Rosa
From the large banknote placed in her tray, her steely eyes rose to meet his and narrowed in anger, but all he saw was Hollywood.
***
Rosa Ivanova had worked at the Kassa of Vladykino in Moscow for 22 years. All those years ago she had been a slim blonde, with pretty features highlighted in colour like a Russian doll. Things had changed somewhat and her delicate features were now mostly hidden. Age had thinned her lips, but she still painted them the same bright pink, she just had to be more creative with their outline. Her once large eyes appeared smaller now that they were nestled in a broader face, so they also needed extra attention, in blue pencil, to bring back their prominence. With her blushed cheeks and peroxide hair, she could still see herself as the young Rosa, if the light was just so, and if she squinted and lifted her chin to the mirror.
At the metro she worked, selling tickets, from seven thirty in the morning to five thirty in the afternoon. She sat behind a scratched glass panel, with money to her left and tickets to her right. The money stood in neat piles of single roubles, two-rouble pieces, fives and tens. Once these piles were constructed in the morning, her eyes didn't touch them again, only her fingers. Notes were kept in a drawer and she was loathe to push back her chair and make the effort to reach for one, giving anyone who required this manoeuvre a severe glare.
Transactions with customers were completely mechanical, exchanging words only when strictly necessary. On Monday mornings, weekly commuters would buy their ten metro trips for the week and would either mutter "dessyat" (ten) or simply throw the exact change into Rosa's tray. Rosa would sweep up the money in her left hand and throw back a ticket with her right, her glossy lips remaining firmly closed.
Very occasionally, someone would greet Rosa cheerily. This would catch Rosa off guard and she would eye the unfortunate individual with suspicion and disgust. That probably put an end to their cheerful greetings for the day, meaning that other Russian strangers were saved from this rude imposition.
Rosa had not always been so melancholy and detached. When she first started working at the Kassa she would try and keep herself entertained to help the clock hands move faster. Her favourite pastime was to imagine she was not a bored ticket seller in a metro station, but a glamorous croupier in a top class casino. Her customers were handsome high-rolling men of means and she would smile at them as she rolled chips across the green felt to them. Her imagination was so strong back then that she could become completely engrossed in this make-believe scenario. She could feel the expensive jewellery pulling on her ears and neck, the soft fabric of her figure-hugging dress, and she knew that, with her lightning fast fingers and stunning good looks, she was the best croupier in all Moscow. Men looked at her with longing and women with envy. She would smile charmingly at the gamblers. They would rarely smile back but she understood why. These men were playing for high stakes, in some cases their livelihoods were on the line. You couldn't expect a smile.
When she wasn't Rosa the croupier, she was Rosa the fortune-teller. She would labour over a transaction with a customer so that she could study their faces, their fingers and their clothes. She could then amuse herself for at least an hour deciding on their fate. God save anyone who was rude to fortune-telling Rosa, or handed her a large note, for they would be destined to a loveless life and a painful death.
On the days when Rosa did not have the strength of her imagination she would keep her mind busy by counting. She’d count customers, count ceiling tiles, count tickets, count fingers, count eyes. Counting became her obsession on these days, and she would add the number of steps home to the number of tickets sold, before announcing a huge number to her bewildered husband. He would shake his head, puzzled, but never venture to enquire about the number, only his dinner.
As the days, weeks, and months at the metro slid away, so did Rosa's imagination. After a winter and spring had passed, her days as a croupier and fortune-teller were gone, and there was nothing left to count but roubles in change. In this real world time dragged and the evil clock taunted her, every slow second of every tedious hour. Her fingers would move independently of her mind. In fact, her once bright thoughts were now switched off almost permanently, only seeming to wake up when she fell asleep, and even then she could become bored with her own dreams.
The small pleasures in her life were her cigarettes, which kept her fingers busy when they weren’t reaching for roubles or tickets, and her granddaughter Paulina who she rarely saw. Paulina was the only person capable of restoring Rosa's imagination. With Paulina, Rosa was a fortune-teller once again and she could see a bright and colourful future for the little girl, as lead ballerina at the Bolshoi theatre, or as a clever nurse or even a doctor. On the rare occasions that her obstinate, and mostly drunk, son Sergei Junior, allowed her to see her granddaughter, she could easily spend the next four or five days dreaming of little Paulina's future, an absent-minded smile residing on her face. However, Sergei Senior did not appreciate absent-mindedness, and she would soon be pulled from her reverie. Paulina could hardly continue a dramatic surgical procedure, or an elegant pirouette across the Bolshoi stage, with her drunken grandfather cursing at the top of his voice, “Where’s my damn tea woman?”
