Glasnost and Love

Mikhail squinted and struggled to see the spot of grass Mariya was pointing at. He had never needed glasses, but that would probably change in the coming years.

 “Come on, let’s go,” said Mariya as she began an unhurried jog to the area of grass that seemed indistinguishable from the rest of the open field but that, nonetheless, was specially chosen in her mind.

She quickly arrived at the patch and stood waiting for Mikhail as he trudged along in the tall and unkempt blades of grass. Mariya was by no means athletic, but she was able to trigger a spring in her step whenever something excited her.

“You’re walking too slow, Misha,” she playfully teased as she used her hand to cover her squinting eyes from the summer’s sun.

Mikhail hated being called Misha. His older siblings had always called him that whenever they used their seniority to outrank him, and fellow students at the university still summoned Mikhail with a loud and demanding, “Misha!” whenever they needed him to do their schoolwork for them. Other people knew that it bothered him, and after three years of studying at Moscow State University, the other students did not agree with Mikhail’s own opinion that the comedic effect of the annoying nickname had faded. Mariya had begun calling him Misha just over two months ago. He was initially uncertain whether she did so to join the other students in the jest or to…well, he was still uncertain. Still, as long as it came from her, there was no protest from him.

Finally arriving to her, he allowed his head to give her shade from the sun. At last, she could open her eyes, revealing her deep brown irises. Seemingly uncontrollably, she gave him a smile in appreciation for the protection from the rays. Mikhail nodded his head kindly in acknowledgement of the unsaid thanks.

“Right then,” she stated as she sat down on the field, her legs crossed. “Let’s listen.” Mariya unzipped her handbag and took out the coveted item they had agreed to try out for the first time together. The almighty Sony Walkman cassette player. The gadget was rare on the black market, but Mariya’s cousin in the more open Czechoslovakia was able to gift her one when she was visiting Moscow on vacation from her studies. Now, hundreds of musical symphonies and sonnets, from Mozart to MC Hammer, could be heard wherever someone wanted through a small metallic box. What a marvelous invention! Of course, Mikhail, a natural rule follower, would have not even thought of using one had it not been for glasnost.

“It’s a good thing your Uncle Misha gave you permission,” began Mariya. “Otherwise, you would have never said yes to me inviting you to listen.” Mikhail’s “Uncle Misha” was none other than the General Secretary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics: Mikhail Gorbachev. Of course, Secretary Gorbachev was not really Mikhail’s uncle. Mariya just liked to use that joke whenever the two stumbled upon one of the possibly unintended fruits of glasnost, like the Walkman cassette player. Glasnost. It was strange how such a horribly ugly word could give rise to something so beautiful. The political, social, and cultural opening of the Soviet Union was the result of glasnost and other reforms instituted by his dear Uncle Misha. Now, Mikhail and Mariya could come alone to an open field, unafraid of anyone following them, and listen to any song from the West that they desired.

Mikhail had been too busy thinking about the intricacies of geopolitics to realize that he and Mariya had already begun listening to their first song. “This one is called ‘Let’s Twist Again’ by Chubby Checker,” she had said. They each held one half of the flimsy headset as they struggled to keep their heads as close each other as possible without letting them touch one another. If Mikhail was being honest, he would have been content letting their heads touch. As they were right now, they could have probably heard each other breathing had it not been for the loud music playing. Mikhail listened as the voice of the artist, a voice he was certain came from a fat and jolly man, rang in his ears. There was no hiding the joy, energy, and spirit that came from the music. This music gave him freedom, freedom from his own insecurities and anxieties. Nonetheless, the song could not yet break the biggest uncertainty he had in his life. Despite Mariya’s kindness and playfulness towards him, Mikhail was still uncertain whether she felt for him what he felt for her. After all, years of being pushed around by siblings and classmates had an effect on a man. Her natural beauty and elegance could not have contrasted more sharply with the timid frankness of his personality. He was a civil engineering major, and she was fascinated by the study of economics and foreign languages. Not only was her English impeccable, but her French and Italian could have made even native speakers swoon. Or at least that is what Mikhail imagined. Suddenly, she turned toward him with a smile.

“Did you like the song?” she asked.

“Yes. I did.” Mikhail was unsure what else he could possibly say about the song that had made him feel so emotionally liberated. Before he could think of another word (indeed, it would have been hours before that happened), Mariya quickly changed cassette tapes for the next one she had planned to listen to. The pace and fluidity of her movements during the process led Mikhail to believe she had listened to and changed songs thousands of times before that day.

What came on next was the sound of a European symphony. Whether it was Bach or Beethoven, Mikhail did not find that information to be of the utmost importance at the moment. The beauty of the orchestra contrasted with his physical discomfort. His awkwardly fitted long-sleeved collared shirt felt even more uncomfortable as the sweat accumulated around his armpits. He had never been so physically close and alone to the woman he longed for, and the nervousness of the situation amplified his family’s history of sweaty men. That and it was really hot outside, of course.

Daring to fully turn his face towards her, he was both relieved and disappointed to see that she was paying no attention to his movements. Analyze her actions, he saw the profound pondering of mother nature that occupied her. Her long hair would turn a light, almost blonde, shade of brown in the summer before evolving to an even more beautiful dark brown during the winter. The red shirt she wore was indicative of her displayed economic modesty but also of her attractive tastefulness. Coming from a relatively wealthy, but by no means dishonorable, family, Mariya could quickly save enough money to afford goods that would have taken Mikhail half a year to purchase. From her authentic blue jeans to the dozens of cassette tapes that she had already purchased in preparation for the first listening of the Walkman, those few examples of little luxuries made her seem more daring and refined. To avoid any more pain for their elbows that they had long been leaning on, they both allowed themselves the privilege of lying down on the grass, a bit further away from one another as they tolerated the decrease in music volume.

