Friday, July 21, 2006
Secret Admirer part III
The following day, the toxins out of my system, my head clear and fresh, my eyes moist and not red, I went to my emails and wrote an indignant email:
By lunchtime, I received a response.
I did not respond. I did not understand. The game, I supposed, was over. Perhaps this had been someone’s idea of a cruel joke toying with me, perhaps baiting me. For me, it had added a little excitement and intrigue into my life, a life which was generally uneventful, routine, quiet, even though cast against its exotic backdrop. Life was back to normal again: I would go home tonight, perhaps talk to Henrietta on the phone if her husband didn’t interfere, drink a beer or two, sit at the windowsill in dreamy solitude and smoke a cigarette or two or even a pack and then feel guilty about it, wash the scent of smoke off and then sleep.
At the end of the day, I called the secretary at the front desk, Dildora (yes, this is a common Uzbek woman’s name, and I know what it sounds like) and had her call the driver to take me home. She said that someone had just come to see me, from the Vatican embassy down the street. I told her to tell him to come back tomorrow, that I was finished for the day.
Perhaps my appearance in church gave someone there the idea that I was out there searching for faith; my genuine curiosity and hunger that drew me there likely imparted on my face that I was a soul seeking to be rescued and in need of something to believe in. Perhaps it appeared desperately so, for as I walked out, the guest from the Vatican embassy had not left, but persisted, even as I walked past him to the door.
“Please wait,” he said nervously. From his accent, which I could not place, I could tell that he was not local, but not American. “I need to speak with you.”
“Ok,” I said curtly. “Speak.”
“But not here,” he nodded towards the street. I dragged my feet to the door. He put out his hand to shake and I walked back into the office, released my hand and walked out with him following behind me. It is bad luck in these parts to shake hands across a threshold. “I am Stanislav, and I saw you at the church,” he said. “And I wrote you the messages.”
This came as a surprise to me. “I don’t remember you at the Church.”
“Maybe,” he said, looking down and at his shoulders smiling sheepishly, “it is because without my robes you don’t recognize me. I saw you looking at me.” I wanted to tell him that I didn’t think I had looked at him, that, frankly, he was not so attractive to me that I would have noticed him, if that’s what he was implying. But I decided to be kind – I could tell that he was delicate, not terribly sharp, though I may have been mislead by his awkwardness I could perceive he had expressing himself in English. Besides, this was wonderful and absurd, a bright spot in an otherwise ordinary day. I invited him to walk with me on my way home. It was a short walk. I called Dildora and told her to send the driver home for the day. “You are a priest?” He nodded and said “monk.”
Stanislav was from a village in Poland. He lived at the Vatican embassy compound down the street, which had a monastery. There, he spent his days serving the church. And for his 30 years, he had the earnest and innocent manner or an altar boy. Or, the smiling dumbness of a cocker-spaniel.
In broken English he explained that he had only found me a week earlier. He had a gay acquaintance here in Tashkent -- someone he had met at the Piyonerskaya banya. His friend had seen me in the Piyonerskaya banya and pointed me out to him one day when they saw me walking across the park by the blue domes cafe. Even before that, Stanislav had seen me walking past the Vatican Embassy on my way to work in the mornings. Or when he had even come to the office several times to deliver invitations to receptions and organ recitals at the church, to which I never did show. He thought I was beautiful. I had never noticed him or the attention in all that time and I was flattered, but felt like Stanislav was like a little lamb gone astray, seeking friendship with the wolf.
At home, I had experienced being with guys plagued with Catholic guilt over homosexuality and sex. But Stanislav was the living embodiment of such guilt. When I asked him if he had a boyfriend, if he had a lover in Tashkent, like a child, eyes aglow, hetold me that sex is a sin that he must not commit again. Only once, he said, he had tried oral sex, when he was a seminary student and he had a summer break at the beach. While he talked, I thought how I hated being around inexperienced men like Stanislav. Next to them, I felt like a whore. Here was a man willingly giving up sex, which struck me as similar to the tragic irony of people fasting in the world when there are people starving. In the end, though, we were both the same - -both hungry.
