Might Have Been Ch. 05

Pugachev treated her poorly. When he didn't have reason to be jealous of her, he ignored her, working long hours. He had no tolerance for the cultural outings his wife loved. I never saw him hug or kiss her, or even greet her, other than a bored-sounding, "Allo, Irinachka" when he called her on the phone. No one was quite sure why she hadn't dumped him within ten minutes of her plane landing in O'Hare. I, for one, cheered her presumed dalliances, and slept better at night knowing there was some justice in a world where an asshole like Pugachev was routinely cuckolded by his beautiful wife.

The first time I met Irina was by far the most notable, and would be my deja vu du jour. It was early November of 2003 -- my second year at the University. I was lying on my back on the floor in Professor Pugachev's office, determining why his computer had lost its network connection. As I traced the routing of his Ethernet cables, I heard a click click of heels approaching down the hallway, then the door opened, and I saw an expensive black pair of Italian pumps, serving as the foundation for an enticing pair of legs.

"Viktor, I left my car in lot. Here are keys." Despite the mundane words, her voice growled with a sexy, Slavic accent.

I heard Pugachev hand over his own keys. "Don't get detailing at same place as last time. Idiots scratched car."

"Yes, Viktor. When will you be home tonight?"

"Ten, eleven."

"You promised to fix modem."

"Tomorrow."

Irina was clearly annoyed. They switched languages for a few seconds, arguing at high speed, then Pugachev repeated, "Tomorrow", in English.

I wanted an excuse to see the notorious Irina. "What's the problem with the modem?" I asked from under the desk.

"Viktor, I thought this was gay prostitute under desk, which would explain why you no want to come home. But gay prostitute is asking me about modem, so I'm thinking maybe he moonlights as tech guy?" Irina's voice had a tone of seduction and a timbre of feigned surprise.

It was too funny for me to take offense, and I knew she was riding her husband, not me. I pushed out from under the desk, trying to hide my amusement from the professor. Irina was staring at me, and she saw the laughter in my eyes. She matched it with real laughter of her own, a few lilting notes of music.

Her eyes were large dark pools of sensuality and inscrutability, framed by high cheekbones and short, wavy black hair. She was wearing a Little Black Dress that was too short for November in Chicago, extending down only to mid-thigh. The dress's only deference to the coming winter was its long sleeves.

Based on the stories, I had pictured someone skanky -- a busty tramp with too much lipstick and a leopard-print bolero, but Irina was liquid elegance contained in a slight frame. The only jarring note was a hint of mockery around the eyes, which seemed aimed at her husband, not me, so I accepted her hand when she offered it.

"Irina Pugacheva."

Each "i" was pronounced like an "ee", and the "e" in her last name was pronounced like an "o". Spelling rules made no sense in any language, evidently.

Professor Pugachev interrupted my introduction. "No be idiot, Lance. Fix computer."

Fixing the professor's computer had been easy, as he had sabotaged it in the hopes I couldn't fix it. Once I realized sabotage was the problem, it was simple to run through a list of things a user can deliberately botch without leaving an electronic trail. In this case, he had switched around two Ethernet cables.

"It's fixed, Professor. Someone played a joke on you by swapping your cables around. Fortunately, the fool had no idea what he was doing."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion, before he gave up and muttered, "Bah."

Irina never took her eyes off me. "You are Lance?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I am no ma'am. Call me Irina. You are Viktor's newest protege, no?"

The term surprised me. "Professor, I'm your protege?"

"Bah." That answered that question.

Irina pressed on. "You know about modems?"

They are pretty simple devices, but I wasn't going to tell that to a beautiful woman who might be impressed. "Yes, what's the problem?"

The professor interrupted again, clearly annoyed with me. "You must go, Lance. You have work to do."

"Actually, I'm off work now, professor."

"Then you must go because I do not want you here."

I shrugged my shoulders, bowed slightly to Irina, and said, "Looks like I'm not allowed to help. Good luck." I heard them argue in Ukrainian as I left the room, followed by the hurried staccato click of her heels as she pursued me down the hallway.

If she wanted to talk to me, we would both enjoy it more if there were some distance from her Cossack of a husband, so I kept walking. She approached me as I pressed the "down" button. "Viktor has talked of you."

"I'm sure the word 'idiot' came up."

