Ch 1. Convenience Disrupted
Chapter 1
Elna Laurent was a name Misha hadn't heard in a long time. And he didn't care to. That Vasha should mention Elna was not only intensely annoying, it disrupted Misha's entire world.
Until then, his life had balance. Misha had work, and he had Vasha. There was no need to complicate this.
But, Sundance 2007 brought opportunities. Or so Misha believed. With Vasha excited about the results of networking in Park City, Misha felt his return to directing again was near. If only Elna hadn't reappeared.
First, Vasha missed his flight.
"Parking is impossible," read his text message.
Taking the redeye from Salt Lake to Oakland, he landed late. Chances of finding a spot in Berkeley, 12:30, near his apartment, were slim.
"Park in the garage," Misha texted from his desk, "Sleep here."
Before sending, Misha hesitated. For clarification added, "We can start tomorrow's production meeting early."
"Yes," texted Vasha, "We have much to discuss."
What news will Vasha bring? Misha bounced his leg, then, to prepare for any news, put away all distractions. He saved the draft to his Sight & Sound article, closed his computer, and waited.
Misha didn't possess a car. Since Vasha drove him everywhere, he didn't need one.
That his small studio with a kitchenette included a parking space seemed frivolous but, at the moment, convenient.
With Vasha circling Shattuck Avenue sleep-deprived, a sleepover was a practical decision. Good for business.
Misha texted the code to the garage.
Texting. Another frivolous thing Misha became accustomed to.
Months earlier, Vasha hounded him to purchase a phone with SMS. Then weeks before, Steve Jobs announced the first smartphone. It was unavoidable.
"There's no excuse," said Vasha, "Production Assistants can't find work without using text."
"I'm not a PA," Misha said, resenting the demotion.
Patient but firm, Vasha concluded, "If you want to work with me, you need to text."
Misha examined the Motorola Razr in hand. He'd never admit it, but he liked the phone.
The teacher in Misha appreciated its efficiency. The filmmaker liked its design. The sleek device promised company in Misha's more vulnerable moments.
Unlike a phone call, which was intrusive after a certain hour of the night, a text was a mere suggestion. The Razr became a problem.
Only in his possession for a month, Misha texted his ex, Katherine, after ten, and Vasha, of course, multiple times after eleven. Vasha was more forgiving of what Misha learned was "the booty call."
Katherine? Not as much.
Vasha walked in with an overnight bag marked with SouthWest tags.
In airplane wrinkled clothes, he moved about Misha's small studio. Familiar with its chaos, Vasha avoided bumping into the bed, which occupied a large amount of the space.
He stepped over piles of books on the beaten redwood floor, arranged in a system only known to Misha. Vasha knew where to drop his clothes and found his guest's toothbrush in the bathroom.
He collided with Misha's bed and Misha joined him. Misha prodded his partner, "How was Sundance?"
But Vasha was out. Misha would have to wait. He switched out the light.
Early morning crept into the studio. Misha woke then let Vasha sleep.
Maybe nothing significant happened, thought Misha. Only a small advancement in production. A promising contact. Misha reviewed his screenplay. Featuring married couple and inventors of Technicolor, Herbert and Natalie Kalmus, Misha knew it had potential.
But Vasha worked the festival circuit with little luck. Misha wondered if his script missed something.
He stared at the ceiling, thinking of the first act. The second. Did it work as a story? Was the teacher in Misha introducing too much theory?
Vasha stretched himself awake. No longer alone with his work-obsessed thoughts, Misha looked to Vasha for answers. Instead, Vasha turned on his side and watched back.
Arm tucked under the guest pillow, an inviting smile crossed Vasha's face. And Misha figured he'd "better get it out of his system."
Moments later, Misha sat upright in the bed, holding, at his waist, Vasha's head bobbing at a seductive pace. Misha's grip intensified, causing Vasha's hair to sprout between his knuckles.
For one sensible moment, Misha wondered if he shut the airshaft window. The neighbors might hear. Then, pleasure crossing his body, he pushed his back into the headboard. Misha no longer cared about the window.
Misha remembered life Moscow. While being Queer was no longer illegal, it wasn't great either. Bullying, blackmail, threats, or worse, harassed men like Misha. The former Soviet law imprisoning homosexuals, 121.1 was a digit away from pedophilia, 121.2. The two acts had no relation, yet even in modern Russia, Misha’s reputation was always at stake due to the unfair comparison. Such a dangerous inconvenience.
So he hid. And the hiding was an obstacle to his work. For Misha, the work took precedence over everything else.
Teaching, articles, and tending to students, Misha indulged in American university life. All remaining hours were devoted to filmmaking. His screenplay.
In Moscow, Misha would be just as ambitious but with the added task of quelling rumors. In Berkeley, he didn't need to hide, but it wasn't necessary to be out, either. He appreciated the convenience of Vasha's love, but there was no need to inform everyone. Just the right balance. Privacy, yet free to pursue pleasure.
Under a pile of blankets, the two men spooned in the nude, flaccid and feeling complete, ignoring the vibrant university two stories below.
"It's quite nice," Misha sighed.
"Here, people can ask me, 'Do you fuck Vasha?' And I can answer, 'Why yes. I do fuck Vasha. And there's not much more to say."
Misha settled into sleep, adding, "We can just…be."
But Vasha protested.
"You have nothing to say?" said Vasha, now alert.
"I didn't say 'nothing.'" answered Misha, he was in no mood for teasing.
He wished to rest a little before their meeting. And, oh yes, he forgot. The screening is later that day. Why did he agree to speak before Black Orpheus tonight? Didn’t he had enough to do?
