is three stories tall with lime-green stucco and ornate white trim. We walk through the front door and take the wide winding staircase up to a second floor. A corridor overlooks the entry way. I see displays, and advertisements, in Russian, for events. Pictures. An offering box.

“It used to be Comsomol HQ,” Larissa says simply and climbs the stairs.

The Comsomol was the communist youth organization—think Russian boy and girl scouts plus brainwashing. I smile, liking how God works.

Upstairs, we knock on an office door. Matthew opens it and yes, he's just as beautiful today as last night. He gives me a warm smile. “Hi, Josey. I see you made it.”

Larissa is all grins, and for a second, Matthew's smile lands on her. I see something in his eyes. Then it vanishes and so does my translator, but I don't need any help interpreting that exchange.

Matthew invites me into his office. It's a nice room, with bookshelves, brown carpet, a metal desk, two wooden chairs and lots of books. I sit across from him and we do the pleasantries.

Then, he hands me a schedule. I peruse it. It has “orientation” listed for this week, then a class schedule starting September 1st. I have two classes a day, one in the morning, one in the evenings. I'm listed as Matthew's assistant.

“I've asked Larissa to show you around town today, take you to the market, teach you how to purchase food, change money and find your way home.”

Is this difficult?

And, oh, joy. I can't think of a better shopping companion.

“She'll also be your language teacher,” Matthew says, steepling his long fingers.

“Language teacher?” I ask. I look at the schedule. Who is teaching whom?

“You'll take two hours of language instruction in the mornings.”

Oh. “Why?”

He frowns. “To get a grasp on your host country. And to prepare you for further missionary service.”

Further…okay, getting ahead of ourselves here. But, remember, God's got a plan, so I smile.

“The evenings you'll spend with me, teaching beginning English. We have a group of adults who are all applying for seminary classes at our sister church in Seattle, Washington, and they need a grasp of the English language to pass their entrance exam.”

Adults? What about Mother Josey?

A knock at the door. Larissa pokes her head in. Her smile is for Matthew alone. “Ready to shop?” she asks.

Are you talking to me?

“Sure, I'm game,” I say. Because, you know, shopping means food. And even I can deal with Turquoise Girl if she feeds me. I try out an idea that supernovas in my head.

“Maybe we can stop at a bistro? Grab a bite?” I saw blue sky and clouds on the way over….

“Bweestro?” she says, and her frown is the first sign of disaster. “We don't have any bweestros in Russia.”

Anyone else feel that rush of panic?

 

Five o'clock p.m. Moscow time is two o'clock a.m. H quitting time in Minneapolis, MN, USA.

I'm loving my current luck. And the fact that only four days into this adventure I have figured out how to hook up to the Internet. Okay, okay, I asked Rick, but still, that took courage! Or rather, priorities.

 

I can't believe you made it! What day is it there?

 

We're one day ahead, so it's Thursday.

 

Is Thursday a good day? Ha Ha. I can't believe you've been there four days already. I'm so impressed.

 

Thanks. (Because I do deserve it. Not only have I not killed Tracey, but I asked her, as politely as I could, not to have Rick sleep over. She called me something in Russian. There it is again—the glaring need to speak this garbled language!) I'm adjusting.

 

So, met any cute Russian men?

 

Cuter than Chase? (That's my way of saying, well, no. Because, although I have the opportunity knocking in Auntie Milla's daily offering of fried goodies, I'm less than anxious to meet Vovka, her grandson. Dunno why. A gut feeling maybe. The only hopeful is Matthew, but I haven't seen him since Monday. And I think that maybe that is a Larissa maneuver. But, he did call me once. Perhaps it was just because I hadn't heard English in about sixteen hours, but his voice sounded dangerously endearing. Gentlemanly. Suave. Are missionaries supposed to be suave?) No. All the men here dress in black jeans, black squared off shoes, dark shirts and crew cuts. It might help if I could understand a pickup line if I heard one.

 

: Have you eaten all the bagels yet?

 

(dodging the question) I learned to shop at the market—think fruits, vegetables, the smell of barbecued meat, pig heads, raw fish, canned goods and a lot of people saying “Eta.” Which means, “That.” I know because I'm taking Russian lessons every morning. (Larissa could be a first cousin to Stalin himself. I'd like to teach
her
a few words. Oh, Josey, be nice!)

 

When do you start teaching?

 

Next week. One lesson a night. In the meantime, I guess I'm supposed to hand out tracts, or something. Saturday I'm headed out to St. Basil's Cathedral and Red Square. I thought I'd get my tourist phase out of the way. (And I'm starting to get subway surfing down. Caleb would be proud. Hey, where's he been anyway?)

 

Have you heard from Chase?

 

(feeling that question like a punch to my sternum) No. (It actually hurts how much I miss him. In fact, every time I close my eyes, he is there. Waving, running after me. In various attires and forms of angst. In all of them I turn, and then stand there, wrapped in invisible duct tape while he calls my name. Which means…what?)

 

Too bad he missed you at the airport.

 

Airport? Airport! Tears prick my eyes, and I'm not quite sure why—angst, relief, sorrow, glee?

 

Well, if he wants to see me, he knows where I am. (I type it, but inside, I'm hearing a primal scream.)

 

You go, girl.

 

I awaken at 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and it's the latest I've slept all week, which is a sign of hope, I have to believe. I lie there, letting the smells of a new morning rush over me, draw me to consciousness. I feel alone. I've been in Russia for a week, and as I take stock of my choices, my accomplishments, I realize that I've made no dents in my landscape. Yet.