Her smile showed a slightly crooked set of teeth. "Yes, but if you know him like I do, it is compliment."

My eyebrows expressed my skepticism.

She laughed. I had heard she was a classical music fan, which was appropriate. If Prokofiev had heard her laughter, he could have dashed off several themes for new symphonies. "You should accept it as one. Viktor only hates men who scare him."

"Scare?"

She frowned, thinking she may have used the wrong word. "Scare, like muscles." She flexed a firm bicep.

"I thought you meant like a monster. Rawr." I curled my fingers like claws, and bared my teeth.

"Rawr?" She laughed again, but this one was more appropriate to Stravinsky. "You no monster. Is there better word than scare?"

"Threaten, intimidate..."

"Yes. Intimidate. You intimidate him."

I flexed my own bicep.

She made an "ooh" sound, briefly grabbed my arm, and laughed another ballet score.

The elevator arrived and we both entered. I pressed the lobby button, and she never glanced at the console -- she just stood distractingly close to me. Professor Pugachev had no sense of personal space either, and I often had to keep a chair between us to avoid smelling his onion breath. Standing close to Irina was far more pleasant -- her scent was not of onions, but of Obsession perfume and temptation.

Irina spoke again. "I get Comcast broadband, and want to talk family in Ukraine, using net phone. Comcast won't come until Monday. I need to call for Mama's birthday," She explained. "You fix computer? I will pay."

"I can probably get it working. Its most likely not plugged in right, or needs to be reset. But I can't promise. If it's a bad modem you will need a new one."

"$100? Viktor won't be home and I need company."

I blinked.

Mischief frolicked behind her lips. "My family. I want to talk to my family." I nodded, but was certain she had intended that particular misunderstanding.

Irina continued her sales pitch as the elevator opened to the first floor. "I drive you to my house. You fix modem. I pay you $100 even if you can't fix. I send you cab back here."

She put her hands together in a pleading gesture, and her eyes joined their supplication. "Please, be my hero," she begged.

It was tempting. Even if I were reading too much into her flirting, or if that were just part of her sales pitch, I could use the $100. But I hadn't yet given up on Professor Pugachev. At that time, I was still hoping hard work and ability would change his opinion.

"Your husband hates me. I don't think he would want me in your house."

She gave a sly smile. "Isn't that part of the fun?"

Oh my.

But I bitched out, deciding she was just playing flirt-with-the-geek-to-get-something-done. I couldn't afford to have my school adviser hate me even worse. "I'm sorry. I have some work I need to get done tonight."

She put her little finger into her mouth, and dug a toe into the carpet, pouting like a pro.

"Good luck on the modem, though." I walked quickly out the front door and headed to the dorm.

Irina never talked to me after that, the few times I saw her. Her husband continued to treat me like shit until I had finally gained enough allies amongst his colleagues to secure my progress through academia. A fat lot of good it did me. My academic career had collapsed, and my hatred of Pugachev had only grown, to the point that I now deeply regretted passing on the chance to do to his wife what he had metaphorically tried to do to me.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Ransacking my old bedroom closet, I stripped the wires from another twelve volt power supply, and retrieved the resonance array from my gym bag.

The array's limitations were more clear to me now. In a futile act of nobility, I had tried to go back to warn against the 9/11 attacks, but it didn't work. Consistent with my failed attempt to convince my dad to hold onto his Apple stock, the array only allowed me to revisit decisions that were actually plausible, based on the information I had in that universe at the time. I had also tried to travel to an alternate universe where I was making sweet love to Natalie Portman, but the multiverse wouldn't cooperate with that fantasy. Unfortunately, in the entire infinite number of universes, there wasn't a single one where I got to nail Princess Amidala. My ability to act seemed limited -- I could only use the array to explore decisions I had made in my own personal timeline.

I readied the array, pictured Irina pouting in front of me, and flipped the switch.

Everything dissolved...

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

November 6, 2003

...and recomposed.

Irina was standing opposite me in the hallway, digging her toe into the floor, and baiting me to reconsider, which I did.

"Oh what the hell, if your husband is going to hate me, I might as well give him a good reason."

Irina's eyes widened at that, and she brought her hand to her throat. I must have surprised her. "Wonderful, Lance. Thank you very much! You are standing front of room seven, and that is my lucky number, and this my lucky day. You are finished with work now?" She leaned against the office door behind her, dislodging the nail holding the top of the room number. The number tipped to one side.

