“This will be the last time. The very last time.” The old Soviet reminded himself as he packed for Marbella. The reminder, oft repeated the week preceding his trip, served to edify his atrophied muscles and lubricate his creaking joints.
And now, here he was, an old Soviet in the south of Spain. A beautiful blonde by his side whose name he strained to recall amidst the heat, vodka, and circumstance.
“This will be the last time. The very last time.” The old Soviet reminded himself still. The phrase was repeated now to ensure this last trip’s enjoyment was experienced to its full potential.
The old Soviet was dying, and his coming demise inspired him to live fully in each moment he found himself to be granted.
He knew his life was drawing ever nearer to its unavoidable climax. He felt it as he struggled along the stone paths and marble stairs with the aid of his cane. He felt it though this beauty beside him failed or cared not to notice his limitations.
No, the old Soviet was not dying from a particular ailment, though he had many. Many as they were, these pains were not enough to combine to a thousand cuts. His illnesses and disorders were merely entropic forces that even medicine could no longer reign in.
The old Soviet was dying but these ailments were not the killer. An occultist in his youth, he believed his death was drawing near because his days were numbered. This once great power believed he had neared the expiration date written in the stars at his birth.
Unable to pinpoint a particular cause of his life’s end, this speculation seemed reasonable as any he might concoct. He had relied on instinct all his life and would allow it to serve him until that life ended.
He knew he would fall, but he knew not when his death would arrive or what its ultimate cause might be. A heart attack? Another stroke? A sleep he would not awake from? Today? Tomorrow? Next year? He pondered often, then shrugged to unload the thought each time an answer failed to materialize.
Soon dead or not, he has chosen to travel. The old Soviet now walked the flower lined paths and dined heartily at the Marbella Club Hotel.
This Andalusian stage had played host to many of life’s grandest scenes. It was here that he met Elizabeth II. It was in a now repurposed smoking lounge that the old Soviet shared cigars and swapped stories with Kissinger. Beautiful actresses, champagne soaked nights, starry Spanish skies. This grand resort had never failed to deliver a memorable experience.
Always the odd man out, the old Soviet enjoyed these brushes with the West. Like a daredevil Icarus, he confidently stuck to his ways despite periodic and intentional proximity to these Western stars.
Back when the old Soviet was still a Soviet and not just a Russian, he saw a strategy in his dealings. Show these Westerners a Soviet can wade knee, even waist deep into their decadence and not fall victim to its luster.
Today, what did it matter? The West had won but he remained a Soviet at heart. Now, though, he came to enjoy time off without strategy in mind.
He did feel concerned about this trip, though, and it went beyond his health. The foremost item to consider was the war down south.
He supported it though he knew it was wrong. He understood the need for it though he could have suggested alternatives. Who was he to stop the winds of war?
Russia had marched on Kyiv. Once those footsteps began, once those tanks began to roll, what could he do? He voiced concerns to old peers in the Duma. What good might his words serve? They shared his worries, this he knew, but all stayed quiet. Or at least he hoped they did. Simply discussing such matters could always risk each party involved.
There had been a chill to some of his old friendships as of late. “Who could not be less friendly in such serious times?” He took solace in this rhetorical question. He took solace too knowing that one of these old friends had surprised him with an introduction to his current female companion.
His main worry regarding Ukraine was not about lives lost or strategic decisions. The old Soviet worried selfishly about the treatment he might endure as a Russian in Europe.
Not the staff, no they would welcome him. The other guests? They would cast their sights on his resort companion before approaching himself. “Is she his daughter?” “Nurse?”
No, it was the accent they’d notice. His English fluency could not mask his Eurasian origin.
Once they heard the old Soviet’s voice, sure enough the war would come up. It was an inconvenience he couldn’t long avoid. In years gone by he could stomach this nuisance. This, however, was the old Soviet’s last time in Marbella. These concerns outstanding, he pressed on.
Despite the uneasiness these concerns generated, in the initial stages his last visit proceeded smoothly.
Grand villa. Fine dining. Blazing sun that warmed his skin and reminded him of nearby Africa. Beautiful woman. “What was her name again?”
Aged. Bald. Lumbering, with Gabon ebony cane in hand. The old Soviet paced pantingly about the resort premises, stunning companion by his side.
Her name only returned to him periodically, and he took no care to anchor it each time it floated back to the shores of his mind. “My dear,” was how he chose to address her. That he could remember. That she would respond to. Yes, that seemed to do the trick.
