Chapter 15 From Russia with Love

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Anton Volkov at the ripe age of nineteen came to Warsaw with the idea of becoming a poet. You’d be surprised if you saw his home village in far Russia, where poverty touched the level of dilapidated wooden huts dating back to the middle of the nineteenth century, little wooden cottages which remembered the times of Tsar, Russian Revolution, World War One and World War Two, as well as systematic alcoholism and degeneration of its people. But Anton didn’t need all the things American teenagers found indispensable, from MTV to brand trainers and McDonald’s meal and was happily pleased with what his village could offer to him.

During his life, he was one time in Moscow and it was when his father was so kind to fund the trip as a birthday present. It was also the first time in his life when he saw people’s wealth. If you took into account the hut he shared with his mother and father, the conditions of floors, the wooden walls which each year were closer and closer to the level of the ground, Moscow left him with impression that people’s richness was beyond assessment and one person’s wealth, including flats, clothes, jewelry, and cars could sponsor his village for a lifetime. At the same time, in this contrast of poverty and wealth, he felt extremely rich because he had a roof over his head, food on his table and he felt safe.

He had a pleasant childhood. His mother believed in freedom and she let him do whatever he wanted to do with his life and, as time could tell, he was inclined to follow his instincts and passions as he pleased.

When he was thirteen, his father came back home drunk (nothing new, if there was money in the house, it was usually spent on vodka) and during a sudden row, he hit Anton’s mother. Anton walked out of his room, took a chair and with the strength of his teenage body threw the chair at the father. The force of the impact was so strong that he knocked his parent unconscious. There was no police intervention. In Russia they say that if he hits you, he loves you. Maybe that also applied to the son’s and father’s love, but Anton and his mother weren’t entirely sure about the fact. The next day with the mother they decided that father should move out of the house for the sake of their security. Alexei Volkov was surprised to be dismissed from his own house, but he didn’t move far, as he went back to his brother’s house at the other end of the street. All family members were visiting each other every day, but Anton’s father learned that violence was something that Anton didn’t tolerate from a young age. Violence bred violence and Anton’s father bore the signs of the chair accident for years.

When Anton was sixteen, he found in his mother’s library a volume of Pushkin’s poetry and he instantly knew that he was supposed to be a poet. His love for words, rhymes and this deep sense of magic and reality around him aroused in him feelings which he couldn’t simply ignore. There was a lovely purity in this inner voice of letters, which had nothing to do with Moscow but a lot to do with life, love, and death. His rural poetic soul needed only some stimulation and the right people placed on his way. But what a boy from a tiny village in the middle of nowhere could offer to the world?

When he was eighteen his mother suddenly came to his room and realized that her headstrong son was no longer a boy. His room was filled with volumes of poetry and books on history and geography. His walls were covered with posters of George Michael, Freddie Mercury, Backstreet Boys and NSYNC.

‘You should clean this mess, in case a girl wanted to visit you,’ his mother suggested.

‘I will never have a girlfriend.’

Anton never changed his mind and his mother instantly knew that posters weren’t hanging there for no reason.

When Anton was nineteen, he wanted to go to university. His father gathered some money (each time when he bought a bottle of vodka he recalled the chair accident and saved part of the money for son’s education, as he was sure that the boy wasn’t supposed to stay in the village for ever). His mother knew that they weren’t able to afford to send Anton to Moscow or Saint Petersburg. But Alyona Volkov renewed contact with her brother, who years ago emigrated to Poland, and granted Anton a safe place to pursue his dreams.

Uncle Alexei was more glad to see the money from his Russian sister than his nephew, but Anton was provided with a room in his uncle’s apartment, warm water, heating and a fifteen-minute walk to the Krakowskie Przedmieście street and the gates of the University.

After ten years he was still in Warsaw and having moved out from the uncle who wanted more and more money for the room, he was renting rooms from private owners. Having already graduated with honors, he was currently writing a Ph.D. thesis, supporting himself from translation works and other jobs he found along the way.

Now he was renting a garage in a detached house, which belonged to a widow. She was the wife of a late doctor, someone apparently respected in Polish circles. The house might have had its better days, but in years it lost its appeal. The cellar and the garage were turned into a three-room apartment with a bathroom and a kitchen. Two other rooms were being rented by two student girls. The garage was occupied by Anton, because he, as a Ph.D. student, was also considered a student. The first floor was an actual apartment of the landlady, but she managed to squeeze inside four other women, who were working in Warsaw. The widow was earning a significant amount of money from the rent and she continually mentioned that she wouldn’t have been able to afford the house maintenance from her small pension. None of her tenants was registered, as she wasn’t paying taxes for her services. The front garden was neglected and the house didn’t look its best, but the garage was renovated: it had nice floors, it was freshly painted and the garage doors were replaced with a three segment balcony window with roller-blinds to grant at least some privacy from the neighbors.

Last three months of his stay there were an educational oasis. The house was situated in a peaceful residential area consisting of detached and semi-detached houses with small gardens, low gates, and exotic plants. Its residents were mostly retired judges, consulates, doctors and artists who could afford to buy a house in Warsaw or were granted one from the city for some exceptional accomplishment in their field.

Anton felt hidden from the city hustle and bustle, and just a ten-minute walk away from his place of habitation there was a pleasant park with trees, benches, and valleys, in which he could sit and read. The center of the city was just seventeen minutes away by public transport and Anton was pleased.

But the change of his address wasn’t the only change that happened in his life. There were also some things connected to the sphere of his feelings, which filled him with optimism and hope. He still remembered the time when for the very first time he saw Robert, strolling in and out the office of his immense education guide impersonated by Jakub Krakowski. Robert looked like a god, a messenger with the sense of absence in his eyes, always in a hurry, with a week’s beard covering his chin and cheeks. He always took a look at Anton and Anton had always secretly glimpsed at him. And at some point of their accidental bumping into each other Anton felt something like sparkles and he knew that he was going to know this man better.

He was surprised when he answered the phone and heard the Russian language and an unknown voice. He could tell that the person on the other side of the phone wasn’t a native Russian, but his language was fluent and after a small talk Anton was invited for a coffee.

He expected Robert to be a serious man, the expectation stemmed from his always busy and focused appearance, but after some basic introductions and talks about studies and work he told him the most ridiculous story about his genital accident and Anton happily took him to the Old Town. When they were walking along the center of the city, Anton pulled Robert a little bit closer to him and kissed him with a passionate kiss that Robert seemed to be really enjoying.

That night when he came to his garage, he lied on his bed with his eyes open, remembering his little village and his tiny hut, in which his mother lived to this day, and for the very first time in ten years time, he felt at home in the city of Warsaw.