Nude Man in Gym

It was when I joined the Gold’s Gym in Moscow that I saw nude men for the first time. In the changing rooms, men moved around freely wearing no clothes at all. Some shaved in front of mirrors, entirely naked. My mind, nurtured for years in the virtuous Indian soil, considered the sight obscene. I had seen nude women in foreign films and museum paintings before. That was Art. Many of the comely models were a pleasure to watch. But nude men? Nude men moving around next to you? (In the flesh, I may add).

After my hour-long exercise, I opted to sit in the changing rooms with a bath towel around my waist. I would close my eyes to feign exhaustion. If someone talked to me I would, with eyes focussed, strictly concentrate on their faces. Showers were even more shocking. There were no doors and no curtains. A row of open cabins with their occupants washing their naked bodies in view of the fellow gym members. 

I had heard of a similar treatment to the students in Moscow’s Patrice Lumumba University for Asians and Africans. But here was the most expensive gym in Moscow frequented by expatriates and rich Russians, compelling each of them to abandon their notions of privacy during the sacred ritual of a morning shower.

                    

Moscow’s Gold’s Gym is huge. It is the biggest gym I have been to. Once, while jogging on the treadmill on its first floor, I noticed the managing director of my company lifting weights on the ground floor. This was a middle-aged Canadian who headed the Russian operations of the British American Tobacco. It is one thing meeting your top boss in the comfort of the office environment, with both of us wearing well-pressed suits and elegant ties. Quite another, confronting the same man in shorts and crumpled sweatshirt.

Later that morning, when I was taking shower, a voice behind called my name. My wet body briefly turned to see if it was a mistake. The Canadian man, the top boss, stood there. Wearing no clothes, he began talking to me.

‘‘What do you think’’ the nude managing director asked, ‘‘of the idea of taking Yava Gold to duty-free?’’

These things normally happened only in my worst nightmares. I mean my facing the top company boss with no clothes on me. I did not know whether to switch the shower off. I had two choices. Be rude by showing him my behind, or be indecent by showing him my front. I chose rudeness. I awkwardly turned my head and smiled feebly.

‘‘I was saying’’ he thought I hadn’t heard the question due to the running shower, ‘‘what do you think of listing Yava Gold in duty free?’’

I thought it was a dumb idea. (Selling a local brand at the International airport was dumb). But I was not in a fit state to argue. I dreaded the thought of two naked corporate men discussing business in front of a shower, with everybody else listening to us. 

‘‘The idea has merit.’’ I said, hoping he would go away.

‘‘Yes, I thought you would support it.’’ He came uncomfortably close and began a discourse on duty-free. I quickly turned the shower off; with a swift movement stretched my arm to grab the towel; and using it as a cover faced the madman – the managing director.

‘‘Let’s discuss it’’ I said ‘‘once we are in the office.’’

‘‘This place is much quieter.’’ He said. ‘‘I think critical issues for business are best discussed on golf courses. Since Moscow does not have golf, gym is the next best place for business discussions.’’

(Fortunately for me, in a few weeks he became too busy. I saw him a couple of times in the gym, but never again in the changing room.)  

Narrating this incident ten years after it happened, I am now surprised how much I have changed since. Nature has its way to desensitise us. Habit is an antidote to shocks. In a few months after joining the Gold’s gym, I stopped closing my eyes. I think my wearing a towel around my waist was a sight weirder for the nude men. Finally, I found the courage to be like them. To move in the changing rooms with no complexes (and no towels). It is actually a liberating feeling. And very comfortable when hot and sweating. I had found nudity indecent because I was always told it was. Many years after Moscow, in my Derby gym, I saw English fathers becoming nude in presence of their children, even young daughters (who would change clothes along with their fathers). I don’t think any of these children would ever consider nudity a taboo.

