Cossack

Taught me he was Cossack, it meant “free man.” His eyes were deep-set, and so blue, light blue like before the sun peeks from behind the smoke stacks. Pale skinned, and his hair--what hair! His entire body was furry, seemed longer, thicker than Papa’s. Rubbed my face on his chest as he told me of his family being great horsemen through the centuries, protectors and defenders.

“Cossacks aren’t peons, we’re fierce warriors--greatest horsemen of the plains.” Wide chest rumbled with his deep voice. Papa rolled his eyes and smirked. In my mind, I could see the big furry man leaning forward in saddle, racing across the wide steppes, his thick beard streaked with red waving over his shoulder as he pulled out his rifle.

Nights, they made frantic love, my papa and the Cossack. Ancient metal frame bed screaming and beating the wall. Neighbors long since gave up on them shushing their lust.

Stayed days with Rula down the hall. A kindly lady who looked like the peeled potatoes she boiled—pale yellow and round. I started school in a remodeled munitions plant wearing other children’s clothing. I balked at the skirt and sweater until December’s wicked winds sliced through my soul. All children wrapped themselves tightly in whatever they could find.

* * *

Like everyone, Papa and his Cossack worked for the state. They saw no benefit, no improvement, after losing family and friends.

Tired of cabbage stewed with salt and lard, half-mended shoes, power outages, bad water and curious about the gossip from outside Russia, they surrendered—the Cossack and my Papa agreed the revolution had failed. Just another feudalist system with different names for the poor. “It was better before your mother passed; better during the revolution.”

The Cossack used a word. I thought he said deflect - a foreign word. Found out later the word the used wasn’t deflect but defect. Were we defective? Uncomfortable feeling to be defective, broken, useless like our lives in Yekaterinburg.

That night, I remember well. Allowed to stay up late while they packed. Papa and his Cossack stood in front of the heater, dancing together, embraced until they got excited and dropped their pants to the floor. I stood on the warm cloth around their feet, holding my Cossack’s thick leg, rubbing my cheek against his hard muscles, his thick, rough hair until their treasured liquid shot and dripped. The smell of them, the feel of muscles moving and their breaths, their kisses were singed into my small mind as pure happiness—no rulers, no borders, only happiness.

* * *

Can’t remember much but being on a grimy, gray train, then a big ship for a long time. Hot, below. Windy on deck; sea birds shrieks, two shades of blue met in the distance making a horizon. The Atlantic Ocean is huge.

Salted cod and potatoes every meal; eating with men as big as the Urals loudly calling for more.

Papa shot me glances when I looked at my bowl, “Be grateful.” He explained we were free now. He told me the air was sweeter with freedom, everything was better. Wasn’t sure what that meant for me; air was air. Freedom? I didn't yet understand.

Cossack lifted me to the railing to see the whales. His beard tickled my skinny legs, his hands held my hips tightly. Sometimes he kissed my lips and called me “rosebud.” His affection stayed constant, a steady comfort on the rocking ship.

Nights I slept on the narrow hammock above them. Russian love, Atlantic love, hammock love is a grunting, shoving exercise. Hearing them caress, excite and kiss each other, my lullaby asea.

* * *

“B’way-nos Iris-res, Ar-jin-tee-nah.” I’d seen it on a map in yellow, the inlet was only an inch long. Our ship kept going and going past the buildings and docks, I thought we’d never moor, but finally we were on dry land with our one bag.

Russian ex-pats met us smiling, speaking our familiar words. We ate with a family, and I had a real bath, in a real tub with pink soap. Again, wearing another child’s clothes, I was ashamed and embarrassed.

“Be grateful.” Papa was thankful for any help offered.

The Cossack held me on his lap till I fell asleep while Russian voices cursed the regime. Out the window I heard music, voices of people all speaking sounds I’d never heard before. Inside the big man’s arms, his breath his hands held me against his chest. I felt his laughter as dreams came.

* * *

At school, I learned their language and grew taller though struggled to gain the feeling of being an Argentine. Papa and his Cossack found work quickly, they were proud union members. We had plenty of good food, beer, a drink called mah-tay in the mornings. I adapted to my new ways quickly.

Spanish came easily. Yes, it was very structured, many rules but they were easy rules, made sense when you considered how far that language had traveled. Perhaps it was because I was akin to the Spanish language, picking up rules and funny ways along my journey, I came to feel affection toward its sounds. Soon, I was translating for my Cossack and Papa.

