Past imperfect

“You know, Signor Giuseppe? Let me tell you about one of Russian New Year's traditions. Maybe it will help you too. Could you bring me paper, a pencil and a matchbox?”

Giuseppe looked at Lera with interest and asked the waiter to bring what Lera had asked for.

“So, Signore Giuseppe, this is a sure way to fulfil all your wishes!”

"I am all ears," Giuseppe smiled.

“You need to take a piece of paper and write your most cherished desire on it. So that nobody can see what’s written. Then at the first chime of midnight, the paper must be set on fire, then you, fingers crossed, pray so that it burns quickly.”

“Please keep your voice down, signorina! Judging by the ears pricked up around us, we risk triggering the fire alarm tonight," Giuseppe laughed.

“Totally secret, signor!” Lera said in a stage whisper, "So that's it! The ashes of the paper must be thrown into a glass of champagne…"

“Champagne?!” Giuseppe snorted in contempt. "Madonna mia! Drinking this French mockery isn't easy even without ashes!"

“Okay! Let's have prosecco, as long as it’s sparkling”, Lera got her bearings, "So! You need to stir the ashes and drink it all up before the last chime of the clock."

"Will that help?" The man arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"I don't know," Lera smiled, "I haven't tried it, but that's reason to try, isn't it?"

The waiter brought a paper and pencil and stood by, intrigued as much as his boss. Lera ripped the notebook page into pieces and gave one to Giuseppe, who immediately scribbled something in small handwriting.

Lera took a pencil too and held it over the paper, but suddenly froze in confusion. Nothing coming to mind and the pencil hovering over the page without moving. She painfully tried to imagine what she wanted.

Now, sitting in the restaurant in the Eternal city, drinking wine and having fun, she felt like she had everything. Her favourite job, great apartment, good friends. But what else did she need? Giuseppe's words about a knight's heart touched her mind, but then they disappeared.

And suddenly, white packets of pills floated before her mind's eye. Lera hated the colour white because it reminded her of those damned boxes. They were a symbol of distrust, disbelief, and neglect. They were a symbol of Lera's constant fear. The fear that has not left Lera for twelve years.

For the first time in twelve years, that fear receded as she found herself in Rome. It seemed to Lera that in moving away from everything familiar and close to her, she had run away from her fear, and it was a great feeling. She felt a sense of lightness, confidence, and fun. Did all people feel that way all the time?

For the first time in years, Lera looked around with joy and curiosity, instead of suspiciously searching for who-knows-what. Lera resolutely lowered her pen and wrote in sharp handwriting, almost tearing through the page:

"I want to stop being afraid!"

“What now, mia bella signorina?” Giuseppe asked when they both were finished.

“That's it, signor! We are waiting for the last moments of the year, lighting the fire, drinking. If we don't do this before the clock strikes midnight, nothing will happen!” Lera said, quickly folding the paper in half.

“Then we need to hurry!” Giuseppe laughed.

Lera took out a thermocup from her bag, which had been filled with tea until recently, poured the rest of her spumante into it. After doing this, she grabbed a basket of food and a box of matches from the table and headed towards the exit.

"Happy New Year!" She shouted across the now empty room.

“And to you, Signorina! And you too! Please come again! You are always welcome here!” Giuseppe shouted, waving goodbye to her.

Smiling, Lera pulled on her coat and hurried to the bank of the Tiber. There, at the beautiful Fabricio Bridge, with her back to the Marcellus Theatre and her face to the Basilica of Saint Bartolomeo, she fought through the crowds of people. She wanted to get closer to the river.

Her watch said it was two minutes before midnight. Lera unscrewed the lid of her thermocup, which was lined with metal on the inside so it could serve as a miniature barbecue. Lera put a note inside, covered it from the wind with her hand, and taking out the matchbox began to wait.

“Uno!!!” The crowd shouted after a moment.

Lera struck a match and, without letting it flare up, poked at the piece of paper. The match went out.

“Due!!!” People burst out in chorus.

Lera got a little nervous and struck a second match. This time, she let the flame flare up properly and held the match to the piece of paper.

“Tre!!!”

The paper lit. Lera covered the tiny fire from the wind with both palms.

“Quattro!!! Cinque!!!”

Why did the waiter give her such a thick piece of paper?!

