PISCES

It happened during my senior year in one of Moscow colleges. We lived
in a dorm for out-of-town students. True Moscovites usually did not
pay us much attention as we did not have places to stay in Moscow. We
were, therefore, required to leave the city after our studies were
complete. We did not care. We were young and had a bright future ahead
of us.  Whatever it might be.

Little did we know that the so familiar boring country that looked
like a cross between a boyscout camp, a psychiatric hospital and a
minimum security prison with a fake radiant future painted somewhere
on the horizon would suddenly implode and leave the landscape that
looked nearly post-apocalyptic. We did not know that in a few years
the mathematics PhDs would be selling counterfeit jeans in bazaars
while in a few more years the diplomas and degrees could be just
outright bought. Mafia godfathers would become chiefs of police while
grade school kids would want to be contract killers and call girls
when they grow up. That would be in the future. For now it was late
evening. All stores and cafes were closed and I was hungry.

I knocked on the door of the next dorm room.

"Hey guys, do you have any salt?"
"Hey, Misha, come eat with us."

Two guys and a girl were eating fried potatoes. A typical student
meal. The invitation was too generous even by the hospitable Soviet
standards and times were getting tough.

"Are you guys sure?"
"Yes, we are. Come."
"Well, gee, thanks. That was timely."

I was spared an evening of trying to get something to eat, cooking or
putting out the hunger with tea and stale cookies.

"Well, maybe I can do the dishes?" I was still feeling a bit awkward.
"Well, maybe you can also mop the floors?" came a mocking magnanimous reply.

One of the guys was a tall lanky fellow with slight built, bulging
pale blue serious eyes and a long haggard face. His full sensitive
lips did not match the rest of his face. However, his whole appearance
was memorable.  Horoscopes had just made it to the country of
victorious materialism. He was Pisces.  I am going to call him that.

The other two people in the room were Pisces' friend and the friend's
girlfriend. As I was finishing off the fried potatoes. The
conversation turned to division of labor in the house. Pisces' friend
and his girl argued who is supposed to do the dishes, take out the
trash and the like.  Pisces listened for a while and then interjected:

"If you truly love her, wouldn't you be happy to do anything for her?
 To serve her every whim and do her every bidding?"

That certainly killed the silly banter. It was my first encounter with
Pisces.

* * *

Pisces was a loner. He was a good student and an excellent
programmer. He once demonstrated to me a program that he wrote. In the
era of alphanumeric terminals, its user interface was unusually smooth
and refined. But most remarkably, Pisces was a poet. He never showed
me his poetry or talked much about it. However, in Russia a poet is
immediately afforded an aura of mystery and reverence.

Both he and I were collectors. We collected interesting people and
their life stories. As he later mentioned, he took interest in me for
two reasons. My persistent and meticulous approach to getting out of
the Soviet Union and my way with the girls. My project of learning
English and escaping from the country looked not unlike building a
rocket to fly to Mars. However, Pisces admired my dedication to this
crazy dream. As far as the girls go, I had no game. So I just threw
myself at a girl I liked with open heart and soul. Like a puppy, I
usually stepped on my own ears or tripped over my own paws and went
crashing down. One particular kamikaze-style flameout of mine became
physical, landed me in a hospital and in a cast for a couple of
months. Pisces took notice and added me to his collection. He was the
first poet in mine.

Even before Pisces and I got to know each other well, I knew that
beautiful girls went out with Pisces. However, the most remarkable was
the Poetess. He told me about her one day. He described her in short
precise  phrases. She wrote poetry too. Apparently, that was how they
met.

He sold his program for a couple of hundred roubles so he could take
her to a restaurant a few times.  He invited her over to his dorm room
once. Made his roommates disappear. Cooked dinner for her. He invited
me too. I guess I was to serve as an illustration to my personal story
that he probably told her. The Poetess was stunning. I was so startled
that I was mumbling idiocies all evening. I left jealous but happy for
Pisces.

He did not say much about how he felt. He did not have to. He was
deeply in love. It was not his first time so he knew what he was
feeling and he was reveling in it. He did not share it with me. It was
his alone to experience.

They were together for a month or so. She then disappeared. The times
were a bit different. There were no cellphones, text messages or
continuous contact.  Pisces was worried but thought she just needed
some space to write a poem or two. After a few weeks he got seriously
concerned, contacted all shared acquaintances, searched Moscow up and
down and finally found her.

She has taken up with an older guy and lived in his
apartment. Outraged Pisces, as slight of built as he was, told this
guy to step outside and prepare to fight. The Poetess came out
instead. She told Pisces that she loved him still but she has a rare
blood type and this new guy was her only hope to have children. She
then told him to leave them alone.

Pisces was heartbroken.  At that time, I could not analyze
relationships. I was just truly sorry for Pisces. Upon later
reflection, I realized that Pisces was most probably just fed
boolshidt and the girl picked a guy with a Moscow apartment over a
penniless poet. Pisces had been had.

* * *

I managed to leave Russia and come to the US. Pisces and I lost
contact. Recently, I was able to find him and his poetry on the
Internet. I wrote a few email messages to him. He did not reply. I
guess to him I was just an illustration in a book with a very sad
ending.