sovikati

Trips don’t last forever.

As the date of Andres’s flight draws closer, the two men start running out of activities to do. And so, it’s only natural that the idea of visiting Aleksandr’s old house and his son is revisited.

Bundled up in many many layers once again, the two pile into the car, and Aleksandr drives smoothly towards the old house on the edge of the city. Andres is visibly much more excited than Aleksandr, asking questions about his son, the house, and whatever else pops into his mind about the Russian’s past. The latter does his best to answer, although sometimes Andres can see him tense and his words come out like a vague summary that is trying to avoid spoiling the movie. It doesn’t deter Andres’s excitement. If anything, the mystery piques his interest. Aleksandr is a reserved and private man, he doesn’t talk as much about his past, so really the visit is simply an opportunity to get to know where Aleksandr comes from— and by extension him— much better.

It doesn’t take long for them to pull up in front of the house. Just as mentioned, it rests on the outskirts of the city on a green hill, next to an extensive forest that leads into the countryside. When they step out of the car, Andres swears he can hear the dull murmur of a river in the distance. The house itself is clearly old, and Aleksandr informs that it is at least as old as him— although it has clearly gone through a good couple of renovations. The house has two stories that Andres can see, with big windows plastered on it. It’s a pleasant mix of wood and brick, painted a dull red. As they approach the house, Andres can’t help but think about how warm the building looks, the type of house a kid would describe as the ideal childhood home. Unsurprising, really, given that fifteen kids were raised in it.

Andres smiles to himself as they step onto the porch, and Aleksandr steps forward to knock on the intricately carved door. There is a welcome mat in front of it, and a wreath carefully nailed to it. The door draws back, revealing another tall man behind it and Andres almost makes an audible sound of surprise. Aleksandr’s eldest son is a carbon copy of him. Only slightly shorter than his father, Ivan retains the same bored and judgemental expression, the same build, the same face and eyes, and, when he greets Andres, the same monotone voice,

“Welcome, it is nice to meet you.”

“It’s really so wonderful to finally meet you, kid. Aleksandr has told me a lot about you.” he replies, extending his hand for a shake. A familiar strong hand grasps his. Really the only thing separating the two is the clear difference in age and the dirty blonde hair on Ivan. The young man steps aside to let his father in, who ducks to not hit his head, and Andres follows, excitedly chatting to the quiet son who simply watches him like he is growing a second head and keeps glancing between him and his father.

They take their shoes and coats off before piling into the living room, where Ivan politely offers tea as they sit down onto the couch. A short silence settles onto the group, before Andres speaks up,

“Ivan, tell me about yourself! How is that work Sandro always says you are busy with?” he asks, a bright smile on his face.

Ivan glances at his father questioningly, for reasons Andres doesn’t quite understand, but eventually answers, launching them into a long back and forth. From his studies to his current career, Andres makes sure no topic is untouched as Ivan diligently answers every question. The Filipino is amused to remark that he has the same short and simple manner of answering that his father has.

“Ivan, do you have a girlfriend? Fiancée?”

“I think it is time for lunch.” comes the answer, as Ivan looks up at the clock and gets up without a chance for Andres to push further, walking away into the kitchen. Aleksandr simply shakes his head disapprovingly and pats Andres’s knee.

Soon enough, the trio is piled into the kitchen. Ivan has clearly cooked some kind of feast, most of which Andres doesn’t recognize, but still looks delicious. Soups, bread, and other are abundant on the table. Lunch is spent silently, apart from the occasional compliment on the cooking by Andres. When he doesn’t hear Aleksandr agree, he quickly nudges the younger man with his foot, earning a grumbled, “The meal is wonderful, Vanya.”. Aleksandr and Ivan occasionally exchange a couple of remarks in Russian, but Andres is too occupied by the home cooked soup to really pay attention. He catches only their tones passingly, filled with tension and frustration. Still, nothing comes of it.

