THE LAST LOAF

This, let me tell you, dear reader, is not an autobiography. No, not my taste. There have been ends that culminated in beginnings and beginnings that terminated in newer ones. My life, entwined with Lisa’s, is one such. Childless, reckless and equally hopeless – she has completed the definition – Andre! But it’s full of love! Yeah baby, full of you and me, the endless hours we bored ourselves looking into each other’s eyes, dreaming of a better future, a child of our blood and breath, a tiny cottage to call our own, a stable income – wait, did I tell you – I call us political soldiers – us both; involved and met under the Soviet blood umbrella – the one stained with the blood of the most righteous yet the most hideous of men…… Contemporary upstarts as us made it to the top and there, at the helm of fame plunged deeply in perjury, they rejoice with wealth, wine and women. When Lisa and her man, still among the poor and the needy – at forty, blissful wrinkles have started to appear in Lisa’s skin but her smiles and youthful pimples tell me she is not the same petite woman of two and twenty I met at the Moscow Conference of Parties. Youth had melted in a civil manner and what remained had hardened her to this present state – she is smiling at me from her easy chair as she nurses her second cup of brandy. Lisa and her man, by the Russian countryside of Sochi, nursing brandy and enjoying the delicious fire…… we listen to Bella mooing and Lisa is wistful. And Andre knows why. Precisely.

"Andre!”

“Tell me, Lisa.”

She sets her cup on the mantelpiece and walks over to me shyly. On her lips is my favourite smile lined with laces of brandy. I extend my arms and she sits on my lap.

“Lisa……”

"Andre…… I love you…… don’t you -”

As I look at her, I want to take her to some distant place without such bloodshed, without Marx, without the manifesto…… I know I simply can’t. because I am no God.

I forget her question, I forget my speech, I forget my dialect and yes, I forget to breathe. Each cell of mine is in rapt attention, the blood of hot passion coursing through my veins…… and before I realise, I taste better brandy.

Lisa lifts her head and I see she is crying. I see her lips pout again Now I know that I need more of that brandy. More of it. And some more. But Lisa is silent as she lies against my heart, counting the incessant beats. Her corset reveals her enchanting curves and I refuse to let go of her. No, not from me. I hold her firmly to myself and she tries to smile through her tears.

“Child, the night is young, the glass is full-“

“I will come, my dear, to dance with the passion that will finally tear us apart.”

I feel the brown hair falling onto her breasts. She pushes my hand away and her playful attitude inflames me more. I bore my head into her bosom. She holds me close; closer, closer still and I touch her innocent heart. Shivering, she heaves partially against my chest and hums a forgotten tune.

“It’s November, Andre!”

Her voice flows into my bloodstream and I remember that long-forgotten carol song that my sister used to sing.

“Christmas time, mistletoe and wine-"

“Children singi- oh!”

Instantly, I know she will shoot that much-asked question. Surprisingly, she lies mutely against the weak chest of her impotent partner and looks up at the mantelpiece. I follow her gaze to the portrait of baby Jesus in Mother Mary’s lap. I decide to switch the topic.

“Treacle or souffle?”

Lisa fiddles with my buttons and a teardrop refuses to scale her cheek, beginning to lose its sheen. I take her face in my palms and look into those doe-like eyes. I think I lost myself in their unfathomable depths when I heard her mumble something.

“Dinner first, Andre.”

“And post-dinner?”

Lisa makes a funny face and her hand ruffles my coarse beard. “My dear sweetheart,” thus began the monologue of my lonely soul, “you filled me with longing and breathed meaning into my life.....”

My shoulders tense as she plays with my collar. I look at the grandfather clock – it is half past nine. I glance at the papers set aside my study table. I want to pen down my experiences as a senior party worker. And some more work lay at hand. My canvas had been untouched for several weeks together.

“Andre!”

“Lisa!”

“What do you think I am capable of gifting you?”

“You don’t have to gift me anything……”

Lisa stops playing with my beard. Her large brown eyes demand a solid answer. I don’t think I am even half capable of thinking of an answer.

“You are everything to Andre Korotov. Why would he demand less?”

Till next time, dear reader....