Other Russians helped us find a place to live. So different—our own bath, kitchen was filled with equipment and though I had to sleep on the couch, my Cossack and Papa let me in bed with them often.

How I loved their smells. Reminded me of our homeland.

* * *

So much music and dramatic dances, fancy clothes, beer halls, and bright colors in BA. Politicians had big rallies, buses came for the workers, everyone in school went to hear them. Bands playing enthusiastic marches, people chanting; stirring times in a new nation. We became citizens with all the fancy paperwork and stamps, seals and our names right on the top.

I was grateful; we were grateful and proud.

In school I learned that opportunity brought luck. School gave me opportunity, luck would follow. I didn’t have to drive a truck like Papa or haul boxes at the port like my Cossack, I could sell what I put in my brain. School put my stock and trade in my mind. I wanted to be able to take care of Papa and our Cossack, following the old Russian ways. Their heavy work wore on their beautiful bodies. My Papa became thin with dark circles around his eyes.

* * *

When I entered my secondary level at school, Papa became weaker, he began staying home some days. The Cossack tried taking him here and there, not always to a clinic. Slowly, and quietly, the Cossack took my father’s place, providing for us as Papa’s body withered. In the winter Papa died. My young man’s Spanish, still heavy with our accent translated for a tearful Cossack as we arranged the funeral, went to the union office. I stood straight, tall, yet bewildered in shock, stuttering with sorrow when we purchased the casket.

A few union members came to lay Papa to rest. Beside the Cossack, I shook hands, wiped my face and within moments Papa was gone. Forever gone. Hard on new immigrants to face the future when a close one leaves. Our income dropped by half; my orphan’s stipend wasn’t much.

* * *

“How did Papa die?” I bravely asked the Cossack. “Consumption? Tuberculosis? He didn’t cough.”

The Cossack took me in his arms. “Chinese, well—medicine from Asia killed Papa, but not at first.” He held me closer. “‘El opio’ took his pain first, then his mind and body. Papa allowed his memories, his losses, all he left behind to outweigh his love for freedom. His soul went dark, then darker.” There was more he didn’t say.

I’d heard about the backrooms and secret closets where people smoked opium; judged the people there to be oafs, outcasts. Papa went there? He was a hero, brought us far, faced strangers and their strange ways easily, it appeared. It was a sham, Papa hid his pain, lied to me.

Suddenly I felt more than defective, not enough to calm Papa’s heart. My Cossack held me as I deeply mourned my Papa’s defection from my life, the brutal truths I told myself.

Sensing the depth of my distress, he kissed my forehead, “Papa sends his love, he’ll always send his love—as long as I’m here, he will send his love.” He took me completely that night, the way he took Papa so many nights.

* * *

I turned my head away, at first while he undressed me gently, tossed his clothes on the floor.

Hard slap to my thigh, “I begged him, promised him anything to stop. So many times, my sweet, I begged him. You think I don’t hurt like you do?” He mumbled something about missing my father who was his very heart, “This is what he left us.”

Grabbing my sobbing body, he bent me over the side of the bed where we’d slept together, roughly parted my legs, exposing me. Felt his silent brushings, what he and Papa called the mighty Volga as he prepared me. Softly wailing, crying, his left palm pinned me firmly to the bed, his thumb roughly pressed against my hole. So fast he shoved it inside me. His thumb circled my muscle, stretching it.

Tears hit my back, he leaned to kiss my neck.

Beard scratched my skin, lips grazed. Thumb removed, I felt unsure and weak, whimpered.

“God, I loved him.” Weepy, jerking breaths as head of his thick shaft touched the sensitive skin of my cleft.

“God I loved him.” Poised at my bottom, he pressed. I grunted through the pain of being opened.

“God, I ache for him.” Thrust pushed pain through my torso. Hard. Fast entry. He stopped and wailed.

Burying my face in the sheets, I cried. Cried through the pain. Cried through the rough, gut-splitting thrusts.

Cried with the image of my father in my head. Cried for myself as the Cossack assaulted me until a strange sensation began.

A feeling of comfort, excitement slipped through my entire body, flickering sparks across my skin. I moved to feel more; the image of my father vanished as the Cossack grabbed my shoulders tugging my rear hard toward his groin. Burn continued around his hefty shaft; he plunged again and again, deeper each time.