The nautical dresses and vibrant bikinis on her fit figure. Her symmetrical sunglassed face. Her disinterest in speaking. It was enough to make Lazarus rise.
He basked in this troika of qualities as they would walk to and fro at the molassal pace dictated by the limits of his weakened limbs.
The old Soviet had fallen and fallen often as of late. Still, he carried on confidently as though his legs and balance remained steadfast comrades and his position in society remained unquestioned.
Along they strolled, elder and junior and what attention they drew. Giggles and pointing from onlookers who knew not that their expressions were noticed. Gawked they did and yet the old Soviet was enjoying his last stay in Marbella far more than he expected.
As their visit carried on, time drew near for the second night’s dinner and dinner was to be grand. Fine wine, night air, setting sun. These features would accompany Marbella’s finest seafood dishes, which the old Soviet would hand select.
He readied his body for the brief walk, intent to avoid a fall on the stone path that they would soon follow to the bustling outdoor dining area.
The walk would be completed in two legs. First, a cocktail at the indoor bar was to be had as their table was set with utensils, plates, and new candles that would soon burn low. The old Soviet chose a Beluga Vodka on the rocks, and his companion opted for a fruit heavy spritz that would have given his diabetes trouble.
They sipped side by side yet barely together. As they imbibed, he recalled fondly past stays at the hotel. While he remembered, she shot a long stream of pictures of herself with her host always just out of shot. This was how he wanted it. This was how she wanted it too.
When their outdoor table was ready, the old Soviet wound up the energy needed to follow the Spanish hostess who drew him in with deep brown eyes. He leaned heavily on his cane, nearly buckling its sturdy Ebony. Onward they pressed, passing tables whose chatting fell decibels lower as the old man and his young date vacuumed the attention of those seated.
The awkwardness these glances once generated had long passed from his mind.
All was proceeding as well as he could have hoped and yet the chains of discomfort he had felt since the trip’s planning stage could not be shaken off.
As they neared their table his unvoiced feelings were affirmed as reasonable when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
“Natalia Ivanovna? Could it be?” He asked himself.
Before the old Soviet sat an elegant older woman with icy blonde hair now turned silver. Her face he recognized from his youth. “She’s barely changed.” This woman, his first, his only love, had returned to his life and he knew not how to process it.
“Could she? Recognize me?” He passed by hoping to avoid her eye for reasons he failed to understand. It was too late.
“Sergei Grigoryevich, why, how long has it been?”
“Natalia Ivanovna, what— what a pleasant surprise.” The Old Soviet blushed warm from the surprise and memories of their old love. Then, he blushed further as Natalia spotted his companion and introduced herself.
Relief overcame him as he heard his companion announce her name.
“Forgive me. Natalia, Polina, I should have helped to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, Sergei, you were never too quick to the draw.” Natalia chided him. “What’s quickness when it’s longevity you were after all along?” He shot back. The two old lovers smiled with their mouths and their eyes.
“Walter. Walter, honey!” Natalia waved toward an older gentleman with a shock of thick, ivory toned hair. The gentleman patted the blazer padded shoulders of a man who he had been chatting with at a nearby table. He stepped confidently toward Natalia to meet her friends, old and new.
“Walter, do meet an old university friend, Sergei Grigoryevich Konstantin.”
“Please, Sergei will do. I will not make you say or spell the rest.” “Walter Millibrand, pleasure to meet you.” “The pleasure is mine, Walter. And let me ask you, how do you know this young lady?”
Walter lifted his left hand, turned his palm inward and lifted his second to last finger to reveal to Sergei a ring.
“Ah, it would appear you know Natalia well.” “Oh, only somewhat.” Polite chuckles.
Walter then reached for Polina’s svelte, jewel and gold covered fingers. “And it would appear you know one another well too.” Smiles. Sergei chose not to explain that none of Polina’s jewels was in place to signify any formal bond between the two.
The old Soviet’s cheeks grew rosy once more, and it was not the vodka that had hit him.
“Well, it has been a true pleasure to meet and to reunite unexpectedly. We will allow you to return to your evening.” Smiles all around, then the two rejoined the hostess to be formally seated.
Drinks. Dinner. Moonlight slowly claiming the night sky from the setting sun. The atmosphere could not be better and yet the old Soviet could enjoy neither the comfort nor his company. Natalia Ivanovna was on his mind.
