There had been booze the night before, well, for her, he didnt drink himself, lots of booze; there'd been dancing, cheap disco lights in the basement pub, girls eyeing up guys in shiny tracksuit pants. A long night out, locals bawling into his ear, leaning over the table sweeping dirty coasters to the floor while he hung on to his Coke. There'd been stumbling in the cold night (dirty snow, slippery sidewalks they took forever to cross, miserly grey light), there'd been sex, strange, border-zone sex, that'd pushed limits and buttons before they'd ground into sleep amidst messy sheets on the makeshift, fold-out bed.
The apartment wasn't squalid, it was quite nice, actually. It just happened to look out on many similar high-rise tower blocks, most of them a pallid grey, some a more cheerful colour, with at their feet banks of ice along the maze of streets that pushed through the neighbourhood, merging into parking places. The apartment looked like only an apartment in this part of the world could look, carefully kept up with meagre means that left the comfortable enough seventies interior unavoidably looking slightly dilapitated. Sometimes he thought it was cozy. Sometimes he thought it was depressing.
They were supposed to cross the country this day, or rather: to cross into the next country, get underway, get round to their trip and even do some sightseeing, perhaps. After all, the next-door country actually had a tourist attraction of a capital, an endless expanse of quaint squares, romantic riverside walks, churches and city gates with small golden balls on top of their spiralling towers reaching skyward - and back alleys neglected just enough to be that much more melancholically inspiring than their counterparts in capitals further west. He'd been looking forward to showing her those charms, in between feeling confused, rattled, elated, worried.
There was, it soon became clear, no way to wake her up. Steadfastly asleep, doggedly asleep, perhaps, is the word. The alarm clock had awoken him, not her. Bags were packed. Just would need to get out of here. Say goodbye or sneak out - he didn't know what the procedure would be. He kissed her softly. No ripple. He caressed her cheek, whispered to her, no reaction. He must have smiled, then, a smile turning into a grin as it became ever more clear that here was a woman who would not budge. Didn't know whether to be endeared or anxious. Talking, moving, touching - nothing - until from the slumber someone did appear. It was a woman, a girl, at least, and she did not open her eyes, I think. But she talked to him, reluctantly, wiping away the suggestion of daytime with a halfhearted gesture, pushing it away with her arm. Asking. Is it really time to go? I dont want to - something like that, it would have been, except it was in a different language, no language he ever heard.
At first, he thought he misheard; then, he thought she was making random sounds, sleep-sounds. But the inflexion was real enough, the sing-song of her voice following the melody of a conversation, up down, question mark, grumble, shake of the head, "what?". He followed her, at first in amused endearment, then in slightly troubled wonder, as if following an unfamiliar sign onto a mountain trek. Talking to her in English, but getting an incomprehensible response; then, jestingly, trying his own language, then the language of the country they were in, just to see where it might go. It went nowhere. She got frustrated, frustrated that he didnt just understand her, and injected an impatient insistence into her voice. When that insistence threatened to turn into a more urgent anxiety, one he wanted to shelter her from, he changed tack. Instead of asking her what she was saying or saying "I don't understand", in any number of languages, he started talking with her - mimicking the sounds, the emphases, the vowels and consonants. Some seemed English, but never became words, others sounded very Russian, but in the way that a child mouths a language he doesn't know, making all the right sht's and tsh's without ever recognizing any of the combinations of syllables. It was all familiar, but familiar as in a mix of the ingredients she would have picked up on in times past.
The new tack seemed to comfort her. She nodded at what he echoed, answered his question marks, and, again, repeated the mantra of what clearly was a "no" to getting up and going out. He resigned himself to it, conversed some more, and let her fall asleep in the cup of his arm. Again, someone would wake up, an undetermined amount of time later, whisper to him (in English this time), make love to him, fall asleep again. When they eventually woke up anew for real, it was very late, dark outside already. His girlfriend remembered nothing of the previous awakenings.
That verbal type is what saved my arse on the GRE's.
