Rose in a Concrete World: August 2009

This is the time of the night, just before we dissolve into our dreams, where we recap the days events, or better yet recap how much less we understand about the world, and how unfathomable the human mind is.

Today was a friend's birthday celebration, it was a delightful evening, filled with familiar faces, delicious food, and of course our beloved camera man friend firing shot after shot. Everyone enjoys the attention the camera lens gives, even if it is momentary. In those few seconds those in the picture frame feel like they are "superstars" - a prima-donna if you will... Everyone wants to take a picture with their "pretty side" (whatever happened to symmetry? It was meant to be God's design) and everyone wants to capture the ephemeral moment and make it eternal through 3x5's (thanks John Mayer for this euphemism) and then now we have a stored moment in a memory stick that would be fed into the computer, processed and magically appear on the screen. A few touch ups here and there and voila, we have the picture uploaded onto Facebook or emailed, printed, framed and forever stored as a memory.

A memory comes from a moment... Now isn't that something, may be it is just the sugar rush from the chocolate chip cookie I ate, or may be it is my insomnia talking, but isn't that simple and almost obsolete observation so fascinating... (it's 3:26 am btw)

But here is what I think (and are you ready this could get very convoluted); Moments are not created; they are transferred from one moment to another, much like energy. Reaching a single point in life can never be seen as a snap shot in time, otherwise we would be basking in a momentary eclipse of a full life that once occurred in a continuum of battles, some won and some lost. We would never understand words such as persistence, resilience and we wouldn’t know faith if we don’t step back and take a look at the grander picture. To reach a point where you have changed your life and have affected the lives of others is not a glorified moment, it is a journey of self-commitment. Those people that you meet as your going cross-life (instead of cross country) are the drivers of the moments, the dynamos. Some are forks stuck in the road, some are motivators, some drag you down and slow you, but ultimately moments are created, and transferred.

I wish there was a way for me to take a picture in my dreams, and see if I have a "pretty side" even on cloud 9....

Goodnight

Snow was creaking under his boots, each pair was of a different size. But what did it matter, Ivan is now free, free from picking crumbs of bread from the floor to keep his stomach from cringing with hunger, free from the thought of spending fourteen hours laboring in the cold that chilled the bone and pierced the heart. Ivan made it past the barbed wire, the brick guardhouse and the wooden fence, and he turned to glance at the Gulags for the very last time. Five years of his life he spent there, four and a half of which he used up planning the escape. As he worked in the kitchen cleaning pots, in the infirmary mopping the floors, or digging a canal with a half bent shovel, his mind was constantly devising a plan to escape this wretched hell hole. And today, November 24^th 1946, his plan was finally executed, he was no longer inmate number 5967 who was charged with being a second category kulak and an anti-Soviet element, he was no longer Ivan the Magician, whose amateur magic tricks served to temporarily entertain all those other prisoners. He is now Ivanov Kryukova, the hero that escaped the deadly Soviet prisons; proving that nothing could inhibit the free mind of a free man, not even the torture he endured under the red hands of the NKVD was able to distract him from his one aim. In fact the coercion he encountered only got him on the other side of the wooden fence. Now the challenge was to make it back to his village, which was only about one hundred miles north, to return home to his family, to his beautiful wife Olga, and Pasha, his now ten year old daughter. As he pivoted his body around and took the first steps homebound Ivan vowed to never speak of his days as number 5967, nor of the horror, filthy and barbaric conditions he faced. He wanted to erase all memory of every person he met, even the friends he made, the friends that wanted to escape with him, but were too cowardly to pull through.

It took two days to get back to his village, and just sixty seconds to realize it had been demolished and was turned into a factory for artillery manufacturing. His farmland and home had been transformed into an industrial center catering to the needs of the Red Army fighting in the war. Ivan heard stories about the war, about Hitler, about him attempting to take over Europe, but he never fathomed the extent to which this war could affect his life directly. Everything was gone, and everyone was not there. Olga, Pasha were nowhere in sight. Were they taken to the Gulags too? Did the Germans get them? Were they dead? Alive? He was tired, downtrodden and invigorated with rage. He might as well have remained to rot in the Gulags with the rest of the inmates, everything he was looking forward to have vanished. He walked for miles under the splintered sunlight, till the day gave way to black coat of the night. His ankles were swollen and the soles of his boots skidded against the glazed, muddy floor, tearing more and more with every step he took. His pale blue eyes were laying in a vine of red bloody veins, his shoulders started to bend and lean forward, allowing gravity to slowly pin him to the ground. He couldn’t support his weight no more, and collapsed like a dead beaten corpse. He spent the night on the frozen floor, huddled in his ripped coat. His body quivered not from the cold but from everything that had been stolen from him.

