THE ART OF LOVE   Project – fate. Draft of the fate of…

The Art of Love

(the gist of the story)




     Love rules the world and changes people’s destiny.

     …The deaf hear ITS voice, the lame dance to ITS music, and the blind enjoy ITS magnificent colours…  Myriads of books, poems and songs have been created about IT, enunciating the truth:

     «Love is the ultimate and final aim a person strives for».

     This all is concentrated in ITS name, so that we show wonders of  deftness, tactfulness and courage.  


     IT fills the emptiness in heart of anyone.  


     IT is a great mystery underlying our potential which is revealed when we finally have found IT…


     …IT inspired some people to create literary masterpieces, IT helped others to compose great music; still others, being affected by its magical power, made decisions that influenced this world’s order…


     In thousand years’ worth of history records there are plenty of wonderful and beautiful sagas of love.

     Their heroes preferred the flames of passion to a quite life… the flames that sometimes burnt them to ashes preventing the tired wanderer from entering the other world. But ever so often – through tears and pain, through bitterness and loss, despair and anguish – they finally experienced what they had been doomed to experience from on high…



      Allow me to tell you one more story.

     A unique story. But then again, a relationship between a man and a woman is always one of its kind, just like fingerprints…

     So make yourselves comfortable in front of your computer screens. I shall plunge you into the world of genuine passions and unfabricated feelings.

     …You will rush through the years and places to find yourself right in the thick of the present day events. Events, the outcome of which cannot be predicted… Events, that are unfolding around.  You only have to look closer…



    Long ago, in the year nineteen eighty…  On the coast of some southern country, where winters are rainy and windy and summers are stifling hot, there was a tavern. A score of such taverns was scattered along the coastline of the clear bay. A score of tavern-keepers knowing too well how to multiply two by two and get five or even ten peso ran them, doing their best to outrun their rivals…

     But one of them was different. His name was Jorge.

     From his very childhood he was fond of music, not the jingle of coins; and maybe in other circumstances his talent would have been called for… But his fate thought otherwise.

     At night, however, he did not dream of the bills and contracts… And this is why in his place (that was called «LAURA») there was always loud and filled with joy. Everyone on the coast knew: Jorge was ready to give his stage to any “free” performer or musician. He never missed one performance by the Old and New World celebrities. And the concert of a European pop-star visiting the capital in the context of her world tour was not an exception either.

     We’ll name her simply a Singer.


    …Jorge made himself comfortable in the seat in his VIP-box (he always bought the most expensive tickets) and got ready to enjoy…

     But instead…

     He was blinded by the play of light and shade on the high cheekbones, he was deafened by the silence of pauses, and all his body seemed to be paralyzed by some mysterious radiation…

      ALL  the performers came to his country from far, but …

     This singer seemed to have come from some lands utterly unknown to him – from some mysterious country where everything was so harmonious that there was no need to change anything, because if you tried to interfere, you’d only spoil it all - there was nothing to improve.

 Everything was beautiful about her – well, not really beautiful, but rather… somehow right, consistent, appropriate. A perfect harmonious unity of her appearance, her voice and her dress made her look unreal:  almost impossible, almost imagined. Perhaps, this was exactly the image the producers intentionally designed and the make-up artists created, but right now it did not matter in the least!

     She was not a beauty in the ordinary sense: rather she was pretty… But all the notions of beauty were rendered meaningless in her presence, because one could not but think, “She IS the beauty”.

 Jorge could not take his eyes off of her and at the same time he wondered why.

     …She was both clear and mysterious; she was both near and out of reach; her features seemed European to Jorge but at the same time he could not get rid of the thought that she had been born at this side of the ocean: there was not a jot of the detached gringo’s arrogance about her, only warm Latin-American disengagement and emotionality! She presented her unsophisticated songs to the audience in such a beautiful and perfect way that Gorge felt: this singer did not sing for the sake of money and fame.

  She sang because she could not help singing!