“Sei!!!”

The piece was almost burnt out, and Lera watched impatiently as the last slightly bluish light faded and extinguished.

“Sette!!!”

There it is! Lera slammed the lid with the ashes on the termocup, twisted it and began to shake so that the ashes would be mixed with wine.

“Otto!!!”

She snapped off the plug from a small hole in the lid and, almost spilling, began to swallow wine from the cup which turned out to be too much.

“Nove!!! Dieci!!! Undici!!!”

Lera pulled herself away from the cup, swallowed the last drop and shouted with everyone:

“Dodici!!!”

The sky exploded with fireworks. Shots and explosions rattled, shaking the bones. Lera screamed and cheered with everyone else, almost losing her voice. Fireworks reflected in the oil-black water of the Tiber illuminating everything around with fantastic colours.

Lera's heart filled with childlike joy. She had done it! What if it actually works? And although it was silly, Lera sincerely hoped that smoke from the burnt paper would fly directly to heaven and reach the someone it was meant for.

An hour later, she headed to her hotel, responding to constant shouts of "Buon anno!" Just before entering the building, an old pair of men's long underwear thrown from a window for luck fell on her head. It was the final straw. The girl burst into laughter.

****

In the early morning, a car pulled up to the back door of a restaurant in Sant'Angelo. Giuseppe hurriedly left the building and quickly walked towards it. The cold did not please him. As with all Italians.

One of Giuseppe's nephews drove the car. The man was serious about calling a bunch of guys. Vincenzo, for example, definitely was ready to meet some brava ragazza! His work will ruin him completely very soon. However, Giuseppe had married late and lived happily.

"Hello, Uncle!" said his nephew cheerfully.

"Hi, Vincenzo!" replied Giuseppe. "Thank you for offering to give me a lift!"

Vincenzo turned on the heating for his uncle's seat. Giuseppe sat down comfortably and looked out the window, smiling, looking forward to the long trip.

"Where's Aunt Chiara?” Vincenzo asked, looking at the back of the restaurant.

“O! Madonna mia! She's packed things on a trip for a week, even today! It’s four o'clock in the morning and my Chiara was late anyway! Women!”

Giuseppe threw up his hands and Vincenzo burst out laughing.

"I swear to you, nephew, men should be paid by the hour for the time they spend waiting for their wives to finally get ready.”

“Oh, I see you're cheerful today!" Vincenzo winked at him.

“Of course I am! Today a cute ragazza made me double my profits! And it only cost me a basket of food and two bottles of wine!"

“Really? How did you manage it?” Vincenzo was surprised.

“I mean that! A Russian interpreter. She played piano in my restaurant all evening. Can you imagine? The guests didn't want to leave.” Giuseppe was excited and waving his arms like a windmill. "And I told everyone, we need to hire a musician. Let him come at least once or twice a week. My guests were singing, with their arms around each other. That's why I run this restaurant.”

But Vincenzo wasn't listening. He clung to one phrase like a pit bull and jumped on the chair.

"Uncle! I desperately need a Russian interpreter," the guy shouted. "Did she leave you her phone number?"

"I'm not so young and attractive that beautiful girls give me their phone numbers," laughed Giuseppe, patting his belly.

"Oh, the devil!" Vincenzo said in serious frustration.

Giuseppe looked at his nephew with some regret, the nephew who thinks about his job even at four in the morning on New Year's Day. It's scary to think – even on a night like this, the poor guy has no other business than to take his uncle to the airport. Or maybe he and this Valeria will work out? Giuseppe squinted and decided – well, why not?

“She said the name of the agency where she works and also, she said that her boss was a stingy donna. Try contacting her… Look up the name of the agency on the internet. What if it works! The interpreter said that her boss, she would get an employee out of vacation if the client offers good money.”

Giuseppe was glad that that money definitely wouldn't be from Vincenzo's pocket.

"What’s the name?" Vincenzo asked, hope lighting up in his eyes.

"Hermes."

Chapter 4

The morning started with a phone call. Lera pulled her right hand out of the warm cocoon of the blanket, groping for the ringing phone and looking at the display with one eye. It was Irina Konstantinovna calleding. Lera automatically answered the call and muttered sleepily:

“Yes? Irina Konstantinovna, I'm leaving now the house going out already soon yeah…”

“Where do you think you're going?” there was a laughter on the other end. ” You’re supposed to be buried in the wilderness, covered in snow. And your phone should be off. You must be sitting on a tree since new year chimes, waiting for a call from your beloved boss!”

