Lost in Translation

*Author's note: I've been asked many times where the name komrad1156 comes from and I've at least partially explained it each time I've been asked. I speak Russian fluently and my dad was born in November of 1956 and there you have it.

My mother is Ukrainian. She emigrated from the Soviet Union in the 1970s during one of the large waves of Jews seeking to escape religious persecution. She ended up in Seattle where my dad met her and asked her out. (None of us are religious, by the way.)

Kids made fun of her accent as I was growing up, but I'm grateful she gave me the gift of a second language by speaking Russian to me in our home. I don't get to use it all that often, but there have been times when I've worked with Russian and Ukrainian military officers and been able to translate during various visits to the Navy base where I work as an aerospace engineer on the F-18 Super Hornet.

Lost in Translation is one of my favorite movies. I very much enjoyed the delicious tension between the main characters from beginning to end. It takes place in Tokyo, Japan. This story takes place in Moscow, Russia, a city I've been to more than once.

I often write stories with a May-December theme and they tend to alternate between the older character being male or female. If you read my stories, you know I've had a thing for older women since high school so that makes sense. Here as in the movie, the male character (Bill Murray in the movie) is older while the younger character (Scarlett Johansson) is female. If you've seen the movie, you know the male character is married and the female character smokes (in the movie and in real life), two themes many of those who read the 'mature' theme don't care for. I'm reluctantly caving in to pressure so our male MC in this story will be a widower rather than a cheat, but that's all the caving I'm doing. Well, maybe not. You'll have to read it to the end to be sure. :-)

********

"Очень приятно, Господин Питерсон!"

"Thank you, it's a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Mr. Golovchenko."

The liaison from Kinomania switched to English and said, "So you will please be allowing me to show you to your room. We are very much hoping you will enjoy your stay at the Ritz-Carlton Moscow. You may ask the front desk for anything you like..." He leaned in and said quietly, "To include how do you say...um...female companionship, no?" The man smiled and continued talking as they entered the elevator. "If there is anything you need front desk cannot provide, please to call me anytime—day or night."

He showed him to his suite which was nothing short of magnificent. "Will this be acceptable Mr. Petersen?"

"It's more than acceptable, Mr. Golovchenko. Thank you very much."

"So. We will be meeting you downstairs in lobby at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, yes?"

"Right. Nine o'clock. I'll see you then."

They shook hands and Petersen looked around. "Not bad for an old writer."

Ken Petersen hadn't had a book published in over fifteen years and the publishing world had pretty much given up on him. For that matter, he'd pretty much given up on himself. That was when his wife of seven years, Kristina, was killed by a drunk driver two days before Christmas.

His inspiration to write another book came in the form of a younger woman of 30 whom he'd met through a mutual friend. Petersen hadn't dated much since the death of his wife, but this attractive, younger woman had not only caught his eye, she'd served as a kind of fire that inspired him to get back to work and start writing again.

Ironically, the relationship ended at almost the same time the book was ready to be published in the US. There were several reasons for the breakup and she'd assured him the age difference wasn't one of them. Yet he knew in his heart of hearts it mattered to her. How much he couldn't be sure, but he knew it played a role. Since then, his only female companionship had come in the form requiring cash, discreetly set out in an unmarked envelope. Thanks to the enormous advance on the book coupled with the royalties still trickling in from his past books, money wasn't a concern.

Petersen rented love by the hour and for the time being at least, that was more than enough. For a man of 50, he was still considered quite handsome. When he wasn't writing, he was either in his Olympic-sized swimming pool doing laps, out on the bicycle putting in 25+ miles, or in the gym working out with light weights. Healthy eating had become another obsession as had doing his own shopping, meal preparation, and cooking. Why did he need a wife or even a chef when he enjoyed doing all of that for himself? Housekeeping was another matter altogether and he gladly paid two women to clean his 6,000-square foot home in upstate New York, another two men to take care of the landscaping, and someone else to look after the pool and other maintenance-related issues.

Life was good now, and women just complicated things. Besides, any time he got lonely in that way, a thousand dollars brought just the kind of temporary relief he needed.

He'd never been to Russia before, let alone Moscow, but he'd heard there were more than enough women willing to keep a wealthy, middle-aged man company—an hour at a time. He was about to put those rumors to the test as he headed downstairs.