    …She was unlike any person and at the same time she bore resemblance to everyone: a fairy-tale princess and that girl from the coast; the first and the last love; a teenager and a mature woman. But Jorge understood quite clearly that this was not the only secret of her charm, the charm that penetrated your blood and caused addiction like a powerful drug…

     It was enough to see and hear her once to become unable to go on without her presence in your life.

 The appearance? Not really. There are many beautiful women; and he, who considered himself one of the first experts of women’s beauty, knew it too well.

 The voice? But there are many great singers… Perhaps, the main thing Jorge saw in the Singer was simplicity.  There was nothing sophisticated, detached and challenging about her – all the things that are so peculiar to the pop super-stars.

 Only femininity. And warmth.

    One did not need to guard oneself, did not need to prove one’s  aptitude – she made you want to protect her and to guard her against the evil.

     There was no mask on her face – she was what she was and seemed defenseless and naive like a child. There was not a singer there on the stage but rather the embodiment of a man’s dream of eternal femininity; a vision that tortured one’s soul by its genuineness and simplicity…

     Jorge came back from this concert feeling shell-shocked as if after some invisible explosion. He lost his peace and sleep: during the daytime he looked for her pictures, audio and video records and at night … at night the Singer came to sing … in his tavern!

  She sang in such a moving and sincere way as she did in front of the ten thousands’ audience…

     The idea struck him. And a hot wave washed over his body.

     «I shall find a girl looking like her, I’ll dress her in similar costumes, apply the make-up, and… every night my Love, my Dream, my Singer will be singing in my tavern, performing the songs of the Star that is absolutely beyond my reach!»

     He searched for long and hard with the energy of a southerner, but his search was of no avail: the girls did not radiate that love energy, their cute faces did not make your look linger – they did not  strike, did not pull you…

     In desperation he started to inspect his tavern venting his anger upon his staff, who, knowing his kindness, was as happy and care-free as the singers he invited… To acquaint himself with the new staff member (there was a girl from a fishing village, Carmela by name, his wife had hired), he dropped in at the dish-washing room.

     And… there was another explosion in Jorge’s soul: in front of him, dressed in a dirty overall, looking wearily, shifting from one foot to another on the grimy floor, there was … his Singer who held in her red swollen hands not a mike – a wet sponge. .

     The dishwashing room, his country, all the world ceased to exist for him.


    …The right dress, appropriate hairdo and a professional make-up made Carmela almost identical to the original!

     Then she tried to dance and sing to the phonogram.

 …It felt like she was back to her village, where she danced on the evening coast causing the hearts of the young to race and the eyes of the old to sparkle…


 …A fiery tune penetrates every cell, the rhythm becomes your pulse and the whirlwind renders the body weightless while the bare feet hardly touch the sand. The black dress stealthily slinks after the body, catches up, attacks the hips… and then falls behind again unable to keep up with the fiery tempo of the movements… And there is no tiredness, no distress, no resentment. There is only a dance and a song. And admiring eyes!


  All the songs that she had not had a chance to sing and all the things she had not had a chance to do because all too early she experienced the poverty and prematurely had to grow up, all this was now boiling up and bursting forth, and in her huge radiant eyes there beamed a flame of happiness for being right in the thick of the  sparkling world of music and magnificent dresses!

     Jorge felt the world belonged to him: now his beloved Singer was always by his side!

     All in all, this story could have had a happy ending and become a basis for some local soap-opera, but …

     A USSR merchant ship entered a port not far from the place where the tavern was located. The sailors got ashore. Among others, motor-mechanic Nickolay stepped on the hot sand.


     …He had never attended a concert of the Singer – the notorious “Iron Curtain” (totalitarian regime) was in the way. But… he had fallen in love with her just like Jorge – Her photographs and records possessed the same energy as her live concerts; and this was not a feature every singer had. When abroad, Nickolay had managed to procure the video records of her concerts; and now his beloved was always by his side!


    …The signboard « LAURA » was placed on the building in such manner, so that the sailors leaving the gates of the port could notice it at once.

     Nickolay, just like everyone else, decided to start from the tavern.  

     …Shell-shocked by an invisible explosion, Nickolay froze transfixed: with great ardour, giving herself to the smoke-filled audience, his Singer was singing on the stage!  