Once they are done with lunch, Andres helps pack the dishes into the sink. He insists on helping out with the washing, and Aleksandr excuses himself to some part of the house, declaring he wants to dig up some old pictures and such for their guest. It takes a couple of minutes, but Ivan and Andres fall into a comfortable rhythm with the dishes. The Russian’s quiet voice cuts through the clatter of dishes and sound of water flowing from the tap,

“You seem quite close with my father.”

Andres smiles, a friendly, foreign smile, “Of course! We are good friends after all!” his voice is cheery, light, seemingly oblivious to the suspicious eyes trailing on him.

Ivan looks a bit surprised at that and nods, “Right, right.” and he hesitates, just for a second.

Andres takes advantage of the hesitation, “You know, he is very proud of you.” he hums, taking the dish from Ivan’s motionless hands, “We both are.” Ivan looks at him incredulously and Andres continues, “I know he’s not the type to actually say it, but I can see it in the way he brags about you.” he offers a kind smile to Ivan, who looks absolutely starstruck, “ And I can see why! You are a handsome and smart young man, just like my sons. Much to be proud of and brag about.” And before the Russian can say anything, a deeper, gravelly voice calls out from the living room for Andres, informing him of the photo albums waiting on the living room table. He excuses himself politely, wiping his hands and leaving Ivan in the kitchen, frozen over the dishes. He takes a deep breath and continues washing the dishes. Whatever thoughts may be running through his head, there are no signs of them on his face anymore.

In the living room, Aleksandr has a pile of photo albums next to the coffee table, and one open on it. Andres sits down next to him and for the next few hours, they pour over them together. Ivan joins at some point, silent, watching the two interact. Andres watches the pictures with close attention. The similarities between Ivan and his father are even more apparent when the pictures of Aleksandr at his age surface. Spitting image, truly. Most of the time is spent by Aleksandr telling the stories behind every image. Ivan glares at his father has he recounts one more embarrassing childhood story, shaking his head when Andres laughs, putting a hand on the other man’s arm. If Andres notices the lack of photos and stories pertaining Aleksandr before the revolution, he doesn’t mention it.

“It took us thirty minutes to manage to get them all to pose for this one.” reminisces Aleksandr as he points to a large family picture. It takes up the entire page, and it seemingly has all the kids with Aleksandr and another, older looking man in front of the house. They are all dressed in formal clothes, and Aleksandr has in his hand a young child who clings onto him. As Andres leans against the other man to look at the picture better, Aleksandr puts a hand on his knee, squeezing softly. He pays it no mind, and they flip to the next page. The hand stays. Ivan almost misses the flicker of pride in his father’s eyes when they pass onto his and his siblings graduation pictures. He’s never noticed it before, it’s certainly easy to miss. He’s not sure how to feel about it.

As they come to the last album, Aleksandr glances at the clock, “It is going to get dark soon, we should go if we want to have a walk around still.” he murmurs, closing the album and putting it on the pile with the others, the dates on each inscribed with large golden letters. Andres nods enthusiastically and gets up, ushered by Aleksandr to go put on his many layers. He catches the faint sounds of Russian flowing between Aleksandr and Ivan. He can hear that Aleksandr’s tone shifts into something akin to nagging, and Ivan in turn sounds frustrated, before the sounds die down all together and heavy footsteps come towards the hallway.

By the time Aleksandr is putting on his coat, Andres is ready to go. Ivan stands in front of him, bidding goodbye politely,

“Thank you for coming.”

“Nonsense, thank YOU for the lunch and hospitality!” Andres smiles widely again.

Before Ivan has time to react, he launches forward to hug the boy, a large, tight, friendly and warm hug. Instead of flinching away or standing tensely, Ivan awkwardly hugs back and pats Andres’s back. Aleksandr glances at them, a flicker of surprise on his face before he’s back to tying his shoes. Andres lets go, reaching up to pat Ivan on his cheek, “Take care of yourself, son!” Ivan only nods. Aleksandr bids his goodbyes as well, in Russian and with a firm handshake.