Thus seasoned in Moscow, I joined the Sheraton Gym in Warsaw, after my transfer to Poland. The Sheraton Gym is the cleanest in Warsaw; a rare one offering clean laundered towels free. On the right side of reception is the gym hall. At the reception, you can get fresh albeit expensive fruit juices. On the left side are the men’s and women’s rooms. At the entrance of men’s room, you have lockers. I would hang my office clothes here before exercise. Another locker room has wooden benches in the middle. Then a nice, cosy room with reclining chairs. The room has newspapers and magazines – both Polish and American. Then the shower room, (in Poland, the shower-room has doors!), followed by sauna.

On Saturdays and Sundays, I would go to the newspaper room after exercise. The side-table always had the latest Herald Tribune (the European edition) and older New York Times and Newsweek. In this room, men (mostly nude or semi-nude) with time and sociability would chat with one another. American accent dominated the conversations. Most members were Americans, and they were the only ones who were not shy to talk or laugh loudly to pierce through an otherwise quiescent ambience.

In that room, I often saw one man who was exceedingly tall. He must be six feet four or five. He was a well-built giant without being hefty. He sported short hair on his head and face. I don’t know how he did it, but each time I saw him, the bristles on his face looked how they look three days after shaving. (How does one shave to achieve a three-day beard every day?).The muscular structure of that tall man suggested strength and power. But the first thing that caught your eye when you looked at him was the tattoos on his arms. Both arms were adorned with beautiful black designs that were fit to be part of an art gallery.  I pitied the particular placement of the tattoos. Hidden under sleeves, they would more often remain invisible. The gym goers in Sheraton were fortunate. I, for one, have never seen any tattoo more exquisite.

Despite that, I had my reservations when he began talking to me. His overall bearing and the short hair reminded me of Russian mafia. In the Moscow gym, I had seen bodyguards of the New Russians (those who change the Mercedes once its ashtray is full) train with zeal. The Polish mafia and the New Poles are much weaker than their Russian counterparts. But this tall man could well have been a bodyguard. He said his name was Przemek. (Pronounced Pshe-me-k. If you can’t pronounce p and sh together, then She-me-k. The Polish Przemek is a diminutive of the even more difficult Przemysław.).

By the time we met, my Polish was reasonably fluent. Przemek said he was surprised to hear me, an Asian, speak in Polish. Our days and timings coincided. The weekends were less crowded. On a Saturday morning, some times it was only Przemek and I in the gym. We talked about weather; we discussed Catholicism and the Polish pope, the unreliability of Polish (and in general all) women, on how bad communism was and how lucky the current Polish generation was to become part of free Europe. His bass voice matched his overall personality. From our conversations, Przemek appeared to be good-natured; though his appearance was capable of instilling fear in anyone.

The other top-end hotel in Warsaw, the Marriott, has a sports cafe – the Champions Sports bar. It has more than fifty televisions, a couple of billiard tables, a satellite dish that catches key sports channels, and Mexican and American cuisine. I usually went there to watch cricket and football. I would order a double grapefruit juice that allowed me to sit for hours.

I had gone there with Gosia, my Polish friend, to watch the world cup final between Germany and Brazil. The place was crowded, and I celebrated the Brazilian victory by eating more than I needed. When Gosia and I left our table, and were about to exit; I suddenly stopped at the sight of a large portrait. It was hanging right above my head at the entrance. Though I had come to Champions before, I had never noticed the portrait.

                                                            

‘‘What is it?’’ Asked Gosia, who saw me staring at the man in the picture.

‘‘Who is this man?’’ I asked her. ‘‘Do you know him?’’

‘‘Saleta? That is Saleta.’’

‘‘Saleta? What do you mean Saleta? Is that a Polish name?’’

My heart was beating faster.

‘‘Yes. He is the kickboxing champion.’’

‘‘Przemek is... the kickboxing champion?’’                        

‘‘Yes. Przemysław Saleta.’’

‘‘Przemek?’’ I asked again.

‘‘You talk as if he is your personal buddy.’’ Gosia did not know what was so exciting about a portrait of a kickboxing champion.

‘‘Well, not exactly.’’ I said. ‘‘But I certainly know the design of the tattoos on his arms. I can also confirm to you that arms are the only part of his body where he has tattoos.’’

