Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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“but what happened to your friend?” before realizing too late that he had given away the fact that he had been admiring her previously.
“That? That was my uncle. A little presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” Keeping Yarko off balance, she continued, “My name is Dzvinka.”
“And I, I am Yarko,” he stuttered. “Yaroslaw,” he added as if by way of explanation.
“American or Canadian? I hear a bit of an accent.”
“Canadian. But my grandparents came from here.”
“First time?” asked Dzvinka breathily, leaning just a little closer as she seated herself across from Yarko.
“Here you mean?” he replied, a little flustered, not sure where to look.
“Is this your first time in Ukraine?” Dzvinka clarified while adjusting her sweater.
Yarko refocused on her eyes. “First time in Ukraine.”
“It can be very confusing without a tour guide. You’d have no idea where to look.”
“But it also gives me more freedom.” Yarko had to force his eyes not to stray below the neckline. “And I hate nahliadachi.” He used the word for overseers, not knowing the Ukrainian word for chaperones.
“So have you planned everything out for the day? And do you know what you’re doing tonight?”
“No plans for tonight. I wouldn’t have the greenest idea where to go,” answered Yarko in idiomatic Ukrainian.
“Okay, Yarko Yaroslaw,” she teased, “this evening, you could come to the club called Vezha. We’ll have nice music, dancing, some drinks. Here, let me show you on the map.”
As she spoke, she bent low over the table to study the map. A pair of rounded breasts swung before Yarko’s eyes from above the décolletage of the knitted sweater. He could see where tanned skin met delicate whiteness. The rest was just barely shielded from his gaze by the happily overburdened yarn of her knitwear. Yarko held his breath. He swallowed hard despite his suddenly dry throat.
“Let me see, here’s the Stryisky Park so the Vezha nightclub is here,” Dzvinka said. “A bit lower. Can you see, Yarko? Right here.”
As Dzvinka turned slightly to look at Yarko, the resulting jiggle repeated her invitation in a more direct manner. “See you later, about ten o’clock,” she said, surprising Yarko with her barely accented English. She turned, rotating on spiked heels, and exited the café. Yarko rose to follow her, but a pressing tightness in his shorts made modesty the better part of valour.
2
THE SUN HUNG LOW on the horizon. Yarko stepped off the Number 3 streetcar at the Stryisky Park stop. It was past 10 p.m. The long shadows that filled the park and the entranceways to the buildings gave the city a mood of romantic mystery. Several young couples had exited at the same time and headed straight for the park. Yarko followed them.
The central entrance to the park was framed in a tall, delicate, columned gateway with five arched entranceways. Dark green leaves of birch trees surrounded the meandering cobblestone walkways of the park. Yarko had read about it in the tourist brochure. Created in the 1880s as a set piece for an imperial exposition in 1894, it was filled with rare and exotic plants and trees. It included artificial ruins of a fictitious castle, and an orangarium – a tropical arboretum. It was the site of one of Europe’s first electric tramways. The swans that inhabited its ponds to this day served as a romantic reminder of past imperial splendour. Several minutes of strolling brought Yarko to the Vezha nightclub.
On entering the club, Yarko was stunned by a wall of sound and coloured strobes that attacked his senses. The dance floor was filled with silhouettes of lithe writhing bodies against a backdrop of flashing purple. It was hot. The women seemed to cope with this by wearing as little as possible. The men coped by avoiding excessive movement while dousing their thirst in beer and horilka.
“Yarko!” rang a familiar voice from across the room.
Yarko spotted Dzvinka leaning against the far wall. She was wearing a dark red dress with a single strap on her left shoulder. It was cut to reveal more than it covered in tightly fitted elegance. She was nursing a martini in a long-stemmed glass. Yarko made his way to her, pushing past drink-laden tables. To cope with the ambient noise, Dzvinka limited her greeting to a peck on his cheek as she motioned him to sit at a nearby table. Yarko ordered beer from a passing waitress. He did not know the local brands and the noise level did not allow for much explanation. He motioned “yes” with his head at each suggestion and ended up drinking a Lvivske Strong. He would later learn that in this heat, a 1715 would have been a more refreshing choice.
Dzvinka dragged him off to dance. It didn’t seem to matter what music was playing. Familiar Western tunes were mixed with the local material. A songstress by the name of Vika gave a raunchy rendition of “Boolochka z makom” – Poppy Seed Buns – and “Hot Dog,” a song describing delights far from the culinary variety. Yarko thought of this as fusion rock. Ukrainian words were grafted to sixties or seventies Western music. It appeared as if Ukrainian artists were fast-tracking through a half-century of Western musical rhythms and styles in an attempt to catch up on everything they missed while cloistered behind the Iron Curtain.
Yarko spent the evening chatting in English. He found it so much easier, and Dzvinka obviously had had much practice. She rarely had to search for words. The beer was followed by the “normal” serving of four ounces of ice-cold horilka – firewater of the Hetman brand. Yarko was having a genuinely good time.
It was well past midnight when they left to wander the dark footpaths of Stryisky Park back to the streetcar stop.
On the streetcar, once the flow of conversation dropped off to a dribble, Dzvinka cuddled closer and, taking him by surprise, suddenly pressed her lips to Yarko’s. This was a language that needed no translation. Yarko replied by wrapping his arms around her and, as her lips parted, he savoured her sweetness. He explored the coolness of her back with his right while working his left to her breast. The streetcar bell rang as it slowed for the stop at Mieckewicz Square.
“This is your stop,” said Dzvinka, liberating her lips from Yarko’s. “But I still have a way to go. Tomorrow for lunch at the Pid Levom?”
It seemed that the moment Yarko felt he was in control, Dzvinka would redraw her boundaries and again take the upper hand. They said their goodbyes, and promised to meet at Pid Levom for coffee. Yarko stepped off the streetcar. It was drizzling lightly. He stood by the obelisk watching for a long time until he no longer heard the screeching of steel wheels on the wet rails, and the red tail lights of the streetcar had disappeared in the mist.
Yarko slept for a long time. He awoke just before noon. The shower, which actually worked, was cool and refreshing. It was Saturday morning. A sunny day. Yarko grabbed his knapsack and rushed to the café on his mountain bike. Dzvinka was waiting for him. The place was half-empty, so it was much easier to talk freely. He knew that he was going to need a helper if he were to find his grandparents’ house. He wondered whether Dzvinka could be the answer. Carefully he began by explaining how his grandparents used to live in the suburb called Zamarstyniv.
“I would like to find the old place,” he said. “It’s on Koronska Street. I’ve already found it and marked it on the map. Luckily it still has the same name as when my grandparents lived there.”
“I have a bicycle with me too,” said Dzvinka. “We can ride there together. And coming back, we can take a trail to the top of the Vysokiy Zamok.” Vysokiy Zamok, or High Castle, she explained, was the name of the hill that overlooked the city. “From there, we can see the whole city. It will be fun. If we’re lucky we can catch the sunset.”
Such a proposition was hard to refuse. Dzvinka got up first to get her bike while Yarko felt around for his wallet. This gave him a chance to appraise Dzvinka and her latest outfit. She was dressed in the shortest of shorts and, again, in that undersized white sleeveless sweater. I should definitely let her lead, thought Yarko as he paid the cashier. The