Polina’s silence contributed to his memories and worries, which snatched him away from the present. The blonde beauty sipped, bit, and scrolled her phone in apparent indifference to her surroundings and host. The old Soviet barely sensed the distance of her mind because he reciprocated it fully.
“What was it she last said to me? Something about the reform movement. How I betrayed it? Overseeing political prisoners for personal gain. Yes, that was her final moment with me. Tears welled in her eyes. Her fists clutched my shirt. Her words stuck into my soul. And yet, I did nothing. I kept the party line. Secure in my own position of growing power. And for what?”
“Dessert?” The waiter politely interrupted the old Soviet’s train of thought and received a warm, nodding, Russian accented, “Sí.” in reply. Whether he or Polina would opt for a soufflé, a flan, or nothing at all, he welcomed this intrusion.
Polina’s continued silence and the old Soviet’s fullness soon overcame the task at hand. He glanced over the menu, yet the words meant nothing with painful recollections clouding his focus. “And I just patted her back, kissed her head, and carried on. And now, here she is. Conscious made manifest has arrived to remind me of my mistakes. Here she is with her happy Western husband and Western life at this Western resort.”
“I’ll have the soufflé.” Polina interjected. “Ahh…” he trailed off as the waiter gazed down, “Me too, me too.”
The fluffed dessert’s cooking time allowed time for more conversational lulls with Polina. As she scrolled and snapped photos of herself and the night sky, the old Soviet was within reach yet decades away in the far reaches of his memory.
He would have to file this Natalia meeting and knew not where to place it. Was it a chance meeting? A sign? A warning? A call to repentance? The old Soviet vacillated and juggled with no resolution becoming apparent.
For a moment he simply looked at Polina and felt embarrassment. “Who was this woman? So young, so far from home, and with an octogenarian bureaucrat who barely knows her name.”
“Forget her, who am I and why am I with her? She was getting a nice trip out of their relationship and what did he gain? Arm candy? Sure, but that was about all. This was arm candy that caused awkward stares, not envy.
Dread befell the old Soviet. Perhaps it was the vodka and wine or perhaps the realization of who he had become. Absent the ability to escape his skin, he chose to take a walk. Painful as it may be the strain it would require would help him escape his mind.
“I’ll be back in a moment, my dear.” Polina barely lifted her blue eyes from her phone’s screen. With the assistance only of his ebony cane, the old Soviet stood up and headed toward the bathroom.
Knowing Natalia might still be near caused the old Soviet to stand more upright than he had in years. He forgot his cane was in his hand, using it only to lightly trace the tiles lining the restaurant’s patio.
Standing erect, the old Soviet towered over seated European guests who stared now due to his imposing size rather than his lady friend.
As he neared the bathroom he was stopped in his tracks by a gentle, “Sergei.” “Dear Natalia, a pleasant second surprise. I thought you had left.” “I plan to, but a stop to the lady’s room at my age seemed a wise choice.” Chuckles.
A silence fell while their eye contact carried on the conversation.
“Sergei-” “I know, Natalia. She is a bit young for me.” “Oh, that. No, no, not that. The war, it’s the war I want to mention.” “Oh, forgive me.”
“Sergei. You were once a reformer, a bright-eyed student. We both were. I cannot say I became the woman I dreamed of becoming, but I can say I never gave cover to bad actors.” “Believe me, this was not my choice, Natalia. I advised against the action. I understood the logic but was not persuaded. And yet, here we are.”
“Sergei, unlike myself you have contacts. I am a Westerner now, at least in the Russians’ eyes no matter who my father was. I would speak out but what does the Duma care for the words of a dead bureaucrat’s emigrant daughter? Your words, though, do matter. You can still make a change.”
Sergei leaned more heavily on his ebony cane. “Natalia, I can assure you I have spoken out. My words too fall on deaf ears. I believe this war foolish. I cautioned against it. If it ended tomorrow, I would feel relief.”
“Would you work with me and my London contacts to shift opinion? If internal efforts are failing, you could work outside Russia’s boundaries.”
“I would never behave treasonously, but I am all for common sense. What have you in mind?”
“How about you use the restroom and then meet me at the bar before heading back to your little friend. I have an idea. Beluga is your drink of choice?”
“Why, yes. Beluga on the rocks, please, and charge that and yours to my table too.”
The Old Soviet entered the restroom, the inertia of his hunched upper body leading tired limbs forward.