In response to his question, I told him that I was not a catholic, not even a Christian, did not believe in sin. I was Jewish, and possibly an agnostic. Maybe even a Buddhist. But Stanislav, either missing what I said, or not understanding English well enough, or not being particularly attuned to my New York glibness about religion, but likely simply his being not too bright asked me if I loved Jesus.
When it comes down to it, I don’t really give Jesus much thought. I suppose I respect him. Like the Muslims here – they consider him a prophet, but don’t consider him god. But really, the only thing I took from religion was the golden principle – the wisdom of Rabbi Hillel when approached by the skeptic who said – tell me what the torah is about while I stand on one foot…and he explained that it is “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The rest is commentary.
We were now walking through the park and dusk was falling. Each park bench seemed to have one solitary man sitting on it. The benches were so far from each other and the shadows wiping away the lines that separate the figures and shapes around us into obscurity that it seemed that each man strained hard to see their neighbor or whoever walked by, craving companionship. I thought how romantic it might be that Stanislav and I were in the same boat, outsiders among the outsiders in this place so far away from our homes, this alien culture and looking for something.
But, in the end, we were of such different worlds and even in our quick exchanges, we did not understand what the other said and I hated his talk about sin. He inspired pity in me, again, I thought of a poor, lost lamb. At the same time, a wicked instinct inside me compelled me to lure him to my home, seduce him, ravish him, corrupt him. But no. I realized I didn’t want anyone around in my home. The reward of chastity for me had nothing to do with Jesus, sin, guilt or religion, but more to do with my love of quiet in my home, my love of solitude, that is, except for the cravings. But this was what I was telling myself at that moment, when I came close to my front door, and I told Stanislav that it was very nice talking to him and to have good night. ¶ 5:33 PM
The following day, the toxins out of my system, my head clear and fresh, my eyes moist and not red, I went to my emails and wrote an indignant email:
You weren’t there. Why did you stand me up?
By lunchtime, I received a response.
I was there. You looked into my eyes.
I did not respond. I did not understand. The game, I supposed, was over. Perhaps this had been someone’s idea of a cruel joke toying with me, perhaps baiting me. For me, it had added a little excitement and intrigue into my life, a life which was generally uneventful, routine, quiet, even though cast against its exotic backdrop. Life was back to normal again: I would go home tonight, perhaps talk to Henrietta on the phone if her husband didn’t interfere, drink a beer or two, sit at the windowsill in dreamy solitude and smoke a cigarette or two or even a pack and then feel guilty about it, wash the scent of smoke off and then sleep.
At the end of the day, I called the secretary at the front desk, Dildora (yes, this is a common Uzbek woman’s name, and I know what it sounds like) and had her call the driver to take me home. She said that someone had just come to see me, from the Vatican embassy down the street. I told her to tell him to come back tomorrow, that I was finished for the day.
Perhaps my appearance in church gave someone there the idea that I was out there searching for faith; my genuine curiosity and hunger that drew me there likely imparted on my face that I was a soul seeking to be rescued and in need of something to believe in. Perhaps it appeared desperately so, for as I walked out, the guest from the Vatican embassy had not left, but persisted, even as I walked past him to the door.
“Please wait,” he said nervously. From his accent, which I could not place, I could tell that he was not local, but not American. “I need to speak with you.”
“Ok,” I said curtly. “Speak.”
“But not here,” he nodded towards the street. I dragged my feet to the door. He put out his hand to shake and I walked back into the office, released my hand and walked out with him following behind me. It is bad luck in these parts to shake hands across a threshold. “I am Stanislav, and I saw you at the church,” he said. “And I wrote you the messages.”
This came as a surprise to me. “I don’t remember you at the Church.”