*******

"I'll be back late tomorrow and then we can go do something together okay, baby?"

"What am I supposed to do in Moscow all by myself? I don't know a single person, Rob. I don't want to sit in the room all day."

"It's a liability issue, Chelsea. They can't let you fly with us or be on site. I'm sorry but..."

"Then why didn't you tell me this before you asked me to come with you? I know this is your job and it's a great opportunity, but this is going to be...awful for me."

He put his hands on her shoulders and said, "Chelsea? I didn't know about the liability thing until today. I'm sorry. Look, I have to go. There are tours all over the place. Check with the concierge and..." He fished out a credit card and handed it to her. "Just charge it to this and do whatever you want, okay? I've gotta run or I'm gonna be late." He kissed her on the cheek, grabbed his gear, and headed out of the room.

Chelsea Curtis had been raised not to complain, but this was too much. Her relationship with Rob was shaky at best, and he'd promised her this trip would be a great way to rekindle the romance. He was an up-and-coming movie producer and the documentary he was doing on the sale of nuclear material in the Former Soviet Union had real potential. She knew they'd be on the road a lot and that was fine. It was even part of the appeal. Seeing new places, meeting every-day Russians, eating the local food. She'd been very excited to go with him and now she learned she couldn't even leave Moscow for any reason. To say she was disappointed was not only an understatement, it was just plain wrong. She was angry and the anger that had been building the last few hours boiled over as her boyfriend walked out on her leaving to handle it.

"Deal with it!" Those were the words her hard-ass-but-well-meaning father often said as she was growing up. She was an only child and he'd had to raise her alone after the death of her mother when she was just ten years old. He loved her dearly but he never really recovered from the loss of his wife, and his bedside manner hadn't been all that great before. Her mother dealt with all 'problems' so when she tried bringing them to him, he'd get frustrated very quickly and tell her to just deal with it.

She'd started smoking with a friend her senior year of high school and she'd somehow managed to keep it hidden from him until she graduated from college. Visits home were torture when she had to go hours or sometimes a whole day without a cigarette, but she'd done it with the help of gum and patches. He caught her smoking just before commencement, making her feel like she was a little girl who'd done some terrible thing. His over-the-top reaction ruined not only the event but his entire visit. He blew up, laid into her about being a fool, and warned her she'd end up dead just like her mother.

She was so angry and so hurt, she lost her temper with him for the first time in her life. Through a stream of tears she'd screamed, "I smoke, Daddy! And I like it. So...DEAL WITH IT!" She crushed it out, stormed off, and hadn't spoken to him since. Just thinking about it was usually enough to make her cry.

Being stuck in the hotel alone; feeling this angry and this sad made the tears start falling and they kept falling without relief. As they fell, she instinctively reached for her best friend, a pack of Virginia Slims menthol lights, lit up, and inhaled deeply as she struggled to get control of her emotions.

She finished the cigarette, took a shower, changed clothes, and decided to go downstairs for a drink. She took a last look in the mirror and was satisfied with the way she looked. A dressy black sweater and a tan skirt with matching heels seemed more than adequate even at Moscow's premier five-star hotel. And thank God, she could at least smoke virtually anywhere in this city!

*****

Petersen showered, shaved, and put on a fresh set of clothes and made his way downstairs to the main bar where security turned a blind eye to the select number of ladies who were 'approved' by hotel management to ensure its clientele was satisfied in every way. He looked around and saw three very attractive women either sitting at the bar, alone at a table, or in the lobby—waiting. He smiled as he thought about the absurdity of a woman dressed to the nines sitting alone in the lobby of a five-star hotel as though it wasn't utterly obvious what she was doing. Then again, he not only didn't care, he was grateful there were women like her available and willing to meet the needs of men just like him.

He glanced at his watch and noted it was still early—9pm Moscow time—so having a choice of three beautiful ladies before ten o'clock—when he'd been told they typically showed up—was more than adequate. He was most attracted to the young blonde in the pretty black sweater and began moving toward her until he saw her light a cigarette. He pretended to be looking for something in his pocket and turned toward the bar.

