An Unofficial Harem

On May the 3rd, 2007, about ten in the morning, Alla Yuryevna Victorova was enjoying the privileges of a "domkosyayka", a housewife. No need to hurry up to the "mitrò", the house entirely at her disposal, the TV remote uncontestedly in her hands. It had not always been this way.

Sasha and Lyòva, the men of the house, would have come back home in the evening, She felt amused and moved, thinking about Sasha as a "man". He was just 16. But with a father as Lyòva, he would have become a man as it takes, a "nastoyàshi mujìk", without any doubt. They had started to spend many hours together in the garage, taking care of the family's "tàchka" (the "wheelbarrow"), as they call it: a solid, old times' Russian car. To buy an "inomarka", a foreign car, full of electronic controllers, just to be forced to go to the mechanic for any given crap? Why in the hell?

Of course, as it had been for generations of Russian males, the garage was not ONLY a garage. Lyòva was not only explaining to Sachka what a starter is, or how to replace a belt transmission with a pair of stockings, just in case. He was passing on his philosophy to his son: all that a real man has to know. Just a men's deal. What is said in the garage, stays in the garage...

Alla took a look at the bed that she had just set up. And she couldn't help but chuckling, thinking how thoroughly she and Lyòva had messed it up the night before.

Talking in sports terms, Lyova was not the kind of player who indulged in stylistic finesses. A real quarterback, or, since he was a Russian, an ice hockey striker, as he was in his youth. But Alla liked him that way. A man IS a man...

If Sasha had heard something of their show, he had given no sign of it, at breakfast. Not a word. And even Lyòva had acted as if nothing had happened: serious and calm as always. Though she smiled at him more than usual. Understandably...

But he was right to downplay it. A man and his wife have every right to have fun in bed, but is not mandatory that their son knows how much they had fun...

More or less at the same time, four "mitrò" stations eastward, Chulpan Azamatovna Suleimanova was having breakfast with her daughter. She was not a "domkasyàika", but she was on holiday. And she too was watching TV. They liked the morning programs, especially in the week-end. "Good Morning, country", "Till we all are at home"... There was no program in Tatar language, on the major channels, but, "niè bedà", not too bad: she had her computer for that. And her favorite sites.

Chulpan was born at Nizny Tagil, in Tatarstan, but her family moved to Moscow, many years before the damn 1991: the year of the "obval", the fall of the Union, and the beginning of the mess of the 90es. It had been a piece of fortune: it was not so easy to move to Moscow from the "regions", unless you did it for service reason, as it was the case of his father. And regardless of all that happened, Chulpan never moved back. She just went "home" for some holidays, or for some family reasons: marriages, funerals and reading of wills, paperworks issues, or the likes.

And in one of these occasions, down there in Tatarstan, she had met Lyòv Zakharovic.

He too was there by chance, a "kommandirovka", a work trip. Back then, in the nineties, it was hard to say that "business" was an honest work. All was blurred, including the line between business and "afyory", the illicit deals: frauds, swindles, illegal traffics, smuggling of State's properties. Or worse.

But Lyòv Zakharovich was a man as it took. He acted the same ways with Russians and Tatars, bosses and clerks, government men and opponents, always self-assured and straight to the point, as a man who knew what he was doing. It was clear that he would have never got a scratch, down there.

And this was not easy, back in 1994. Not in Russia. And even less in Tatarstan.

There was tension between Russians and Tatars, then. It looked like they were bound to something like Chechnya. But then, Allah, be always blessed His name, and the God of the Christians (whether they were the same person or not) decided that one Chechnya was more than enough, and the things, miraculously, calmed down. The fat cats signed a deal, giving Tatarstan a wide autonomy within the federation, and business went as usual again.

But in the meantime, she and Lyòv Zakharovich...

It was almost unavoidable. Two Muscovites away from "home", the tension all around, the manly attitude and conduct of Lyòv Zakharovic, which made her feel safe, close to him ("trùs nie igràet Hokèy", a coward does not play Hockey)... the respect, the friendship, the affection and... the sex...

No, it did not matter a bit that he was a thoroughbred Russian, and a loyally Orthodox too (mostly for national feeling, but he was), and she was a Tatar, moderately Muslim woman. There is no man who lives and doesn't sin, and Allah can be clement and merciful, though He is not obliged to be so. The problem was not there.

The problem was, he was married. And he had never said the usual craps of all the men who want to "go to the left", to have fun out of the family. "She doesn't understand me", or ""we don't touch each other anymore"... Oh, no, nothing like that. He always talked gently about his wife. "She is very good. I'm fine with her."

But it happened. Why? Because. Why it happened in Stalingrad? And it happened, oh yes, it happened. And not only there. "Frontovàya lyubòv", love on the front line...

It had happened without a word. Nobody had asked, nobody had said "yes". They had met each other in his hotel room, she just wanted to tell him goodbye, the night before he came back home. They have looked at each other for a minute, eyes in the eyes, and they both had understood that they could not help it, it could not be avoided. Both of them wanted it. She just opened her lips, and he got the message, hugged and kissed her... It was like a landslide, nobody could stop it. She did not resist, and he did what he had to do: hands on her body, kisses on her skin, clothes falling down, only the sound of their heavy breaths, her body slowly falling down over his bed, her legs open, and he between them, inside of her... his sex inside of her... his semen inside of her... And she was happy about it all... And then, they both fell asleep...