When the door closes behind them, they start walking off on the beaten path towards the forest, with Aleksandr insisting they can’t go before Andres sees the surroundings too. And so, they walk along the beaten path through the forest. It’s calm and quiet, silence between them as Andres stares off at the tree crowns and lets himself be guided by their intertwined arms. They come upon a small lake just as the sun starts setting, filtering in through the break in the branches and reflecting in the water. Aleksandr guides Andres to sit on a clearly hand constructed bench nearby, and together they watch the orange, pink and blue hues play on the water as the sun retreats and the cold starts to set in.

Andres shuffles closer to his personal heater and looks up at said heater, observing his face carefully. The golden rays bathe his face in an angelic light, bringing out the colour of his eyes and the light freckles across his face. The shining eyes look down at him, holding his gaze. They watch, just as careful, amazement reflecting in them. After a few minutes of silence, when the sun passes, Andres looks back at the water, “This summer, you’re coming to the Philippines.” he declares. Aleksandr can’t help but chuckle,

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are. If you can freeze me, I can melt you.”

A hum. “Sounds fair.”

“We are going to visit Manila and then I’ll show you where we used to live.”

“It better be as beautiful as you say it is.”

“Of course it is!” comes the outraged response.

“Then it is settled; this summer will be in the Philippines.” a soft smile accompanies the promise.

Tomorrow, when Andres is accompanied to the airport by Aleksandr, he won’t be able to stop himself from looking back while he walks towards the security line and stopping when he sees Aleksandr standing, waiting, staring at him. He’ll be staying longer, he needs to get some affairs in order and help his son after all. Then, he’ll keep walking, heart beating a little faster, one thought repeating in his head over and over,

It takes a week or so, but Andres recovers from his cold and can finally breathe again. He’s still coughing occasionally, but that is to be expected after such an illness. Regardless, the Filipino man finally feels ready to explore the city again. Despite his insistence that he does feel completely fine now, Aleksandr also insists they take it easy and not spend too much time outside in the cold, lest Andres get sick again. After pouring over some flashy tourist pamphlets, they settle on going around a few museums before stopping by Aleksandr’s old home.

Once they each get their respective clothes on, Andres’s now including the proper amount of layers, they make their way down with the elevator, flustering Andres once again. They make their way outside and Aleksandr grabs a window cleaning tool to quickly scrape the snow off of the windshield before they get into the car. It’s cold, and Andres doesn’t even bother to take his coat off. With a glance, Aleksandr quickly turns up the heating, relaxing into his seat as he starts up the car and pulls out of the narrow parking spot. The streets are busy as always in the bustling capital, but the taller man navigates them skillfully, avoiding a patch of ice here and taking a short cut there. Andres takes the time to stare out the window at the tall buildings, some of them carved with intricate patterns while others remain a smooth concrete grey.

It wasn’t the first museums that they were dropping by. When Andres was already almost recovered, only some minor coughing left, and was feeling restless, Aleksandr drove them down to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. It was leisurely, the whole day being spent slowly wondering down the halls of the museum and sitting on the benches. Andres insisted on stopping beside every painting, observing every brush stroke and intentional placement of colour the author had placed to communicate the world they imagined. Standing in front of ‘Blue Dancers’, Aleksandr stood behind him, observing the various shades of blue tumbling together,

“Beautiful, is it not?”

“Gorgeous.”

A heavy sigh, “Beauty comes with great sorrow. Ballerinas were, essentially, prostitutes at the time. Degas did not participate in that, he forced them to pose for hours on end and cracked their joints painfully instead. He saw them as animals, nothing more than entertainment.” his gaze shifted from the painting to Andres, “Is it not surprising such beauty can come from that environment?”

Andres looked up a bit quizzically and paused, his eyes shining in the dim but illuminating light of the gallery, “Poor girls…”

Soviet preferred the historical exhibitions and sculptures, standing around and watching the grooves carved into the delicate marble with great appreciation or talking to Andres about the cultural and historical significance of an item.