While Irina Konstantinova was practising philology, Lera woke up and realised where she was. "Oh damn! I’m a mess" she thought. Other thoughts flashed through her mind: "earrings", "security cameras", "police". In alarm, Lera jumped out of bed.

“Did you find out who brought the earrings?”

“Pfff, I beg you!” The boss snorted. “Those ones who work in security offices are normal people too! They were drinking champagne yesterday, just like you, and they had no time to search for our oligarch Romeo.”

Lera's face fell.

"I'm calling you about something else," the boss said, and added sarcastically: "since your phone is working so well there on the pine tree".

Lera pounded her fist on her forehead: "Damn it, damn it! She is calling about a job! She’ll make me work now! Definitely! That's what it is! Why didn't I throw this phone into the Tiber last night?!"

“There's a job for you!” Irina Konstantinovna said happily.

"That's great!” Lera thought. “And I can't refuse after the escort organised by her. It's rude… But it's worth a try."

“Irina Konstantinova, I'm not sure…”

“Come on, everything could be done on the phone. Hopefully it won't be for long if the client isn't an idiot.”

“Which is very rare…” Lera muttered.

“Hold it! Stand down! The client is your breadwinner, drink-winner and blessed mother! Respect and honour him right after your boss! I will pay double the rate! As we always agreed!” The boss quickly added, softening her tone.

“Irina Konstantinovna, it's the morning of the first of January…”

“So grab the client before he comes to his senses!”

Lera sighed. The whole verbal pas de deux was meaningless. Irina Konstantinova, who smelt the scent of possible profit, and the great white shark who smelled blood behaved in the same way. Pushing ahead, with no chance of changing course. If the boss called, it wouldn't be possible to politely get away with a refusal, and Lera asked fateful:

“What should I do?”

“It's nothing difficult! To instil in an Italian a love for Russian speech.”

“What?”

“Gah, they're making a movie there.” Irina Konstantinovna said. “Something about bandits. Or about the police? Anyway, I don't know. No difference. So, the main character has to say a few phrases in Russian and now they only have access to Italian interpreters because the Russians are all on holiday! And they don't want their hero to say something stupid. In short, they need a native. Well, they asked us…”

“I see. Do I need to teach someone how to speak some phrases on Russian without an accent?” Lera asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, that's right. And that's all we have. For an hour a day until they finish some scenes. They say it’s for three or four days. On the phone." Irina Konstantinovna replied lightly.

"Irina Konstantinova, it's going to be really hard to do it on the phone. He needs to watch our articulation…" Lera began.

“Well, what can we do? We can't refuse!"

“Of course not, Irina Konstantinovna! You will definitely not refuse them if they pay!" Lera grumbled to herself and asked: “Where are they working?”

“Rome. Synesytta.”

“Cinecitta” Lera corrected automatically.

“Oh, what's the difference? So what? Will you take it?”

Lera sighed resignedly and said, "Make the appointment… I'm in Rome."

“What a middle of nowhere!” The boss laughed. “Agreed! I'll send the coordinates and time via message within half an hour. Payment as agreed. That's it! Get to work!”

The phone went silent. Lera fell back onto the pillows with a groan. She allowed herself five minutes whining in self-pity, then got out of bed. Bulgakov’s Margarita looked at her from the mirror. Her fiery hair, tousled by the wind and felted on the pillow stood up in a mess. There were mystical dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her face was pale and angry with the realisation that she needed to work on her vacation. When she tried to smile, she saw that a piece of burned paper was stuck on her front tooth.

It was too much and Lera climbed into the shower. A quick shower had a beneficial effect on her smile and complexion, but it completely ruined her hairstyle. The hotel shampoo and hairdryer had turned an already abundant mass of hair into a perfect avant-garde style.

Lera tried to call them for order, but she did not succeed. Her last trick was to do everything so everyone around believed that this was what she intended, which was what Lera did. She neglected her makeup, believing fresh air would still give her a blush.