And then she woke up, the morning after, before him, on his bed, naked, his smell over her, her smell over him, and a question in her head.

"And now, what can i do?"

Alla Viktorova was watching the news. Many years before, in the age of the "glasnost", everybody agreed that there was no sense in censoring the bad news. We are adult persons, we know that shit happens, even in our country, so let's talk about it openly. But now, sometimes, Alla longed to be back in the times when floods, fires, murders and all such bad things seemed to happen only abroad, "za-rubèshno". Yes, she was strong enough for not to fall into depression. But, anyway...

Sure, there had been a worse time. The nineties. And in the nineties, the time when Lyòva had to go down in Tatarstan, and had to stay there for more than a month, while she thought it was just for some weeks. Yes, Lyova tried to keep her calm, to make her see the light. be a realist. I can go after myself, Allochka. And you know, when your time comes, there is no use to burst your hump running away... His soldier's speak, the heritage of the "Afghan"...

But she was not so calm and fatalist. Sure, Tatarstan was not really a "goryàchaya tòchka", a "hot point" like Tadjikistan and some other places which ended in "Stan" and... But it seemed that the situation down there was worse than in Moscow, or in "Piter", and this was all said... Compared to those years, she thought, now Moscow is Heaven...

When Lyòva came back home, without calling her before, to make her a surprise, she was over a barrel, and instead of greeting him, she asked him shouting why he did not call her. He burst out laughing, seen her upset face, and she slapped him in his face. And then she started crying. And he just hugged her like a bear, the daddy bear of that foreign fairy tale. Come on, come on, cool down, nothing has happened, I am here...

Yes, something had happened. And he had told her the same day, in bed. Well, nothing so terrible. It had just happened. So much time away from home, he was a man, not an angel, not a monk. And he was not in love with the other woman. The real point was: he was home again, alive, healthy as a horse (for all the purposes). And the other woman had just disappeared. He did not see her the morning after. Vanished in the thin air. Without stealing a coin.

Yes, Chulpan recalled. She had asked herself what to do. And she had answered herself. "Trèty dòljen uitì", the third had to get out. Out and away. And she did. With the desire of him still in her head and in her body, but her brains working again. You can't always get what you want. That is, you almost never can get it...

But he had found her, when he had wanted to. Sure. A man who was able to survive the 90es, doing business, without ending up broke, behind bars or in a grave, had to get brains, courage, determination and resources enough for doing this and much more. Brains, courage, determinations, resources and "blat", of course. Relations, links, friends where it takes. Just ask the right person, and you can get all the information you want... Somethings never change...

And no, it was not just to play with her again in a bed, oh, no. The reason was very more serious. So serious that she had done what she could for not to let him know about it.

But when he had come and met her, the "reason" had seen him, and had smiled at him. Why not? An adult person, who meets your mother, and talks with her, calmly. and smiles at you, tenderly. And your mother answers him, without fear or rage, as if she knew him as a good friend. Why a little girl should have not smiled at him?

Yes, it was all a bit theatrical. But nobody was to blame for it. He thought to meet her at her home, but there had been just a girlfriend of her, in her flat: she was out. He thought to come another day, but when he got out of the block where she lived, she was coming in. With her daughter in hand. Her girlfriend tried to phone her to say that someone was looking for her, but it was too late: they had met each other already. So it had been a complete surprise, for Chulpan.

And she could not deny that, yes, that little girl was his daughter too.

"How did you know that?" she asked.

"That doesn't matter," he told. And he was right. It didn't change anything. He knew, and that was all.

"There is a reason why I did not tell you that," she affirmed.

"And the reason is?"

"The reason is, I don't want anything from you. And please, don't be offended. I mean, you are not obliged to do anything: I will care of her, on my own."

"It's not so easy, Chulpan. Things are changed. There is no help for single mothers now. It's the free market economy..." he snorted.

"My daughter is off market!" she said. Then she looked at him. "Sorry, I mean... I know, you don't want to... buy her, take her away from me... do you?"

"I know, you didn't mean that," he said. He was smiling, but he felt respect for that girl. She had "stèrjen", backbone, figuratively. She had wanted that child, for herself, on her own. And she did not want to create problems for him, for his wife, for his family. It was her way to love him, maybe. "You are mad, Chulpan." he said.

"I know," she answered. She too was smiling.

Yes, maybe she was mad. But not to the point to rip and throw in the dustbin what she found in her home. Something he had given to her girlfriend. Money and documents. A paternity claim. Not to buy her daughter, just to help her. This was the man. The man she had slept with. The man she loved yet.

Well, yes, thought Alla Yurevna. She did not vanish at all. Something about than night had remained. She did not blame her, nor Lyòva. It happens, sometimes. And it had happened.