While the fine arts tour was entertaining, Andres was craving some real substance and some more elongated and passionate rants from Aleksandr. And so, at his request, the first stop was the State Historical Museum. The ornate red building and green rooftop looms over them as Aleksandr finally pulls into a suitable parking spot. A gentleman as always, he helps the other get out and lets him link their arms together as they walk to the door.

“This is an incredibly large museum, it contains most of Russian history. It has forty halls” the taller man explains as he pays for the tickets.

He hands one to Andres, who takes it and observes it carefully, nodding as he unzips his coat. And so, the long, winding road down the halls of the museum starts.

The halls are filled with items and exhibits from all times of the spanning Russian state. The traditional clothing of Russian peasantry and royalty alike, paintings of the Romanov family, and an extensive and varied collection from the Soviet era. The audio guide offered at the entrance seems more and more obsolete as Aleksandr launches into new explanations for every item and every time frame. Andres watches him with sparkling eyes, still holding onto his arm as he talks about the Romanovs and their reputation among the population while they stand in front of a large painting of the family,

“It was also quite upsetting for the Russian people, even offensive, to have a Tsarina of foreign decent. It did not help that she was quite withdrawn and did not fulfill many of the duties expected from her. Her relationship with Rasputin also raised concerns. Nicholas was not any better of course, he was incompetent. He suffered from a very obvious inferiority complex that dragged the country into the ruinous world war. At his coronation ceremony’s celebration, more than a thousand people even got trampled to death when they tried to get drinks and food. A bad omen, you do not want your coronation to start by a period of mourning. Regardless, the whole royal family was utterly uncaring and frivolous, and unfit to rule too. They spent and lived in luxury while everyone else starved…” he glares at the painting and Andres for a moment wonders if he’s going to spit at it, but the Russian man just shrugs,

“So we shot them.”

His point about luxury is punctuated by the various jewels and expensive paintings around them.

The rest of the tour continues in a similar fashion, small anecdotes and cultural context added to the already rich in information exhibits of the museum, until they reach the beginning of the Soviet era. Andres doubts he’s ever heard Aleksandr talk so much in one sitting, but he really doesn’t mind. In fact, he considers telling Aleksandr they should visit a museum tomorrow as well, and the day after, just to see him talk endlessly. Not that Andres retains more than a quarter of the actual information, but Aleksandr doesn’t mind repeating himself anyways. They stand in front of an exhibit on only Lenin, and Aleksandr takes the liberty to extend the lesson into some ideological background in honour of it,

“And he was so passionate about everything he said Andres. You should have seen him when he gave his speeches. There are recordings, I suppose, but nothing comes close to the feeling of standing in front of that stage and watching him speak. It really gets you fired up. You’d understand why so many people believe in him. He truly believed in the equality of people, the education and rule of the working class. His teachings were revolutionary and genius, they were followed and cited the entirety of my lifetime. It was just what the people needed; along with bread, peace, and land of course.” he sighs, looking at the hat in the glass case.

He stares wistfully, full of nostalgia. Andres doesn’t think he’s seen Aleksandr this happy to reminisce about the old times before, although it is clear the man is proud of his past and accomplishments, and only guilty for some obscure parts.

The rest of the halls of this section go by almost achingly slow and much the same. The Russian man is full of personal anecdotes about seemingly every mildly important figure of his own history. Andres doesn’t tire of it though, not when he’s heard about the redistribution of housing and land from kulaks to the true workers ten times, and not when he’s heard it a hundred times. The historical items themselves are of great interest too. Aleksandr helps him practice his Cyrillic reading on an odd letter or address, even though he struggles like a kindergartner. As he goes through more and more of the items, Andres comes to two real conclusions; Aleksandr very much still dresses like a Soviet man, and the Soviets were really really fond of the colour red. His own flag is mostly red and he hasn’t seen this much red before. Although, the obsession with the star symbol is a close second on that list. As with any history, it is impossible to avoid the darker sides of history when talking about the positives. Aleksandr talks only briefly about the more painful periods and Andres doesn’t push. It’s a sensitive topic, and the man must feel terrible for all the suffering of his people.

