When we arrive at our immense hotel in St. Petersburg, towering above the shores of the Gulf of Finland, we’re immediately confronted by Gustav. He sees me and grabs me. “Tomorrow, on our rest day, I would like you to take Laure around the city.” He’s not even bothering to ask. I look to Bernard for help and say, loud enough for Bernard to hear, “I’m so sorry Gustav. We need to work on our car tomorrow.”
Gustav’s having none of it. “She’ll be waiting for you in our room.” Bernard, ignoring my beseeching eyes, thinking he’s supporting my ususal desire to see what’s around, takes his side. “Yes, Dina. You’re going out anyway. You’ll enjoy the company.” As Gustav walks away, I say to Bernard, “I can’t do this. I can’t speak French all day to someone who’s depressed. It’s Gustav who should go around the city with his wife. You’ve got to get me out of this.”
My long hours in repair shops have given me more than just an opportunity to study the fine print embossed on each wrench. I’ve also discerned the patterns of other Rally crews. Who helps out, who works alone. I’ve had plenty of time to ponder what I see.
There’s an interesting distinction between male teams and couples. With the former, the pair arrives at the repair shop, works on the car together, and drives out (usually) at day’s end. With the latter, the husband appears at the repair shop, digs around for his tools in lonesome solemnity all day, perks up happily when someone—usually me—brings him a bite to eat, and returns to the hotel to find his wife refreshed and invigorated from a day out with the girls. Except, that is, for Gustav’s wife. She seems so out of her element, so isolated, that she can’t find her way toward human contact.
Then there’s me. Call it loyalty, call it stupidity, I cannot abandon Bernard and the weakened Roxanne. I surprise myself by this, because in our past life, in the period pre-Rally, this was not my way at all. Back then, I easily did what I liked, figuring if Bernard needed me, he’d say so. That was my approach when the Rally began. I was all about the journey, and Bernard was all about the day’s goal. Now, the Dina who’d ditch Bernard seems like another person. When it comes to doing what’s necessary to keep Roxanne moving, I’m with Bernard all the way. Bernard, too, is morphing. He’s seeing the benefits of changing his mind from car matters, even if it only happens once he’s parked the car and even if it’s only for an hour.
I’ve been developing a new philosophy these past weeks, which I haven’t been able to articulate very well. It’s something like, if we are to enjoy the good times together, then we have to go through the bad together. It strikes me as unsportsmanlike to be along for the ride and then leave Bernard alone to put in hard labor trying to keep Roxanne going. Though I’m still no star mechanic, I am good, and getting better, at extracting the right tools, offering moral support, persuading the boss to assign us a mechanic or a welder. I’m also accomplished at ordering lunch. I’m ready to stake a claim that this has importance and meaning beyond the mere actions.
Bernard has had a chance to see me try hard to change myself, while accepting that some of my worst personality traits are here for good. Take, for instance, a few days ago at a hotel, where I spent a half-hour in loud confrontation with a desk clerk. As I argued for a different room, tears of frustration turned my eyes red and my cheeks splotchy. Bernard, meanwhile, took refuge in the bar, hoping that mere distance would dissociate him from the strident complaining person that was me at that moment. We don’t talk about this side of me. What I am learning, though, is that it’s OK to forgive myself, even when I’ve embarrassed us both. Because while Bernard’s been drinking, I’ve gotten us a better room. Yes, I’m still keeping score.
Despite all this, St. Petersburg’s my last chance to see something of Russia, because our next stop will be Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Bernard and I discussed this in friendly fashion during the interminable 455-mile drive north to St. Petersburg from Moscow. Because Bernard does rational, not emotional, I extracted the following from my play book. “I need a break,” I tell him. “I just don’t think I can spend another rest day with the car. Of course I will if it’ll really help, but it seems to me nothing much is wrong with Roxanne now, at least nothing that we can fix.” This sounds clear and objective to me. I know it’s also a tad defensive, but after twenty-four days on the road, we’ve made it through more dicey situations than this.
“Sure. You should see St. Petersburg. I’ll check Roxanne. Don’t worry about it.”
When he gives me permission to go, I reverse course. “I don’t have to, though,”I dither.“Or maybe you’d come with me?”I look at him, imploring him to connect with me telepathically and read what my mind’s saying: “Please, just ONCE reject the responsible course and come be irresponsible with me.”