Empty bathroom, empty urinal, empty bladder. Relief. His body had almost failed him. Another 20 seconds with Natalia and the weight of embarrassment would have been too great to bear.
Flowing water, liquid soap, fresh towel. His hands cleaned; the old Soviet patted his sunburnt face with the cool cloth. As he lowered it, he stared himself down. Icy blue eyes met their inverse and a shameful face bore itself completely.
“How did I arrive at this point? Young woman with me. Embarrassed of my country. A one-time reformer. Look at Sergei Grigoryevich now.” The old Soviet took in his appearance in the mirror and felt detachment from it.
A relief then overcame him. “Perhaps not in my mind, but in Natalia’s I can be redeemed. Who knows what she will offer but if I act earnestly, she may forgive my mistakes. A man is never too old for redemption, never too far along to turn lightward.”
Hands long dried, the old Soviet stood as straight as his arthritic joints would grant him the freedom to stand. He nodded at himself in agreement and set out to meet Natalia.
“She’s just as beautiful as ever.” Thought Sergei once more as he approached the outdoor bar for their clandestine discussion. “For the gentleman.” She handed him his vodka. Glasses clinked beneath fixed eyes and smiles that appeared childishly innocent on the old faces that displayed them.
“Well, we ought to be quick.” “Indeed, let me begin.”
The conversation turned to Russian and nobody within earshot could make out a word. Much nodding took place, and smiles appeared in between serious countenances.
Nods. A hug. An agreement had been reached.
As they stood to walk off, Natalia pointed toward Sergei’s table and his head turned. Sergei distracted; she poured a clear substance into his Beluga vodka which was now swimming in the ice that melted in the Spanish night’s heat.
“Your glass, Sergei?” “Thank you, and now we shall not speak of this. I will tell Polina my legs caused the delay, though I doubt she will have noticed.”
The old Soviet lumbered back. Gabon ebony cane in his right hand, Beluga vodka in his left and Natalia to his side supporting him in spirit on the old man’s new journey she had just mapped out.
Polina barely noticed his return, and growing sleepy, he ordered the check.
Occupied by the gravity of the prior conversation, the old Soviet had not touched his drink. As they arose to leave, Sergei grabbed both his cane and the glass.
The old man and his young companion walked the patio and drew no attention from the few guests who drunkenly remained, their reddened faces alight behind gold flamed candles burning low.
Into the darkness they strode, man and woman.
“Sergei,” Polina’s rarely heard voice shocked the old Soviet, “will you waste your drink?” “Ah, indeed. Yes, I should finish it before we return.”
As they approached a set of three darkened stone steps, the old Soviet lifted the thick glass to his lips and tilted it back.
An inability to swallow shocked him and his failing heart fluttered. Sergei Grigoryevich felt a tightening in his throat akin to strangulation. His eyes searched for an assailant, but his hands would not move.
His white knuckles covered the top of his ebony cane and his body stiffened. The old Soviet lurched forward and landed face first on the stone steps he never climbed.
Polina watched with arms crossed in silence. Convulsions began. Blood trickled and met the stone and sandy dirt that lay beside the path.
Much violent shaking continued. The old Soviet’s body grew still. Polina bent forward, balanced on her stilettos, and held her short dress down. She placed two fingers upon the old Soviet’s blood-streaked neck.
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds passed. No pulse was to be detected. Wiping her hand, Polina stood up, calmly collected herself, and drew in a deep breath. She then let loose a series of frantic shrieks for help that cut through the blanket of silence with which the night had enveloped the Marbella Club Hotel.
Those left in attendance stumbled to their feet and rushed toward the steps to look on behind the startled staff. Natalia and Walter joined them and stood in the shadows nearby.
Natalia gripped her oblivious husband’s hand and smirked wryly as she took in her handywork and caught Polina’s eye.
The accomplices wore facades of feigned fear, joining as masqueraders with the shocked guests and panicked staff.
Before them lay Sergei Grigoryevich. His unease throughout the stay was justified and his instincts were proven correct. The retired bureaucrat’s days had reached their end.
Beside him lay his snapped ebony cane, which had given way to the weight of his death. The empire had one less threat. His late life walk toward redemption had been only a march toward a mirage.
Spanish moonlight danced on crocodile tears that stood welled in Natalia’s eyes, ready to cascade at the order of her next blink.
These were the last tears Natalia Ivanovna would shed for Sergei Grigoryevich.
This was the old Soviet’s last fall.
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