Lost in Translation

"Stop talking," she said with a smile. "You had me at 'do you wanna go.' The answer is 'yes.' I want to go. Anywhere." She'd downed her second shot and dropped her cigarettes and matches into her purse. Petersen stood then extended his hand to help her up. "And he's a gentleman," she told him.

"And?" he asked seeking clarification.

"Well, you're kind of cute...for an old guy," she said before laughing. "So where exactly are we going?" she asked as she took his hand.

"Upstairs," he told her.

"Oh, really? What makes you think I'm that kind of girl?" she said pretending to be deeply offended.

"You mean the kind of girl who wants a coat and gloves in Moscow when it's 35 degrees outside at night?"

"Oh, okay. Um, yeah, I guess I am that kind of girl."

Ten minutes later both of them had coats, knit caps, scarves, and gloves. Moscow didn't get nearly as cold as people thought, but 35 degrees and a cold rain often felt colder than 20 degrees in Siberia when the wind was calm and the humidity was low.

"Okay? You ready?" he asked her.

"I already answered that," she said. "But you still haven't told me where we're going."

"I'm taking you to paradise," he told her as the cold wind hit them in the face.

"You wish!" she told him as he hailed a taxi.

"No! Not that kind of paradise." He opened the door for her and said, "Sheesh. I thought you told me I was a gentleman?"

He slid in beside her and she said with a wicked smile, "Sometimes I lie."

Petersen shook his head and said to the driver, "Na rai."

"What does 'na rai' mean?" she asked.

"It means 'take us to the Rai' which is the Russian word for paradise and the name of one of the hottest clubs in the city. They offer Japanese and European cuisines. The music is way too loud and the vodka is well...everywhere."

"Ha rai!" she said before hollering out, "Woot-woot!"

Petersen saw the driver raise his eyes, take a quick look in back, then look away. He made sure to tip him and extra twenty bucks for putting up with their noise as he let them out.

They could hear the thumping of music from quite a ways away. "This sounds like my kind of place!" She turned toward him as he shepherded her inside and said, "Are you sure it isn't past your bedtime?"

They checked their coats and Petersen slipped the girl a twenty just to help her make sure the coats would still be there on their way out along with the gloves and other items.

Chelsea saw him doing something to his ears and hollered, "What's that?"

"These? Ear plugs! We old folks gotta preserve what little hearing we have left, you know."

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting you've got one foot in the grave. Better keep an eye out for banana peels!" She grabbed his hand and said, "Come on! Let's kill some brain cells!"

For the next four hours Ken got Chelsea to drink way too much vodka and she talked him into dancing more than he'd ever thought about. Of course, vodka made everything easier, and it also didn't hurt being with someone his daughter's age. He was too drunk to care that he and his wife had never had kids, but in his most private moments it was perhaps the biggest regret of his life. Then again, he'd become so distant and moody after she died, maybe it was a good thing. But didn't children give a person the reason to soldier on after a tragedy like that?

He was too far gone to think straight and decided they should head back. Except that he couldn't find her to tell her. In fact, he couldn't even see her. He panicked to the degree one can generate such feelings in a highly inebriated state. He wandered around pushing his way through the crush of people looking for the top of a head with long blonde hair attached to it. After having made the rounds of the entire place he found himself looking down a long corridor and there, sitting on a wooden bench all by herself was Chelsea smoking a cigarette.

"Hey, I've been looking all over for you. Are you okay?"

"I am now," she said leaving him to understand she'd been in the restroom with a mild case of alcohol poisoning.

"Let's get you home," he said as he sat down beside her

"Home? Ha! I wish," she said taking a long drag.

"You know what I mean," he told her.

She leaned over against him and lay her head on his shoulder. Even in his condition, he was acutely aware of the scent of her shampoo mingled with her perfume and the bitter smell of stale smoke. He could close his eyes and by just imagining...suddenly it was...Kristina he had his arm around instead of this young girl he barely knew. He instinctively bent down and kissed the top of her head and she fell over and curled up in his lap.

"Uh-uh," he said. "You can't fall asleep. I'm not carrying you through this crazy crowd." He lifted her up straight then got on his feet. He reached out for her hands and said, "Come on. Up you go."