I was relieved to know Przemek was neither a bodyguard nor mafia. My research revealed he had been a Kickboxing World Champion in 1993. Currently, he was the Polish and European champion.

‘‘Przemek, you never talk about your profession. About the fact that you are the kickboxing champion.’’ I said casually when we met the following week.

‘‘Everyone else talks to me only about that. Talking to you is a breath of fresh air. You never asked me for my autograph. People give me undue respect when I speak to them. That makes me awkward. You treat me as a human being, not as a kickboxing champion, and I am thankful for that.’’

‘‘I understand.’’ I said. I decided not to tell him that until my visit to the Champions bar, I had not known who he was. If I had, I would have probably given him undue respect as well.

A few days later, I was at a car rally in Warsaw. My company was the sponsor. Ten Polish winners of a competition run by our company were the key guests. They had come to Warsaw from all parts of Poland. I was standing with those guests and my colleagues. Suddenly from the VIP stand located far away, I saw a figure waving at me. I waved back when I realised it was Przemek. He came pacing with his long legs and greeted me.

‘‘What are you doing here, Ravi?’’ He asked.

‘‘We are the sponsors of this rally.’’ I answered.

We exchanged a few words.

‘‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow morning.’’ He said before going back to the VIP stand.

I noticed the Polish guests and my colleagues were all gazing at me in awe. One of the guests asked in a respectful voice how Saleta happened to know me.

‘‘Oh that!’’ I said. ‘‘We train together, you know, in the same gym.’’

After saying that, I felt everyone was watching my biceps with undue respect.

Ravi                                                                                           

The Gentleman with a Dog

While psychologists may have written volumes on human memory; I learn about it from my own life.

The image of the elderly Polish gentleman with a brown hairy dog re-appeared in my mind; only because my earlier story was set in the Powazki cemetery. I had seen him seventeen years ago, in July 1987. When I remembered him this week, I could vividly see his vacant eyes and the brown dog which sat silently at his feet day after day. I don’t recollect any longer the dress he wore. I could, of course, lie; use a fiction writer’s privilege and describe him in detail.  But I won’t. This is a true story and there is no reason why I should add anything more to it than what I recall. What fascinates me is that I do remember his blank eyes. The dog was definitely brown – but I can’t tell you what breed it was. As a matter of fact, I don’t like dogs – hairy dogs in particular – they leave behind hair on car seats and leather sofas. I find it disgusting and unhygienic. If the elderly gentleman did not have the dog, I would have gone with Zosha in the very beginning to ask him whose grave it was.

I think I am causing confusion here by not writing the narration in the right sequence. It is partly because while writing I don’t want to lose his face from my memory’s eye. I had not seen it for many many years. Secondly, I am assuming you read my story from last week called ‘Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust’. Since both stories happened in the same cemetery in Warsaw, I am not going to repeat here what I have already described before.

If for some reason, you didn’t read that story which was about an English girl Lisa finding golden teeth in a grave, converting them into a ring, and losing it in New York; I must quickly rehash the setting so that you are not confused any more.

In the summer of 1987, I travelled around Europe as a volunteer on behalf of ‘Volunteers for Peace’. The jobs included building a house in Austria, working as a volunteer nurse at a London mental hospital and restoring coffins in the Powazki cemetery at Warsaw. I worked in Powazki for a month, and it was there that I saw the Polish gentleman with a dog. I saw him at the very beginning of the camp, maybe even on the first day.

There were fifteen of us from as many countries. The leader of the camp was Zosha (Polish way of corrupting the name Sophie), a young girl with glasses who was a language graduate. She spoke impeccably correct English, and pronounced each word phonetically as Eastern Europeans are wont to do. The foreign volunteers, including myself, did not know any Polish. So Zosha had an additional role of working as our interpreter.

Many volunteers who arrived in Poland on the weekend, stayed at Zosha’s small flat in central Warsaw. On the camp’s first day, she took us by bus to the Powazki. You may want to know why any young students of sound mind should opt to do voluntary work in a cemetery. Well, we didn’t ask for a cemetery. When you apply, you give your choices for countries; but you receive from the organisers specific venues only later.