The symphony continued as Mikhail pictured the elegant balls this song must have been played at. Mikhail remembered how he had recently seen old films from the West where the gentlemen always greeted the ladies with a kiss on the hand. What a greeting! And how different his was from the “Greetings, comrade” his parents had used when they met. If only Mikhail could summon the courage of those gentlemen to tell Mariya how he felt. If only he could express to her how he desired to protect her, to take care of her, to be her shoulder to rest on. And imagine if he could do it with a kiss! But no; he could not revel in these fantasies. The possibility of success rarely inspired Mikhail. More often than not, anger at the probability of failure is what motivated him to act.

In an act that must have been designed by the universe or by God himself, the next song on the new cassette Mariya had put in happened to be “Brandy,” by Looking Glass. Yes, even the uncultured and uncool Mikhail knew this famous piece. It was a song about a lost romance, a lost love. His simple English could understand some of the lines, especially during the chorus. But luckily, he had previously done his own research on this song some time ago by looking up the words, or those he could understand, in an English to Russian dictionary. Yes, it was strange how a song in a foreign language could elicit such emotion in him. At the song’s finish, Mikhail decided he could not let Mariya become his Brandy.

After their minds had been satisfied with the sad, beautiful, joyful, racy, angry, and impassioned music, they began their walk back from the field to the bus stop. They found the path going through the wooded area that would eventually lead back to the road, and though the sun had just begun to set, there was absolutely no need for artificial light. In a sensation similar to the feeling one has upon leaving the cinema after hours of entertainment, neither of them said a word apart from the occasional yawn. He hoped he would be the first one to find the courage to break the dreadfully beautiful silence. He hoped that she hoped that he would do so as well. Nonetheless, sometimes words cannot express how deeply one feels. Like one of the many love songs they had listened to, a man sometimes has a love so deep for a woman that mere dry words cannot express it, he must sing to express his feelings.

Mikhail could not sing. And thus continued the sharp silence.

“That was really fun, Misha. I hope you can listen with me again sometime.” She – of course it was her – was the one to speak first. Unlike her usual sure tone, Mikhail thought he detected a slight nervousness in her voice. Or maybe not. Maybe he was overthinking it again.

“I had fun too. Would you want to meet here again next weekend?” he responded. Mariya gave a simply satisfied affirmative answer in response to his question. Mikhail took a sharp breath in and out. Yes, surely the certainty of seeing her again would satisfy his inability to act. No, no. Even plans for another outing would not give him peace of mind.

Without thinking – and it was definitely without thinking – Mikhail’s right hand took Mariya’s left hand. He did so gently, respectfully giving her the opportunity to reject his palm. And she accepted it! Now it must be so that she feels the same way he does! But something was wrong. He was not really holding her hand as much as he was cupping it, the same way a small child may cusp the hand of his teacher while on a school outing so as to not get lost. No, this act did not mean anything. More nervous than before, and with the hope that they would slow their pace to buy more time as they stepped ever closer to their destination, Mikhail finally took the chance to intertwine his fingers with hers. Once again, he did so slowly and softly to give her possible every chance to move her hand away. In a movement that made his heart beat faster than it ever had, Mariya slid her fingers and allowed them to be laced with his. After the shock of the moment had worn off, the two continued to walk in silence, their dusty and sweaty hands weaved together. While an ordinary man may be satisfied with knowledge that his beloved had accepted his hand, Mikhail could not seem to kill the last flies of doubt that buzzed around his brain.

Of course, she did not like him. Why should she? He had no right to her love. His mathematical and practical mind was not a good fit for her cultured and romantic one. Her brazen confidence clashed with his social insecurity. Interlaced hands meant nothing. Friends could also hold hands, after all. The two continued walking as he dared not look over to her.

Mikhail was never known for his tenderness, physical or social. He knew from the instant he entered university that career paths like psychology or language could be of no use to him. If he were a medical doctor, he would not have hesitated to inform a family of their relative’s death. And yet, as some music made him free of his anxieties, Mariya made him free of his coldness. In a delicate movement of the thumb that he would always remember, Mikhail began to lightly stroke the back of Mariya’s hand where her finger met her knuckle. He did so in a way that was hard enough to make sure she could feel it, but soft enough so that she understood the affection that was behind it. Slow enough so that he was not scratching her hand, but fast enough so that it was not disturbing. His soft caress would surely now signify the intentions of a lover. He stopped, suddenly, in order to give her a few moments to respond. As if disappointed that he had stopped, she moved her thumb to caress his hand in response. He braved a glance over to her to see her unusually shy, and yet, joyful, face as she failed to contain a smile. As if she knew of the millions of internal doubts he had in his mind and wanted to satisfy the very last one, she reached up to his cheek and planted a small kiss.

He smiled as he looked towards the approaching bus stop, taking in a deep sigh in thanks for the day and the girl he had been given. He was thankful for the stupid Sony Walkman cassette player that was too expensive, thankful for the hot sun and smoggy air, thankful for the Western music that he should have been allowed to listen to years ago. But perhaps most of all, he was thankful to his Uncle Misha.

Winter 2021