She whined and complained but he wouldn't give in. He finally grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. "I don't wanna go!" she said.

"So you want another drink?" he asked.

"God, no!" she said almost retching at the thought. "Okay, you win. Let's go...home."

She fell asleep in the taxi and Petersen had to drag her out of the cab so he could pick her up and kick the door shut. Before he did, he found her room key/card in her purse and stuck it in his pocket. The doorman helped him get inside and Petersen headed for the elevator. He found an open lift, got inside, then bent down and used his thumb to hit the number for her floor.

He shifted her weight around as he fumbled for the key card and managed to slide it in and out turning the light on the lock green. He carried her inside and over to the king-sized bed. He gently laid her down then pulled one arm out of her coat, rolled her over, and did the same with the other. He laid it on the end of the bed then stood up to leave when he heard her speak. Her words were heavily slurred as she said, "Can you stay with me?"

Petersen was pretty drunk himself but still had better sense than to stay in a room where another man was expected to return at any time. "Your boyfriend will back any time so that's probably not the best idea."

She reached out for his hand and when she found it she said, "Just for a little while, okay? Please?"

He sat down then laid beside her knowing he couldn't fall asleep, keeping in mind he needed to listen for the door opening.

"You're nice," she mumbled. "I had a really good time tonight."

He thought about her vomiting in the bathroom and smiled. "I'm glad," he told her. He reached over and brushed the hair out of her face. It was dark but not so dark he couldn't tell how beautiful she was. He lay there just watching her breathe until she fell asleep less than a minute later. He carefully pulled off her shoes and pulled the comforter over her from the other side of the bed. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek hoping to somehow keep her scent with him as he left.

Walking to his own room, Petersen realized he was incredibly sad when he should be very happy. His book was doing great back home and was being published in another country. He'd also just spent the evening with a beautiful young woman who, in many ways, reminded him of the love of his life. And yet he felt like he was on the verge of crying.

"Too much fucking vodka," he said out loud to no one as he opened his own room door. He dropped his coat on the floor, kicked off his shoes, then went to brush his teeth. Unless he passed out drunk, the one thing he had to do was brush his teeth before going to bed. He did so without turning the light on in the bathroom and at the same time he relieved himself of the vodka he'd rented for the evening.

He dropped his clothes next to bed, slid in between the sheets and closed his eyes. And that's when he remembered he'd need a wake-up call. He picked up the phone, dialed '0' and asked for an 8am call. He closed one eye and peeked at the digital clock which read 3:13. "Fuck," he groaned as he rolled over and fell asleep.

At 50, he couldn't recover from a night of drinking like he used to. The wake-up sounded like a jackhammer but he'd somehow forced himself to wake up even though it was sometime around midnight or 2am back home when he should be laying and going to sleep, not waking up. His head hurt too much to try and do the math on the time change as he stumbled into the bathroom, peed again, then stood under the hot water for thirty minutes. He toweled off, slowly got dressed, then made his way downstairs where he had a cup of coffee and some toast to settle his stomach.

He finished just as Mr. Golovchenko showed up with his entourage of people. "So, I trust you slept well, Mr. Petersen."

"Peachy," he said without enthusiasm.

"Peaches? You are wanting peaches for breakfast?"

"What? No. No peaches. It's an expression."

"Oh, I see. A...how do you say? Colloquialism, no?"

"Um, yeah. Sure. One of those," Petersen mumbled. "So what's the plan, Stan?" he asked without looking up?"

"Stan? Sorry, my name is Oleg."

Petersen just shook his head and waited to be told what to do. Oleg explained that each of the three women who came with him represented TV stations and they would each have one hour to interview him. They would then edit the interviews and air them on their respective stations sometime before the book release on Monday.

After what seemed like a week of answering the same questions over and over, Petersen was finally done with the interviews. Mr. Golovchenko thanked him and reminded him of the book signing on Monday when it was going to be released in Moscow. Great. He had the rest of the day plus Sunday to kill and all he had to show for it was a raging headache. He grabbed another slice of dry toast and some orange juice before heading back up to his room where he fell back asleep for several more hours.