As an Indian, I have always associated cemeteries with morbidity; provoked by all those ghost stories I have read, and seen on screens with special sound effects. In India, we cremate. You burn the body and the person is gone for ever. Coming from a culture where living people have little space to live, I find the giant graveyards extravagant. Burying the dead with grand ceremony, and relatives visiting the grave ever so often to bring flowers and other paraphernalia I consider to be an excessive display of sentiment. I think the grief, when real, is prolonged unnecessarily simply because of the existence of the burial system. If the relative was asked to open the coffin and witness the transformation of the dear and departed, he would probably run away screaming.

These were, I think, my thoughts when I saw at a distance this elderly man sitting next to a tombstone. He would bring a folding chair. The dog sat at his lap without barking. On most days, the man was already in his chair before we reached the cemetery. When we left late afternoon, he still sat in the chair. We did not work very long hours, but the time he spent, sitting next to the grave of his loved one, must be considered unusually lengthy.

‘‘Is it not abnormal for a man to sit the whole day in a cemetery?’’ I asked Zosha. Being an Indian, most things which are none of my business make me very curious. I was annoyed when nobody else at the camp thought anything about the man.

‘‘He must be retired.’’ Zosha specialised in stating facts without offering theories. ‘‘He is not the only one here.’’

Yes, the Powazki cemetery had visitors. I must clarify, after a couple of days I no longer associated any morbidity with it. It is a very nice place, if such term can be applied to a cemetery. Groups come here as part of their sightseeing tour. Once I saw a middle-aged lady sitting on a bench and reading a book. It must be hot in her apartment, Zosha said. If she lives nearby, this is as good a place to come and read books as any, she said. In short, Powazki had people other than us - the volunteers - but nobody came on a daily basis as the gentleman with the dog did.

My first theory was that he had lost his wife. That too very recently. Maybe just before our camp had started. The gravestone which we could see from distance looked fresh. On two separate occasions when we went to Powazki earlier than usual, I saw him in action.  

The man had a small tiled plot in front of the gravestone. When I looked from far, he was scrubbing the floor. A water bucket lay on side. The second time, he was cleaning it with a broom. I guess he did the cleaning each morning on arrival.

‘‘Is it common that you clean the space in front of the headstone of your wife every day?’’ I asked Zosha. ‘‘The only thing I haven’t seen is a vacuum cleaner.’’

‘‘I don’t know. My knowledge of cemeteries is limited.’’ Zosha said. ‘‘But it is possible he loved her much. He wants to spend time with her and keep the house clean.’’

I don’t think the man ever read anything. He just sat in his chair, his dog next to him. I imagined him going through a long married life, and replaying in his mind scenes – mostly those that had brought joy to the couple –, while his partner lay in the ground lifeless. Silence was his form of communication.

I was desperate to check the name of his wife on the headstone and the year of death. I was almost certain she had died that year, but confirming it would set my mind at peace. If the dog was not there, I would have checked the name long ago, but the dog always sat there. It did not bark, but each time I see a dog, I think of the injections you need to take in stomach if it bites. I thought I would rather die of curiosity than take injections in stomach.

Having said that, in the third week, I decided to venture passing by his plot. It looked as if the dog was sleeping. I tiptoed my way, still keeping a fair distance from the grave, but managed to see the name on the stone. I quickly went ahead to avoid the man think I was spying. I returned to my co-workers through a detour, and gave the headline.

‘‘It’s a man.’’ I said. ‘‘The name on the gravestone is of a man, not a woman.’’ I don’t remember now what the name was. With no knowledge of Polish, I could still differentiate between male and female names. I think I checked with Zosha it was indeed a man.

‘‘That adds a new complexion to the mystery.’’ I said. ‘‘It’s not his wife.’’

‘‘Maybe his father?’’ Zosha suggested.