"I'm nothing." surrendered Vasha, playing hurt like a dog playing dead.
"Out of context," argued Misha. Without opening his eyes, he pulled Vasha closer, insisting, "I said 'not much more.'"
"I offer little, then," sighed Vasha. He stretched his arm up to link around Misha's head of sandy curls.
"What do you want me to add?" Misha asked, "That we tumble over each other, like two naughty gymnasts?"
Misha swerved his hips, motioning their bodies together. Heat built under the blankets.
"You're difficult," said Vasha turning away.
"Two gymnasts, forever cartwheeling," added Misha pressed closer.
"Your imagination is absurd," Vasha said, "and still," He turned over to face Misha. "Still, you can't imagine telling people," Vasha looked Misha in the eyes, "that I'm your boyfriend."
The spell broke. Misha pulled back. Disoriented, he motioned to leave the bed but paused to say, "Don't be ridiculous, Vasha."
Barefoot on the bumble bee tile, Misha faced a chipped porcelain sink. A wood cabinet—covered in decades of paint, slathered by cheap landlords - framed an old mirror. The silver rubbed thin in some spots, but it was reflective enough for Misha to shave. He appeared irritated.
How could Vasha suggest such a thing? Boyfriend! Of course, Vasha wasn't his boyfriend. He was an old friend with some experimenting. Isn't it enough to live and be who they are without questions? What would Mama say?
"Mama," Misha imagined saying, "this is my boyfriend."
"What boyfriend?" she'd answer, "All I see is Vasyecka."
It wouldn't even compute! So irritated by Vasha's requests, Misha cut his cheek shaving. He studied the cut; a ball of tissue turned bright red. Now this!
"You're upset," Vasha said, angling the bathroom doorway. His legs crossed, and he stood lean, four inches taller than Misha.
In boxers, with socked feet, Vasha looked like a model for the MODA catalog. It seemed a joke that Misha should be friends with someone so attractive.
Misha didn't consider himself unattractive. Misha had his charms, intelligence, and humor. Women commented on his curls to the point of irritation.
But like anyone else, Misha relied on the right conditions and the suitable lighting to appear perfect. Vasha, however, always appeared bright, blue-eyed with a mop of white gold hair. Top that with his athletic abilities, it was infuriating.
"Are you upset about the boyfriend thing?" Vasha asked gently.
"I'm not," Misha denied, focused on his grooming. He waited for Vasha to say it was a prank like the ones they played as kids at the dacha.
Instead, Vasha said, "I met someone."
"Oh," said Misha, impatient, "And?"
Where is Vasha going with all this?
"I like her," added Vasha, "I hope to see her again. And I thought you should know."
Misha shook out a damp towel. He calculated the tide of emotions: fear, disruption, but he didn't indulge in it. He breathed.
"Okay," was all Misha could offer at the moment.
Then Misha felt relieved, "you met someone."
Vasha didn't want to be boyfriends. He wanted to check in before he dated this other person.
And Misha couldn't take anyone Vasha dated seriously.
Vasha wasn't a playboy, but he received attention. Women came and went in Vasha's life. As did men.
Vasha was unconcerned about what people thought of him. His honesty of who he was - a good-looking Ukrainian American, a declared bisexual in his youthful twenties - easily attracted people.
"I mean…" said Vasha, teetering on an important point, "I met her last night…"
"You were at Sundance last night," said Misha, rinsing his razor.
"That's where we met," clarified Vasha, "Before my flight. She's why I caught the red eye."
"So you met someone in Utah?" said Misha, "And you think you'll see her again?"
"She's here. Works in film," answered Vasha, "I'm certain I will."
Misha removed the stopper from the drain.
Holding the plastic handle of his razor, he watched the soapy water lower, leaving a ring of golden brown whiskers.
Misha realized he had entered a normal space once again. Yes, moments ago, Vasha asked to be his boyfriend. Awkward. But now he is announcing a new woman in his life.
"A romantic interest?" Misha asked. And they, of course, would remain friends.
"Yes," answered Vasha.
This is how it should be, thought Misha. Vasha has a girl, and they keep doing what they do behind the scenery. Privacy was preferable.
"Good," Misha said, patting his face dry before exiting the small space. "You met someone."
Misha dressed for his lecture that afternoon. Vasha continued going on about this girl.
"We talked about everything. She didn't bat an eye at the Bi word."
"Well, what is her name?" asked Misha, threading his belt around his waist.
"Elna," said Vasha.
Misha froze mid-buckle.
"Laurent." Finished Vasha.
"Elna," repeated Misha, blinking at Vasha, "Laurent?"
Misha knew that name six years ago, in the 2001 fall semester, German Expressionism. Misha was an adjunct then. Elna was a freshman in his class.
That awkward little hoyden, with long dark hair and baggy clothes, had returned. Maybe. Could it be the same, Laurent?
Then Misha remembered what Vasha said moments before—the bi-word. She didn't bat an eye.
"You talked about everything?" Misha looked at Vasha.
"Yes," answered Vasha, "About you, the dacha, everything,"
Misha remembered being a boy, standing at the shore of the Black Sea. Each wave sank his feet further into the sand. He imagined if he didn't move, the sea and sand would swallow him whole.
Now, Vasha announcing Elna in his life, it felt as though Misha's feet sank into the floor.
To Misha's grief, Vasha not only outed him to a student. But to a painfully love-bitten one, Elna Laurent. Never mind her quirky charm and intelligence.
Misha found Elna tiring. He didn't have time for a lovesick girl.
There was work to do, papers to publish, films to make.
He certainly didn't have time for her pursuing his boyfriend.