Читать книгу Funny, but True - - Страница 6

On the eve of New Year’s 2021, Grace sat in her Philadelphia apartment, scrolling through the Internet pages.

“What’s your wish for next year?” Paris Hilton’s post asked her followers. Paris, Grace’s favorite model, posed in front of a Christmas tree, dressed as though it were a hot summer day.

Grace sighed and glanced out her window. At 8 p.m., the streets of Philadelphia were quiet and empty, as usual.

“Oh, Paris! What do I want? Not to be in Paris,” Grace thought with a wry smile.

“To be back in Moscow, singing Christmas carols with my a cappella group. Like in May 2019, during the A Cappella Festival,” she said aloud, her voice tinged with longing.

“Paris, Paris! You couldn’t imagine how deeply Moscow lives in my heart,” Grace whispered to herself with a deep sigh.

Her mind wandered to that unforgettable spring in Moscow. Their stage was a quaint square opposite the Bolshoi Theatre. Dressed in costumes from the early 19th century, they stood behind the Karl Marx monument, preparing to perform.

Their first song was We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

“Oh, bring us some figgy pudding,” they sang, just as the wind carried the tantalizing aroma of food from a nearby café.

Grace’s focus wavered when loud voices came from another stage across the small park. A group of men was performing. They wore traditional cherkeska coats, sheepskin caps, and daggers on their belts. One of the men stood out. His striking black eyes sparkled with intensity as he sang with extraordinary passion.

The next carol was Deck the Hall.

“Fa la la la la, la la la la,” the group sang.

The lively tune energized the audience around their stage.

“La La Land!” The crowd began to chant, cheering the performance with a famous line from Oscar’s winning movie.

The applause was gratifying, but Grace’s gaze stayed fixed on the young man in the cherkeska. He exuded a rugged charm, more compelling than any macho Mexican construction worker she’d seen back home.

Later, they met. The name of the young man was Sulaiman. He was from North Ossetia. They walked to Red Square as evening fell. The darkening sky allowed the stars to shine brighter. They went to GUM (the State Department Store) and tested Moscow’s famous ice cream. It was sweet, but the touch of Sulaiman’s hand on her waist was sweeter.

Their next stop was Zaryadye Park, where the view from the hill was breathtaking. To their left lay the Moscow River, and to the right, the golden domes of the Kremlin cathedrals gleamed in the distance. Before them stood a massive screen – set into a replica of the Vienna Opera House. Muscovites watched a free live-streamed performance of the opera Andrea Chénier from Austria. The voices were magnificent. During intermissions, the singing of night birds filled the air. Grace had fallen in love.

Her reverie was interrupted by the cry of her baby. She rushed to pick up her seven-month-old daughter, cradling the tiny, precious bundle in her arms.

“Please go to sleep, my love. Good night, my baby. Good night, Moscow,” Grace whispered.