The international student exchange with the West, which became a reality in Russia due to Gorbachev "Perestroika", brought the in the late eighties a group of American post-graduate students to the Moscow Energy Institute. The Americans took up their residence in one of the Institute's dormitories. I got to know them at a "friendship party", set in a dancing hall by the dormitory administration. The Americans differed sharply from other students, who came to the party. They sit loosely in armchairs set up along the walls with their shirts worn outside trousers and high rust-colored boots. Trying to shout down loud tape recorder, they were enthusiastically discussing perestroika with a group of young students - active social workers, selected to attend the party by the Energy Institute Directorate. Several made up brightly young women, danced solely in the middle of the hall, and, as if by chance, complimentary caught eyes of young American men, who were curious and excited to watch girls from the "iron curtain" wearing short skirts and dancing sexy. One could clearly distinguish Russian women dressed for seduction from Americans, who looked as on a camping trip. But there was one who broke the stereotype, and at first, I couldn't understand if she was a Russian or foreigner. She was about twenty-four, fair-haired, slim, handsome face, womanly lips, and this "Russian sadness" in her eyes. She sat lonely in the room corner, we were both alone, maybe it was one of the reasons she caused sympathy and some feeling of closeness. She was also dressed unlike others: black dress and black high boots sharply contrasted with her bright white hair, packed up in a showy tail. The clothes were not expensive, but quite stylish and suited her. I noticed that she took very seriously all that was going on in the dancing room, attentively looking at parting crowd – both at Russians and Americans, analyzing them with some kind of mental strife. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and that was enough. Further events happened as if it couldn't be in any other way. I came up to her, crossing the room by diagonal and introduced myself. This party night was ours, we met as life-long friends. After I knew Cynthia I became more often a guest at this dormitory and made acquaintance with other Americans from her group. I always thought that I had neither illusions nor prejudices in respect to foreigners, but my friendship with Cynthia proved that I stereotyped. For example, I considered that all Americans are rational, and I was wrong. Rational Timothy, a son of a prominent businessman from Philadelphia was a complete antipode of romantic humanitarian Jonas. Plump and somewhat eccentric Michael who used to talk all the time, appropriately and not in place about his idol - Soviet foreign affairs minister Andrew Gromyko - was different from athletic Andrew, who somehow managed to get a ten in the middle of the winter and always talked about women. And one more revelation: there was a certain jealousy or competition within the group on what is Russia issue. Each of them sought to find his own Russia and thought that his or her view on this country is true and all that happened around was just a confirmation of it. There were two other girls besides Cynthia in the group. One of them – Barbara, pretty brunette with Brazilian roots - an object of Andrew's desire. She didn't care too much about "Russia issue", just having a good time in Moscow, fully using hard currency advantage of the US dollar. Suzan, another girl from the group, was worried about connections among perspective, from her point of view, Russians and moreover among the “expats”, US citizens working in Moscow. Cynthia was from another world – from her one. The next day after the party we met she took me to Moscow tour. She wanted to show me her Moscow. Within those several days before our meeting, Cynthia had formed her understanding of what was real Moscow, which has true Russia in it. We walked across old Moscow downtown side-streets, with her favorite small bas-reliefs which had preserved on facades of old buildings since tsarist times. When a new business center with McDonald's fast food restaurant on Tverskaya was built up an ancient building with 19th-century decorative wall painting on it was destroyed, and Cynthia took it as her personal tragedy. - It's no good that big money starts to come to Moscow, - she used to say, - big money will kill Moscow. Later on, she got a job as an English teacher with one of the linguistic centers and rented a one bedroom apartment in Sokolniki. By this time our relationship went so far that we decided to live together. At first, I hesitated to treat her as a usual woman, because I knew she wasn't so. Maybe that was because she was an American woman and it does mean something. For instance, she always strove for demonstrating her independence from me. When I tried to cover cafe; bill for both of us she would take it as an insult.
