Free American Gypsy by Oksana Marafioti Page A

started with “I” and ended with “you.” Without much fuss, the letters evolved into declarations and promises made by both of us and intended to be kept.
    â€œYou look handsome in that suit,” I said. “I love you.”
    â€œAnd I love you. It’s one of Stepan’s.”
    He balanced the briefcase on one raised knee and clicked it open.
    â€œI brought something for you,” he said, pulling out a thin strand of a necklace. “It’s not very expensive but it’s silver. I figured if I give you a ring, your dad will send you to a convent and I’ll never find you.”
    â€œVery funny. You came here in your suit to give me a present?” My voice betrayed the edges of worry. “I don’t want presents. Come in for tea.”
    â€œI have three hundred rubles saved up from the tour—”
    I pulled the robe tighter around my neck, my fingers stiff like twigs.
    â€œI have to do this, Oksana. When I come back I’m quitting the band. Maybe get a part-time gig at the Teatr Romen.”
    I was seriously considering wrapping myself around him, hanging there until he missed his flight. I wanted to beg and to scratch my face, to scare him into staying.
    â€œRomania is so far from here. The letters will take very long,” I said.
    â€œWill you wait for me?”
    Placing the briefcase on the floor, he walked over and draped the necklace around my neck. Then he kissed my cheeks. The tip of my nose. My fingers came alive. I seized the collar of his jacket, not out of passion but to keep him from leaving. He kissed my chin. Then lips, burning his mouth to mine.
    â€œWhen we’re husband and wife,” he said, “we’ll kiss every morning, after breakfast, at noon, midday nap, and many times in the evening.”
    â€œStepan won’t let you go alone.” But I knew that at seventeen Ruslan was perfectly able to travel unsupervised.
    He looked at his watch and pushed the elevator button. “I’m off. As soon as I get to Bucharest I’ll call.”
    The elevator heard my pleas and refused to budge from floor twelve, but Ruslan was onto us, and turned to take the stairs. I was still holding on, barring his way.
    â€œPlease, Ruslanchik. Please. When I’m sixteen we’ll go together. Just wait two years.”
    He kept entreating me gently to let go. He had so much to do in Romania. If anyone heard that his girlfriend made him stay they’d laugh at him. He’d be gone for only a couple of months. On the ground floor he pried away my hands and kissed them while apologizing for hurting me.
    â€œThat’s fine,” I called out to his receding back. “Romania can have you and your promises.”
    But two weeks later, I was planning our wedding. Sure, I’d refuse at first. After what the bastard did, he’d have to drag his knees for days in front of me, begging forgiveness. I’d act nonchalant, perhaps go visit Grandma Rose in Armenia for a couple of months before saying yes. I already knew my parents wouldn’t approve of our plans. We’d have to wait until my sixteenth birthday, but no matter. More time for me to drive him crazy, make him see that he’d made the wrong choice by picking a country over me.
    A month later I began to worry. No letter had reached me. Had the politics seduced him, leaving no time to jot a quick note? I could ask around, but I’d go to Hell before hounding for information like an obsessed girlfriend.
    I didn’t have to. Instead, Hell came to me.
    *   *   *
    My parents were celebrating a good friend’s birthday. Ivan had been a band member for years and was like a brother to my father, who believed that anyone who’d back him up in a fistfight against five angry crane operators was family. Esmeralda had arrived earlier to help Mom make solianka , a spiced soup. She had brought Zhanna along—a great idea, since my parents