Ivan did not realize he slept until the pitter patter of rain woke him. He picked himself off from the dead, rubbed his eyes as if to try and rub away the nightmare that lay before his eyes. Smoke from the factory dispersed joining the clouds, and the fresh green grass that once grazed cows and grew wheat was now asphalt floor. Everything beautiful and colorful had turned grey. Ivan just gazed with empty blue eyes at the factory, it was so mechanical and predictable, and the workers were just like machines, doing the same thing over and over again. He thought about going in, may be Olga had found a job in the factory, but then he set himself straight, there was no use in being hopeful in such hopeless conditions. There he stood, an escaped convict, homeless, hopeless…. As the sun reached its apex, and the rain gave way to a rainbow his hopes began to pick up. He remembered Mikhail, the rich merchant, or better known to him as Mika inmate number 3492. Mika told Ivan of all his riches and the diamonds he had buried in his estate in his hometown of Kovrov, a town not too far from Moscow. Mika trusted Ivan with telling him the exact burial location of the diamonds and money because they planned to escape together one day. With nothing left to lose, Ivan went looking for the treasure.

Winter had given way to spring, spring elapsed to summer, and fall was just around the corner. Fall came with all it’s melancholy color, and the white sheet of winter spread once more. Actually winter in Los Angeles was never really white, and it did not take Ivan Kova long to adjust to the not so harsh winters. Mr. Kova, now a well off Russian restaurant owner was living a life that he couldn’t even fantasize about before. He surely did find the treasure and he became one of the most highly respected entrepreneurs and restaurant owners almost over night. He kept to his promise, he never spoke about the Gulags to anyone, in Los Angeles he is Ivan Kova a rich merchant from Kovrov who came to the far far west to live the life in the fast lane and meet beautiful American women. Ivan spent most of his nights in his favorite restaurant on La Cinegea, “The Russi”, wearing tailor made suites, silk ties, leather shoes and smoking cigars. He would talk to women, but there was one in particular that he had his eye on. She would come in every Friday night, sometimes accompanied by a man, and sometimes by another female. She ordered the same thing every night, the “steak au poivre” and a glass of red wine, Chardonnay to be more specific. She knew her meat and her wine like a lady ought to, Ivan thought. She was captivating, with her crisp golden locks that flowed down her back, covering her long neck, and falling on her face, veiling her emerald green eyes. He loved it when she was in deep conversation and she would elegantly push her hair back from her face. Everything she did seemed flawless. Ivan had learnt many things in Los Angeles, especially how to haggle and cut down costs on all his business expenses, but talking to such a graceful beauty was still a weakness. He knew she would only give him attention knowing he was the owner of the restaurant, though he too was a handsome man. Dark hair, slickly brushed back, piercing blue eyes, strong shoulders and good a broad build. But there was one distinctive evening where she looked extraordinarily beautiful. She was wearing a red dress, off the shoulder, knee length with a white silk scarf loosely tied around her neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back effortlessly, revealing her glistening eyes. She wore dark red lipstick, accentuating her full lips and as she smiled her cheek bones lifted, she looked like a model that was ready for a photo shoot. He wanted to talk to her, to say something more than just the simple,“Hope you enjoyed your evening with us tonight”. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful creation he had ever laid eyes on, and that he would make passionate love to her. His mind escaped reality for a moment, but then it snapped back as a man collided into him accidentally. His drink spilt all over the marble floor, and the man placed his hands out apologetically and said,

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you. Guess I had a little too much Vodka to drink.”

He spoke with a heavy Russian accent, kind of like the one Ivan spoke with.

“Please do not even worry about it,” Ivan insisted, he turned to the waitress who was nearby and said, “Cheryl please get my man here another,” he paused turned to the man once more and asked him, “what was it you were drinking sir?”

“Just a Vodka on the rocks. Russian men drink Russian drinks like we are still in the mother land!”

The man said with a laugh, and then added,

“Why you buy me the drink? I must buy you the drink. I made the accident. I buy you the drink”

“No, it’s okay, really. This is my restaurant my Russian comrade,”

Ivan added with a smile.

“Ah! So you are the great Mr. Kova. My pleasure to meet you. Ah ha, you say comrade, you are communist. You know my friend you can get killed to say such things here. You are in America now!”

“No, no! Not a communist, just a Russian my friend. Where from Russia?”

Ivan knew he should not have said comrade, but it had slipped out, this was the first Russian man he had seen in a while and it felt almost natural to refer to him as comrade.

“From Moscow, and you?”

“Kovrov”

“Not too far from Moscow.”

The waitress handed him his drink, he raised his glass as if to toast Ivan, and continued speaking,

“ Salute! This is to you and mother Russia. Thank you for the drink. I will be seeing you soon. Nice restaurant, good food, good people, beautiful woman. I will come back here again.”

With that he turned and walked out the restaurant. Ivan could now focus his attention back onto his mysterious lady. She was still there as he had left her before the whole Russian man encounter. Ivan took one deep breath in, finished what was left of his vodka and approached her. Tonight was the night where he decided to make the first move. He approached her, walking tall and with confidence, although deep down inside he felt like a fourteen year old boy with a little school boy crush. Just as she opened her mouth to put in the final bite of her tender steak, Ivan jumped in and said,

“Hope this steak is cooked to your perfection, Mrs.?”