‘‘Father? First of all, look at that man. He must be in his sixties. So his father must be at least eighty plus. Now can someone really mourn for a father day after day? And clean and scrub the floor in a cemetery? I think it may be his brother.’’

There was a week left before I was due to leave Poland. A dead wife would have been a perfect explanation. A man can’t overcome his beloved wife’s death, comes to her grave every day, and spends days in her company. That would have made sense to me. I would say it even had a touch of poignant romance. If I had to leave Poland without knowing who the dead person was, I would have been happy to go along with that story. Perfectly plausible. The man was sentimental but normal. One day, he would get tired of mourning and then stop or reduce coming here.

But it was not his wife. The male name had created complications. A Dutch girl on the camp said he must be gay and the dead man was his boyfriend. That shocked Zosha, who hastened to say Poland was a good Catholic country, and in this man’s generation these things were unheard of. Not because Zosha said it, I myself thought the theory was far-fetched. It could be either father or brother.

Then the presence of dog struck me. What was the significance of the dog? I had checked with dog-lovers at the camp that keeping a dog for a whole day in the cemetery was unusual. A couple of times every day, the dog would disappear; presumably for biological comfort. Other than that, it sat there all the time. Again I don’t remember, but I assume its owner brought food both for himself and the dog. I formed a new theory. The dead person, in fact, was attached to the dog. The old man had promised that person – brother or father – that he would bring the dog to the grave every day. He was carrying out somebody’s final wish. The death wishes can be weird. If you are superstitious, you want to fulfil the commitments given to a dying man.

By this time, I had managed to make everyone at the camp curious. Even those who initially thought of me as a pain in the neck, now began offering their own theories about the man and his relationship with the dead whose grave he guarded.

‘‘Look Zosha, we are all leaving tomorrow. I am afraid the unsolved mystery of that man will torture me in the coming months. I will not forgive myself for leaving the cemetery like that. This is not a book of Agatha Christie suspense. The man is sitting right over there. The easiest thing is to go and ask him.’’

Zosha had shown admirable patience with me for a whole month. But she raised her eyebrows.

‘‘What do you want to ask him?’’

‘‘Ask him who is the dead person, what is his relationship with him, why he comes here every day, cleans and scrubs the floor. And yes, the dog. Why bring the dog?’’ I thought maybe we should all have little bets on the answers, but I did not say it. Betting in a cemetery may look a bit impolite.

‘‘I don’t think we should ask him anything. That is his private mourning. I don’t think he will like it.’’ Zosha was uneasy.

‘‘In the worst case, he will refuse to answer. So what? Go, Zosha, go. Please. For my sake, please ask him.’’ Everyone supported me. An Agatha Christie novel with its last pages missing is an uncomfortable experience.

‘‘I?’’ Zosha looked surprised. ‘‘If you are so keen, you go and ask yourself.’’

‘‘Look Zosha, I don’t know Polish. You know that. You also know how much I hate dogs. My heart was thumping the other day when I passed by it.’’

Zosha would not agree to go alone. In the end, the group forced me to go, with Zosha coming as my assistant, as my interpreter. Zosha would take care the dog does not attack me. She will introduce me to the man and clarify she was only translating. I agreed.

I followed Zosha cautiously. All others watched. I must admit the dog was gentle. He hardly moved even when we approached the chair in which the man sat. Zosha said I was a student from India, and if the gentleman did not mind, I would like to talk to him. I think the man neither smiled nor protested. Zosha looked at me.

‘‘Good afternoon.’’ I said. ‘‘I have been working there...’’ I pointed to where the group was. ‘‘... and I have seen you here for the past month. I was...er... wondering whose grave is this.’’

Zosha translated and waited.

‘‘Whose grave? Whose? Mine.’’ He took his hand to chest.

‘‘I mean,’’ I said, ‘‘whose name is that on the stone’’?

‘‘My name.’’ Zosha while translating added in conspiratorial tone that the stone had only the year of birth, and not the year of death. The old man then lovingly looked at his dog, and began talking even without my asking anything.

