PEARS À LA CRÊPE

Waking up in the morning in Vynnyky on the outskirts of the city of Lviv, you don’t hear either the piercing screeches of the tramcars or the rattling of cars on the cobblestones. Instead, the frolicsome chirping of birds, the buzzing of bees, and the lazy cackling of chickens will tickle your still semi-somnolent ears. Every morning. And at night, you’ll fall asleep to the rhythmic croaking of frogs and the delicate chirring of crickets. I won’t even speak about the dizzying scent of gillyflowers and lilac.

The sun’s rays slowly penetrate through closed eyelids, and the gray cover of drowsiness crawls from your eyes to reveal this quiet slug­gish world of the house. A morning like any morning. It could have been like countless other ones. But it wasn’t. Because when I woke up, my sensitive ear caught someone’s rhythmic breathing. Someone was lying next to me, and his warm breath touched my cheek in just barely perceptible waves. Who could it be? I strained my brain that was still mellow after sleep and suddenly came to the conclusion that it could only be a woman. If it were a man, then he would have been sleeping on another bed, because I’m not queer. So—it definitely had to be a woman. But my thoughts further ran into a solid wall. I couldn’t remember at all where she had come from.

I tried to examine her, but this didn’t give me anything, because her head was covered. For some reason I’ve only been lucky with girls who cover their heads in bed. Why they do that, I’ve never been able to figure out—for the simple reason that this happens with them com­pletely subconsciously. Because when you ask a young lady why she always covers up her head, the very same answer resounds: “Really?”

Imagine— even they are surprised at this. The only thing they dis­tinctly remember is what they’re sleeping in. Women here are divided into two more or less identical halves: those who sleep in their pant­ies, and those who don’t. They have one answer to the question: “I’m used to it like that.” At least you can understand that habit. Therefore, don’t even try to re-educate them. It’s the same as trying to teaching a cat to bring your slippers. A woman, when she gets used to something, won’t part with that habit till death. One half of them before going to sleep won’t take them off under any circumstances, the second won’t ever put them on.

The young lady who was snuffling next to me that day could have belonged to either half. To be honest, the ones who upset me the most are those who, after passionate lovemaking, slip on their panties as if they hadn’t taken them off. I could never fathom what that’s supposed to mean. That she’s already accomplished her mission and the gates are closed for the night? That she’s afraid I might rape her in the middle of the night? Or maybe, the underwear for her is something like a garland of innocence?

Was this one in her panties? I slipped my hand under the covers and felt a hot female body. My fingers touched her springy bottom and I sighed with relief. It wasn’t enough that I finally remembered her. I lifted myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. Carefully folded jeans and a white tee shirt lay on an armchair. My clothes were scattered all over the floor. This was just like me. Sometimes I toss them on the table. This time, the table was cluttered with bottles of champagne, Hungarian wine, horilka, [1] and beer. O Lord! It’s not odd that my memory was knocked out of me.

Was it just memory? Somehow, I couldn’t remember a single moment of sex from last night. Did we make love at all? It was logical to assume yes, for when two people of the opposite sex lie in bed, it’s not for discussing the latest decisions of our parliament. The quan­tity of empty bottles struck me. What was the occasion for the party? Where was everybody else? What were we doing all evening?

If the chairs and table were not in the middle of the room, but by the walls, then people must have been dancing. I glanced at my watch. Half past noon! Well… It’s all clear. The party had been till early morning. At six a.m., when the buses started running, the warm company had made its way to the bus stop. I’d be interested knowing, did we make love after that? It’s hard to imagine that after an all-night party. I carefully crawled out from under the covers, grabbed my shirt from the floor and dragged myself to the bathroom. Neither hot nor cold water returned my memory to me. I still couldn’t figure out who was lying in my bed. When I went to the kitchen, I fell into a stupor. Everything was clean and tidied up. The table was no longer littered in dishes, little boxes of seasoning and crumbs of bread, and the floor shined and glistened. And, as if this were not enough for total happi­ness, all the dishes used for yesterday’s party shined and glistened.

That was 1992, when I turned forty and became a bachelor again. After the regular concerts with the “Don’t Worry!” [2] comedy troupe, a cheery bunch often inundated my place, one that I had to see off the next day no earlier than lunchtime. But this regular flood of guests miraculously left behind a clean house. And, additionally, this time, a certain mystery person.