     The same hairdo, dress, make-up; the same dancing movements…

     «She’ll be mine!!!» – at first this thought paralyzed him, but then increased his determination tenfold: driven by the  spontaneous uprush of passion, he enlisted the help of the crew and even of the local authorities; he explained to the astounded Jorge that love is inevitable like the change of seasons and  infinite like the sky and the sea… He added a generous sum of money (the currency borrowed from the crew) to drive his point home – a fact that deeply moved Jorge’s wife.

     Now his wife was twice as happy and did her best to aid their union.


     nd the girl… gave her consent: a tall stately handsome sailor made an ineffable impression on her – her head swam with happiness!

     …He must be a well-off man; and a happy future is awaiting her on the coast of a new far-away country! “We’ll have many children and their ringing voices will fill our … villa! And when my husband is having his supper I’ll be singing just for him!”


     And so it happened that some months later she found herself in a soviet port town…

     What a soviet port town (or rather any other soviet town) was like in the late eighties is something that only its inhabitants can tell; for the rest of the world I’ll say that under lead laden sky and in the penetrating wind (the town was located at the coast of the cold sea) there were endless lines of people queuing up with coupons in their hands to receive some humanitarian aid from the west…

     Nickolay did not have a villa.

     He had a huge debt to the crew. And his dwelling was … a room in a barrack built over forty years ago. Apart from austere furniture there were cracks in the walls, bugs in the bed and even mice. And in the rooms next to theirs the drunk neighbours never stopped brawling…


     …He could not give his singer financial support; neither could he find her a job: without knowing the language and with the papers like hers it was next to impossible to find a legal job in the USSR!  

     But soon this problem was somehow resolved.

     His neighbour who worked as a dish-washer in the canteen of the navy headquarters suggested an ingenious (or so she thought) plan: whenever she had another hard-drinking period, Carmela was going to work in her place! She’ll give her half of her wages. And since the periods of hard drinking were rather frequent, the girl will be able to earn her living…

     Everyone, including the canteen manager, was fancied with the idea.

     Everyone but Carmela.

    It’s hard to imagine what thoughts preoccupied the girl: in the daytime she was in some sort of half-conscious state, and at night, shivering with cold and shedding tears into her pillow she whispered endless prayers to Virgin Mary: «Why? What sins had she committed that made her suffer such excruciating torment?!»

     Being a witness to this, Nickolay felt thunderstruck. A pinky veil concealing the details of the real life dissipated at once.

     In horror, he realized what he had done.

     He realized what immoral and foul deed he had committed, taking her away from her native surroundings! Flinging this sun-loving naive creature who trusted him blindly into a stinking cold barrack, he risked destroying her physically! Having realized this, Nickolay went on a voyage after voyage not to see how the magnificent radiant eyes of the singer turned into the eyes of a  dish-washer, filled with tears and pain.


    …A recruit sailor, named Boris, was drafted from Moscow, the capital of Russia, to serve in the navy as a signalman. Besides him the headquarters maintenance company included sentries and drivers. The team of sailors serving on conscription was not numerous and they had their meals in the officers’ canteen.


     Once Carmela broke the rule and entered the dining hall, and he saw her.

     «We belong together», Boris realized at once.

     Incredible though it seemed, Carmela felt just the same way!  And this was quite different from what and how it had happened in the tavern: that sailor had claimed her so quickly and with such confidence!

     Now a warm wave of strange but ever so divinely pleasant feelings swept over her, slowly but surely compelling her to its will…

     The sailors, this canteen, this country, this world just ceased to exist.

     …We should keep in mind here that Boris was not a great music lover: he had never heard any songs of the Star, and neither had he seen her photos.

     He fell in love with Carmela at first sight, loving her as a woman and not a copy of a famous singer!

     And Carmela felt it instinctively.

     For the first time someone loved her for her own sake, and not for her likeness to the unreachable star!


     …For over a year they went mad with happiness! A girl who was born in the south and loved the warm sea and the sun felt oppressed by the dull and cold weather, it was only when communicating with Boris that she was transformed! She danced enthusiastically and hummed the Star’s songs to him while he was sitting at the table and eating something – for she was used to performing in front of the tavern guests… And instead of the microphone… Carmela made use of a magazine rolled in a tube.


