Forgiving

She was drunk. After going to a bar with a few friends, she was drunk as a skunk, now staggering in the door frame, unable to focus her gaze and about to throw up any time. I just looked at her, blinking back the tears of disappointment and, as always, telling myself this would be the last time I'd ever cry for her. I knew I was lying, but the splinters of pride that I still had just made me refuse to admit that this woman could walk all over me and I would gladly take it, cry over it, and let her do it again any time she wanted to. How did I ever fall for such a selfish, insensitive creature? And I already knew I was being unfair; she was not insensitive, as a matter of fact she was one of the most sensitive people I had ever known. She had been hurt, and she had taken it bad. I had a feeling that though I had known her for years now, this troublesome personality was still a major mystery to me, even if I thought I knew her pretty well. At times, at times like this, she seemed like a child. A child that had been hurt but pushed away anyone who tried to help. 'Selfish' was a word to describe her; another one would be 'stubborn'. There were dozens of other words, including such as 'flamboyant' and 'a genius', but at times like these I tended to try and not think of them. Such words were a reason -- one of them -- why I always ended up forgiving her, no matter how strongly I might have decided that this time would be the last.

"Zemfira," I greeted her.

She mumbed something in reply, taking an uncertain step to enter the room, almost tripping in the process. And suddenly, this was one time too much.

"Hey, miss I'm-the-greatest-singer-in-the-world, I'm talking to you!" I snarled. "After being away until it's four AM, not answering my calls, not sending a single message concerning your whereabouts or at least telling me you're OK, it would be polite to at least reply my greeting, if you're too stupid or stubborn or whatever to apologize!"

She kept swaying, didn't even look at me, that selfish bastard.

"So you think you're above this all, don't you? You think you're a superstar so you don't have to listen to my ramblings, you don't need to tell me where you are, you can just go out there and have fun and get wasted, then stagger home and go to sleep, I will be there to ease your hangover tomorrow and otherwise I'll stay out of your way, and it's all right because oh yeah, you're a musician, a fucking genius, and not to mention I'm absolutely head over heels in love with you so to me you can do anything you want." I paused to catch my breath, barely noticing that I had raised my voice so that neighbours could hear me too. "Well I got news for you, genius; you're nothing! A singer, and there are billions of those out there. A musician, there's nothing unique in that. You're nothing, nothing but a selfish and arrogant idiot, and you got no right to treat me like a piece of shit!"

Finally, she would look at me, albeit with a bit unfocused eyes. She looked hurt, and she looked like she was trying to hide it. She liked to wear ray bans in the interviews in order to better hide her feelings.

"So now you're hurt, huh?" I began, but she interrupted me there.

"Прекрати."

With that beautiful language that I only understood a little bit, she was asking me to stop it. Her voice was low, a bit husky, and I loved the way it sounded. That one word was followed by a long silence, after which she began speaking slowly, in that low and hoarse voice, in Russian. A tear made its way from my eye down my cheek, but she wasn't crying. She paused, and I said,

"You're not crying. You're losing me and you're not even crying."

She looked intensively at me, focusing for the first time.

"Нет. Я не... Ты не знаеш..." She sighed, then went on talking, but I could not quite put together what she was saying.

"Я люблю тебя," I said gently.

This stopped her completely. With tears making my face wet I went on, "Я люблю тебя, а я не понимаю."

She still didn't say a word.

She knew I didn't mean just the language. She might have been too stubborn, or too drunk, or too shocked to speak in anything but her native language. But she was losing me because of it, now, because the language was an allegory to everything that I could not understand about her. I was hurting like hell, inside, and she tried to soothe me or explain, I didn't know. She was speaking the words I needed to hear, she was healing my every wound but it didn't help because those words meant nothing to me. I couldn't understand. For a brief moment, a blink of an eye, I wished I lived in a world where she would extend her hand to touch me, but I knew she never would and so I extended mine, touching her cheek with my fingertips. She stayed very still as my fingers traced the line of her jaw, brushed her lips briefly, then returned to the cheek. I cupped it with my hand, looking into the eyes of the woman that I loved more than anything.

I repeated in my own language, "I love you, but I don't understand you."

Her hand rose to cover mine. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, and we let our hands fall, still holding on to each other. She pulled me closer, and the walls inside me broke down, releasing a flood of tears. I was making her shirt wet, but neither of us cared. She held me close, her hands around my body, her jaw resting on top of my head. After I had calmed down a bit, she gently pushed me away so that she could see my eyes again. Those dark green eyes stared deep into mine for a while, then she abruptly lifted me in her arms. The uncertainness in her steps was gone, as if she was sober all of a sudden, she felt strong and safe and warm as she carried me into the bedroom and sat on the bed. I never had to leave her arms as she moved backwards on the bed until she was leaning her back against the wall, and I was leaning against her. She was stroking my hair when she softly pronounced my name. My eyes were closed, and she was so warm...