I boiled some coffee in a Turkish pot and, drinking it pensively, stubbornly tried to imagine the way she looked. Tall. I figured that out when I accidentally touched her stretched-out leg. She didn’t snore. And slept without her undies. She hung her clothing carefully on the chair, though in ecstasy she might have flung it onto a lampshade. And she undressed herself, because if I had undressed her, then everything would have not been hanging on the chair. In my opinion, too many positive qualities here. And once again, we need to divide women into two halves. Those who get undressed themselves, and those who wait for you to undress them. The entire fact of the matter, however, is that even when you break it down, all the same you won’t figure out who she is, your young lady. The fact that she doesn’t undress herself, but shyly gives in to your hands doesn’t entirely mean that she’s doing this for the first, second, third, or eighth time. There are young ladies who just love it when you peel off all their husks and are prepared to be in ecstasy from it for the one thousand and first time as much as the first. There are those among them who do this not from ecstasy, but to rouse you up, and when you ask them how many men they’ve had, you can have no doubt there will be a single answer: “You’re my second.” Therefore it’s stupid to ask about such things. You won’t hear the truth anyway. And because, when she whispers to you in moments of tender­ness: “Ah, how long it’s been since I’ve done this,” accept her words with gratefulness, as if you have no clue about anything else.

A young lady who undresses herself does this for two reasons: a) she doesn’t give a damn about your sorry butt and doesn’t care what you think about her, b) she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you and doesn’t want to play a dummy.

With great satisfaction I came to the conclusion that the young lady doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, because if she did, she wouldn’t have tidied up in the kitchen. Though this doesn’t testify to her pas­sionate feelings. Maybe just by nature she can’t tolerate a mess. There are also these types. Mostly they turn out to be colleagues of my friends and, tidying up my kitchen, they’re striving to make an impression not on me, but on the person they came with.

But it’s one thing to tidy up the table, and another to wash the floor. Maybe she didn’t love me, but to wash the floor while not giving a rat’s ass about me, that’s already pathological. I’ll be damned, but I won’t believe she loves me.

The only thing that bothered me was—when did she have time to do this? And the more I thought about this, with even more dismay I comprehended this shameful picture for myself. But she didn’t go to bed until after she had tidied up everything. That was very praisewor­thy. It showed her best side. But if I don’t remember it, it means I was sleeping. I conked out. And she, poor girl, finished this ordeal, and with hope took off her panties and lay down next to me. Maybe she even cuddled up, maybe she whispered something tender in my little ear. And I barely comprehended it. What a scoundrel I am! I grabbed my head with my hands and intensely got lost in thought. And what was there to think about here! Just now it dawned on my completely cleared up head: I was in my underwear. Well, that was it, I’d dis­graced myself forever. I had no justification. It’s clear that the night had passed full of chastity and lazy snoring.

And despair shook my soul with such power that I decided to do something nice for this girl. In my understanding of nice—something tasty. Breakfast in bed. And what do young ladies like for breakfast? Innumerable thickheaded men offer their young lady garlic sausage for breakfast, an omelet, fried potatoes, or yesterday’s Salad Olivier with a great big chunk of bread.

O horrors! O the wrath of God! This is an awful mistake, this is a blow to the system and the crashing of all expectations. With this kind of breakfast you can ruin everything that was built up over the evening and night. During the night you could have demonstrated the pinnacle of sexual prowess and in the morning it will all go to waste. No! No! Three hundred times no!

Write this down, ignoramus. A person’s life is given one time, and you have to live it in such a way that you don’t ruin your future with one little breakfast. Therefore, the main thing this is: a young lady doesn’t like to chew anything in the morning. No garlic sausage, ham, stuffed pig stomach, smoked lard, or macaroni. Breakfast has to be light and airy, it needs to melt in her mouth, run along her gums and not get stuck in her teeth. And with the first mouthful of coffee, her lips should overflow like the song of a Carpathian Hutsul [3] woman over green mountain tops.

What doesn’t get stuck in your teeth? Well? I ask you! For exam­ple, flat pancakes don’t get stuck in your teeth, or filled rolled ones, or apples à la crêpe. You whip up two eggs with a glass of milk, sugar and flour, you dip apple slices into the mix and then fry them in a frying pan, or bake the stuffed rolled pancakes and spread them all over with jam, preserves, fruits, marmalade, chocolate, with memo­ries about last night, sunny little bunnies, and your own secretions. And here a sacred moment arises. At the first sounds of the awaken­ing of your lady to active life, you carry in a tray with coffee, rolled pancakes or apples à la crêpe to the room. This historical sight will never be effaced from her memory; she will carry a recollection of it throughout all the calamities of her life. And when she will be part­ing from this befouled world, from her darkened lips words will fly directed at her husband: “You never brought me apples à la crêpe in bed.” He, poor guy, will immediately give a start, will grab her by the shoulders and say: “Who! Who has done that for you? Who?!” In response, he’ll just get a bitter smile—the last one of her life.

I didn’t have apples. But I did have juicy pears. But pears à la crêpe—write this down! —are even more tasty than apples.

And this is how that morning began. I fried the pears in crepes, my young lady was sleeping in my bed, and it seemed that even the rumbling of an empty water truck wouldn’t wake her.

Life was beautiful. The sunny morning filled my soul with inex­pressible joy. I already imagined that after breakfast we’d dive again into bed, and then we’d gather up some food and something to drink and start off toward the lake.

