I Loved A Love Story

She first appeared in my office, in the company of a dozen inconsequentials – all men – from Eastern Europe, and their Russian "guide".  They were here on tourist visas, ostensibly touristing.  Elana (we'll call her Elana because I don't fancy my you-know-what squeezed to insolvency at other end of some cold-blooded courtroom wringer) didn't speak a word of English.  But I didn't know that at the time: the Russian was doing all the talking.  Elana was just…silently stunning. 

     This curious troupe needed short-term lodging and, as it happened, I had vacant apartments.  Mind you, none had the requisite rental history, but the Russian had cash and cash is god in a soft rental market.  So they got their apartments – in my building, because the boss figured I could handle it if things got out of hand. 

     Things got out of hand.  In a weird, left-handed kind of way.  It soon became apparent these enigmatic nomads weren't really sightseeing – unless you consider scrubbing floors and toilets at The Cheapie Store "seeing the sights".  The Russian, it turned out, was a mid-level cog in a particularly odious scam.  His role was that of shepherd to an unsanctioned delegation of post-Communist breadline schmucks who'd been lured to the Land of Golden Streets with the promise of bags of American dollars.  What they got were sardine-packed apartments, twelve-hour shifts seven nights a week and, often as not, rubber paychecks.  By hook or (some) crook my tousled Cinderella arrived mixed right in with the cereal. 

     It gets grubbier.  About a week into this untidiness, I answered a timid tapping at my door and there, to my bemused delight, stood the once-met waif of my (most recent and, admittedly, less-than-gentlemanly) dreams; her frightened, beguiling eyes clutching at mine.  Oh intuitive leading man, I instantly sensed something gone awry in this repugnant little farce.  And I was hooked.  Even before she offered me the forlorn, nearly incomprehensible note she'd concocted from her pocket dictionary. 

     We would spend the next five hours passing that confounding little book between us.  

     Apparently, three evenings earlier my soon-to-be beloved's traveling companion had publicly accused Elana of…certain indiscretions…with one of the secondary players in our pitiable dramatis personae.  Then, at oh-dark-thirty, he'd proceeded to chase her round and round The Cheapie Store parking lot, bent on bashing her brains out with a mop handle. 

     Buford T. Dupuis (no kidding), local gendarme extraordinaire, arrived – fortuitously, pre-fait accompli – arrested "the boyfriend" and, stretching his astute rural wisdom thin, sent Elana home without further investigation.  The Russian, fearing exposure, promptly hustled her off to another of his hapless flocks "up north" where, scarcely a day gone by, she was set upon by yet one more evildoer (homegrown this time) and robbed.  Her money, passport, plane ticket and clothes – gone. 

     The Russian carted poor Elana back to town two days later.  She spent that entire afternoon composing her desperate communiqué, then headed straight for my door.  Alone and hungry, she was terrified Buford would release her jealous beau; that the yob would take up where he'd left off; and would I please, please take her in? 

     They deported him.  I took her in.  How could I not?

     For an Eastern European (some of these are forgivably? notorious, I later learned, for not going home when their visas expire), obtaining a passport and visa is, to say the least, problematic.  Replacing same, without identification, would prove a grueling undertaking, which ultimately required seven months to consummate.  But I didn't know that at the time either and, having committed my nose to her grindstone, I set out on that precarious journey. 

     For her part, Elana insisted on cooking (she was a trained chef, and I contentedly, unabashedly pigged out), cleaning (coincidently, I lived in a sty) and rubbing my aching shoulders after a hard day of…doing hard stuff. 

     Let us be clear, dear reader, on this one point: though my libido raged for this exquisite bundle of inscrutability, I steadfastly remained a gentleman; from the beginning to…the moment she made The Move.  About three weeks along, as I recall.  From that moment, our relationship progressed with swift, poetic recklessness (curiously, her command of English did not, and we were obliged to rely heavily on The Little Book).  It was sooo good, only modesty and a vexing, lingering melancholy prevent me regaling you with the miraculous minutiae. 

     As we entered month seven of this serendipitous passage, it became inescapably clear my quest for Elana's "papers" was nearing its end.  That meant our time together was as well.  She didn't want to go.  I didn't want her to go.  Yet, inexplicably, I could not dredge up the courage to… to… to pop the almighty question. 

     Our goodbye at the airport was an intense, drawn-out mishmash of inconsolable tears, hot kisses and hotter gropes, in every quasi-private nook we happened on.  Of necessity, I spoke English, trying to reassure her that I cared for her.  That I would write.  That I would come to her someday.  Mostly, she just said my name.

     Thirteen days later Elana telephoned – collect – because I'd written to her (in Little Book) that she could.  She said my name.  I spoke my longing.  She said my name.  I spoke my love.  She said my name.  I spoke…the almighty question. 

     She said, "Okay." 

    Common sense summarily dispatched, I flew to her side on some European outfit's gossamer wings and, in an eight hundred year old village, swaddled in the enchanted essence of the Czech Republic, married Elana in the chilly basement chapel of a whimsical antediluvian castle.  Her family celebrated us.  Her country beckoned us.  Hand-in-hand, we roamed that romantic faraway land 'til my wallet wilted. 

     Complete and content, I brought my new bride home. 

     Two years later, Green Card securely tucked away, Elana scribbled a farewell note (in English this time), emptied our accounts and exited, stage left, with some other obtuse fool.

     Ten years gone, that time-blunted ache still occasionally peeks over my walls…and winks.

© 2006 by Steve Hughes