- I can pay for myself! Why are you trying to pay for both of us, because you are a man?Thus I discovered that some Western women take your intention to cover the bill as a clear manifestation of sexism. She was very independent in her thoughts and demonstrated by all means that she was a strong and free individual. And I thought that women at least have to demonstrate certain respect to a man as a potential family bread-winner. My new relationship was quite different from previous experience and I had to confess:
- You are too strong for me. These words made an impression on Cynthia, they pleased her. And I found a way to pass around the psychological barriers, built by the proud girl. They say that a woman loves with her years, and an American woman is not an exception. She respected my thoughts on the world because she knew that I studied in a prestigious diplomatic college and can speak two foreign languages. Maybe that was why when I began to talk on general matters she would calm down and listen to me attentively. I never liked idle talks on politics as well as wordy conversations about relationships. But such kitchen evening heart-to-heart chats helped me to find a lot of interesting discoveries about my beloved. I found out she didn't like capitalism, which obviously hadn't made her any good. Many in Russia think that people from the West will have a better attitude towards Russians if we adopt their values and lifestyle. But with Cynthia, I discovered that not all Americans think this way, and westernization of Moscow made her worried as she wanted to live in Russia, but not in Coca-Cola country. She was touching in her naive views on contemporary Russia, but she took all of what was taking place in this country very seriously. She reminded me a girl from a province, who came to study in a big city university, and unlike spoilt children from capital families, she diligently studied her new homeland, which she loved, respected and feared at the same time. Meanwhile, the love-for-years scheme worked and Cynthia let me approach her. She was demanding, asking me to love her gently with preludes and love games. As our relations entered intimacy phase I moved into her flat, and there were no secrets left between us. Then I discovered her passion to photography.Cynthia showed me her early artworks – quite original collages with telephone boxes and dustbins in the focus of the composition. I caught her interest for backyard scenes – she was in search of her way in creative work. Cynthia hoped to make some money by teaching English and get herself high-quality photo equipment with it. The professional Canon – her first purchase – she cherished as the apple of her eye and didn't even let me touch it. From time to time she used to travel to Europe or back home to the US. Whenever she was, Cynthia used to send me postcards full with words about her love to me. Her trips disturbed me as I couldn't travel so freely with her. Every minor contradiction of Soviet society when you were in a relationship with a foreign citizen reveals itself like on litmus paper. She wanted equality, same did I, but one of us objectively had more opportunities. She used to cheer me saying that the things would change soon. Our relationships were on the rise, but we never talked about marriage, only once I asked her if she wants to have a baby, and she said it was untimely to talk about it and that she dreamed of the career in photography. Cynthia had nothing but amateur photo skills and she needed an advice and support of professionals. She was looking for connections in Moscow photographic community and started to make her own photo portfolio. One of her first published pictures was a series of photographs taken in one of Moscow hospitals, and those pictures had finally split her from the rest of the non-photographer world, she was a free-lance now.Two years had passed since I saw Cynthia for the first time. The passionate desire to succeed in professional photo career gradually devoured my beloved. She stopped seeing her previous friends and saved every penny to buy tripod or footlights. She made new friends who meant a lot to her. Certainly, most of them were professional photographers or photo correspondents. One of them – Steve - whose pictures, as Cynthia said, were published on the cover of the "Time" magazine. Steve was an undisputable authority for her. His telephone call could raise her in an alarm mode, make her dress up and disappear. My puzzling questions she would always answer with the same phrase: "You don't understand". At some point I realized that her interest in our relationship was going out, we met more seldom and began staying overnight at my parent's place. Her twenty-seventh birthday was the last aria of our duet.I was the only one Russian invited to her birthday party, and I was astonished when getting a bit late I found no guests in the apartment. The viand table contrasted with ascetic sitting-room. I never saw such an abundance cooked by her before - she didn't give me such a treatment. When I asked Cynthia, who else was coming, my suspicions confirmed: this wasn't for me.
- Steve with friends will be soon.But the eminent guests weren't in a hurry, and we kept sitting against each other for about two and a half hours. I never felt so silly in her apartment, where I spent so much time. We talked about nothing, I was getting worked up and she felt this. The conversation turned on her favorite Latin-American music, and then we talked about singer Prince, who called himself "an artist, previously known as Prince".
- He is very talented, she said with an accent on the word “very”.
I agreed with her, he is a talented musician but her “very” turned my jealousy on.
- Is it possible to be not very talented? An artist is either talented or not talented, - I said, - one can’t be enough talented, very talented or slightly not talented.
- Oleg, you are in a bad mood, aren’t you?