Great, this was exactly the very thing he wanted to avoid saying.

“Miss Green”

She corrected.

“Miss Green, well then just wanted to make sure everything went well this evening. I notice you come here often, so I am sure you are a satisfied customers.”

He glanced at the other two females that were accompanying her tonight, smiled and nodded gently in a gesture of his acknowledgement of their existence.

“You can just call me Kathy, Mr. Kova.”

As she said those final words, she placed another tranche of the tender meat in her mouth and began chewing it slowly. Her steak was medium, rare, quite the delicate taste for a woman.

“So you know who I am. Well of course, somebody must have told you I was the owner of the restaurant. Please call me Ivan.”

He felt the conversation was nearing an end, he wanted to say something else, but the fourteen year old child in him was winning the battle. “Ivan you can do it,” he thought to himself, “she said she was a miss, she is single, and beautiful.” As she sipped her wine, placed the glass on the white table cloth, and painted a half curve smile on her face she said,

“Ivan, you have a great restaurant. The service, the food, its ambience, it all comes together nicely”

“The owner is quite nice too,”

He couldn’t believe he said that, he finally mustered up the courage to say something. Perhaps it was not the best thing to do, boast about oneself, but it was a start. She giggled, as she took another sip of her wine.

“The owner is indeed a nice man, and with quite the heavy Russian accent too. But it is quite charming, or exotic, to say the least, when a man has an accent.”

“Yes, I have not been in Los Angeles long enough to get rid of my accent. Perhaps it shall take time, but now I am not so sure I want to get rid of it, it seemed to have caught your attention.”

Before she was even able to respond, he continued

“Miss. Green, I mean Kathy, would you mind joining me for soufflé, at the VIP table. Of course with the approval of your lovely friends.”

She took the red napkin and gently dapped the corner of her mouth, before setting it back down on her lap, giving her enough time to think of a response.

“I was not planning for desert this evening. But then again neither was I planning on you approaching me today. I am sure my sisters would not mind.”

With that, she kissed her sisters good night and joined him on the special VIP table in the back of the restaurant. As the night grew older, their conversation and chemistry grew stronger. He knew he could trust his basic instincts about this women; she was perfect. Everything she said, how she said it, her smile, still the way she would brush her finger through her hair, everything was captivating.

Four months went by, and his infatuation with Kathy flourished into love. He wanted to marry her, make her his wife, he would buy a house, move out of the condo on Wilshire boulevard, and even get a dog, because she loved pets. They would have kids, and watch them grow, and he would be a good father and husband. He planned the perfect evening to propose to her, he would close his restaurant down for the evening and ask the chef to cook them his specialty, and her favorite, the steak au poivre. He would open the most expensive wine bottle, then get down on one knee and ask her to spend the rest of her life making him the happiest man in the world, sharing the best memories as they grew old together. He wore his best suite that evening, midnight black with a light blue shirt and a darker blue stripped tie. He sprayed on this new cologne that apparently James Dean wore. The restaurant ambience was set to suite the mood of the night, romantic. Candles were lit on all the tables, yet two were on the one where he planned the dinner. Rose petals decorated the marble floor, and soft music filled the empty space in between the floor and the ceiling. He walked around feeling proud and accomplished of how he was able to pull this off. She would be surely surprised, he assumed, in her mind this was just another dinner. Just as he took the diamond ring in his hand and it sparkled and shimmered even in the dim light, he felt a presence of someone else in the room. Perhaps it was only the waitress he had asked to stay behind that evening. He scanned the area; there was nobody in sight. Ivan took the three-caret ring and placed it back in its box, but before he could even manage to close it he felt the arms of a strong man clenched around his neck, and a sharp knife digging into his skin through his expensive suit. Choking sounds muted the Frank Sinatra music, Ivan struggled to release the strong grip around his neck, and he clasped onto the arms of the perpetrator as he tried to escape the grasp .The ring dropped onto the floor. This man’s voice came piercing through his ears as he said,

“Is this one of the diamonds that you stole from my brother Mikhail to give to your lovely girlfriend?”

His face was so close to Ivan’s ear that he could feel the moisture from his lips, and the hot air flaming from his nostrils. Ivan recognized the voice, or rather it was the accent that gave it away. It was the Russian man that bumped into him the other night, spilling his drink. Ivan clasped his arms on top of the Russian man to try and loosen the hold, and said,

“What are you talking about? I don’t know a Mikhail.”

Ivan’s heart rate was out of control, he felt the knife digging deeper into his gut, and breath became scarce as the Russian squeezed tighter and tighter.

“You stole the diamonds! My brother trusted a kulak. He is an idiot. He said you were a good man and you would not do such a thing. But he was wrong. You took my diamonds, and escaped to America. You can run away to America Mr. Kryukova, change your name, and lie to everyone about being a merchant. But no one steals from my family…”

With that the Russian pierced the dagger through his gut, and left him on the floor.