I know I recognise him from somewhere, but I cannot place it. It’s the icy countenance and green, green eyes. Uncannily they remind me of a cat that sits on my garden wall, fixing me with the same emerald stare. I watch him through the throng of partygoers, snatching at odd remembrances. I seem to recall him standing in an army coat and hat, in front of some historic monument. But where was it and who is he?

When the party is in full swing, the lager warming me nicely, I approach him to make conversation. I can feel my eyes dilating as I shake his hand and introduce myself. When he says his name is Nicholas, in a thick Russian accent, the memories come flooding back and I know where I have seen him before. It was in Moscow.

I was going to see Lenin in his tomb in Red Square, making my way through the swarming crowds. The Russians surrounding me had heads like big furry orbs made of rabbit, mink and bear. They were a different species, chattering in line, trampling the frost under their boots so that it crackled like breaking glass, not stopping for the scent like the animals whose skins they were wearing. I wondered how often they had seen the sun, because the sky was wrapped in clouds and there was no respite to the grip of frost. Bleached white with eyes blue or green beneath fur-fringed hoods, I wondered if human beings should be so pale.

They filed in twos along the pavement and I followed them until we reached Red Square, where they mingled and dispersed. At first I could not see anything for the snow, no St. Basil’s Cathedral, no Lenin; just thousands of little flakes of white exploding over the Square, so that it seemed a rare thing to isolate one and follow it with my eyes until it hit the ground. Then the blizzard cleared as suddenly as it came and St. Basil’s Cathedral was before me, the Kremlin walls on my right, a scene that should have been preserved inside a shakeable glass dome. The snow had wrapped itself in blankets around the spires of the Cathedral, giving them the appearance of pointed meringues. It had settled on my top lip, forming a milk-moustache that I must lick away.

In front of the low, burgundy-coloured tomb of Lenin, was a soldier, handsome and stern in a heavy pea-green coat. Not moving, but blinking every so often, he fingered a long hard gun at his belt whilst staring at me coldly. Like a soldier carved from marble, his coat hung on his shoulders as if it had been placed on a statue. His ice-white skin shone brightly and his eyes were cold, his expression hard as he ushered me inside, into the warmth of Lenin’s grave. As I passed him into the tomb, I imagined opening the buttons of his coat and slipping my hands inside, watching him shudder and grip his gun harder. I thought of kissing his taut, white face…

Red lamps hidden from view could not dispel the gloomy darkness of the tomb. I turned a corner and Lenin was in front of me, in a glass box. I tried to take it all in: the dark velvet carpet he rested on, the light shining on his face and the scarlet softness folded around him, the smart suit hiding the waxen skin. The walls were clean and they reflected the light, no fingerprints or smears; around him, all was crystal clear. He was undisturbed apart from the forms that passed his window, the bewildered eyes peering through the glass, the almost imperceptible light.

I imagined him filling the hours watching dust particles drift from side to side, the glass eventually covered in a fine down, then waiting for the white gloves to brush the surface inches from his nose. But I had no time to think. They were telling me to keep moving. I emerged into the daylight and the Russian soldier was there, tall and brooding, standing between the sky and me.

He pointed to the exit and smiled. He smiled and I felt as if the sun had shot through the clouds.

I returned to London and forgot about my Russian friend.

And now he is standing in front of me. The army coat and hat have gone, but the pale skin and green, green eyes remain. I do not tell him that I have seen him before, because I think it would sound odd. Instead, I ask him what he is doing in London, to which he replies that he recently left Moscow to visit his mother, who is English. We make our excuses and leave, together.

He walks me home through the streets of the capital that I usually find threatening, but not so with him: a soldier, after all. The pavement is littered with Metros from Goodge Street Station, fast-food wrappers, tramps that I wish would disappear, but I only have eyes for him. When we get home, we have sex in my sitting room, his touch an accompaniment to my drunkenness better than a Molotov cocktail; his kisses too wet on my lips so that I have to wipe them away, wanting another all the same.

After, I let him relax on the sofa while I go and run a bath. He soon follows me along the corridor.

The bathroom is a grotto that looks onto the sea and I have sprinkled petals in the huge tub. He bends down, amazed, scoops up a handful and lets them drop, the spray stinging his face, oil-scented from the petals.

“Where did you get the roses?” he asks. “They’re so red.”

He is right. They are as red as blood, as red as a communist flag.

“I found them,” I say, urging him under the water, wanting to see his icy skin submerged in the warm currents.