When he awoke, he had no idea where in the hell he even was. He managed to force one eye open. As he looked around he remembered where he was. "Fuck," he said again as he said up and ran his hand through his hair. It was just after 6pm so it was maybe somewhere around noon back in New York—or at least that's what he thought.

He stood up and decided he felt pretty good. Good enough to head downstairs and go for a swim in the huge indoor pool. He grabbed a large, soft towel and sat it on a chair before diving straight into the water. He swam a couple of laps before holding on to the edge of the pool as he caught his breath.

"Fancy you meeting you here," he heard someone say at the same time he saw a set of painted toenails under his nose.

"Chelsea. Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!" he said as he looked up. She really had startled him.

"I thought that was you," she said without apologizing. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest," he said as she slid into the water beside him.

"This feels great!" she said enjoying the warmth of the water. She smiled at him then said, "Race you to the other side!" She pushed off and started free styling before Petersen realized he'd just been challenged. He then pushed off himself and began swimming for all he was worth. He nearly caught her and finished just a stroke behind her.

"Woo-hoo!" she hollered as she came up for air. "Not bad, old man," she said playfully.

He could tell she was looking at his chest which looked pretty damn good for a guy his age. He knew he still didn't have any gray hair on it and right now he felt like that somehow mattered. He couldn't resist turning the tables so he used his first two fingers to point to his eyes and said, "Hey, my eyes are up here, okay?"

Chelsea burst out laughing. "Busted, right?" she said making a play on words.

Petersen rolled his eyes and Chelsea said, "No. I was looking at your chest so...your bust so...busted. Get it?"

He'd gotten it the first time. Rather than acknowledge her, he splashed her with water and said, "Race you to the other side again?" and pushed off.

"Hey! Not fair!" she hollered as she did the same thing already two lengths behind him.

He beat her easily this time and was waiting for her as she finished her last three strokes. "You cheated!" she said playfully.

"All's fair in love and...swimming?" She laughed again and he found himself experiencing another pang of melancholy. Physically, she slightly resembled his wife, but it was deeper than that. All he knew was that his brain now associated Chelsea with Kristina, and it wouldn't let go of it.

They swam a few more laps before Chelsea grabbed the side of the pool gasping for air. "This is the downside of smoking," she said. She got out and toweled herself off.

Henderson did the same and watched as she reached for a cigarette. "Why don't you quit?" he asked her as she inhaled deeply.

"Why should I?" she replied. "I enjoy smoking."

"But it's so bad for your health," he said trying to find a reply to something everyone seemed to believe was so obvious.

"Do you think you're going to live forever or something?" she said as she exhaled a long stream of smoke.

"No, of course not, but..."

"So you understand you're going to die, right?" she continued.

"Someday, yeah. We all do."

"So what really matters then is what we do in between birth and death, right? I mean, life comes with a death sentence and since we're all gonna die, unless you believe in eternal life, what difference does it make how long you live unless you enjoy the ride?" She took another long drag and asked him, "Do you believe in eternal life, Ken?"

He thought his wife's last few days and the terrible pain she was in spite of the drugs they gave her. "No. No, I don't. I wish it could be true, but I don't see any evidence to support the idea that life continues after death." He looked over at her, smiled and said, "You're pretty smart for a kid."

She tilted her head said with a high-and-mighty tone of voice, "Of course I am. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from Brown three years ago." She laughed then told him, "I don't profess to know everything or have all of the answers to life's questions, but I do know that personal liberty is the bedrock of what it means to be free. Smoking is legal. I like to smoke, and it is therefore my right to do so." She took another long drag then said, "Any other questions, counselor?"

Petersen felt a little foolish because he knew she was right. Young people died every day doing risky things like jumping out of perfectly good airplanes or scuba diving as well as from driving too fast or in many cases from things like gang violence. Smoking was harmful to one's health, but so was living. Choosing to smoke was a personal decision and he was out of ammunition.

"It's really none of my business," he began.

"Thank you," she replied flashing one of her beautiful smiles at him. "Score one for freedom and liberty!"