     Boris’s service was coming to its end; and so was their peculiar relationship.

      And then…

        Having received a leave warrant, he, as usual, came to her room which thanks to her efforts had long turned into a comfortable and cozy dwelling.

     He was going to officially propose marriage to her today. And to make it less ceremonial and somewhat more touching, he was going to say it … in Spanish!

     But Carmela had plans of her own for this evening.

    …She smiled mysteriously and, touching her finger to her lips, gestured for him to sit down and then she left the room.

     No sooner had Boris stick his fork into the exotic dish when the door opened and…

     A girl made her appearance.

      Flowing hair, absence of make-up and accessories... A plain black dress with a wide hem cascading down to her … bare feet. But this was not the most amazing thing.

Boris, frozen with a fork in his hand, was struck by her eyes.

The eyes of a singer, not a dishwasher.

A singer, young and beautiful, unsophisticated and free; a singer who was eager to sing enthusiastically both in front of a late bar visitor and in front of a full concert hall…

 He had understood it before she took a magazine and rolled it in a tube.

 …Boris could only hear her voice, but she was moving with such grace to the non-existent accompaniment that it felt like he was hearing the music as well! Carmela seemed to be playing some wonderful mysterious musical instrument, extracting amazing sounds from her body, voice; her eyes wet with the feelings that were overflowing her…

 Boris could not eat while this concert lasted – even though Carmela had cooked this dinner especially for him. It seemed a blasphemy to him to eat during this marvelous performance!

 The singer sang the most striking, the most sensual and penetrating songs from her Goddess’ repertoire…


 …All night long Boris enjoyed Carmela - I fail to find any other word that would describe his feelings more accurately. He kissed her eyes, half-closed with tiredness, her lips that opened to his lips, her plumpish firm breasts, her firm stomach that would one day carry his child; he kissed her tightly closed knees that relaxed trustingly under his cares. Boris covered with kisses every inch of her skin, from the top of her head to her toes.

     The Singer was not especially active. That night she had given him what she could and now she was receiving his gratitude. She melted entirely opening herself to him.

     She lost herself to him.

    The waves of unbearable, incredible bliss swept and carried him away… While she preferred to float on these waves, carefree, feeling that, quite differently from the real sea, it was impossible to drown in these waves.


     In the morning they left the barrack together, each of them going to their working places.

     There is no need to describe Boris’s state of mind.

     But I’ll dwell on Carmela’s thoughts.

 What was she thinking about during these days? Was she thinking about her family she had not seen so long? About Jorge whose weird idea gave her that wonderful fairy-tale time that passed by in a flash, just like it’s meant to be for the happiest moments of one’s life. Or was she thinking about Nickolay who only saw a soulless pretty doll in her, a live incarnation of his insane dream?

  And what about the Singer? Her idol, her talisman – a woman thanks to whom she became what she was… But what was she now, anyway?

 Sweating all over, in the dish-washing room reeking of food-scraps,  she knew in advance what she was going to do tomorrow and the day after it…

 And now?

What had Jorge done to her… or rather – what had he made of her?! She wouldn’t be able to live without the stage now

 And what about Boris? The second Russian she met and the first to love her for her own sake and not for her likeness to the unreachable Star… What did he think of her?

What was she going to do in that Moscow of his? Rearing the children – but what about a job? How well-off was he? Would she have to work? Would she be able to send some money to her family? Of course, he was quite different from Nickolay, but still…

He does not have a villa. There is no warm sea in that city either.  

…She’d probably have to perform again to be able to support her parents… But Boris did not own a restaurant – where on the earth would she be doing this and  who would she have to imitate this time?
The Singer was popular all over the world - did it mean she’d have to sing her songs
again? Would the Singer’s fans be following her again?! Would Boris be able to guard her from them all, and especially from that madman who, being madly in love with the Singer, would gape for her, seeing his beloved image on the stage?!...