Bernard’s no mind-reader. Rational doesn’t allow for that. “No, I want to check a few things. You go ahead. Take the whole day. I’ll be fine here.”
Spending my one free day shepherding a distressed woman around St. Petersburg is beyond my ability. If I’m going to have freedom, it’ll have to be on my own terms. I sneak out of the hotel, Bernard having agreed that, if he sees Gustav, he will tell him I’m off on an errand for the car. Nevertheless, when I leave the hotel my shoulders are not swinging with insouciance. It’s more like toting a hundred-pound sack of potatoes on my back, so burdened am I by guilt. Nevertheless, I set out, determined to enjoy my day wandering St. Petersburg.
My plan is to romp around the Hermitage Museum and other parts of the Winter Palace, afterward inspecting whatever Russian Orthodox churches I come across. With no time to spare, I bypass the snaking line at the museum entrance by melding into a French tour group. I find myself wandering the museum aimlessly, the heavy antiquity on display making me feel ever more dark and gloomy. I decide eating will lift my spirits. The cafe in the museum’s basement is filled with tables groaning under delectable gooey salads, ceramic platters of jewel-like beets and carrots, glass bowls of salty herring and smoked fishes with their attendant loaves of rye and pumpernickel bread, and of course the full array of goulashes, soups, potatoes (both latkes and mashed), and desserts. Even this appetizing spread can’t stifle the needling voice of dismay that’s been whining its mantra of “Shame on you,” ever since I left the hotel. Innocent enjoyment is what I’m supposed to be experiencing, not this sense of delinquency that’s dogging me.
Ditching the museum for the bright sunshine, I wait for the bustle of the city streets to work their usual magic, because the energy of any city is something I’ve always enjoyed. Now, it’s all rather disorienting, too many tourists swarming about, everything big and vacuous. Really, what am I doing out here by myself ? Isn’t the whole point of this trip to stand shoulder to shoulder with Bernard against whatever comes?
Rooted amidst the hubbub, I seem to rise above the busy clamor, seeing myself far below, silhouetted starkly, like the martial statues in the Winter Palace courtyard. A ray of warm sun shines down, as if a brainbased janitor has stopped dusting inside my skull to pull back a corner of curtain to let more light in. Exactly what she hopes to illuminate I can’t yet say, but I do feel a change, at best a modest permutation of my normal way of thinking. It’s not an earthquake, more like a slight shifting of ground that alters my perspective. What I realize is that “Is Bernard with me?” or “Am I with Bernard?” aren’t the right questions. Nor is it about “Is he better than me?” or “Am I better than him?”These questions aren’t even relevant.
Stretching out my arm, I signal a cab to stop. A much dented, rusty jalopy pulls over. Though it’s a shabby affair, I instantly feel more at home inside this vehicle than I did on the street. My enthusiasm on discovering Bernard in the car park is made all the warmer by the happiness of his smile when he sees me get out of the cab well ahead of my proposed lateafternoon return time. He’s let me go. I’ve come back.
As fate would have it, Gustav wanders over shortly after I’ve returned. “What did you do today?” I ask him, to distract him from asking me the same thing.
“Laure and I went on a tour of the city,” he says smugly. I couldn’t be happier. I have no doubt that an afternoon enjoying St. Petersburg with her husband was exactly what Laure needed. “So now I will go work on my car. Perhaps we will see you at dinner,” and he strides off in the direction of the car park on the other side of the hotel.
We nod noncommittally and, as soon as he’s far enough away, we grab satchels from Roxanne and duck into a cab, peering behind to make sure no one’s seen us. We’ve learned a quick lesson from James and have booked a room for ourselves in a hotel near the Hermitage. Emerging from the taxi with our little overnight bags, we hand them to a doorman who’s more elegantly dressed than we are. For dinner, we indulge in a sampling of Russia’s rarest caviars and small-batch vodka. I eat more black fish eggs and drink more fine liquor than I should, but I can’t help myself. The two go together as naturally as chips and beer. Bernard matches me shot for shot, spoonful for spoonful. We finish off with a glass of champagne. It feels like vacation. It feels like we’re just married.