I press my hands to his chest and push. He is weightless.

“Your hair looks like seaweed. Shall I wash it for you?”

No, he doesn’t want soap on him just yet.

He lies still and languid in the water as I stroke his muscled sides. I cannot understand how this has happened, that I am sitting here beside him and he is naked: the Russian soldier I had wanted to undress. I want to touch the delicate curve where his belly meets the root of his penis but it is too daunting a prospect. I want to drink his sperm in gulps but the thought of bringing it about is petrifying. As I hold onto the sides of the tub in expectation, I can almost feel his arms around me, his penis in my mouth, filling my head with hot desire, but he hasn’t moved from the spot.

His hair is all around him in snake-like twirls, like Medusa. He smiles at me through the steam and he reminds me of someone else—someone I have seen recently, who I could compare him to quite easily. “Lenin,” I say.

“Never,” he says.

“Your face and your eyes. You’re stern.”

He smirks but I ignore him. His head floats, where the water has taken the weight of his hair. It sucks gently at his nipples. His chest is an island in the water. I tell him so.

“A Greek island?” he laughs.

“No, it can’t be Greek—this one is covered in snow.” I kiss his chest. “Delicious-tasting snow.”

He rests his head against his arm, perhaps imagining himself on a Greek island. It must feel close to this, this falling for him, like floating in the Mediterranean. If I stretch, I might just brush the shore with the tips of my toes. If I look down, I may see the baby sharks swimming around my feet—vegetarian, nothing to be worried about, nipping at the weed, not my toes. But who is this boy, Russian, not Greek, wading into the ocean to be with me, bare-chested and taking me in his arms, like a creature born to the sea?

“Open your eyes,” he says, face looming above the water like Poseidon rising from a whirlpool. He stands out of the tub, scratching his belly with the tip of one finger as if marking a spot that I should kiss, his nakedness obscured only by steam and the muscles of his chest swelling almost womanly. My eyes wander over the pure whiteness of his skin down to the soft indentations at the sides of his buttocks, and I think of sculpted marble or the insides of an oyster shell, then up to the muscles of his upper arms, so powerful he can do what he wants with me - force my hands behind my back and fix them to the cleft of my buttocks if he wants. Instead, he shakes his hair, lifting it with a towel like an offering of entrails to a sea god, and wipes away the petals clinging to his naked skin.

I’m not ready for what is to come. I want a few moments to catch my breath and wipe away the beads of sweat that prickle my forehead; but his thighs are spreading in front of my face, the only refuge the place where his large member hangs level with my mouth, and he is pulling me by the hair, manoeuvring me down until the head of his penis is pushing past my lips and I can taste salt on my tongue. Readjusting himself so that his legs spread further apart, he ravishes the inside of my mouth with his penis and shivers run in widening circles through his body, followed by a deep and manly exhalation that thrills me.

I do not need to suck it because, beating of its own accord, it provides its own friction. I just need to stop myself choking on his weight as he presses the many textures and smells of his body against me and explodes abundantly, splashing the back of my throat and the roof of my mouth, where he fits so perfectly.

I lie back, wasted by his desire.

The next day I meet him at a park where he is gardening, earning some money while he is away from home.

He is tearing the grass from its roots, planting saplings in the soil. He is too distracted to notice me, so I watch him move from vegetable patch to vegetable patch. In his wake, laughter ripples over the green as heads rise one by one. His Russian looks attract the attention of everyone. A man so young, in gardeners’ gloves and sun-hat, with ashen skin and green cat’s eyes, must strike them as an unusual figure. The sky frames his head and the breeze plays with wisps of hair that poke beneath his sun-hat. I look at him and the words aqua-bright come to my lips, though I do not speak them aloud.

Taking a deep breath, I walk over to where he has finally slumped in a heap of cabbages. He greets me. His face is still taut and white, but now his eyes twinkle and his lips are kiss-able.

I ask him if he likes to garden or if he is only doing it for the money.

In Moscow, he says, the ground is too hard for gardening. He likes putting public spaces to good use, growing food and things like that, but in Moscow the earth is unyielding. He is mixing soil as he speaks, flicking away a worm that wriggles between his pinched fingers, the muscles on his arms swelling as he pushes a young plant into the hole. Then he falls back on his elbows to scan the green, gesturing to the passing crowds of London, a carnival sweeping through the streets, “Look! England is so green and beautiful…”

I consider him for a moment, “But I like the way Moscow is so cold. I like the snow.”