    “She’s gone”, the cooks told to Boris, when he came to supper. “A traffic accident, we do not know the details. The husband’s at sea…”


     God took his Singer to Paradise.


     So that now she sang there in the splendour of its gardens.


     …There was an enormous gaping hole in place of the everlasting vast happiness, and Boris was shell-shocked by this explosion, because, unlike the explosions Jorge and Nickolay had experienced, it was real and monstrously destructive…

     Meanwhile, all the secrets went out: the military security service got interested in the story. As a result, the manager of the canteen and the head of the  headquarters faced tremendous problems. Boris was nearly convicted of the liaison with a foreigner. And he was saved only due to his military secret clearance and the wind of the famous “perestroika” launched by the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev …

    But Carmela … simply vanished without a trace – the authorities had been very efficient. His desperate attempts to find her, dead or alive, were to no avail.

    …A grown-up man with dead eyes returned to Moscow. When Boris came to his senses, he realized with horror the absolute (!) absence of any traces of their relationship: no personal belongings, no photos, no letters…

    He had not really need them then!

    Then He  had only needed Her.

   And now… Now he only had memories left. And nothing more. No information whatsoever.

    None at all… except for the name of the «Superstar». The Star that Carmela wanted to resemble so much…


      Now he only had to find her photographs.

     …Shocked, he avidly looked at them: heavy make-up, massive (as the fashion then dictated) accessories, an elaborate hairdo… 
And only her eyes, brimming with some wonderful radiant energy were the same, saying to him:
     “Here, now you  
have my photos!”


     “I must find out everything about you! Everything I am supposed to know and everything I am not, whatever it costs me.” This urge took possession of Boris’s mind, driving out for some time the horror and the pain…

     Working around the clock, he even managed to by a video-player**; with great difficulty he got hold of a video record of her concert and then…

     Then he put a plate on the table in front of him, set the TV-set and the video-player closer…


     …Carmela had always sung to him while he was sitting at the table: his Star had never sung to those who was not eating.


     And then he pressed the «Play» button.

     …His Carmela was dressed in a magnificent costume, and instead of a magazine she was holding a microphone in her hand.

     But she was singing in the same moving and sincere way, singing the song he knew all too well: all the subtleties of intonation, all the details of the song’s arrangement.

     Boris looked at the screen transfixed, his avid eyes noting every gesture, facial expression, smile, radiant velvety look of her eyes. Again, she was singing for him alone…

     He felt overwhelmed with some kind of sweet torture, boundless tenderness. “She is alive, alive! It’s just that… I cannot take her in my arms right now, she is simply behind this screen!”

     In his thoughts Boris went back to those cloudless joyful days; once again he felt happy, but this was the happiness of a different kind – happiness achieved through suffering, and that is why Carmela (or the Singer) became twice as dear to him. The horror of the loss of the close person was being replaced by some strange feeling.

 “Don’t dare talk of her as of a deceased – have you seen her body? What if the KGB treated her in its clinic and … sent her home? Why not, I’ll be damned?! Had she died, why should they want to hide it from me? She was sent back to her country and there… she took up singing again and … received world’s recognition! Yes, yes, this is exactly what happened, maybe…

  God have mercy – what kind of nonsense is this? Nonsense indeed… and yet! Who is singing there behind the screen?!”


         …Boris clutched at her like a drowning man clutches at a straw, but this straw was thin and fragile – the Singer was far away and the information about her was scarce…
     But from that moment on you would not be able to find a man more loving and more devoted to the Goddess of Song than he was!


     Boris became a believer, he got baptized. To pray for her and to wish her health were the only things left to him…

     He could not bear to bury his “Carmela” one more time. 

     How could anybody’s mind endure this?! 

     He wanted to die before she did…

    The Singer’s denomination did not allow him to pray for her in an orthodox church. He could only do it privately, outside the temple… At home or …in a cell! And Boris set out on his journey of monasteries: within two decades he visited great many of  Russian cloisters – starting with the major orthodox centers and ending with small provincial ones…  


     Even now, while you are reading these lines, Enochs love her and pray for her!

     En elderly Father Superior of one of the monasteries gave Boris a small icon, saying, “Pray, and the miracle will happen!”