I sifted through all the girls I knew in memory and tried to figure out which of them could have ended up in my bed. So it would be easier to figure out who my young lady was, I took my note pad and on a sep­arate sheet wrote out all the names of my female colleagues, then began to check them off one by one. Half of them abruptly dropped off the list because I never would have invited them to my place even skunk drunk. Several other eligible bachelorettes looked at me like a serious target of attention, and to get them to bed I’d just need to put a stamp in their passport. In the worst case—I’d just need to go to the marriage registration office tomorrow.

I pondered. Did I need to go so far in my thirst for love? Who knows? At times you feel like saying something nice to a young lady. It ends with the fact that one wonderful morning you look into the kitchen and real­ize you’re already married. Maybe this was just such a fatal morning.

I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t believe it. That’s why with a light heart I crossed off the eligible bachelorettes. Several individuals remained whose appearance in my bed would have been most likely.

Here they are, in order of probability. Olyunya gets crossed off because she took off for the beach. I got into an argument with Maryana forever and we’ll make up in a week when her parents run off to a resort. Vira exclusively spends her weekends with her fiancé. Lida came over last week without warning and ran into Marta, who peacefully was sunbathing in the garden, I don’t even want to bring up how that ended. We’ll cross both off the list. Lesya, Oksana and Ulyana were left.

On the table, a full plate of pears à la crêpe was steaming. I made fresh coffee, put it on the tray and concentrated. Who . . . Who . . . Who . . .

Oksana, may I kick the bucket right now, doesn’t wash floors, that’s already for sure. She’ll sit around the entire evening staring at the TV. Or she’ll lie around. Ulyana doesn’t undress herself. Not for anything will she do that in her life. Besides that, she always puts on her panties. That’s her style. Well then, I’ll cross them off.

Lesya’s left. My God! What a scoundrel I’ve been in the way I treat her! How many times I’ve deceived her, led her on, made prom­ises. One time I even prattled on about love. And she believed me. She’s generally trusting and a very kind person. I’m just not worthy of her. I suddenly felt like falling on my knees before her, kissing her feet and begging forgiveness. For just everything. Even for this too.

She! Just she could be an ideal wife. She talks so little. That’s it, enough of these adventures for me, this disorder, unwashed dishes, scandalous stories, and explanations of my relations with their hus­bands, who, thanks to me, grow buck horns. That’s it. I’ll look in right away and say. What will I say? Damn… Let’s get married, what do you say? No, not that way. First I should repent. I’ll tell her everything. No, that’ll take too long. I’ll tell her in general terms. Without naming names. And I’ll burn my notepad completely. Oh! What an idea! I’ll burn my notepad in front of her. It won’t cost me much because I have one more. And then I’ll tell her, say, let’s . . .That is, we’ll get married.

In the meantime, the first sounds of her awakening echoed from the room. I immediately felt a fervent desire to end up next to her and embrace her hot, deeply stirred body.

And here I grab the tray and with a smile from ear to ear fly into the room.

“Lesya-baby!” I call out, all hot and bothered from the unexpected flash of thirst and love. “Look what I’ve brought you!”

And if right at that moment Vesuvius erupted under my windows, it would have stunned me considerably less than when from under my snow-white covers shouted out to me not the angelic little head of Lesya-doll in golden curls, but the great big shaggy and bearded snout of Stefko Orobets. [4]

My knees were wobbly, and I sensed I was losing my potency for the entire next week.

“Can you shut the hell up?!” Steftsio thundered, scratching his broad chest with all five of his fingers.

“Ste . . .Steftsio!” I muttered. “Where did you come from?”

“From my show, ‘For you, Morons’.”

“But . . . why are you in my bed?”

“Because you, shithead, got sloshed and didn’t want to put out sheets for me on the couch.”

“But . . . why are you naked?”

“Because that’s the way I sleep, you imbecile! And there’s no reason to feel up my butt, you queer!”

“But who tidied everything up?”

“Leska.”

“But where’s she now?”

“She left with Orko.”

“Who the hell is that? Why with Orko?”

“Because you, idiot, told her you’re getting married. And invited her to your engagement party.”

“Me?! I’m getting married?! To who?”

“Ask the champagne. And stop getting under my skin! What do you have there? Some kind of pancakes? What’s with you—you couldn’t fry me some garlic sausage with eggs? And where’s last night’s Salad Olivier?”

Notes

[1] Ukrainian vodka. (Translator’s note)

[2] Ne Zhurys′! (Don’t Worry) was a cabaret group founded in 1987 by Taras Chubai, Andrii Panchyshyn and Yuri Vynnychuk. The group presented satire of Soviet politics and life and unearthed Ukrainian culture achievements that had been suppressed in the Soviet Union. It also included, among others, Victor Morozov, Stefko Orobets′, and Kostiantyn Moskalets′.

[3] For more on Hutsuls, see the note on page 96.

[4] A popular cabaret singer and comedic television personality in L'viv. See Note 8.  

Translated by Michael M. Naydan