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:

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 0 Comments

  Sunday Hangovers

In Tashkent, there is nothing to on a Sunday. Everything is closed but the bazaars. People do their marketing for the week. They stay home with their families and watch boring TV. The wealthy go to the pools in the summer, or eat brunch at one of the five-star international hotels. Usually, I sleep off my hangover from the night before.

This week, though, like the good church-going folk of the world, I forced myself up at 9AM and put on my slacks and a clean, starched shirt. I decided that this would be my little adventure and no heavy face, no throbbing brain, no red eye would stop me from seeing daylight on a Sunday in Tashkent, seeing the church, and finding the mysterious writer of emails to me the week before.

I really had no sense of when mass began, and I was late – when I arrived at the church, all the cars, most of which had diplomatic or foreign license plates were parked in the quiet lot out front. I tried to enter inconspicuously into the church, stepping softly on the floors which echoed my every step in the dark, cool, cave-like cathedral. The congregation was not large – perhaps 70 people in total. After all, there were probably not many Catholics in Tashkent to minister to -- this is a Muslim country. In the back row pew, I saw Jean-Michel, an avuncular French expatriate I knew from work, with his wife and five young children. He smiled as I walked in, with a slight look of astonishment, making room for me to sit beside him.

“What are you doing here,” he whispered mockingly. “Trying to save your soul?”

I smiled at Jean-Michel’s sardonic wit. Ah, if he only knew. He suspected the irony of my appearance in the church.

“I didn’t realize you were a Catholic.”

“I’m not,” I explained. “I was just curious. I was in the neighborhood, just passing by.”

“From where,” he asked archly. “A bar?”

The priest spoke in a language I could not follow. “What language is this?” I whispered to Jean-Michel.

“Polish,” Jean Michel handed me a hymnal from one of his children. Feeling a bit like an impostor, I tried to follow along, not knowing the melody, mouthing out the words, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing. I took in the music, the singing, the organ, the solemnity, the morbid, naked figure, the body of Jesus in pain, his kind eyes looking down upon us. I surveyed the singing congregants: some familiar clean-cut and fresh American faces from the business and diplomatic community, their golden families, a scrubbed clean young Uzbek couple, old wretched babushkas. Looking around, no one seemed to meet my gaze, or notice me, or look back at me with that look of recognition I expected to find here. I sought the author of those messages, but I did not find him.

The service ended and observing the others, I followed suit, saying peace be with you to Jean Michel on the left and to the person in front of me and to the person on the right in the pew across the aisle. Some churchgoers were chatting in their pews after the service ended, but slowly, people piled out.

Jean-Michel asked why I came. I repeated that I was curious. That even though I am Jewish, I like churches, I always have. Jean-Michel proceded to tell me the history of the church, which I already knew. I would look at him as he talked, occasionally looking behind him at the people walking out, had I overlooked someone?

But soon, there was no one left in the church but the clergy, standing by the pulpit and I walked out with Jean-Michel who got into his jeep with his wife and children and drove off. For a moment, I stood outside the church alone, in an empty parking lot, I looked around and saw that no one was waiting for me. I headed to the street, feeling my hangover headache grow, ready to spend the rest of the day, like my usual Sunday, nursing it in bed.  ¶ 10:40 PM 0 Comments

  Being Lucky

The Lucky Strikes was like a second home or a second office. It was a club, a disco, a billiard hall (until Uzbekistan outlawed billiards) and I spent a fair amount of time there. I’d go there Friday nights, Saturday nights and sometimes even on Thursday and Sunday nights, when it would be quiet and it could just be me and the bartender talking. And, if the occasion was right and company was to be had, then I didn't rule out Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. On the weekends, I’d stay out until 4 or 5 in the morning, to watch the beginning of the Tashkent dawn as I rode home alone in a taxi. The place seemed to have the allure and promise that one day I might not leave alone.

It reminded me a bit of that TV show Cheers, where everybody knows your name they're glad you came. I'd drink with my buddies who I'd arrive with, or with whomever happened to be sitting at the barstool next to me, everyone was friendly, everyone was open to making a little small talk. At first, I’d start out with the beers, but over time, I moved on to vodka shots for the faster buzz and what I sometimes believed was an easier hangover. Also, for the first time in my life I began to love to dance. I would dance to Russian pop hits, disco, Turkish music, even heavy metal, whatever the DJ put on.

Much like the other guys there, often of indeterminate sexual orientation, I would flirt with the girls there. These girls were beautiful Europeanized girls; they were not the omni-present Tashkent prostitutes, but what is called “honest givers” in Russian. They came from good families, were well educated, had jobs, and often looked like models. They were in their 20’s and usually unmarried – which was culturally not the norm and likely the result of Western influence, as they, like much of Lucky’s clientele, spoke some English, and some had even traveled abroad. This was where many foreign men came trying to pick up a local women, not the women that you just fucked, but the women you dated and eventually married and more often than not, they succeeded.