He looks up at me appreciatively, smiling, “Give me a hand with this sapling.”

I sit down next to him, noticing the smell of his sweat and aftershave as he produces the sapling from a bag, throwing his legs open carelessly, seemingly oblivious to the effect it has on me. I am over-powered by his atmosphere like a bee drawn hypnotically to the pollen.

As he reaches across for a trowel, his hand brushes mine. I try to help him dig the hole, but there is too much keeping me from remaining calm. Most of all I am transfixed by the heavy weight between his legs, comfortably on display.

I spend the day in a state of acute tension. I find that I am basking in his warmth long before he has touched me, because heat emanates from him. I am reduced to the cravings of my body, just as I can think of nothing but the exquisite taste when biting into a piece of bloody steak, my jaws working automatically.

“Hope you enjoyed it,” he says when we finish our work for the day.

I eagerly confirm that I have.

To my delight, he invites me back to the flat where he is staying. I say yes, I would love to. He leads me along the main road, absorbed with hands in pockets, oblivious to the surroundings, while I take an interest in the neighbourhood - a network of little streets removed from the bustle of the high street. It is a pretty London suburb, with huge oaks and Georgian houses that obliterate the sky and greenery filling every nook and cranny in the old Bath stone. I can imagine the families and their servants, proud citizens of a fabulously rich city, who had inhabited these mammoth buildings; but now they are dissected into hundreds of apartments.

We reach a row of townhouses. “That’s the one,” he says, pointing at a rich-looking building. “My mother’s house. Don’t worry. She’s not there.”

I admire the bay windows and ceilings towering overhead. He points out the name of the building carved into the stone gateway, not mentioned on any contract or lease: Lassington.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, looking longingly up at the three-storied house, “I’ve always wanted to live in one of these.”

“Come on, let me show you.”

As we approach, I am overcome by a surreal feeling, as if the act of opening the gate and following the path through the porch is a recognisable departure from the mundane. It is like I am in a scene from ‘Through the Looking Glass’ and a white rabbit is about to run past. It could be anything that inspires this feeling: the click of the door as I push it open, the swaying motion of the trees in the porch, or the smell of summer air, a good omen for the time I am to spend here; but I can’t put my finger on it. It is so peaceful on this sleepy street that in my mind it is like walking into a novel or a dream.

Standing in the porch, I turn to Nicholas, who takes me by the hand and leads me up the steps and through the front door.

We enter the lobby, which I didn’t expect to be so old and dusty. The floors could do with a scrub and a stepladder is needed to reach the cobwebs hanging from the cornices. We go into the sitting room where the daylight is drowned in heavy curtains, the windows are set in an alcove and an old three-piece suite stands upon a carpet curling at the corners. I try to imagine living between these peeling walls, but I can’t. A piece of string, connected to a bulb, comes free when I tug it, so I walk to the window and throw the curtains open, the scene through the glass waving gently, glossed by sunlight. I press my fingers against the warm pane and turn around to Nicholas, hoping my expression won’t betray my thoughts. “The view’s nice,” I say weakly.

He isn’t listening. He is examining me with frustration. “Sit down,” his tone commanding, the Russian soldier again, “Over there on the sofa. Sit down.”

I am confused but I do as he says. He comes forward quickly, bending over me in movements that clearly speak of his needs. He grips my shoulders, startling me, making my arms jerk up defensively. I see the lust in his eyes and for a moment I am alarmed, but I wrap my hands around his thighs encouragingly.

He holds my head firmly in his hands and kisses me. My mouth is a wound spouting blood and he is the ravenous wolf. “My mother won’t be back till tomorrow,” he murmurs. Then he lowers himself down so our legs are enmeshed, our crotches fitting imperfectly together. My mouth continues to move up and down on his as I pull at his shirt, cupping the exposed breasts and bending down to kiss the nipples, the hot flesh quivering beneath my lips.

As I move my body against his, I have the impression of something long forgotten, something I can never take for myself but must always be bestowed by another. He kisses me again, roughly, and the feeling becomes more acute, associated with images of the past—a man’s strong arms taking me as a child and lifting me in circles through the air. The stubble against my neck is painful, heightening the awareness of his closeness, and the cologne that fills my nostrils is somehow familiar, like the scent of men I once looked up to with awe. Nicholas’s hands are around me, pressing hard on my back and they are hands I know well, holding authority and grace in equal measure like those of my father.

