The Russian Wife

Do you think that I felt obliged to start again with sex, after each serious "incident" in our life? That I did it for my man only? Well, I did NOT feel "obliged": I NEEDED to restart with sex. Sooner or later. If not, if I kept howling to the moon, without reacting, depriving myself and my man of sex, of the consolation it could give, in the name of the sorrow for those I had lost, I knew I could fall in something serious. Depression, with all that it can lead to. Yes, I NEEDED sex. I could even do without it for a while, but not forever. Absolutely NOT forever.

Second, yes, I had a man, I loved that man, and I had to take care of that man. Whatever could happen. And "to take care of a man", like it or not, means to give him sex, too. Yes, "barbaric Russian point of view", sure!

That was the one and only suggestion of my mother, before my marriage (the civil one, I mean). She told me that I have chosen the right man, I liked him, and she and my father liked him too. That was the proof I was not a fool. So I did not need so many advices. But one was too precious to be overlooked.

"Remember, Sashka: a man who doesn't do, well, "certain things" for a too long time, well, sooner or later becomes a tiger. A tiger in a cage. And the cage is your home. And I mean WHATEVER man, even the best man in the world. If you love that man, if you like that man, if you want to hold that man, as you knew him, you MUST give him sex. Not every day, not every week, not even every month, but you MUST do it. Never let him lose the hope to make love with you. Never. For no reason. If he loses that hope, it will be a cold war between you and him, "a èto eshò svetòchki" (and this is just little flowers, the beginning). It can be very worse than this. Why men "go to the left"? Why men go to the whores? Because their wives don't do it, or do it too seldom, or something like that. I love your father, I always loved him, even if I knew he always loved his first wife, "Zàrstvo yèi nebèsnoe"..." and my mother made the sign of the Cross, as it is common talking about a dead person. "And I always made love with him, because I loved him, and he is a man. Because this is the point: you must do it, not only now, when you would not do anything else... I don't judge you, I was young, too, long time ago... But he will need it for the whole life, until he will be healthy and strong... And YOU must give it to him. If you want him to remain the man you love... or to remain with you, at all..."

Yes, as always, "don't dress the pig with satin": so go the things.

Sure, my man and me had lived long times as brother and sister, or the like, whenever there was a serious reason (usually my reasons: my parents, my child...). And every time, my man had waited for me to be "ready to restart", without a word, feeling happy with the simple heat of my body, some caresses, my intimacy... though I knew it was NOT enough for a man. Not for too long...

They were proofs of love, yes, nothing less. And I valued them as such. "Love does not exist, proofs of love exist". Camus, if I remember...

But I knew that every patience has a limit. And beyond the patience, there is the rage. When a man loses the hope, when he think you don't love him anymore, that no matter what he does, you will never really appreciate it, and never make love with him... And then, why bother to please you? Why take care of you? Yes, as far as he takes it as a duty. The duty of a husband, of a breadwinner, a man who must feed the family... And that's all. Good night...

I had tried to pass this wisdom to my Italian girlfriends. Not from a pulpit, of course: on demand. They told me about their men, apathetic, nervous, sarcastic, not so gentle as before... What went wrong? Why my man was so gentle with me?

And I smiled, understanding, and asked them all the same question: since when you don't... hm?

Of course, it was too simple, too "primitive" for their "Western" minds. Oh, no, it's not that! Such things are not so important! These rules apply to the rude Russian males only!

Those poor girls forgot that nice song of Sting (not by chance: "Russians"): "We share the same biology, regardless of ideology..."

And like it or not, biology is the basis. We are just what we are: animals...

There was a third reason, of course: "Bog Tròizu liùbit", God loves Trinity... What was it? It was that I loved to make love WITH MY MAN. Because he KNEW how to make love, how make me happy every time he possessed me. And I mean "every-given- time", really... He could be happy to pamper me, when I did not want anything else, to sniff my body, to kiss my face, as a dog who greets his mistress... Because he LIKED my smell, the smell of my body, even of my sex... Oh yes, he LOVED it...

But when I allowed him to go ahead, well, he did his duty, rather! Long hard sex, strong hands, hot clever kisses, everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE! The less I can say is that he took away any "hunger" I could have... He left me satiated, satisfied, replete... Like a she-wolf after a good hunt, of a mare who had eaten all the fresh grass he wished... And I felt much more a mare than a she-wolf! A tamed mare. Calm, meek, submissive... My critical sense many miles away, sleepy, stunned...