However, you rarely saw a pairing of a foreign woman with a local man. Local men didn’t care much for emancipated American women. Too fat. Didn’t dress sexually in their shapeless blue jeans, T-shirts, Birkenstocks, unlike the svelte, nubile, almost sluttish young Natashas, Svetlanas, Tatianas. And who needed emancipated women in this part of the world that had a long tradition of women serving their men very well. My friend Henrietta was quite exceptional in that she was an American woman with an Uzbek man. However exceptional it was, being a girlfriend was one thing, but being a wife was another, and problematic at that. Now that they were married, they rarely accompanied me out to Lucky’s.

I learned how to drink, never having drunk before. In the quiet salon/bar up front, where the beer and vodka and conversation flowed, we discussed the great cultural and political debates of the day, of course, of this small world that was Uzbekistan. It was like that sculpture globe on Independence square, in which Uzbekistan’s size was expanded to nearly the size of a continent. In reality, we lived in a small, insular world, but we would spend the night discussing a conservatory student’s new rap based on the poems of Omar Hayyam, or whether Uzbekistan’s policy of gradual economic transition to market economy was sounder than Russia’s shock therapy. Mind you, the patrons of Lucky Strikes were those who could afford the door fee, which was around $5. This meant that only foreigners in business, humanitarian assistance, embassies, the children of the elite, cultural superstars and others who could afford to get in, with their bags full of bricks of Uzbek money.

These were not ordinary Uzbeks; they were only the “golden children.” And often I was struck by how the discussions in the salon while interesting and intelligent, were so far off from the reality of a country that was so poor and in which people were seriously concerned with issues, such as the cost of bread. They were perhaps having these conversations in their kitchens, but concerned about whether there would be bread on the table the next day. Today, they had beer and vodka – it was cheap enough and accessible to all, but likely they drowned out their sorrows in it to bring them to a sweet state of forgetfulness. And Sundays, it seemed that the bazaars were filled with hung-over masses. But where they drank the previous night very much would show that Tashkent was a city of extremes in every way. And I suppose I was lucky that I was on the side of good fortune.  ¶ 9:45 PM 0 Comments

  The Uzbek Promise

In Uzbekistan, after a while, you learn that when people say they’ll do something, they don’t necessarily follow up on it. We affectionately took to calling this the "Uzbek promise," as these promises didn’t really hold much currency and weren’t promises that necessarily would be kept. It was one of the many charms of the east that required some adjustment to by the foreign guest. People didn’t like confrontation, were too polite to say no or refuse you. Often, they simply said “hop” which literally means “OK” -- sort of a yes, but better understood as a maybe or a likely no.

Though this could be frustrating or disappointing when someone didn’t deliver, it was also somewhat refreshing. After all, if everyone else made Uzbek promises, why did you have to live up to a higher standard? After some time, I learned to say I would do something, or go somewhere, but not necessarily intend to do it at all. It was much easier than outright refusing someone, which would most likely lead to disagreement or argument. It was just the culture – and me being culturally sensitive. I figured, no problem disappointing people here, they are used to being disappointed.

So, when I ran into Shukhrat, the attendant from the Piyonerskaya banya on the street and he asked me why I didn’t show up on Sunday, and that a guy Sherzod came looking to meet me because I promised to show up, I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled. I’m sorry, I said. I forgot. No explanation necessary. They said, come next weekend. We’ll be waiting for you. I nodded my head and said "hop," leaving it to them to understand that as they wished.  ¶ 7:01 PM 0 Comments

  Secret Admirer II


The following morning, I received another message from Saint72:

Why do you not answer me? I want to see you. I am gay and I need someone to talk to. Please answer.

I wrote back:

Who are you?

A few hours later, I received another message from him:

Come to Roman Catholic Church on Sunday. I will expect you there.

In my life, I have done so many unusual, depraved, demeaning, outrageous, and radical things for love, for sex. But until now, going to church had never been among them. And I was not certain just how far I was willing to go.

To me, churches were places where I felt awkward, as awkward, as out-of-place, and even as naked as I might feel, say, in a banya. I certainly did not want to go to the church alone and not even the Catholic expatriates that I knew in Tashkent attended mass. They were perplexed, even horrified, by my expression of interest. I didn't want to admit to the real reason for why I was going; instead I would come up with innocent sounding reasons that they found suspicious. "I have been thinking of checking it out for a long time," I would innocently say; it was undebateable -- the Church had an interesting history, and I read up on it. The construction had begun during the Russian Empire and then was halted under the Bolsheviks at the beginning of the Soviet Union. Now after decades of standing half-built, the structure was finally completed and the church was functioning. I had driven by it so many times and always wanted to stop in, or so I said to friends, pleading that they accompany me. No one was interested; certainly not if it involved waking up early on a Sunday morning. They hadn't the foggiest idea even of what time mass begun.

I don't know why I felt like I needed someone there to hold my hand. In the end, when we love, when fall in love, when we look for love, we do it all by ourselves and from loneliness. And had I not moved all the way to this strange and wonderful foreign country, sight unseen, without knowing a soul, all by myself?  ¶ 5:28 PM 0 Comments