“I have to go back to Moscow in a few days,” he says.

I had been looking into his green eyes, but now I am drowning in them. “But...” I stutter, “But…”

“My leave is over. You didn’t think...” he looks at me searchingly.

I don’t want him to speak so I put my thumb to his lips.

That night two shooting stars trail across the sky. I peer at them through the window, the streets below me crude shapes bearing no detail. I can hear people in the apartment above moving aimlessly to and fro and music issuing from the neighboring porch, where a group of people, all craggy-faced and ruined by drink, are gathering, as if to wallow in forgetfulness of their sins.

Nicholas lies sleeping beside me, talking Russian in his sleep. I pour vodka down my throat, drinking it like water from bottles kept by the bed - waiting for drunkenness while the sounds of the city give voice to ugliness itself outside—gunshots, revving engines, aeroplanes moaning overhead. I had hoped I might nestle my buttocks into his crotch and he would hold me, toying with my hair and stroking my back, and perhaps we would put music on the stereo, pour drinks and talk into the early hours, unaware of the passing time until the first rays of daylight break on the windowpane; but he had quickly buried his head beneath the pillow.

I drink and expand under the sheet, tracing patterns in the drop of my ribcage with fingers of ink, wiping away the evidence of his touch as footsteps absorbed by a dune. There is a ring of silence around me, like one that encircles a wood, his inroads made strenuous, self-sealing behind him, his existence blotted away. Through the window I see the jaundiced moon between branches.

I prop myself up on an elbow to look at Nicholas’s sleeping face, the glacial skin of his naked back, the pale hair curling on his neck, and I am suddenly tender towards him in his vulnerability.

He stirs, “Why do you look so worried?”

Harassed by this interruption to my reverie, I make a face that is half-frown. I rise from the mattress. “I’m just drunk. I was thinking about you and me.”

He watches me move to the window where I place a hand against the frame. As the distance grows between us, the colour seeps from me until I am just a silhouette. Pressing both hands to my chest as if to comfort myself with my own warmth, it seems the fragility of my life is contained in that one gesture. I stare beyond the grassy expanse where the parks and gardens of suburbia sprawl. A row of trees runs the length of the wilderness, stopping metres in front of me like soldiers standing to attention: an army sent to protect me. By the pond, reeds grow uninterrupted; the lamplight burns there and warms me. Everything is in its correct position.

Nicholas sits up, murmuring my name without feeling. I am struck by how young he looks, how Russian and soldierly. I want to hold his waist and kiss his finely muscled arms but I turn away, a look of steely resolve transforming my features.

“I saw you in Moscow once. You were standing outside Lenin’s tomb, in your uniform. I knew I loved you then. But now I may not see you ever again.”

I feel like I am drifting away from Nicholas to another plane, leaving intact the paper flowers he had designed on the wall, the smell of his toiletries, a few drops of wax on the fireplace and dried roses in bottles on the hearth; but still I am rooted to the spot. Memorial images flash before my eyes and I experience a sickly yearning to lose myself in his arms.

Nicholas gets up from the bed, his expression opaque, “I didn’t know.”

I bite my lip and suddenly he bursts out laughing. “Come here, I have something for you.” He digs around in a drawer by the bed, pulls something out and hands it to me. “Here’s something for you to remember me by.”

It is an etching in a piece of rough wood: a portrait of an instantly recognizable face. It is Lenin, staring out at me and on to the horizon beyond. “I made it myself,” he says bashfully.

A rush of feeling for him pulses through me, familiar in many ways but also strange because I have never put a name to it or recognised it for what it is. Illuminated by light from the window, a tear trails down my cheek but I wipe it away and Nicholas holds me close. His body is soft and hard at once; his scents unique. The tension I had been fighting has disappeared like venom draining from my blood. In Nicholas’s arms, I am coming home without moving; my spirit elsewhere, my body no more than a mark on the room. It feels like I am traveling down a collection of passageways dotted with lamps, to walk on the sand and listen to the lapping of waves. “Thank you,” I say.

He bends me over, letting a drop of saliva fall into his hands, which he works around my sphincter with two fingers, at the same time kissing me on the forehead, the nose and then devouring my lips. The first stab of his penis takes my breath away and all I can do is hold tight to his massive shoulders as he hoists me up against his waist, plunging into me whilst kissing my lips fervently. “You’re so beautiful,” he gasps into my mouth, his green eyes twinkling.

 

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