‘‘You know, I have trained my dog, a lovely dog she is, to sit here. I have agreed with my neighbour he would leave her here for a few hours every day to give me company, once I am there... under the ground. I hope the dog outlives me.’’ He looked fondly at the sleeping dog. ‘‘I like my house clean, and she keeps me company. Why any of that should change once I move to Powazki?’’

I think after saying that, the Polish gentleman with the dog smiled in a very benign way.

Ravi Abhyankar

Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust

I: Warsaw, July 1987

Lisa Brookes used her long nail to tear open the envelope from ‘Volunteers for Peace’. Standing in the corridor, she scanned the contents.

‘Powazki cemetery, Warsaw’.

From the first of July, she was invited for a summer camp in Poland. Outside Britain, Lisa had only been to France and Germany. Communist countries she had always felt curious about. In the form, she had filled ‘Eastern Europe’ as the first preference. She was pleased it was Warsaw.

‘‘Cemetery, did you say?’’ Lisa’s mother asked. ‘‘Are you sure you want to work in a cemetery?’’

‘‘The letter says restoring coffins. Seems all right.’’ Lisa was 19, a big girl. She would cope with anything. 

‘‘It’s rather unusual, I must say. Do you know anyone there?’’

‘‘You mean those lying in the ground?’’ Lisa chuckled.

The remark helped her shut the discussion.

The brochure described ‘Powazki’ as the most famous and oldest cemetery in Poland. In one place, they called it a most beautiful cemetery. Lisa thought that adjective inappropriate, given the context. Well, foreigners have their own way of expressing in English. Well known aristocrats, Nobel laureates, actors, poets rested there. The letter offered a long list of names. Lisa could not even pronounce them. She put the brochure back in the envelope. She was excited at the prospect of her first trip to a mysterious part of Europe.

It took Lisa only three days to get her bearings in the Powazki. Each morning, until their bus arrived at Okopowa str.; they could feel the heat. Once the group entered Powazki, cool breeze greeted them. When the volunteers talked, the sound their conversation produced was theatrical. On the second day, they began whispering.  Various shades of green covered the expanse of Powazki. Red and yellow flowers lay beneath the headstones. Late in the evenings, candles and lamps burnt near tombs. Rarely did anyone see who had brought them. A special mausoleum - ‘Avenue of the Meritorious’ - contained graves of those who had fought during the Warsaw uprising against the Nazis.

In July 1987, Poland was still in a propaganda phase. The Polish organisations were keen to invite foreigners and keep them happy. The voluntary work at the cemetery was nominal, the hours limited. The job involved doing cosmetic repairs to specified coffins. By end of the first week, Lisa was enjoying the work. The surroundings inspired her. While the fainthearted strolled, admiring the sculptures built above the graves; the curious lot did not mind opening a coffin and looking at its contents.

‘‘Look what happens in ten years from death.’’ A French volunteer was standing with an open coffin cover.

Ocean brown

Ocean blue

Leave me dry

Alone

On this shore

-Bronislaw Laskowski: 1914-1977; the gravestone said.

‘‘You are disgusting.’’ Lisa told the young French boy. ‘‘This coffin is not on our list.’’ She pushed him aside. She tried to close the coffin inside the burial vault. The coffin cover made a sound normally made by rusty hinges in forsaken houses. Two colleagues put fingers in ears. She tried again.

‘‘What’s this?’’ Lisa held a small box that her hands had discovered in the cavity between the coffin and vault. She opened it to find a set of golden dentures.

‘‘Looks like false teeth to me.’’ Said the camp-leader.

‘‘But it is gold. Can you have a whole set of golden false teeth?’’ A volunteer asked.

‘‘This man obviously did.’’ Lisa said.

‘‘Maybe that was his emergency preparation to run away with wealth.’’ A Polish boy said.

Others imagined a stout man named Bronislaw Laskowski giving a full-fledged golden smile. There was no way to know if he ever did. He was dead for ten years. The top of the grave was empty. No flowers and no candles.

Lisa, the honest girl that she was, handed over the box to the camp-leader.

‘‘What’ll I do with it?’’ The camp-leader asked.