This does not mean that I was at his disposal like a "real doll" (what we call "resìnovaya Zìna", Zina made with gum...). Sometimes (many times, indeed) I told him "NO". Because I was tired, or because I had a bad headache (yes, me too...), and the idea of moving my body, even for to make love with my man, gave me "a kind of seasick", as the song says...

My man was perplexed about it. He had read that sex, sometimes, healed the pains, even that kind of pains. Well, sometimes does, sometimes not. For me, not. Nobody is perfect...

"Listen..." he told me, once. "Excuse me if I had insisted, but let me tell you one thing, once and forever. If you are tired, if you have no wish for sex, tell me so. Don't invent headaches which do not exist. Got it?"

"Why?"

"Well, a strong headache can be a bad symptom... You know... You make me worry..."

"No, no worry..." I managed to smile at him. "It's just a headache. It will pass by..."

"Do you want anything? Aspirin, daisy tea..."

I looked at him. No, he was not playing the caring husband. He was REALLY worried, and ready to move. With his soldier's face. Like in our "gheroìceskye fìlmi", our war movies, especially on the second world war. "Do we have to attack, comrade captain?"

"No!" I said. And I kiss him on his nose. "Tovàrish stàrshi serjànt..."

There was not only the headache, of course. Only a married man (and a married woman) can know how many reasons can have a woman to say "no", even to her most desired men. And vice versa.

Once, all these possible reasons came in a row. Really "a streak of unfortunate events". One by one, these "events" had nothing tragical: a bit of flu or cold, for each, overworking for him, some fights of different seriousness, the spring cleaning (that is, overworking for me), my "periods"... But "in a row", they took away five months, day more, day less...

And after five months, my man knocked on my heaven's door... And I had a headache! A REAL headache, I swear to God... Tiger in a cage or not...

"It's a lot of time we don't do it..." he mumbled. And he had all the rights to mumble... It was not his fault...

"I'm sorry... Maybe I've got cool... A shot of air, you know... "

"Come here... I'll just hold you, I swear..."

"No, please... I just want to sleep..."

"Once you liked it..."

"I LIKE it, you know. But not today. Tomorrow, come on, be good!"

"And what do I do today?" he insisted. He was not threatening, just scorned, gloomy, like a child who just wants to play. And I understood him. I was really sorry for him. But he was not a child. I could not tell him "Mom is tired, she doesn't want to play". He would have taken it as a jest, a sarcasm... Better off to tell him something different...

"Have a cold shower..." I breathed, in the most tender and affectionate tone.

He grunted, threw away the blanket on his side and get out of our bedroom. Maybe I had undervalued his frustration, and now he was running away for not to say or do something bad, for not to hurt me, physically or with some hard word... I was worried. And in fact, I heard him shout...

"Yesly khochesh..." If you want... What? The divorce? "Ah, da! Yesly khochesh byt sdoròv, zakalyàisya! I kholòdnoyu vodòy ulivàisya!"

I breathed: "If you want to be healthy, temper yourself! And wash yourself with the cold water"... So he was singing! It was an old song from the Soviet TV! He was REALLY having a cold shower! And he was singing, shouting, under the cold water, for to take the blow... "Nastoyàshi mujìk"! I started laughing, a Homeric laughter, headache or not: THAT was my man!

He came back in our bedroom: the bathrobe as a toga, his straight, wet hair covered a part of his forehead, his face was determined, very manly... An ancient Roman, an orator... "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears! I came to bury Caesar! Not to praise him!"... A nice orator... "The evil the men do..."

He threw away his bathrobe and laid in his side, without looking at me. I almost did not feel the headache anymore, maybe for the laughters... Oh, my old boy! Old, cantankerous, tender boy...

"How was the water?" I asked him, as if we were at the beach.

"Icy!" he told me, flat. I snorted, and started caressing his back. Reddened skin, muscles toned up by the cold, that smell of the shower, of a just-washed male...

"If you want... After all..."