The last and only women he'd even dated who smoked was his late wife. He'd never liked her smoking, but he'd loved her. He'd love her like no one else and over time, even though she never smoked inside their home, he'd learned to associate the taste of smoke on her lips or the scent of it in her hair with something positive and something very sensual.

Even though he was sure she was a проститутка (proctitootka), he just couldn't risk being with her. It was too difficult. It was just too...painful. So he looked for someone just as attractive but someone who wouldn't remind him of his beautiful wife.

He sat next to a stunning brunette in a beautiful, silky-looking dress and said, "Добрый вечер."

The woman smiled and said, "You speak Russian?"

"Немножко," he replied meaning 'a little bit.'

"So what brings you to Moscow, Meester..."

"Smith," he said. "John Smith."

"Okay, Meester—Smeet." She smiled indicating she'd heard the name one-too-many times but knew enough to play along. "Are you looking for nice time with Russian lady?"

"I am," he said. "Do you know any nice Russian ladies?"

She laughed at his attempt at humor. "Some men tell me I am such a lady. Perhaps you would like to find out if this is true?"

She had a great smile and an even nicer body and he said, "How about I buy you a drink first and we'll see?"

"Okay. This sounds nice," she said in her thickly-accented English. He knew he was going to pay two or three times the normal price for her drink but $50 seemed outrageous. Even so, he threw a hundred on the bar and told the bartender to bring him one, too.

His new 'girlfriend' raised her glass and said, "Ваше здровье! На дно! (na d'noh)" 'Smith' touched glasses and downed it in one gulp as he knew the second part of the toast meant 'to the bottom' which is how Russians always drank the first and last toasts. He also knew most toasts were given with 'Vasheh zdoroviyeh' rather than the more popular but incorrect 'Na zdoroviyeh'.

As they sipped their second Ketel One vodka made in The Netherlands, Petersen laughed at the irony. "So are you thinking I'm nice girl now, Meester Smeet?"

He was about to say, "Da" when he heard a female American-sounding voice. He turned around and saw the pretty blonde in the black sweater and said to her, "Do you speak English?"

Her eyes lit up as she said, "I do. Are you an American by any chance?"

He turned away from the Russian prostitute and said, "I am. Are you?"

"Yep. Born and raised." The bartender slid a book of matches toward her and she thanked him in terrible Russian. "My lighter died," she said as she grabbed the matches. She looked at the woman next to him who was giving her the worst case of skunk eye she'd even seen. She ignored her and said to him, "Do you want to join me?"

He didn't see a wedding ring so he said, "Um...sure. I'll be there in a minute, okay?"

She looked at the prostitute again then said to him, "Oh, okay. Take your time."

He very carefully removed five, hundred-dollar bills and said, "Move your purse closer." He knew better than to openly exchange money even in Moscow.

As he slid it inside he said, "For your trouble. I'm very sorry."

As he walked off he heard her say rather loudly, "Сволочь!" (svoloch.) He later learned that meant 'bastard' and laughed when he recalled it. She'd made $500 for doing nothing and had the rest of the night to earn more and yet he was the bad guy. Okay, sure.

As he walked toward her table he saw her take a very deep drag, inhale, then exhale a long stream of blue smoke. "Hi," he said as he stood next to a chair fairly close to her.

"Hi. Have a seat," she said with a smile. She took another drag and as she exhaled asked, "Does this bother you?"

"No, not all," he said not wanting to tell her why.

"Oh, good. I get a lot of grief in America for smoking and I'm pretty much sick of it."

"Smoking or the grief?" he said with a smile letting her know he was kidding.

"I enjoy smoking so if it bothers you...deal with it." She smiled too, letting him know she wasn't angry but that she also wasn't kidding.

"I'm Ken," he said extending his hand.

"Chelsea," she told him accepting it.

"I'm still jet lagged so please don't be offended when I ask, 'What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting here all alone, okay?"

She exhaled again and started laughing. "Sorry. That was just so cliche I couldn't help it." She tapped her ash and said, "My boyfriend abandoned me. I thought we'd be spending five days together traveling around and a few hours ago we found out I can't go anywhere with him." She explained the documentary and why he was there, his invitation, their recent problems, then kept right on talking.

"You haven't had an adult to talk to for a while, have you?" he kidded.

She laughed again and said, "Is it that obvious or are you insinuating my boyfriend isn't an adult?"