  …The Singer carried on giving performances, but her concerts were subjected to criticism – how striking the contrast was between her today and her former self who had made half the world fall in love with her. Her time was over – new rhythms dominated the stage. And only nostalgic memories of the disco golden eighties warmed people’s interest in the singers of that period. Many foreign singers toured Russian provincial towns giving concerts in night clubs – the rich forty-year-olds liked to recall their youth and paid well for this!

     But the Singer was not from among their number!

     She turned down such humiliating offers, as she did not wish to be a «live gramophone record», and this did not leave Boris a chance to meet her. Although, generally speaking, this was not really necessary. She had already occupied a steady place both in his heart and his soul… And this alone was enough for him.

     He was loyal to Carmela, loving the copy in the original’s features…

     Or was it the other way round?


     …Nevertheless, some years ago, within the framework of a grand retro festival, the Singer did visit Moscow, and Boris was able to see her.

     He was sitting in the first row, but he saw… only the eyes, giving off wonderful, radiant energy. It penetrated him, filling his heart with the feelings he had once experienced…  

     These were  her eyes…

     They shattered his peace. The old pain that had tortured him for so many years flared up again with new force, and he could dull it only by cutting this Gordian knot at one stroke. At one fling…  writing a letter to her.

     An impossible, unthinkable thing!

     To outline the twenty year long story on a few pages…

     Boris understood: the letter should hit the mark from the first – there won’t be a second first chance! It should strike her to the innermost of her heart, right through the years’ worth of layers of indifference and cynicism inflicted by her life in the public eye and her many fans!

     He knew that. And his every word came from his very heart…

     His best friend thought he was out of his mind.

 “Are you insane?! Whatever happened to you and your Carmela – this concerns only the two of you. What does she - the  singer, world’s celebrity - have to do with it? This is not Carmela – it’s an absolutely different woman from a different country, from a different world – a rich western singer, a former superstar whose best days are over. If you met her in person, you’d understand it at once – this is not your close person… Your Carmela’s gone for good.”




     …The Singer led a solitary life in her villa, content with her role of a housewife. The producers had long ago given her up: she was a “write-off” for them! And this was the reason she got depressed and developed some unhealthy habits. It took her great pain to implement her new music project and to get over that horrible state…


     …She personally picked up the mail redirected from the office for her to the post-office of a small town. The Singer liked this chore.

     Before, the letters hardly fitted into a car; these days, however, they all fitted into a small bag.

     In the evening she was sitting down in an arm-chair, putting the letters in front of her. Her household tried not to bother her at such moments.

     Naive letters of her fans from all over the world were all pretty much the same, but they radiated love and reminded her about the wonderful and sparkling world of her youth that was filled to the brim with euphoria and admiration…

     This time there were just a few letters: the clerk brought them lying on one big envelope like on a tray.

     Apart from the address, the envelope read: « Personally. Not the fan-letter!» Slightly surprised (she had had her personal correspondence via computer for some time now), the Singer opened the letter, not waiting for the night time to come. Four album-size pages were covered in printing in her native language. And right before the greeting there was a title:  « The Art Of  Love».  How strange.

     The Singer got absorbed in the letter…

     …It had nothing in common with the letters that for decades came in batches from all over the world: there was not a single word of flattery or feigned admiration – instead, it was utterly sincere and heart-breaking. For the first time in so many years someone addressed her as a person and not a soulless pretty doll, arrogant and unreachable. This man was not a fan of hers, and she was not a Star for him. He did not try to impose his friendship, he did not ask for anything … even a reply.

     …The letter was placed on her bedside table. The grown-up, mature woman cried like a young girl who for the first time was facing the rough reality.


     But what should she write in reply?..


     She started writing several times, but all the letters ended up in the paper basket!


     Should she write that… she was a person as earth-born as he was?

     …That the work of a singer was back-breaking, and looking well at all times and places was a hard duty! That sometimes the only thing she wanted was to stay alone and not to see the crowd of reporters and hysterical fans… That even now, when so many years had passed, her villa had to be guarded against zealous and mentally-challenged people.

