PUPPY LOVE AND A BROKEN NOSE

Oslo, Norway. 1999

‘Russian Gypsy trio LOYKO’- one guitar, two violins, three vocals, long hair and leather pants – fast, loud, overly dramatic and therefore highly successful. That’s us.

We were sitting in a dressing room and arguing about the set list. Our stage manager just gave us a 5 minute call, so I grabbed my tobacco and ran for the exit to have a quick ‘pre-show’ smoke. I kicked the door open. It was a bad idea. I heard two sounds in quick succession – ‘Thud’ and ‘Blyaa!!!!’ (A generic Russian curse, used in moments of emotional overload). The door bounced back, and I saw a tall woman in a black leather jacket, looking at me through her fingers. Her nose was busted. She slowly took her hands off her face. I said – (you guessed right) – ‘Blyaa!!!’.

To appreciate this moment fully, we have to go back 25 years or so.

Moscow, USSR. 1971

I was seven years old – a perfect age to fall in love. And so I did. 

Now I am big and I am smart. Now I know it wasn’t love. It was drama. Back in 1972, I was sure it was called love. My heart rate was 160, my hands were shaking and every time when she was near, I’d sweat profusely. Her name was Lena. She didn’t know I was in love. She thought I had digestive problems.

I didn’t need her to know anyway, it was sufficient to suffer alone. It was more dramatic this way. Also, I didn’t have a slightest idea what to do when you are in love. Except of sweating and suffering, of course. Now kids know everything. They have internet and Google, they have pictures, graphs, videos and various forums on the subject. We had mid-aged puritanic ‘educators’ who told us that ‘The Judgement of Paris’ (Rubens) was pornography. I had a very vague idea of what, when and how, so to be on a safe side I decided to go platonic, ie spiritual.

To be honest, I had another selfish reason for a platonic relationship. There was another kid who had an eye for Lena. He was much bigger and stronger than me. I didn’t want to get beat up.

I grew up in a boarding school called ‘Internat’, which was filled up with 140 kids and some pianos. On the ground floor we had rooms for ‘educators’ and utility rooms. Our first floor contained seventy boys and our second floor contained seventy girls. Our ‘Internat’ had high ceilings, tall windows and marble stairs. Strategically placed between the first and second floor (instead of CCTV), bronze Lenin was observing our behaviour. Lenin was our spiritual grandfather and we were his grandchildren. He was smiling, for some reason. As always he saw everything, including our nightly expeditions to the girl’s floor. It all was totally innocent of course. Kids of 1960 didn’t have a clue about sex, and even though there were some rumours circulating around, it all sounded so bizarre that most of us discarded it straight away. One of the boys who was considered to be an old hand in everything love-related, decided to be my mentor. He told me it’s a big secret and I am not to say a word to anyone. He explained to me ‘how’, ‘what’ and ‘where’. I was shocked.

Many years later I found out my mentor himself didn’t have a clue. Pavel, if you are reading this – no, you don’t get pregnant from French Kissing. 

Besides, it was a ‘Western’ and therefore totally corrupted way of communicating with your ‘Tovarish’ (Comrade). Comrades don’t French Kiss. They hold hands, talk about social equality and triumph of Communism over Capitalism. A female Comrade may put her head on a male Comrade’s shoulder. It was frowned upon if performed in public, and everything else was totally immoral. Holding hands was ok though. 

I tried to conceal my feelings the best way I could, which means everybody knew, except of Lena, of course. She didn’t have time for love. She was studying day and night. She wanted to be a ‘Soviet Musician’.

We were supposed to carry the ‘Glory of Soviet Culture’ through the capitalist world. That’s what Lena wanted to do.

One day a state TV crew arrived to make a short film about our school. Lena was chosen to play a short piano piece. She sat at the piano, and we were told to stay behind her and look thoughtful and enlightened. It was a disaster. Kids didn’t want to look thoughtful, they wanted to make faces at the camera. I was the only one who was looking at Lena, so they kicked everyone out and put me right beside her. They said I looked thoroughly enlightened. But of course I was! I was near HER….!!!! 

When Lena played the last chord of her piece I got so emotionally overwhelmed, that I did something crazy. I still don’t know why I did it. It was pure madness. I slammed the keyboard cover down on her hand. I broke her wrist. And then I fainted. As you can imagine, it didn’t help my love situation. On the other hand, it didn’t change it much, as she still didn’t have a slightest idea about what was going on. She thought my stomach was acting up. 

And I got beat up, of course.

At one occasion I accidentally dropped a laundry bag from the second floor and hit Lena on the head. She ended up in a hospital with the mild concussion. I tried to carry her food tray in the school canteen once. I dropped her lunch on the floor and ruined her dress. Then I tried to open a door for Lena and accidentally pushed her into the puddle of dirty water. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. It looked like Gods of Love didn’t want our love to be. 

Soon I got kicked out of the school for wandering off the ‘Path of the Soviet Musician’, and we’ve parted our ways. 

25 years later in Oslo, I nearly broke her nose….

Even though she spent most of the concert with frozen peas on her face, Lena said she had a great time. She said she loved our music and she was happy to see me. She said I grew up. 

After the gig we went to a little bar around the corner. After couple of glasses of wine I decided to explain to her why I was unwillingly assaulting her over the years. At first she laughed. Then she got sad. Then she said she needs to call her husband. He arrived, had a shot of vodka and said we need to talk. He took me out for a smoke and told me that Lena is an amazing lover. He said she makes him feel like a man. He said he wouldn’t be able to be in bed with anyone else. 

I don’t have a slightest idea why he decided to tell me about their sexual exploits. I definitely missed something there. I still do. Maybe he was afraid Lena would leave him for someone who once broke her wrist and hit her on the nose twenty odd years after… 

I never saw Lena again,

Is there a meaning to this story? Absolutely not.