- I am in an excellent mood, but it just seems to me that Prince is pretentious, although many women like pretentious men. It was just an excess: I ranked the "only one woman" with others. Cynthia turned away from me and silently walked out to the kitchen. At some point, I wanted to leave, but I knew it would hurt her, not to mention that she'd stay absolutely alone. However, I did hurt her with these talks about an artist, who used to be a prince. And she was so irresistible that night! Cynthia was dressed in an old-fashion by than Moscow standards, but quite fancy at that time in the US spotted dark blue dress, black tights, and black high boots. Her clothes sharply contrasted with bright white hair combed back and picked up in her favorite tail. So more furious I became when understood that at this birthday party my role was limited to "just an acquaintance from Moscow journalistic circles". I sat with a gloomy face on the sofa, getting slowly drunk on tequila. If it was not for this Mexican vodka, may be mine and Cynthia's life would turn differently. At last, soon after ten o'clock, someone rang the doorbell, and Cynthia rushed headlong to the door. A group of four laughing young foreigners, who made on me an impression of playboys, appeared at the door, congratulating Cynthia loudly. As far as I understood, at least two of them she saw for the first time, and one of them was Steve. Expats didn't take their shoes off, like it usual in Russia, and went into the sitting room, greeting the sofa, where I sat, by nods. They proceeded to the table to serve drinks for themselves. Making one shot after another they were getting drunk pretty fast. It turned out that they started diverting in a nightclub, and that was why guys viewed with each other talking about cool local chicks. It looked like they already had a good time that night and my displaced face didn't embarrass them as they just didn't notice me. In fact, it seemed to me that they didn't notice her either. After several shots Cynthia with the guests started dancing, she danced in the middle of a circle, formed by four men, one of whom was notorious Steve. Cynthia was jumping, whirling, whistling and shouting something funny in English. She had some shots too and was having a good birthday party as well as the others, except me. I was about to leave, but the guests had to leave first. To the laughter of the guests Steve got out a small digital camera, which fit in his hand, and with his arm extended downwards and under her skirts, he made several pictures of her pants. These pictures Steve, keeping to dance, demonstrated his friends, amusing them. Cynthia didn't notice this, or maybe she didn't want to notice. But I finally got a business for the night. I came up to Steve, took his arm and invited by hand to proceed to the corridor, as referee points at the penalty area. Steve looked at my decisive face and suddenly became sober. We made our way out of the sitting room as cosmonauts direct their steps to the space launching site. The preface was quick. I told the American two short phrases with keywords "these pictures' and "what the f…ck". It was enough with the foreword and I went on with the right-hand punch into the prominent guest jaw. But tequila had made its effect, and the punch turned out not sharp enough. I must say that I've never been an aggressive man and never liked to fight, and I hit a person only two or free times since I was a child, but never regretted it. But if I ever hit – always strong and only once because it was enough. But that hit was a missing one. Steve advanced with a block, raising his forefingers up – he must have gone in for some kind of Asian Marshall arts. My fist did not reach the goal and turned on his shoulder – the punch was suppressed. You don't hit so! You make a false threat with the left hand and then punch sharply and strongly with the right. If I did that the accident would look like a serious talk of a slightly disappointed tuff Russian Superman, but it looked like a drunken brawl. Steve friends came running to us and stood in between. The party was over. The foreigners didn't even try to sort out the deal, they dressed up ant went away wishing Cynthia a pleasant night with a Russian bear. Cynthia and I had stayed alone again.
- Oleg, what happened, she asked me in tears. Why did you do it to me? What am I guilty of?
- You didn’t do anything wrong, I’ll tell you later what happened.
- Just go home, please, - she said in a frustrating and full of disappointment voice. When Cynthia had alcohol, she became reckless, now she looked vulnerable and unprotected, like a child. My heart was wrung with love and sorry for her. I never talked to her about what happened between me and her idol Steve, from whom she expected to get a pass to big professional photography. I hadn't seen Cynthia for several years. We used to call each other from time to time, then I met to study to the US and I met her in New-York, where she got a temporary job with the Center for Russian emigrants while continuing to make a portfolio of her pictures.
- I’ll come back to Russia soon, - she said. It’s more interesting for a photographer there, more opportunities.Her last phrase grated on the ears. Just a couple of weeks ago I said the same phrase to the Eastern Europe history professor from Columbia University when he asked me if I was going to come back to Russia.