“Maybe,” he said, looking down and at his shoulders smiling sheepishly, “it is because without my robes you don’t recognize me. I saw you looking at me.” I wanted to tell him that I didn’t think I had looked at him, that, frankly, he was not so attractive to me that I would have noticed him, if that’s what he was implying. But I decided to be kind – I could tell that he was delicate, not terribly sharp, though I may have been mislead by his awkwardness I could perceive he had expressing himself in English. Besides, this was wonderful and absurd, a bright spot in an otherwise ordinary day. I invited him to walk with me on my way home. It was a short walk. I called Dildora and told her to send the driver home for the day. “You are a priest?” He nodded and said “monk.”
Stanislav was from a village in Poland. He lived at the Vatican embassy compound down the street, which had a monastery. There, he spent his days serving the church. And for his 30 years, he had the earnest and innocent manner or an altar boy. Or, the smiling dumbness of a cocker-spaniel.
In broken English he explained that he had only found me a week earlier. He had a gay acquaintance here in Tashkent -- someone he had met at the Piyonerskaya banya. His friend had seen me in the Piyonerskaya banya and pointed me out to him one day when they saw me walking across the park by the blue domes cafe. Even before that, Stanislav had seen me walking past the Vatican Embassy on my way to work in the mornings. Or when he had even come to the office several times to deliver invitations to receptions and organ recitals at the church, to which I never did show. He thought I was beautiful. I had never noticed him or the attention in all that time and I was flattered, but felt like Stanislav was like a little lamb gone astray, seeking friendship with the wolf.
At home, I had experienced being with guys plagued with Catholic guilt over homosexuality and sex. But Stanislav was the living embodiment of such guilt. When I asked him if he had a boyfriend, if he had a lover in Tashkent, like a child, eyes aglow, hetold me that sex is a sin that he must not commit again. Only once, he said, he had tried oral sex, when he was a seminary student and he had a summer break at the beach. While he talked, I thought how I hated being around inexperienced men like Stanislav. Next to them, I felt like a whore. Here was a man willingly giving up sex, which struck me as similar to the tragic irony of people fasting in the world when there are people starving. In the end, though, we were both the same - -both hungry.
In response to his question, I told him that I was not a catholic, not even a Christian, did not believe in sin. I was Jewish, and possibly an agnostic. Maybe even a Buddhist. But Stanislav, either missing what I said, or not understanding English well enough, or not being particularly attuned to my New York glibness about religion, but likely simply his being not too bright asked me if I loved Jesus.
When it comes down to it, I don’t really give Jesus much thought. I suppose I respect him. Like the Muslims here – they consider him a prophet, but don’t consider him god. But really, the only thing I took from religion was the golden principle – the wisdom of Rabbi Hillel when approached by the skeptic who said – tell me what the torah is about while I stand on one foot…and he explained that it is “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The rest is commentary.
We were now walking through the park and dusk was falling. Each park bench seemed to have one solitary man sitting on it. The benches were so far from each other and the shadows wiping away the lines that separate the figures and shapes around us into obscurity that it seemed that each man strained hard to see their neighbor or whoever walked by, craving companionship. I thought how romantic it might be that Stanislav and I were in the same boat, outsiders among the outsiders in this place so far away from our homes, this alien culture and looking for something.
But, in the end, we were of such different worlds and even in our quick exchanges, we did not understand what the other said and I hated his talk about sin. He inspired pity in me, again, I thought of a poor, lost lamb. At the same time, a wicked instinct inside me compelled me to lure him to my home, seduce him, ravish him, corrupt him. But no. I realized I didn’t want anyone around in my home. The reward of chastity for me had nothing to do with Jesus, sin, guilt or religion, but more to do with my love of quiet in my home, my love of solitude, that is, except for the cravings. But this was what I was telling myself at that moment, when I came close to my front door, and I told Stanislav that it was very nice talking to him and to have good night. ¶ 5:33 PM
