Encounters

Georgia and the Engineer tell me there are stories everywhere, and so there's this:

I overhear two Russian ladies chatting it up in the nearby aisle of lockers. As a disciple of the Russian language I am instantly pleased. I possess a not-so-secret wish that my family will someday spend summers strolling the marbled rooms of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. I declare Russian to be the most beautiful and sophisticated language on Earth.

So it is with great fortune that these two Russian women are also headed toward the gym’s pool tonight. I arrive in their wake, kick off flip-flops, don a swim cap and goggles, and jump into the rectangular water-filled pit of brrrrrrr.

The women grab kick boards and share a lap lane while I steal the adjacent one. They are lively and animated and move in sharp contrast to the others in the pool on this chilly night. The rest of us flail across the water freestyle sucking up oxygen, forcing muscles to surrender to rigid fitness regimes. We banish demons, work off large lunches, swim to stifle sleeplessness – while these women socialize and giggle, gliding back and forth on their kick boards, the edges of their styled hair tentatively dipping into the cool blue water. I make up my mind to downshift this crazed lap pace and to jettison goal-oriented tendencies for just one night.

And then I think: Zaf- tara. Tomorrow. Moh-zhit-byt zaf-tara. Maybe tomorrow.

I swim hard until dizzy and then lift my soggy self out of the blue.

Back in the locker room the Russians continue their chat on wooden benches and fill black gym bags with sodden swim gear. I approach with slight hesitation and interrupt their revelry:

Izvi’nite. Excuse me.

I’m sorry to interrupt you, I add.

The ladies look up from their benches and slow smiles emerge.

I have to tell you that Russian is the most beautiful language I have ever heard.

We become our parents at some point. And it is good.

Really? the younger woman asks, blotting her short red hair dry.

Yes, absolutely, I say with chirpy emphasis.

Well, thank you, replies the older woman with blond hair and restful blue eyes.

You know, most people think we’re speaking German, she adds ruefully.

German? Never. There’s nothing quite like Russian, I declare, with American style confidence.

Ac-tu-ally, it is kind of funny but back in the pool we thought maybe you were German, jokes the blond.

They both laugh. Uninvited, I join in the music of their mirth.

I want to know their story, and how they came to live in the high plains, but it’s not the time or the venue and my Russian is immature at best so I leave it at that. Sometimes mystery trumps the closure of a narrative. And so I bid them good night. And I pull on my coat and walk into the cold Rocky Mountain air with slow and deliberate steps. I am Nicole Kidman in Birthday Girl and no one can tell me otherwise.