Alla understood why the other woman had held the child, why she did not make an abortion: she had made it, once. For health reason. And it had been awful. Not the operation "per se". The sensation to kill someone who did nothing evil. Yes, maybe not a real "person", and not for the sake of it. But "someone", all the same, and someone very intimate with you, too... A bad dilemma: any choice was hard to do, had a cost, and deserved respect...

But the other woman did not use the child to blackmail Lyòva. Not a letter, not a request. Lyova had decided to know, whether something had happened, whether she had problems. It all had happened in a rush, that night, nobody was ready, nobody had used precautions. It had been nice, nobody had forced the other, she had enjoyed him, and vice versa. But, something unexpected could have happened. And then...

Why had he wanted to know? Because he was what he was. In the business, he had hair on his chest, and thank God for it. Who is afraid of the wolf, has to steer out of the forest. But that was not business, it was life.

So now he had two families. And energy, affection and love enough for both. Yes, she knew everything. He did not keep the thing under cover, with her. With Sasha, in the garage? Who knows... She had said nothing to her son: he was too young, maybe he would have been too severe with his father, thinking that he had wronged his mother... The youngsters see it all in black or white...

She did not feel wronged by his man. He had been sincere from the beginning. And she knew she did not marry a saint: just a man. The best man she could imagine, but just a man. Yes, he had sinned. But in the same situation, what would have she done? Especially, being a man?

And she did not think bad about the other woman too. Sure, to meet her personally, "chày, s varènyem", tea and jam... no, better off do without it...

Even Chulpan thought about the wife of Lyòv Zacharovic, every now and then. You can't do a paternity claim without telling your wife. So she knew about it all. Maybe from the beginning. He had been sincere with her. And she had forgiven him. Or maybe "forgiven" was not the right word. She accepted him, as he was. Because even in her eyes, he was and remained the best of the men. The kind of man who could be fair with more than a woman. To whom the Prophet allowed to marry up to four women. But there are so few men of that kind... so few...

And his son? Did he know about it all? He should have almost 18 years, now: almost a man... What would it have happened if he had met her daughter, in the future? Unlikely, of course: life is not a Brazilian "serial", a telenovela, full of coincidences, unconscious brothers and sisters who fall in love with each other, and the likes... But, who knows...

Lyòv Zakharovich came to meet her and her child, sometimes. He gave not so much money: she did not want more than that. Sometimes they made love: she wanted it. He was the only man she held as worthy of her bed and of her body. He tried to change her mind. Without success.

"There are not only "durakì" and "otmorozky", out there," he had told her. Not only fools and scoundrels. "There are many good boys, Russians and Tatars, that could be worthy of you. You could build a normal family, with them. I will always be a friend, you know that. I'm not saying this to fade away from your life. If you need, I will be always here. But I'm too old for you. And I will never be yours. You can have just a half of me."

"A half of of a man like you is better than many other whole men... " she had said smiling. But she was not joking.

Yes, he could have helped her and her child with his money only. But it was too little for him. The Volga is not a creek. And he was like the Volga. A river of ideas, energies and cunning. The money was just an obvious consequence. She did not sleep with him for that. She did it because it was beautiful to sleep with him.

He was a real man, but in all the senses of the word. She really loved his way of taking her, imposingly, with authority. He had the "aura", the halo of the winner and sovereign male. He was a man to whom she could be proud to belong, to submit herself. And not only undressing in front of him, laying under him, spreading her legs and hugging his loins with her thighs, while he rubbed her insides... And she definitely understood why his wife loved him, and why she accepted him as he was... She too would have done it...

Chulpan felt no jealousy for the wife of Lyov Zakharovic. And not only because she was the "other" woman, and his wife was his "lawful" wife, and had more right than her to live and make love with him. She knew: Islam allowed a man, especially a man as Lyov Zakharovich, to have more wives. So she could accept the hypothesis to share a man with another woman. Especially a man like Lyòv Zakharovic.

And no, it was not just sex. He was good with the children, he had the experience, he knew how to put her child to bed, before to dedicate himself to her, to her body, to her and his own pleasure... Of course, she had not told the truth to her child: she called him "dyàdya", uncle... But he was a good "uncle". She had to tell him not to give her too much gifts for the holidays. "You have another family, remember", she said. And he smiled.

"I remember," he said, And she knew he did.

Sometimes, Chulpan regretted that Lyòv Zakharovich was not a "believer". He could have married her too, then. Not officially, of course, the Russian law did not recognize polygamy. But he could have done it with a religious rite, without registration at the ZAGS. No need for legal paperwork, it was just to make peace with her sins...

But, on the other hand, it would have been asking too much of his lawful wife. She allowed him to take care of his other family, without serious limits. She even allowed him to sleep with her, every now and then, as in a real Muslim polygamous marriage. This had been a miracle already. As for the rest, including the possible retribution for her sin, Chulpan, imperfect creature as all of us, subdued herself to the will and the mercifulness of Allah...

This story goes on for more than a decade. Sasha and the daughter of Chulpan have grown up. And they never met each other.

Chulpan and Lyòv Zakharovich keep meeting each other, every now and then.

A lot of people know all of this.

And, as it would be normal in England, but not in Russia, they all pretend not to realize it.

And maybe this is the only, real miracle.

Insh'Allah...