"Yes, fixing your husband's computer was the last thing I needed to do today."

Irina's eyes darkened when I said "your husband", but it vanished so fast I may have imagined it. "Excellent. I will drive you."

I opened the door for her as we left the building. She smiled at that. The upside of chivalrous door openings was that men were able to watch a woman's ass while still getting points for courtesy, and Irina knew how to walk in heels. The clicking of her footsteps, the tease of her dress, and the scent of her perfume captured my senses as I followed her to a silver BMW.

"You swapped cars with your husband?"

Her eyes darkened again. She didn't like being reminded Professor Pugachev was her husband.

"Da. Yes. He wanted me to get car detailed, but I think I will forget that. He calls me 'idiot' too, so I use as excuse sometimes." Irina started the car, and navigated our way through the parking lot.

It was unsettling that Professor Pugachev insulted her, and even more disturbing that she told me. "Fortunately, idiot is a compliment coming from him, you said."

"No. I said you should take it as one. You are in good company." She patted my thigh and smiled. We were driving toward the North Shore.

"He shouldn't insult you," I said.

She patted me on the leg again, and I felt a twitch in my groin. "He shouldn't insult you either, but he is Viktor, no?"

I changed the subject. "Did you speak English before leaving The Ukraine?"

"Only little bit. And it's just Ukraine."

I hadn't known that. "Were you from Kiev, like your... like the professor?"

"Da."

"What did you do there?"

"I teached Astronomy at Kiev State University."

"You taught Astronomy? Really?"

"Taught, yes," She corrected herself. "Don't be surprised."

"No, I just hadn't heard you were an academic."

"You heard I was Viktor's pretty little wife, no? I am academician no more."

"Why not?"

"Viktor. I was new professor at Kiev. Viktor was famous physicist. I had... crunch on him." She glanced at me, seeking confirmation she had said the right word.

"Crush."

"I had crush on him. I asked him dinner. We date. We marry. Soviet Union died and Viktor wants to leave. He said there were many colleges in Chicago, and we will find me astronomy job, easy as cake. We come Chicago, but no jobs in America for me. Just for Viktor. My degree not recognized."

"Ouch."

"Da. Ouch." Her eyes were particularly dark at that moment.

We rode in silence as we approached Evanston.

She seemed lost in thought, and then spoke. "Sometimes I want to go back, but no job now in Kiev either, and America is much richer country." She gestured to the car. "Hard to give this up." We pulled into a nice residential area, and then into the driveway of what had to be a million dollar home.

My tuition paid for this? "Have you made friends here?" I asked instead.

She laughed. "Oh, I have made many friends." She parked the car, smoothed down the hem of her skirt, and grinned at me. "I hope you will be one of them."

I swallowed.

She exited the car, and I followed her into the house. I stashed my backpack in the front closet.

Irina slinked toward the kitchen. "Would you like drink? Gin? Vodka?"

"A Coke would be fine if you have one." It was a very nice house. I didn't know much about interior design, but I noticed hardwood floors, and seemingly expensive paintings and sculpture.

"Vodka and Coke coming up. Computer is in den." She gestured to a room on the right, and disappeared into the kitchen before I could object to her turning my drink alcoholic.

I went into the den, disconnected her modem from its power cord for ten seconds, and booted the computer. Irina entered with two drinks, handed me mine, and sat in a chair opposite me, tasting her own martini. She said nothing, and watched me, running her finger in a slow circle around the rim of her glass.

My drink tasted as if the Coke had run out the back alley in terror as soon as it heard vodka was coming to the party.

Irina took a slow drink of her martini. She smiled, and swirled an olive around the glass. "Do you have girlfriend, Lance?"

I had to think about that. Was I dating anyone in fall of 2003? I had a fling with a girl named Holly who lived down the hall in my dorm, but that had ended before Halloween, as I recalled drunken kisses with a redhead dressed like a medieval princess, who turned out to merely have a Disney fetish. "No, not at the present."

She continued to pepper me with questions while I ran her computer through its paces. "Do you like working for Viktor?"

"I'm not sure I should say anything bad about him in his house."

"Oh, please do."

