*** It is 1917 in the heat of the Russian Revolution. In this chapter, we go back in time to when revolutionary leader Borya Petrov and feminist/writer Natasha Solokov meet for the first time. She shares his private desires with him as no woman ever had before.***
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Natasha turned and faced the mirror, adjusting her hat. She had chosen her favorite, the one with the red feather. Tonight would be worthy of it. She was to have dinner with Borya Petrov, the outspoken, determined Russian revolutionary exile. She had been a regular contributor to his underground newspaper for a couple of years but had never met him in person. Since Borya had been cast out of Russia years ago, party rallies and meetings had to be done underground around Europe, and Paris, Natasha's adopted city, was where they were to finally meet. He had several appointments lined up during his visit and dinner in the lobby of his hotel with Natasha to discuss an editor position for his newspaper was tonight's plan. She had all sorts of ideas of what sort of man he would be in person as she arranged her stacks of notes on her kitchen table. They had only corresponded on paper and he came across as exacting, articulate and very attuned, if not obsessively so, to detail. She had never once seen a photo of him but he was described to her as having a small beard and mustache. Just like half the men in Paris, she thought. Well, he should be easy to spot then, she thought with amusement.
Gathering her papers and tucking them into a folder, she reflected on what originally appealed to her about his party. One important factor was the party's willingness to address the dismal state of women in Russia at the time, and the necessity to grant them equal rights, to escape loveless, abusive marriages and pursue a proper education. Natasha was a forward thinking woman who was only glad to have set up an independent life for herself in both finances and love. In a way, she used the party and the party used her. This new generation of women believed in free love, the right to choose their lovers and whether or not to even marry. A bourgeoisie domestic life never appealed to Natasha and she wanted none of the emotional fuss and drama that relationships always seemed to dredge up.
Hailing a cab to his hotel she made sure she was in proper order in her red and black dress, her fashionable hat and folder with the correct papers in hand. Just before she entered the glass revolving door to the hotel lobby she dabbed on some of her favorite vanilla perfume.
She walked into the lobby and thru the doors of the restaurant. He had told her specifically where he was going to be seated so she moved forward thru the room of diners expecting to see him at a certain table. There was no man with a little beard and mustache, she thought. She then suddenly stopped, looking around a little lost. He wasn't where he said he would be.
Had he stood her up?
From nearby she heard a voice call out.
"Natasha! This way."
She turned and there she saw him, standing beside a table at the window. Here he was, waving her over, dressed in a simple suit and slightly crumpled coat, with a black cap in his hand. The little ginger beard and mustache was there as expected. What she didn't anticipate was how short he was, and she noticed he had long ago lost most of his hair. Yet still, there an immediate charisma about him as she came over to shake his hand. His face suddenly contorted into a ridiculous scowl.
"I had to move tables!" he said with his hand shielding his mouth as if it was some dark conspiracy. "That damned cigar smoke was making me sick!"
Natasha burst out laughing and sat down.
"Welcome to Paris!" she said cheerfully.
There was something wonderfully awkward about Borya as he initially fumbled about looking for his reading glasses and making sure she had a menu. Suavely entertaining attractive and intelligent women was not on his list of talents. She found herself giggling at his self effacing muttering as he realized he had left his glasses back up in his room and that he would be lucky if he got any food into his mouth properly that evening.
"Don't worry, Mr. Petrov, you can borrow mine." she offered, digging into her pocketbook with a little laugh.
"Please do call me Borya," he instructed. "And I'm glad at least one of us is amused at my embarrassment."
Somehow they managed to order their dinner between one pair of glasses and he began to relax once his beer safely arrived. She was already finding him amusing in an endearing way and let him lead the conversation while they waited for their food.
He wasted no time diving into his favorite subject-politics. He talked as he had always written to her, precisely, intensely and persistently. They agreed on many points, and already had a few they did not, and she noticed how he would be insistent about it, then dismissive if she pressed her disagreement. By the time dinner arrived on the table she had likened him to a goat butting at an opponent. She teased him for his stubbornness. He teased her about the red feather in her hat. She called him a billy goat. He complained about his overcooked beef. She offered him some of her chicken. They talked about her art, her writing, and what her job duties would be as editor of his paper. She mentioned that she had just gotten over a terrible cold. He launched into a medical report in regards to his frequent stress related stomach pains, headaches and skin rashes.
She finished her last bite of food and wiped her hand in her napkin.
"Thank you for saving the skin rash stories for the very end of my meal." she said with polite sarcasm.
"But you have no idea how difficult it is bashing people's heads in" he lamented a bit dramatically. "It's the only way we'll get this all done."
"Head bashing is mandatory?" she inquired, pushing her plate away.
"You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."
"Or heads" she added, wiping her mouth.
"Precisely."
They were already talking to and teasing one another like old friends. She discovered he saw the world as very black and white. It was to be pounded at, relentlessly, until it gave. He found her filled with the open-mindedness of an artist who was far more willing to absorb other points of view. As they talked her brown eyes would blaze with excitement when she energetically expanded on a concept they both felt passionately about. It was when they connected that way that Borya found himself eagerly leaning forward in his chair to fully engage in the idea and really enjoying the company of this intelligent, articulate woman in person after at least two years of reading and publishing her work. That was what life was like for Borya, nothing but work. He had abandoned all of his pleasures to focus on nothing but the coming revolution. He no longer played chess or went for hikes in the mountains, and he couldn't bear to listen to his favorite music for fear it would make him "go soft, and want to stroke people's heads and say stupid things"- a comment which made Natasha burst out in laughter. When he frowned at her, she informed him that she was adept at both art and music and could play the piano quite well, for his information. And it didn't make her prone to saying stupid things, just so he knew.
Now it was his turn to laugh.
"I'm going to accept that challenge, Miss Solokov. When we're at the nearest piano keys, I shall test your I.Q."