He snorted, shrugged. Too late, the urge had passed. Or maybe he wanted to throw a tantrum... Then you didn't want, now I don't want... I snorted again, kissed his neck and caressed his back, laid on my side closer to him, my breasts against his spine, my belly against his tailbone... I love you, I like you, it's just this other night, no worry... That was what my body was telling him... Did you ever hear a tiger purring? I did. My dear tiger... Like a big, huge cat in my bed...

He rolled and lay down on his belly and he looked at me. I knew what he wanted. I laid down on his spine, and started to go, back and forth, slowly, over him. "Body massage", as if I was a luscious Asian girl. A "gèisha", maybe. By my own will. "Po sòbstvennomu jelàniu"...

The day after, I cooked for him an onion soup. And then, the rest...

An hospital never sleeps completely. Every now and then nurses or doctors pass me by. I'm here in my seat, writing, writing, writing... Nobody asks, nobody comments what I do. A nurse asks me If I am fine, if I want some water... "Dobrie lyudi", good people...

It was so, even when my "in law" began her "descent". So she told us, trying to be as ironic and strong as she could.

She went to his doc, because he felt some pain, for quite a long time. She thought there was some normal problem for an aged woman, but it was not. His doc ordered her to do some medical examination, read the results, and tell her to sit down. It was a very serious situation, that is, if she wanted the truth, a desperate one. He could only help her to suffer a bit less.

My "in law" was a Catholic of her kind, but always a Catholic, and his doc knew her for decades, so he did not even say the word "euthanasia". He thought to some therapies against the pain. She had accepted his suggestion: why suffer, if you can do without it?

So she went to our home, clearly quite impressed by the news, and we saw that. But when we asked her what was all about, she managed to snort. Not to smile, but to snort.

"Well... you know when you are on a plane, and you hear the captain say... Ladies and gentlemen, we have started the descent into the airport and all the rest? Well, here we are. The descent has started. For me..."

"Oh, mom..." my man said. I was speechless.

"It's all right... " she said, waving her hand. "I've lived enough... I could die half a century ago... And I did not waste all these years... I've had all I could have... I've been happy, I AM happy... There's nothing else I can ask for, in this world... Just a painless end... And the doc said it could be done... without any excess..."

"Hm..." my man nodded: he knew what that "excess" was... "Did the doc say, whether the hospital supplies that therapy or not?" he asked.

"It's up to me, you don't have to worry." she said. "Better to use my money for that than for a monument at the graveyard..." she snorted.

"Just in case, I can..." my man insisted. Whatever it could cost, he could pay. He was the only son without children, he could afford the expenses, no discussions.

"Just in case." She said. "But you have a wife, however. Nobody knows what could happen in the future. Keep your money for you. You need it more than me..."

She passed away slowly and quietly, without pain, as she would have wanted. She had the time to settle all her business, on this word and in the other one, my man had the time to get used to the idea. And her friends, the few she still had in this world, had the time to come and greet her.

Even Batyushka came. He remembered her, since when they met each other, when we married in church. She was happy to see him, he had let her attend the ceremony, even if she was a Catholic... She had liked the church, the hymns, the choir of the women, led by "Matyushka"...

"They sing so well... But I think they cannot sing for a Catholic burial... Do they?"

"You can still have an Orthodox one..." said Batyshka, smiling. She too smiled, but shook their head no.

"Father... I know you want to do your job... But let me die as I am: a Catholic... If not, at this point, it would not be serious!"

He snorted: she was right. They started talking about analogies and differences between Catholicism and Orthodoxy. My "in law" was surprised they were so few. And so menial, from her point of view... Except one thing...

"You know... well, God knows what I think, so I might as well say it... I don't give a damn about where the Holy Ghost came from... from the Father, from the Son... And for all I think, the Pope can even be a "bischero" as any other: "infallible" my foot... But there is just one thing..." she shook her head. Then he looked at "Batyushka": "How the heck can you do, without the Purgatory?"

"Purgatory?" asked Batyushka, perplexed.

"Cistìlishe" I translated. My "in-law" shook her head.

"Sashka told me you don't believe in it... But I can't live without that idea... I know I will not go straight to Heaven, I'm not a saint... But I don't think to deserve the Hell... How can you do without it?"