And so the continuum of normal life went on. Roubles were moved around by her varnished fingers, eyebrows were raised at anyone who dared cross her tray with a large note, and anyone showing the slightest trace of a smile was met by a scowl.
***
Viktor Adamovich had pushed paper in a bank for longer than he cared to remember. It wasn't interesting or rewarding, but it had been a long time since Viktor had cared about an interesting or rewarding career. Once he had dreamt about being an architect, designing the type of ornate building within which he worked. But dreams were best left untouched, since they only held disappointment. Let the architects design, the doctors heal and the paper pushers push. He wasn't even impressed by the ornate buildings anymore, because now he knew what happened inside them, and it was nothing to be inspired by. Like biting into chocolate and finding cabbage, the glamorous facades that surrounded him contained something very disappointing; people like himself.
Everything around Viktor had become wallpaper to him; he didn't pay attention to any of it any more. Every morning he woke up to his wiry, dowdy wife. She would get up and make him a weak cup of tea, always wanting to squeeze a little more life out of an old bag. The tea was then left on the kitchen table to go cold while he washed and dressed for work. At the breakfast table, she’d sit in her threadbare dressing gown, and stare through her straggly fringe from the kitchen clock to her husband every few minutes, until he left for work. With these morning frivolities over, he would start his forty minute walk to the office; his black shoes creeping through the early morning Moscow fog. At work he’d remove his outer layers, make a strong cup of coffee and begin the nine hour movement of papers from one side of his desk to the other. His work was broken up by frequent trips to the coffee machine and resulting trips to the toilet. These could be described as the highlights.
At the end of his working day, Viktor would amble home to a dinner of translucent stew with a hint of meat about it. He used to drink vodka in the evenings, but it had made him very depressed and his wife had said it was a luxury they couldn't afford. Whether it was the depression or the vodka that was the luxury he wasn't sure. At least the depression gave him some kind of feeling.
At weekends his wife would typically visit one of her woeful sisters, leaving him free to do as he wished. Viktor had one passion in life, and it was only when his home was empty that he felt able to fully indulge it. His wasn’t a sordid passion that required him to be alone, it was just that his wife cast a dreary shadow over everything in his life, and this was the one thing that remained sacred. Viktor’s love was for old Hollywood films. They were his only escape.
His television set was an old black and white model that tended to crackle, but the picture was decent enough, with only a few grainy lines that obscured the bottom quarter of the screen. The opulence of the films, although watched through shades of grey, still excited him. Life on screen appeared so much more colourful than life in reality, and he was effectively transported to a place far more cheerful. He was smitten by the glamorous actresses with their coiffed hair, glossy lips and shapely figures, and he admired the handsome heroes who knew exactly what to say and do to put a smile on those painted lips.
He would peek from the window of his home to ensure his wife was safely on her way. He’d then make a strong cup of tea and lose himself in the glitz and glamour of Hollywood for a good few hours, watching one, two or sometimes even three films. As soon as his wife turned the key in the lock he would leap to turn off the film and, in the same instant, his enjoyment would come to a very sudden end, with the click of a button. He then sat and listened dutifully as his wife described the troubles and woes of one of his sisters-in-law. One in particular, Katya, was suffering financially and emotionally after her philandering husband had philandered for the last time before dying in the arms of his mistress. Knowing how wretched Katya had always been, Viktor felt the man had done himself quite a favour. And dying in his mistress’ arms was certainly a very Hollywood way of departing. Viktor found himself drifting into a black and white movie scene, while his wife waffled on.
“She’s an awful mess Viktor. Completely distraught. No money, no husband, bills up to her eyes, house falling down around her. Are you listening to me Viktor?”
Viktor pulled himself out of Hollywood and back to his dingy apartment.
“Yes, yes dear, of course.”
She continued whinging on. Viktor had no idea what his wife expected him to do about the situation but, over the next few months, she spent a lot of time talking about her poor, poor sister, and her awful, awful situation. Viktor could empathise.