I barked a laugh. "I don't like working for him. I'm in the company of some of the greatest physicists in the world, and the Professor tries to make me fail. He isn't giving me difficult tasks, but he sabotages my work, and isn't truthful about what he requested. I have started recording his requests, or confirming them by email, so he can't deny he made them."

"You intimidate him, as I said."

"I'm not sure how."

"Young. Handsome. Virile."

Virile? "Not to mention modest. I'm the most modest person you ever met."

She raised her glass in salute. "Witty. Clever. Smarter than him."

That surprised me. "Professor Pugachev's work--"

"-- was stolen from his graduate students. You have seen pattern. He tries make you look bad, so when he steal your ideas, no one believe you. You must really impress if he start on you already."

The fucker. "You don't seem to have much respect for him," I observed guardedly.

"None."

"Can I ask why you..." I stopped. The question seemed rude.

"Stay with him?"

I nodded, embarrassed.

"I would lose immigrant status and go back to Kiev. I like America, and Viktor lets me send money back to family."

She was staying with him for the money. That seemed a little... whorish?

Annoyance flashed across her face as she sensed my disapproval. "Do not look at me like that. I have not fucked Viktor for seven years."

She had so far been the epitome of class. The sudden vulgarity was shocking.

"I shock you," she said.

"No, not at all!"

"I am Ukrainian. Viktor's family are Russians from St. Petersburg. They Catholic. Rare in Russia, but Viktor is Catholic too, and will not divorce me. He likes me on his arm at University cocktail parties."

"You sound like you hate him."

"Oh, yes, Lance." She took another drink. "Very much." Her martini was almost gone.

"You must be lonely."

"Not at all. I tell you I have many friends." Over my shoulder, she saw Internet Explorer open successfully to a home page peppered with Cyrillic characters. "You fix computer!"

I had only power-cycled the modem. "Yes, I think I did."

Irina was effusive. "Oh thank you. I can now talk to mama."

I swallowed my disappointment, momentarily convinced this was just one more time I was flirted into fixing a computer. "I'll get out of your hair."

"No, silly. It middle of night in Kiev. I call early in morning." She stood, finished her drink, and opened her purse. She removed some twenties and walked over to me. "I must thank you." She stepped in close, hugged me, and stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She then pressed the money into my hand, and backed away.

I put it in my pocket. It seemed we were done, and I pondered where my next jump would be.

Irina had more on her mind. "Can you stay a moment? I want your opinion of something."

"Certainly, Irina."

She smiled. "Finish drink. I make you another. I be right back."

I stepped into the hallway, found the bathroom, and dumped most of my drink. Returning to the den, I perused the books on the walls -- physics journals and texts, Russian language novels, a few English translations of same like Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, Russian translations of Stephen King books recognizable by the covers, English language biographies of Prokofiev and Kandinsky, and an English translation of the poetry of someone named Anna Akhmatova.

I pulled down the Kandinsky book. I didn't recall ever seeing his work, but remembered Sarah's diatribes against him as one of the big villains of Twentieth Century art. The book had some photos. Most of it belonged on kitchen refrigerators, or as patterns on the neckties of aging hippies.

"You like Kandinsky?" Irina asked.

I turned. Irina had posed herself in the doorway. She had switched into a crimson cocktail dress that fit her like a sheath. Irina had a slim figure, but the dress accented every curve she had.

"I don't think I get abstract expressionism."

"Nothing to get. It comments on..." -- she struggled for the English word -- "...subjectivity of viewer by painting art with little meaning, except what viewer brings. It is artistic cowardice. Kandinsky is shit."

"It's your book," I guessed.

"Kandinsky was Ukrainian," she replied, as if that explained everything.

"How about Akhmatova?" I hadn't heard of her, but the book was well-worn.

Irina smiled. "Yes, Akhmatova was Ukrainian too. She studied at Kiev, and was brilliant." She extracted the book, and thumbed through it, seeking a marked page. She then stood close to me. "I read for you:

There're no paths to where the former gone is.
I don't crave for the passed by long ago.
And what is there? The lit with blood floor stones,
The immur'd and forgotten door,
Or echo which still doesn't have any patience
To be quite mute, though I've prayed much for that...
This helpless echo fell in the same station,
In which is one in my heart set."

Irina screwed up her face, considering the text. "It read better in Russian."