But the clothes could not be neglected. We’re represented by them. Taking out two dresses from her wardrobe, coral and light blue, she turned them this way and that before her eyes and chose the second one. She carefully put the coral dress back in the wardrobe. Gah! Too much honour to wear such beauty for an ordinary work meeting!

The phone gurgled. A message flashed on the screen: "Marco Guerriero. Torre Argentina Square. Cafe on Vittorio Emanuele Avenue 2. At 11:00." Lera sighed. There was not much time left, but there was just enough time for a quick breakfast.

After eating at the hotel, she headed to the meeting place on foot. It was not a long walk, just half an hour. The most important thing was not to get lost in the maze of small streets, so Lera decided to be careful. She walked along the banks of the Tiber to the Garibaldi Bridge and turned onto Arenula Street, which should lead her to her desired square.

When she reached her destination, Lera came to a standstill. There, on the square, in the middle of the residential buildings, surrounded by honking cars and rushing people, stood the ruins of several ancient temples in the open air, without any tickets or fences.

Lera used to visit Italy solely for work, and she never had time for sightseeing. That's why she felt like she was coming to this city for the first time. And today, as on the first day, she was stunned by the simplicity with which antiquity coexists with modernity here. Lera felt like a time traveller. It was easy to step off the busy highway of the twenty first century and get into the white-haired pre-Christian era.

Cats roamed the ruins, and Lera, involuntarily, slowed down her pace as she stared at them. She will definitely, unavoidably approach the columns that had seen the change of so many generations! Absolutely! As soon as she gets rid of this Marco Guerriero, for whom it suddenly became necessary to speak like a Russian at this most inconvenient time.

Her phone beeped, announcing it was eleven o'clock in Rome. Oh damn! She was gawping and now she was late! Lera ran towards the avenue like a hare, and definitely found the right café, it was only one there. It was quite large.

Lera fell into it from a running start, like a stormtrooper into a bunker. The numbers "11:04" were on the clock behind the hostess counter. She turned to the receptionist, taking off her coat in the same movement.

"I have an appointment with Signor Guerriero. Is he here? Can you show me?"

The hostess nodded and motioned for Lera to follow her. She trotted after the receptionist, but when she took a step aside to point to the table where the man was sitting, Lera stumbled. Because the being who was sitting there definitely was a God.

Marco was tall. Very tall. And dark skinned, with strikingly sharp features. His glossy black hair was neatly combed back revealing a high, prominent forehead. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed. He tapped a long elegant finger against his lips while studying the menu.

He was so handsome that Lera almost felt herself suffocating. She had never seen such a beautiful person in her life. She could barely move her legs and walked towards Marco like a rabbit towards a boa constrictor. He would have made a suitable model for the ancient sculptors for the statue of Apollo. Lera was stunned by him.

Until the man looked at her. His translucent ice-blue eyes burned with such undisguised anger that she was taken aback.

****

Marco was furious. He ran shamefacedly away from the restaurant in Sant'Angelo, which hurt his ego. He couldn't stand being in the same room with this stray tourist. Him! Marco Guerriero, on whom women threw themselves in bunches. Moreover, even the long walk to his apartment in Flaminio had not cooled him down. Marco seethed, tormented by hot thoughts and anger.

On New Year's Eve he had hoped to sit out at a restaurant where there was at least an illusion of being in some company. Well, Marco could not really celebrate the new year with his own assistant, honestly! Although, now it seemed to Marco that anything was better than sitting in an empty apartment listening to other people rejoicing. The emptiness would not leave him alone, pointedly demonstrating he had nowhere to go and nothing to do for now.

The apartment greeted him with a booming echo, then silence. It was empty today. There were no women, no relatives, and no pets. Even Rosa, the housekeeper, had taken some free days and gone home. Marco threw his keys onto the console and went into the living room.

He casually threw his expensive coat onto an even more expensive sofa, which was designed to perfection. The whole apartment was pricey and thought out to the smallest detail. And completely impersonal, like a hotel room.

Marco snorted bitterly. There was no cup of half-finished coffee, no socks thrown on the floor. Rosa carefully cleaned up the traces of his stay in this place before leaving. It was like Marco had never existed at all. As if he existed only on the screen.

He looked around and angrily kicked the coffee table to somehow disrupt this idyll. The table creaked and slid to the side; the echos quickly faded away. Marco stood for a minute, looking irritably at the walls and went to the bar for lack of anything better to do. There he found and uncorked a bottle of wine.