- The opportunities will be always there, - he said, - but if you stay here you might be able to help yourself and your family better. There is too much violence in Russian history.In the US Cynthia introduced me to her father Barry, who lived in Upstate New-York and stopped by the city to see his daughter. We went to a little restaurant in China-Town. Barry was quite energetic and looked pretty young for his years. He made an impression of someone who knows what he wants and enjoys life. In 1993 I came back to Russia and Cynthia was in Moscow at that time. I lost her for some time and just knew that she continued her career as a free-lance photographer. In fact, there was a lot of opportunities for a photo correspondent in Moscow by that time. It was not easy to find a more dynamic photo subject elsewhere than the tanks shooting against the parliament in the center of Moscow. I won't be surprised if she was in the thick of things as she needed to fill her portfolio with bright pictures. In 1994 when Cynthia perished I worked for an advertising agency specialized in regional media and used to travel a lot across Russia. On January night watching TV in Samara province hotel I heard the news, which literally pressed me in the armchair. The TV man said that on the twenty-second of December the US free-lance photographer Cynthia Elbaum perished in Grozny, the capital of Chechen Republic. And there was nothing else said. I feverishly switched TV channels, vainly trying to find out more. Helplessly I dashed around the room smoking one cigarette after another. Confused and bare media news, without comments and statements, as if it dealt with an accident, flew aver Russia and reached Cynthia's parents in America. When I got back to Moscow, I found Cynthia's old friends shocked and embarrassed. Asking each other, how could it happen, we tried to get at least some information on this tragedy. After several days of unsuccessful inquiries, we finally found the Moscow morgue, where her body was, but we didn't have a chance to say our last goodbye. Her father Barry took away to the US the coffin with his daughter's body. He buried Cynthia on a big cemetery in Cony-Island. Gradually gathering information from every source we reconstructed the course of events. A week before her death Cynthia with several foreign photographers penetrated in a combat area of the First Chechen war. They got into the very hell of it – beleaguered by the federal troops Grozny. On the day of tragedy the military aviation made an incursion over the city and dispersed several buildings, occupied by rebels, in Minutka Square area. After the air raid a crowd of Grozny inhabitants went outside basements. Cynthia with her Cannon was among them. She made pictures of bombed buildings and people, who with respectable fear looked at results of small bombs deed after they hit a building, seemed so huge just a few minutes ago. And at this point, a lonely airplane appeared in the sky. Its pilot must have decided to make a sudden second turn. At the last moment of their life, those who were at the square heard the jet engines roar, followed by the launched rocket howl. By the ocean wave of the deafening explosion they were thrown away from the center of the square. Cynthia died instantly. Two years had passed since Cynthia death when I came to the United States again. After visiting the University, where I studied and breathing familiar Manhattan air, I got back to the hotel and gave a call to Cynthia's father.
- I’ll pick you up, - he said with a decisive voice.In three hours I was downstairs. A familiar Plymouth arrived and an old gray gentleman walked out of the car. It was Barry - Cynthia's father.
- Let’s go to my place, and tomorrow I’ll show you her grave.All the way long and all evening we spoke on different matters and did not mention Cynthia a single time. Barry avoided any conversation about his daughter. Her father was as energetic as when I first saw him in China-Town, but his energy this time was very different. Next day we went to a cemetery, where endless rows of small graves with scripts in all world languages are set over the neat green lawns. We came to the grave where Cynthia was. I put flower that I brought her. This moment I felt uneasy to stand by the father who lived longer than his daughter. I saw how the sorrow feels. We went back to the car in silence, Barry talked to himself in a very low voice. Maybe it was a Jewish prayer. Cynthia's brother told me yesterday, that he became very religious after his daughter's death.
- She died in the Russian Federation – he started suddenly.
The name of my country was pronounced the way relatives usually pronounce the name of the person who is guilty in the death of their family member. They call these people’s name and surname and talk about them in a mystical sense as if they are the God’s will carriers.
- There is a lot of violence in Russia – I remembered the words of an old professor.
Barry pretended he was listening to me attentively.
- The War in Chechnya started because there was a lot of violence in that republic, and it was necessary to stop it, I started trying to speak calmly and slowly. The Russian military was doing their job, but somebody let Cynthia into the zone of war without an obligatory accrediting. And some Americans suggested to her, knowing that she does not have any experience as a war journalist, only to make wow-pictures. Somebody suggested how she can get there, and her friends weren't strong and wise enough to convince her not to go.
- She will feel good there. Barry interrupted me and took my elbow. His red eyes full of tears looked at the sky.
First published by the “Lit-Era”, Gorky Institute Literature Almanac, Moscow
June 2006