"Прости меня, моя любовь," she said. It was a song of hers, and I knew what those words meant. Forgive me, my love. God knows I wanted to forgive, but I didn't know how long my heart could take this. How many times could I forgive without falling apart?

"Ты -- белый и светлый," she went on. "Я -- темная теплая. Ты плачешь -- не видит никто. А я - я комкаю стекла -- дура." I understood this, too; another song lyric of hers. She was saying, "You are white and light and I am dark and warm, you are crying and nobody can see it... and I am scrunching up glass -- I am such a fool". And on she went, "Ты -- так откровенно любишь." She was telling me I loved her so frankly, and I knew it. I just could not help feeling like she was the center of my world. "Я - я так безнадежно попала. Мы - мы шепчем друг другу секреты. Мы все понимаем... Только этого мало..."

"We understand everything... but that is not enough," I repeated in my own language.

She made a low sound in the affirmative, then added, "Больно бывает не только от боли, страшно бывает не только за совесть. Странно - опять не хватило воли." She was telling me that one can feel pain not just from getting hurt, and one can feel scared not just for the conscience. And "So strange - again I did not have enough will."

Will to stay out of the bar? Will to quit before it got out of hand? Will to come home to me? Will to answer my calls? I did not have enough courage to ask. I feared the answer, so I let the cliffhanger hang in the air.

She hummed in the otherwise silent room, still stroking my hair. I could not only hear her voice, I felt the vibrations it caused as I was leaning against her. Then, she started to sing my favourite song, in a low, humming tone. A song she had written after a particularly cold night of wandering on the streets of Moscow. We had joked that maybe it would be warmer in the telephone booths -- and in that song she sang, "Telephone booths, we could warm up there -- maybe..." I had smiled at that, though the song always brought tears to my eyes. The memories of the coldest, cruelest of nights, and I had spent it with the warmest and most tender person I knew. Now she was singing to me,

"Я держу тебя за руку и всё расплывается. успокой меня заново. мне ужасно нравится, как ты выглядишь в этой нелепой шапочке... предлагаю не прятать и уж точно не прятаться. если верить киношникам, мы загружены в матрицу. фонари зажигаются. я держу тебя за руку."

As if I was there again. Street lights turning on; she was clasping my hand. She had been angry about something we had seen in the movie theater that night -- I could not recall what exactly anymore -- and I had calmed her down. I was wearing a road cone as a hat, just for the laugh. I was a goofy little fella when given a chance and when in the mood. She laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, and then kissed me lightly, lovingly. For a while I forgot that I was freezing -- she was the only thing that existed for a while. She and the kiss. When we broke apart, I felt a bit dizzy, returning to Earth, to that freezing alley in Moscow.
"случайно падали звёзды в мои пустые карманы, и оставляли надежды. мои колени замёрзли, ты был счастливый и пьяный и что-то важное между..."

As she hummed I smiled. I had been so happy (and drunk) and something important in between. Yeah, something very, very important. So in love that it was crazy, and I was loving every second of that pure madness.
"я держу тебя за руку, чтобы вдруг не похитили. в переулках скрываются на "волгах" вредители. телефонные будки - в них согреемся, может быть... эта грустная сага никогда не закончится. мне не надо и надо, ты мое одиночество. я не драматизирую, я держу тебя за руку."
She was clasping my hand, afraid that someone might kidnap me. I laughed at such a stupid fear, but really, I loved the feeling that she would keep me safe from everything -- even those mean guys in the alleys, the mean guys that disappeared into their Volgas. And, the sentence that I for some reason loved the most, "I'm not dramatizing, I'm clasping your hand".

"нарочно падали звёзды в мои пустые карманы, и оставляли надежды. мои колени замёрзли. ты был счастливый и пьяный и что-то важное между..."

I had stopped crying some time ago. As the song ended, I whispered, "Zемфира..."

She kept stroking my hair. I was beginning to feel sleepy. I wondered how she could do this, take away the pain and soothe me, no matter how bad I was hurting. Of course, she had caused the pain in the first place. But I was feeling so good now in her arms that I was starting to forget that.

After a long, long silence, I was breathing steadily, and I could feel her laying me down on the bed, then getting a blanket to cover me. She then lay beside me, arms wrapped around my body, and as I was already drifting off to sleep I could hear her whisper,

"Я люблю тебя, Волчонок. I love you, baby wolf."

I smiled.