Overall, it takes them more than half a day to get through the museum. By the time they exit, lunch time has passed and they are both famished. Leaving the car at it’s previous parking place, they take a walk down to the Red Square, window shopping the various restaurants on the way before settling on a cozy looking place in one of the side alleys. Aleksandr takes care of the talking, both for his knowledge of Russian and to have mercy on Andres’s still sore throat. The Filipino gets served a tea for the latter, long before they even decide on a dish. The taller takes his time to translate and explain all the dishes on the relatively short menu before Andres settles on some borscht, egged on by his partner,

“Choose this one. Soup will do you good.” he says, although Andres still doesn’t quite understand what borscht is made of.

The lunch goes by calmly and uneventfully. They mostly eat in silence, looking out of the window and enjoying the temporary calm. The food is good, and Andres interrupts the comfortable silence a couple of times to praise the borscht and nag Aleksandr on why he can’t cook like this,

“It’s just so perfectly seasoned. I guess the cook is just more experienced than you!” he smiles mischievously,

Aleksandr frowns, “You’ve never complained about my cooking before.”

“I had nothing to compare it to. Now I should start.”

Aleksandr frowns deeper and despite his large stature, Andres can’t help but see a hurt puppy in his place.

After the lunch, they head to the second museum of the day— the Museum of the Great Patriotic War. Aleksandr parks the car outside Victory Park, and the two link arms once again for the short walk to the museum itself. On the way, Andres takes the time to appreciate his surroundings once again. The light snow on the branches, the blanket covering the ground and crunching under his feet, it’s all so foreign to him, yet he’s starting to really understand why Aleksandr loves it so much. He looks back to the man, catching his eye momentarily before the head quickly moves to look at the trees again as well. He smiles slightly and sighs, returning to look at the trees again as well, although he leans in just a bit closer to the Russian.

The atmosphere of the museum is much more solemn and heavy than their previous stop. As they stepped inside at the State museum, he could see Aleksandr vibrating out of his skin with excitement to introduce Andres to his beloved and cherished history. Yet here, his steps are heavy, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t want to go in. It’s no surprise, of course. The entire building is dedicated to the most brutal war Aleksandr has every fought, and he’s not keen to revisit the memory. Regardless, he assures Andres it’s an important museum to visit and buys the tickets, handing one to the smaller man as they advance in.

This museum is equally as large, yet it feels more taxing. They advance through, mostly silent this time as Andres reads the English explanations for all the battles and various awards or soldiers used as examples. Aleksandr seems taken by the photographs specifically. He stares at them, almost too long, before shaking his head or looking down and moving on. Andres makes sure to hold onto him during this museum too, although it’s less for himself now. After an exhibition showing a scene from a war ridden part of the countryside, dirt dug up by bombs and hardened by the freezing temperatures, Aleksandr finally speaks up,

“We were brave and we won, that should be celebrated.” he suddenly declares, but Andres knows him and waits patiently for the rest, “I saw some very brave men out there. Braver than me. They send me out to the front, so what? I only die if my country dies, and it was not dead yet. But my people, they died from random bullets, from diseases, from cold. They were more vulnerable, it was braver of them to venture to the front.” he speaks quietly, almost as if he wasn’t speaking to Andres at all.

The other man waits but nothing more is said. The conversation picks up after that. The weight of the situation is not lifted, but Aleksandr seems… more open. He tells stories at some of the battles, of the things he’s seen. The images of starving women and children, no bodies piled up because it wasn’t worth retreating them. Most importantly, he tells the stories he heard from the women and children. The bitterness in their voices when they talked about the war taking a husband, or sons, or both. The anger and vitriol towards the Germans, not only for invading their land and killing their loved ones, but for forcing the young girls into prostitution, for raping the young and old as they passed through the countryside, and looting the villages for their own gains, leaving others to starve. Andres simply listens, although horrified by the tales.