Rome was blackening outside the window. Flaminio's obelisk pierced the darkening sky. The frozen Tiber loomed to the right. Today, Marco's beloved view from the window did not please him. With a chuckle, he caught himself thinking about summoning a call-girl. However, Marco quickly dismissed the idea, and scolded himself, deciding that he had not quite fallen so low – at least not yet.

He wandered around the living room like a caged tiger. The wall clock showed fifteen minutes until midnight. New year is coming soon, and Marco had nothing to prepare for a celebration – his table was bare. Moreover, what sort of celebration would it be if he was alone?

Marco came up with an idea: when he was a child, his mother had told him about how to attract good luck on New Year's Eve. She said it was essential to dress in red, throw out old junk from the window and eat twelve grapes while the clock struck. One grape at a chime.

Marko didn't believe in all that nonsense, but today he felt especially saddened. Perhaps it was the wine that went to his head, but nevertheless for some reason, he stumbled into his bedroom. There was a photo frame of himself and Paola on the bedside table beside the huge bed. Marco thoughtfully rubbed his stubbled chin and, after considering it, took the photo out and tore it up into small pieces. Not because he hated the girl. He just wanted to make sure there would be nothing compromising if he threw the photo out of the window.

Then he entered the dressing room and pulled out the first red object that caught his eye. It turned out to be a beautiful, large-knit sweater that his mother had made with her own hands. Marco put it on over his sports T-shirt.

Then Marco forced himself to look in the far corner of the dressing room. Having decided, he reached onto the top shelf and took out an old, torn T-shirt that was faded, but very carefully washed and repaired. It was his favourite T-shirt which he wore when visiting his parents in the campagna. He had not lived with them since the age of nineteen, since he started studying.

Two years ago, their house in the village was completely burned down. A remote area, an isolated house with almost no neighbours… His parents didn’t survive. It was fortunate that his brother was not there at the time. An old T-shirt and a vineyard taken care of by strangers were all that remained of that particular past. Marco had the house rebuilt rebuilt in detail, but it never again felt the same.

Marco looked at the T-shirt for a long time, then he took it out of the dressing room, gathered the pieces of the photo on the cloth, and went to the kitchen. It was two minutes before midnight according to the clock. He reached into the fridge, picked out a dozen from a bunch of grapes, rinsed them, and placed them on the table. Some scattered, so Marco collected them in a pile. He opened the window, letting cold air into the apartment. Then he turned on the live broadcast from St. Mark's square in Venice and waited.

Almost immediately, joyful voices came from the TV, announcing that the clock was about to strike. And it was true: the first "boom-m-m-m-m" rang out and Marco put a grape into his mouth. He desperately wanted good luck.

He swallowed the grapes like a duck, without chewing, and with at last stroke, he finished the last of them. The sky lit up with bright fireworks. Marco grabbed the T-shirt and the scraps of photo and walked towards the window albeit reluctantly. He couldn't take his eyes off his burden. His fingers convulsively at the fabric.

At the last moment, he scooped up the paper scraps from the shirt. Placing the cloth on the table, he threw the photo fragments out the window with no regret. There was no shame before Paola, but the desire to release the grief that had tormented him for two years gave rise to a bitter sense of guilt.

Marco sighed heavily, lowered his head, stood there for a minute and finally slammed the window shut. He went into the living room, took the wine and sat down to watch "Christmas Holidays", the plot of which he already knew by heart.

After half an hour, Marco realised that he was not looking at the screen. He turned off the TV and trudged into the bedroom. Stripped naked, he stretched out on the bed on top of the blankets with a sigh. Fireworks were booming outside the window, illuminating the room with coloured flashes.

The sight of coloured confetti made from the photo flying out of his window rose before his eyes. Marco would soon be thirty-nine, many of his classmates were already sending their children to school, and he had just thrown his past affair out of the window.

Marco rolled over on his side. "I wonder what that redhead is doing now? Probably dancing somewhere on the street, in a crowd of other idle revellers" he thought, and immediately regretted it. The image of soft lips picking up red, juicy flesh from a creamy bed instantly burst into his consciousness. Heck! He could describe in details where he would like to see those lips.