When Viktor felt he could no longer stand to hear anything more about his forlorn sister-in-law, his wife’s evening monologue took a turn for the worse. They were sitting eating their meat-flavoured stew when his wife asked him a question that was destined to change both their lives.
"Viktor?” she said slowly. “You know how sad Katya is right now?”
After almost half a year of his wife droning on about it, he had a pretty good idea.
“Ahem,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, I want to ask you a question but, before I do, you must promise to think about it."
It sounded very much as if Viktor wasn’t going to like the question, but he nodded with resignation before his wife continued.
"I want Katya to live with us Viktor, what do you think?"
Viktor’s spoon fell into his bowl at the same time as his mouth fell open; it was as though they were connected. What did he think? He couldn’t think of anything worse. Sharing his life with his sorrowful wife was bad enough, but sharing it also with her gloomier sister would be a nightmare of new proportions.
“Wha, wwww, ah.” Viktor couldn’t get any words out, and was whimpering like a baby.
“Think about it, OK? Think about it. I bought you some vodka today. Let me pour you one.”
That night Viktor drank almost half a bottle of vodka and, once again, as the alcohol went down, his feelings rose. He felt scared and he felt devastated. Devastated by what life had thrown at him, and also by the man he had become. He knew he would do anything for a quiet life, and he knew his wife would not give up until she had her own way. It wasn’t like the days of communism any more, there was no distant control being exerted over him, now the authority was much closer to home.
***
Five months later, Viktor woke up in his cold new apartment in the North of Moscow. In the kitchen a cold cup of tea was awaiting him, together with his wife and sister-in-law. As he drank his tea two sets of eyes stared, through straggly fringes, between him and the kitchen clock, until he left for work. It was the first time he had to take the metro to work since they had moved from the city centre. He walked thirteen minutes to Vladykino station and approached the Kassa. He rummaged in his pockets for the exact money, but found that he only had a large note with which to buy his ten trips for the week. He pushed the five hundred-rouble note into the tray in front of him as he looked up and requested "dessyat". It was at that moment that his eyes met the beautiful features of a Hollywood star, it was that second that his heart skipped a beat, and it was from that point onwards that his daily commute became the most thrilling ride of his life.
***
One day something simple and small appeared in Rosa's life. Sometimes the smallest things can have the biggest impact. It was a Tuesday morning in October and she had just returned from her morning cigarette break. It was just approaching the time of year when gloves were needed to stop her fingers burning when she got back to her piles of roubles. Back at the Kassa she pulled the blind up and saw a piece of white paper in her tray. There was nobody accompanying it. She picked up the folded paper and read the child-like writing inside.
Dear Rosa,
I only know your name from your badge, but it suits you. Like a rose bud, you are very beautiful and you fill me with hope.
I spend a lot more money on the metro than I really should, buying single tickets rather than tens. It means I see you more.
I only realise now how grey my life was until I saw you at the Kassa. Now, from Monday to Friday, once in the morning and once in the evening, my world is full of colour.
I will not bother you again, just know that you are admired and you are often in my thoughts.
Yours,
V.A.
P.s. I am a fan of Hollywood, and you are more beautiful than any actress I have ever seen on screen.
As she read the note, Rosa's heart beat quicker with every word and her eyes grew wider. A woman appeared at the Kassa in front of her and reached for her purse. Immediately, Rosa pulled down the blind to re-read the note, leaving the woman to mutter in anger behind the screen.
Rosa had no idea who V.A. was. After all, she never even looked at customers unless in annoyance, and she was guessing her rose-like status might have slipped had V.A. been subject to any of her scowls. No one had ever compared Rosa to a rose before, or a Hollywood actress, and it made her feel like a real lady. A classy lady. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like more than Rosa the ticket seller, in fact for the first time in a long while she actually felt something.
When she eventually pulled up the blind again, she first focused on her own reflection in the glass. She saw her defined features and coiffed hair and remembered how beautiful she was. She then looked beyond the glass and saw a crowd of angry faces around her kiosk. But they weren't customers. They were gamblers on a losing streak. She smoothed down the glamorous dress that clung to her figure, and touched her fingers to the piles of chips on her right hand side. She lifted her eyes to the handsome high roller in front of her and smiled.