“The most horrible part was never the battle, although that was hell on earth too. No, the most horrible part was when the adrenaline wore off and you walked through the field, taking in the remnants of your men. An arm here, a leg there. A dead horse, a dead man.” he shook his head, “The look on the faces of men forever changed, men who have seen hell and just want to die for some rest at last stays burned in your memory. Especially when they were all so young.” his face looks pained at the last sentence.

Aleksandr talks about the good too, the heroic and light. He recounts some of the jokes commonly told in the battlefield, a darker type of humour but humour nonetheless,

“The Germans would try to taunt us on the radios sometimes, but they also made jokes. Like, ‘Rus, do you wanna swap an Uzbek for a Romanian?’. We had jokes in between us too. Our pilots, they were doing their best, but they had a nasty habit of bombing everything that moved, including us. So the joke went ‘Ours, ours? Then where’s my helmet?’” he chuckled to himself, sighing softly.

He continues with small anecdotes of how everyday life continued on regardless of the war, of men chasing women, and heroic tales from some soldiers. Although there is no personal anecdote attached to this one, Andres is particularly taken by the stories of the Night Witches. He can’t fully imagine climbing out of a plane and turning an engine on and off in mid air while also bombing Nazis, so his respect for the women is immediately at an all time high. Seeing the look on his face, Aleksandr continues with the story of Lyudmila Pavlichenko, one of the deadliest snipers in history. He tells it with pride, Andres can see it.

The silence falls upon them once again as the halls transition to a long list of commanders. Aleksandr takes his time, stopping at the ones where he recognises a face and pays his respects silently. Andres lets him have the time and simply watches patiently, patting his arm once he comes back. Finally, the weight lifts and only it’s shadow stays as they exit the museum. It could have been longer, but Andres doesn’t want to keep Aleksandr in more distress than he need to be.

The way back to the car is dark, the street lights and Christmas lights around the park and surrounding buildings being the only illumination for them. Andres shivers slightly, the drop in temperature brought on by the darkness chills him down to his bones. It’s been dark for a while now, it was already starting to get dark when they had gone to the museum, the sun isn’t a good indicator for time in Russia in the winter. Despite this, the darkness carries the same undertones as the dead of night, and Andres sticks closer to Aleksandr with a yawn. He might be aware it’s only late afternoon, but his body sure isn’t. The prickly cold and walk helps them both wind down, and Aleksandr visibly relaxes by the time they arrive back to the car. Andres looks up at him, taking in the features of the other under the warm street light. He is clearly still preoccupied by his thoughts, a slight frown on his face, his eyes looking into the distance like he is somewhere else altogether.

Andres shivers and slips into the car as Aleksandr does, the latter immediately turning up the heat as he leans back in his seat. Andres yawns again, sighing at the warmth starting to fill the car and warm up his frosted body. Aleksandr looks over to him, observing the almost curled up body on his passenger seat,

“Let’s head home.”

Andres looks up at him, frowning, “We still have to go up to that house you wanted to show him, no?”

“You look tired and cold.” comes the retort, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“I’m fine. Lets go”

Aleksandr stares for a while as Andres straightens his back and fights off the exhaustion in his limbs to look more energised. He might be recovered from his illness, but it still took a toll on his body and he will tire more easily in the next few days.

Still, there’s no hope arguing with Andres. Instead, Aleksandr turns on the radio, the soft classical music filling the car as he pulls out. The soft hum of the car, warm air, and music make it hard to keep awake for Andres. He leans his head back against the seat of the car, watching the buildings pass them outside on the street. His eyelids feel heavy, and they keep closing on their own, his head lulling to the side before energy strikes him again and he straightens up. Well, if his body requires it so much, it cannot be that bad to just close his eyes until they get to the house. He’ll feel refreshed when they’re there that way! And so he does, leaning his head onto his own shoulder.