‘‘I don’t know. Don’t you need to return it to the authorities?’’

‘‘Which authorities?’’

Two other people, who were jealous about someone else finding gold, said the box should be returned to the coffin. After all, it was the property of the dead man. Further discussion took place on whether the gold was real. Volunteers cited superstitions from their countries about teeth of the dead. Why were the teeth not in his mouth, someone asked.

Finally, it was agreed Lisa and the camp-leader should go to the head of the Powazki cemetery, and hand them over to him. Let him decide what to do with the dead man’s property.

‘‘Where did you find it?’’ The elderly man in the small room, set in the corner of the cemetery, was intrigued.

‘‘In a coffin. We are restoring coffins.’’ Said the camp-leader. ‘‘We want to deposit the teeth with you.’’

‘‘We can’t take them. There is no procedure for depositing items found inside a coffin.’’

‘‘What do you suggest we do with them?’’

‘‘One who found it can take it.’’

The camp-leader translated it to Lisa. Lisa put the box in her small backpack. Her only worry was the Custom officers at the border. She could not possibly declare: I was given the teeth by a man called Bronislaw Laskowski.

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II: Krakow, 1935

Bronislaw Laskowski wrote poems as a child. By the time he finished school in Krakow, he had scribbled hundreds of romantic poems on cheap notebooks. Romantic poets fall in love early. Bronislaw met Beata in the central market square, when he was 17, and she was 13.  She was haggling in a high-pitched voice with a fruit-seller. Her voice attracted Bronislaw to the stall. He kept staring at her long black silken hair. The nose was as straight as a nose can be. Colour had rushed to her cheeks as she argued. Her neck was as smooth as an infant’s skin. None of this triggered love at first sight. What did the trick were her eyes. Her eyes were the expression of her face. As he later learnt, the eyes expressed her whole personality.

One eye was blue. The other was brown.

Bronislaw forgot manners. He interrupted the conversation. Looking in her eyes, he recited an inspired poem. An average thirteen year old would have run away, or called for help. Beata Borgman stopped her talk with the fruit-seller. She looked at the poet intensely and listened to the beautiful words that flowed out of his lips.

They met the same evening. And the following evening. By the first snowfall, Bronislaw had written reams of poems on her. One life was not enough to write verses dedicated to his love. Beata had become the poetry of his life.

The following summer he left to serve in the army. With a blazing sun in the sky, they sat under a tree and kissed passionately. Don’t close your eyes when you kiss me, he pleaded. I want to look at them every moment. Beata laughed. When they kissed again, both had their eyes closed. Two years was a long period. Two years, away from Beata, was a lifetime. He was posted to Warsaw. He would see what excuses he could invent to return to her. He would use his creative talent in finding ways to unite with his love. Even for an evening. She promised she would wait for him. Two years they would countdown together. He in Warsaw, she in Krakow.

The Polish army was far stricter than Bronislaw had imagined. With great effort he managed to exchange two letters in the first six months. In army, sending a letter was an offence. It took eighteen months before he gained the confidence of his commander. He lied he had received a family letter saying his mother was ill. They believed him, and allowed him to visit Krakow for one day. Morning till evening.

From the Krakow railway station, he speeded to Beata’s house. He was willing not to meet his own family. He had ten hours left. He would spend each minute with her. He prayed she was at home, when he knocked on the door. A tall, middle-aged man he did not recognise opened the door.

‘‘Is Beata at home?’’

‘‘Beata- who is Beata?’’

‘‘Beata – the girl with one eye blue and the other eye brown.’’ When Bronislaw did not see any reaction, he added. ‘‘Beata Borgman.’’

‘‘Oh, Borgmans. Yes. They are gone.’’

‘‘Gone? Where? How can they go?’’

‘‘They sold the apartment to us. They have left. The Borgmans have left.’’

‘‘Can you please give me their new address? Is it far from this house?’’

‘‘New address? They have left the country.’’

‘‘Country? But that’s not possible. Beata... the girl from the family wrote to me some months ago.’’