"So your boyfriend is this producer/director/movie guy. What does Chelsea do with all that expensive education?"

"After graduation..."

"From Brown," Petersen said playing along with Ivy League pretentious thing.

"Yes...from Brown," she said feigning indignation. "I went to work for an advertising agency in Manhattan. I spent a little over two years there before meeting Rob—my boyfriend—and several months later I moved in with him. He was working on another documentary at the time and asked me to travel with him to Egypt. It was all so new and exciting and romantic.

"What's changed?" he asked.

"Finding your boyfriend in bed with one of the producers can have a really bad effect on a relationship."

"Jesus. Why did you stay with him? It's not like you don't have talent, education, or...maybe even some modest looks."

"Watch yourself, old man," she said balling up her fist. "I'm a lot tougher than I look." She sat quietly for a moment then said, "I'm really not sure. I believe in second chances, but looking back now it seems like a mistake. After getting left here all alone it seems like a really big one."

"Hey, you're not all alone," he said pretending to be hurt.

"Oh, right! I forgot I had my father here with me!" He shot her a look and she laughed loudly. "Okay—my uncle then."

"Gee, thanks a lot," he said. "I'll have you know there are a lot of women who'd enjoy my company."

She raised an eyebrow and said, "Yeah, but how much an hour do they charge?"

He threw his towel at her and said, "Okay, that does it. You are in so much trouble!"

Chelsea yelped and jumped up as she saw him coming for her. She was laughing hard as she dove back into the water to get away. She swam for the other side but he grabbed her ankle before she got there and pulled her toward him. She screamed as her head bobbed out of the water after being pulled under then instinctively turned toward him as they drifted toward the opposite edge of the pool. She put her arms around him and kissed him as they gently bumped up against the side.

He pulled back and said, "Hey, what was that all about?"

"It was a personal choice," she said still smiling. "Freely made by a free person." She pulled herself closer and told him, "It's my right, you know," as she kissed him again.

When he went to kiss her back she splashed him with water, pushed away, and said, "Ha! Got you back!" She took off for the deep end and he followed her easily catching up and grabbing her again.

As they were treading water, she put her arms around him again and said, "So are you gonna finally kiss me or do I have to do everything around here?"

He reached out for the pool deck with one hand and pulled her close with the other as she wrapped her legs around his. He kissed her softly and slowly; a long, passionate kiss that ended in a sigh. "Mmmm. That was nice," she said. She then leaned in and just before kissing him again said, "My turn."

Petersen felt himself growing hard and he knew Chelsea felt it, too, but didn't say anything. She just pushed back against him moaning softly. She ground her pussy against his cock several time as she kissed him then out of nowhere she said, "I'm starving. How about dinner?"

"What about...Rob?" he asked. "Did he ever make it back?"

"Rob. Yeah, he called me just before I came down here. He said they're having all kinds of you know, 'technical problems'. I heard a woman giggle in the background so I know exactly what 'technical problems' means in Rob-speak."

She pulled herself out of the pool then turned around and said, "I'll meet you in the dining room in an hour, okay?"

As he watched her walk away, the image of her long, shapely legs and her tight ass in a bikini burned into his brain as he realized he'd have to wait a few minutes before getting out of the pool. As he waited for the swelling to subside he pondered life and romantic relationships. After several minutes of thought and a lifetime of experience his only conclusion was that the longer he lived the less he understood them.

Chelsea was having an after-dinner cigarette when she asked Ken, "So what it is you're looking for? Do you want to get married again someday or are you really satisfied just um...buying love by the hour?"

Petersen laughed and said, "I don't honestly know. For the first couple of years after the death of my wife, I had no interest in women. Or in anything else for that matter. When I was living with the woman who inspired me to write this book, I thought it would be nice to get married again. After she left, I decided I was tired of chasing this elusive thing called love and would just pay for intimacy." He looked at her and said, "You said 'buying love by the hour' but that obviously isn't love. It's just sex."

"So are you still looking for love and if so, how do you define that? In other words, how will know if or when you ever find it again?" She finished her cigarette and took a sip from the glass of red wine in front of her.