Petersen laughed and said, "I don't know him so I can't say. I can assure it's his loss, though."

She finished her cigarette and asked him, "So what brings you to Moscow, Ken?"

"I'm a writer and my latest book has just been translated into Russian and it's being released on Monday. I'm doing a series of TV interviews to publicize it."

"Wow. That's impressive! What's it about?"

He explained the book's theme about Joseph Stalin and an unknown mistress and a little bit about the kind of research he'd done and he could tell she was duly impressed. "It's not that big a deal. In fact, I hadn't written anything in 15 years so it's not like I'm some kind of Tom Clancy or James Patterson." He paused then said, "But my last name is Petersen, so..."

Chelsea laughed as she reached for another cigarette. "You're funny. I like guys with a sense of humor." He lit it for her and she thanked him.

"Can I buy you a drink, Chelsea?" he asked as she inhaled deeply.

"Yes, please."

"What's your preference?" he asked.

"Vodka. What else?" She smiled and Petersen felt an old familiar stirring. In his mind he was still her age and she could easily be his still-young, still-beautiful wife.

"Be right back." He returned a minute later with two clear glasses half full of a very clear, very thick liquid.

He managed not to laugh when she said, "Na strauswichway!" before they touched glasses. Petersen didn't speak Russian, but he knew that wasn't even close. He just smiled and tossed it back.

When she didn't he said, "You better hope the KGB or whatever they call it nowadays isn't looking?"

"What?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"You have to drink the first toast to the bottom." She raised a disbelieving eyebrow and he made a motion as he said, "Swear to God. Cross my heart. It's the law."

Chelsea laughed, looked at her glass, and said, "What the hell?" as she tossed it back. She shook her head as she swallowed and said, "Wooo-hoo!"

"One more?" he asked her.

"Sure! Why not?"

They sipped this one as they sat and talked. "So who was the woman shooting visual daggers at me when I walked up?" Chelsea asked.

"Oh. Um...well, she was um...she was going to be my um...date for the evening."

"Ohhh," she said. She saw his wedding ring and said, "While the cat's away?"

Petersen hadn't cried in a very long time, but out of nowhere he felt his eyes welling up. He blinked a couple of times and said, "Damn air conditioning. I don't know what they do over here but..."

She put her hand on his forearm and said, "Hey, I wasn't judging, okay? What you do is your business. I'm just grateful for the company. Being alone sucks."

Petersen looked away from her and said, "My wife passed away a long time ago and I've just never taken the ring off."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I feel like such an ass," she said. "Can you please forgive me?"

"Of course. It's okay, really. It was 15 years ago." He finally looked over at her and said, "I met someone a few years back and thought maybe I'd get married again. She was kind of like my inspiration or something and a big part of the reason I was able to write this book. But for whatever reason it didn't happen. So now I kind of prefer..." he nodded toward the bar where the woman was still sitting, "the company of women who um..."

"It's okay. I understand. I'm not judgmental. Lord knows I've had my share of judgment from other people," she said as tapped the pack of cigarettes beside her. She finished it and asked, "Are you sure this doesn't bother you?"

"Would it matter if I said it did?" he replied answering her question with a question.

Chelsea laughed and said, "Normally, I'd say 'no' but I...kind of like you so, yes, it would matter."

"My wife smoked. I hated it initially but I loved everything else about her, you know?" Chelsea nodded as she talked. "Over time, I associated smoking with her to the point where it became almost...I don't know. It's like it was kind of sensual or something."

"Some men have a smoking fetish. Maybe you're one of them," she said. "I didn't believe it until I checked it out, but it's true. There are tons of videos and websites that feature women smoking. So yeah, it's definitely a fetish for some guys."

"Seriously? I've heard of a foot fetish but smoking? That's a new one on me. Then again, where we men are concerned, nothing really surprises me, you know? If it's wearing a skirt, we'll chase it."

Chelsea laughed again and said, "You see. You make me laugh!"

Petersen looked at her and said, "I don't know about you, but there's no way I can fall asleep." He looked at his watch and said, "I'm not even gonna try and figure out what time it is back in New York, but it's sure as hell not bed time. Hey! You wanna go somewhere? I mean, if your boyfriend wouldn't mind and if you want to and..."