‘‘That’s right. We are here only for two months.’’ The man then lowered his voice. ‘‘They were Jews, you know. It was wise they decided to disappear.’’

‘‘Which country did they go to?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘How can I reach them?’’

‘‘You can’t. In fact Mr Borgman told me when leaving that he does not want anyone to reach them. Now or ever. That was the whole point in leaving. They wanted to be safe. They are gone. You can’t reach them.’’

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III: New York, October 1987

Lisa checked in along with her brother, Steve. Their hotel was next to the Times Square. She did not believe in astrology, but something was clearly happening to her stars. Poland in July and New York in October. She could now boast to her friends about her being a widely-travelled girl. Her brother was invited to take part in a Manhattan jewellery exhibition. Steve Brookes possibly did not rank with the leading names in London, but his shop in Nottingham was the most frequented jewellery outlet in East Midlands. He was well-known for his innovative designs. Lisa was delighted when he asked her if she wanted to attend his exhibition in New York to assist him at the stall.

Lisa turned the golden ring on her finger. This was a new habit acquired over the past weeks. When she had carried the golden teeth, her heart was thumping, but the Customs at both airports had ignored her and her luggage. Steve had measured the purity of the golden teeth, and was surprised to see it was 22 carat, much higher than the normal gold sold in Eastern Europe. He had melted the teeth, and used the gold to make a fine glittering ring.

‘‘Only be careful, Lisa.’’ Steve warned his sister. ‘‘It’s expensive, you know.’’

‘‘Not really, considering how much I paid for it.’’

Lisa wore the ring at the exhibition and a couple of clients actually asked her its price. No, this is not for sale, she said.

The exhibition was a success as defined by art jewellers. It is more about spreading your name. Few people actually buy at such exhibitions. When Steve and Lisa were in the airport lounge waiting for their flight to be announced, Lisa once again had an urge to turn the ring. Ugh! Her body trembled as if she had put a finger inside an electric socket. Her finger was naked.

‘‘Where is my ring?’’ She asked Steve in a tone suggesting every jeweller should know the whereabouts of each small item he produced. They searched around them. Lisa went upto the airport x-ray and returned.

‘‘Where did you lose it?’’ Steve asked a question that irritates a person who has lost something.

‘‘I don’t know. It could be the taxi. Maybe at the exhibition. Restaurant. Or the hotel room. I remember having it last night. I was reading a book in bed. I remember toying with it. It must have happened sometime today.’’

An announcement was heard asking all passengers to board the British Airways flight New York-London.

‘‘Forget it, Lisa. If you don’t remember where you lost it, I don’t think we can get it back. It was a lovely piece. If someone finds it, they are not going to return it.’’ They began walking to the plane. ‘‘Well, you didn’t pay for it anyway. So you haven’t really lost anything.’’

Lisa agreed with the logic, but accepting it was not easy.

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IV: New York, October 1987

After the third lovemaking session of the day, the young couple lay exhausted on their hotel bed. The brunette had her eyes closed. Her hands held the bed’s wooden back in a posture of surrender. It was one of those moments, when the world ceased to exist. Her fingers moved aimlessly behind the pillow.

‘‘Oh, my goodness!’’ She screamed with her remaining energy. ‘‘Look at this.’’

‘‘Where did you find it?’’ Asked her lover.

‘‘Here. Behind the mattress. I felt something cold when I touched it. Looks like gold.’’

The lover’s response she could not hear. She was wearing the ring in her middle finger.

‘‘It’s my size. Exact. It’s made for me.’’

She got up and went to the mirror.

‘‘They’ll come for it. You don’t want to steal somebody else’s, do you?’’ He said.

‘‘We are in this room for six days now. If somebody wanted to come, they would have come by now.’’

The brunette stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. The only thing she had on her body was the golden ring.

‘‘How does it look? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’’

Her lover raised his head from the bed. He caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror. He looked at her face before looking at the ring. The first thing he always noticed in her was her eyes. One blue and one brown. The eyes that she said she had inherited from her grandmother.

Ravi