Free Love Is Never Past Tense... by Janna Yeshanova Page A

with different belongings inside. The crowd was forming lines, but the approaching trolley buses cut pieces off, and carried them into the city.
    Janna certainly wished to go by taxi. But the line for a taxi was long too, and to wait for a long time could not be helped … until they noticed Valera. He stood at the front of a line. Janna, with her characteristic ability to never miss a moment, rushed towards him.
    Valera, having seen Serge, was not as glad for this meeting. But, he gave them a lift to the house, naturally at his expense with undisguised arrogance.
    “Isn’t Valera a sweetheart, even though he has some eccentricities?” Janna said when they left the car. But Serge didn’t care: Valera was uninteresting to him. Much later he learned of Valera’s untimely death from an overdose of drugs …
    Janna’s habitation 25 was a small one-story house on a scrap of ground. Small fruit trees, currant bushes, and some other vegetation grew around. However, no one tended to it, and it was given over to the arbitrariness of destiny. A lop-sided gate with a rattling chain closed the entrance to the yard. From the windows of her hut, light streamed, and with the clink of the chain, an elderly woman came out. Serge understood that this was Janna’s mother. Mom had a loud, hoarse voice. She was not able to speak quietly or slowly. As soon as she saw her daughter, the garden was filled with enthusiastic exclamations. From depths of the foyer came one more character—a thin girl. She began to jump around Janna (who towered above her), trying to hang on her neck. Serge appeared to be forgotten and, remaining in the shadow of the trees, observed the greeting scene. At last, it was his turn, and he was presented as George’s cousin—the inveterate tourist who needed to get familiar with the capital of Moldavia.
    After that, Serge was forgotten again, and left to himself.
    From nowhere visitors began to arrive. They came in pairs, or alone, and soon the small room became crowded. Not to cause a commotion, Serge nested in a corner. He put an absent look on his face, but kept an interested eye on everything. By their appearance, the way they behaved, and their conversations, the people were local bohemians. They were talking about the cinema, news, theatre, who arrived where, who they met, what was new in the philharmonic society, and so many other things. Serge didn’t have the slightest clue about what they were talking about and was afraid that they would ask his opinion.
    Mother rattled saucepans in the kitchen, someone helped her, and from there fragments of phrases and laughter filled the air. This pandemonium worked unpleasantly on Serge. He had counted on silence, a wide bed, and Janna’s closeness. He felt tired, broken, and terribly hungry.
    At last, in the chaos, some organization started to loom. On the table, products of culinary art began to appear: fried eggs with bacon, cut sausage, bread, and … a decanter with vodka. Serge was not attracted to the vodka, but he could eat all the food by himself. He became gloomy that he needed to share with everyone. However, the bohemians considered eating a lot of food plebeian and Serge had an opportunity to snatch a bigger piece, but the alcohol (in the bottle there was pure, high-proof alcohol) was gloriously consumed by them.
    They also poured for Serge. The alcohol burned his mucous membranes, choked his throat, and the company became repugnant to him. He swallowed often, trying to rescue his throat, but nothing helped, and tears welled up in his eyes. To hide his indisposition, he left for the porch and lit a cigarette. A thin chatterbox ran out to him, and started to shower him with questions: “Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you with Janna? What is your relationship?” Serge answered evasively. He had a devilish desire to send her to hell, but did not want to insult her. However, all this receded into the background, because as the nausea was driving up