Batyushka smiled, and explained to her "how could we do": "Mitàrstva" and all the rest. And however, he said, till the Judgement day, in order to go to Hell and remain there, a man, or a woman, had to work hard. To die with a very dirty conscience... really dirty...

"If not?" My "in-law" asked.

"If not, it's always possible to pray for him... And take him out of there... You never know..."

"But then... What's the difference?"

Batyusha shrugged. There was a difference, but...

When they buried her, Batyushka came too, "na grashdànku", in plain clothes. On his own behalf.

There were even some acquaintances of my in-law, distant relatives, from Sardinia. They had come to see her, but too late to meet her alive. They attend the funeral, then offered to my man to go down there, as their guest, for a while. He needed a bit of rest. He took care of his mother till the last day, as the work had allowed him to do. He was sad, and tired. In that shape, he could not come back to "business as usual". Not so soon.

I had not yet been in Sardinia. For all I know, it was something between the Tropics and the Caucasus: palm trees on the coast, rocky mountains in the inner part. There were the palms and there were the mountains, but it was like the zone around Sochi, or Crimea, as I remember it from my childhood. Nice places, nice climate, nice cooking, wonderful sea, and very nice people. Strong men and beautiful women. Even a bit Caucasian, yes. The faces, and not just that. Qualities and defects. Hospitality and tales of decade-long feuds...

Our friends had a country house, kind of a hotel in the countryside, up in the hills, midway between the coastline and the highest mountain in the center of the island. In a certain sense, they were mountain men, "gorzi". They talk with us in a perfect Italian language, clear and marked. But among them, they used another language: Sardinian. Every philology scholar knows: it's a REAL language, not a "dialect", even if it doesn't belong to a nation or a State. A neolatine language, closer to Latin than Italian: "woman" was "fèmmina" (plural: "fèmminas"), almost like in Latin. This gave to their talks, when they used that language, a certain solemnity. And when they were nervous about something, or with each other, they recalled me our Russian "discussions among men": the same determined, almost warring attitudes, and even the sound was not so different...

They made us visit some cities on the coast too: Alghero, Castelsardo, Stintino... Walls, streets of cobbled stones, towers in the sun... And in the sea, all the shades of blue and green... No need to go to Bali, or the like... And the sunsets, really to die for...

Even the mountain was nice: always winding roads, no big plains, oaks and olives instead of poplars and birches, but few people, silence, and skies as high as in Russia... I had almost always lived in Moscow, but I could easily do without the city, the crowd... when I was in the countryside, the limitless countryside of Russia, I always felt fine. No "angst", no sad thoughts like "you are just a dot in the universe"... I was a PART of the universe, of THAT universe: plains, rivers, woods, and then again rivers, and across the rivers more plains, more woods... All my country... And I was there to see it, to enjoy it, to breathe it... "Tam Rossìya pàkhnet", there Russia smells...

Yes, Russia was immense, Sardinia was not. And not even Italy, "the continent" as they say down there. The sea all around, and where the sea was not, the mountains, the highest in Europe, if you don't count the Elbrus... That was what I missed, sometimes: the idea of the space, the sensation of the space... How our anthem says: "From the southern seas to the polar region"... And the other songs: "Wide is my home country"... "Stand up, enormous nation"...

Even my man felt fine, in those tranquil places. He was in very good relations with his acquaintances, and understand quite well their home language, even if he was not used to talk o it.

But, as it had happened to me when my parents died, at night he preferred to talk, or to sleep. It was not desperation, rage against God, as it had been for me. Maybe melancholy, wish to dwell still a bit in his memories, to not to let his mother really go... And that feeling that you are on the first line. No more people to whom you can ask for suggestions, or people who can do what you don't feel you can do yet... "Here's us. And no one else. Only us..."

And as we did in Ismailovo, some years before, we walked a lot together. This time HE needed help, and I was happy to give him that. I too was sorry for his mother, of course. But she was HIS mother. My sorrow could not compete with his own.

One night, I got my man to get out of the house of our friends .There was a nice full moon, big, huge, and a wonderful light, crystal-like: the trees around the house looked like painted in bright light blue, leaf by leaf. We walked around the house. It was not cold: I had just a "sarafan", a summer dress I had taken with me from Moscow, he wore the old leather "kurtka" he used to look like a Russian "engineer".