    That her soul  did not become callous, did not get covered with a thick layer of indifference and cynicism? That she did not like the word ‘Star’ as it associated with the heavenly bodies that would never come closer to the Earth!

       That she had never liked the flattering and the fuss made around her person, and that she did not care for the trumpery and gloss.


    That from her very childhood she had been passionately in love with music and the only thing she was going to do in her life was to give people at least a fraction of her love to it.

    And that in spite of the remoteness of the events, he managed to convey the energy that gave wings to him and his beloved during those happy days?

   And that the depth of his feelings, their purity and firmness astonished her?

     And that …

     The singer crumpled the page. And took a new one…


     …Boris received the letter. With shaking hands he opened the narrow and long envelope…

    Four short lonely lines stood in black on the dazzling white paper.

    …Taking him many years back and making him experience those happy feelings again, she did what the contemporary science and centuries of magic could not do…

    Now Boris felt in the seventh heaven of joy just at the idea, proximity to the happy moment when he, at last, would be able to see her again!



                                                *   *   *


     …The Singer will come to Moscow to give a solo concert under the name of… can you guess? And certainly on the very same day when – who? -  was gone. Now Boris  could not give a definite answer…

     …He’ll see his ‘Carmela’ after so many years of separation, while the audience will see an astoundingly beautiful woman in her prime.

      And then they’ll meet. And Boris will take her to the best restaurant, where they’ll endlessly try, in different languages and with the help of the drawings on the napkins and gestures, to talk about everything.

    Boris will give her that icon… Because the words of the Father Superior came true.

      And the Singer?

     She’ll be frustrated at her lack of knowledge of Russian. But then… who needs words if there is a song?! She’ll go a small stage, take a microphone into her hand and … will sing for the first time in her life unaccompanied, but in such a moving and sincere way, being so miraculously feminine and beautiful, with such ardour, as if she were singing in front of the thousands’ audience…

     And Boris, sitting at his table, will be blinking furiously and rubbing his eyes – so that the Singer could not see his tears.

     …And later, she’ll ask him to write a book about all this, and he will ask her to write a song. Because from that moment on, Carmela has found her place in her soul…


     Being an engineer by profession, he will do it. And she, a singer, will write the lyrics…

     And then, Boris will have the text translated into her native language and will send it to her! The story that he wrote in such a short time, giving account of his love in a beautiful and thorough way.

    In the evenings she’ll read it and will never get enough of it. And what does it matter that the story was not written by a professional writer when each line is imbued with such warmth and sincerity!

     She won’t be able to sleep a wink for several nights and …   

    The thought – complete and laconic – will suddenly come like a solution to a complicated problem, brilliant in its simplicity.

     «I must go there. To Carmela’s homeland. I want to see it all with my own eyes! ». 

     And she will go there. To that town and that port. And she’ll find that tavern.

     Only the name will have changed.

     And ‘Carmela’ will enter the tavern named after… whom? She won’t be able to give a sure answer to herself.

     And the aged owner will let the mobile phone slide out of his hand…

     Hell recognize these eyes

     And she, barely able to walk due to the tiredness and anxiety, will ask for a microphone to do what his Carmella used to do once…

     And going up the small stage, she’ll sing unaccompanied but with the same ardour, miraculously feminine and beautiful.

     And Jorge, sitting at his table, will be blinking furiously and rubbing his eyes – so that the Singer could not see his tears.


    And then he will take his ‘Carmela’ to the best restaurant. And they’ll endlessly try, in different languages and with the help of the drawings on the napkins and gestures, to talk about everything. And Jorge will be frustrated at his lack of knowing English. But it would not trouble the singer.

     Because there are many other ways besides words to express love …



      This will happen… This is sure to happen! Do you believe in it, reader? Love never dies, it is always fueled by the energy of people’s hearts. And the end of the life stories about Love is that they never end as they are fueled but the most beautiful and the most perfect feeling in the world – Love.




*   A person from an English-speaking country, an American (Spanish).

** A second-hand (!) video-player cost 25 month’s worth of average  wages in the USSR.