Hands grabbed my hips, felt like I was splitting apart inside but something, that spark, kept me still. With each ram, he moaned, more tears falling. Pulled me off the edge of the bed, reached around my narrow body and began pulling on my shaft, hard. Tugged my balls, “My beautiful boy.” He whispered, shoved deeper, held me tightly. I wriggled, trying to get away. Couldn’t. Impossible against his big hands, his arms.

I felt it. His discharge came in pulses. Hot, salving the splitting pain inside me. Lost control of my breathing for a while. Seemed like he’d never let go, never stop.

Pulsing ebbed, dripped down; condolences completed. Felt his beard on my butt, he was kissing me.

“God, I miss him.” He fell on the bed beside me as the familiar smell of his sex filled the room.

After a few moments, “Why did you call me ‘your beautiful boy?’”

“My family is buried with yours at Mednoy.”

Before I could ask any more, “You’re mine now. A boy needs a father.”

Profound gratitude.

* * *

I continued with my education, more determined to erase all of our homeland, everything that broke Papa’s heart. My Cossack wouldn't let it break me; I it wouldn’t break me. My Cossack eased me physically through the sharp, prickly heartaches when melancholic moods hit, and I came to love hm as much as Papa.

A university scholarship was my one of the union benefit I hadn’t considered using. My Russian language wasn’t polished, my English was rudimentary and my Spanish was excellent, only a slight accent as I applied to attend the university as a Spanish major.

Frightened about rejection or reprimand, I asked my teachers for letters of recommendation. Floored when they offered to help with the paperwork. Finally felt some acceptance in my second homeland.

My Cossack was so proud, told all his friends, and read the letters out loud to them; I blushed and grinned. He was telling them that one of us, a Russian boy, was no longer an outsider. He was giving them hope, deflecting thoughts of losses.

We had beer on Saturday nights, danced to the radio and ate sausages with soft, white rolls, lived like kings. We were tsars of our tiny realm that year. I didn’t realize it, but we were free, riding across the steppes of our world with more hope, opportunity. Came home to each other for the comfort of peasant’s Russian in our ears, and sweet comfort of our bed.

* * *

The Cossack bought a car when he obtained work in his union office, wore suits and shiny shoes. We moved into a larger apartment. He told me that packs of single immigrant men were considered dangerous by society—troublesome rabble-rousers. Many Russian-Argentinians shunned us as we wanted no dealings with their marriageable daughters.

Soon my Cossack brought a Polish lady into our home, a brusque woman though kind to me. My life was altered permanently when she gained weight with child. The Cossack made an opportunity for himself, planted his seeds of hope. Got lucky.

I concentrated on my degree and became an excellent interpreter, but preferred the silence of translating; only keys clicking, coffee pot gurgling while my text flew around the country to printing presses.

During those times, every other person in Latin America was a poet or philosopher. The quality of my work increased through the variety of writers and I became known as the most precise translator in the region. No longer had to send out my CV, editors called me.

Without hesitation, my Cossack father wrote me a check for an airline ticket to America. Though he’d cursed capitalism for years, he encouraged me, “Your Papa and every Russian around the world will be proud. Go.”

* * *

Wasn’t anymore ready for Los Angles than I was Buenos Aires until I found that signage, instructions and Spanish was everywhere. Incredible! Long days of sunshine, nights at a word processor, I worked for the best writers, the most prestigious publishing houses and earned plenty to buy a small place for myself near the beach.

From my severe background, I was never comfortable mixing in the nightlife, playing the beautiful boys on the beaches, in the bars. For diversion, I quietly took a part-time position at a local community college instructing classes in Spanish. Easy work, and my students were humorous with their mispronunciations, unusual spellings. They came and went, a few shone with promise, not many. They needed a year of foreign language for graduation; no linguistic passion among the Computer Science majors.

* * *

During my third semester of night classes I found myself sitting at my tiny desk in a miniscule office, recording grades. Tap at the door, “Mr. Vasiliev—do you have a moment?”

“Come in.” Scruffy student entered. Wide-boned, skinny, scraggly beard, looked homeless. “Mr., uhm, excuse me, I’ve forgotten your name.”

Soft-spoken, timid, head down, like he was ashamed of something. “I’m Nick. Thursday night, always sit at the right side.”

“Oh, yes. Yes.” I smiled. His grades were excellent, spelling, grammar, pronunciation, even his diacritical marks perfectly placed. “How can I help, Nick?”

“I’m applying to Berkley. Would you consider writing a letter of recommendation for me?” He explained that his mother had pushed him to apply for scholarships. Hard to get him to explain his situation, he mumbled something about single-parent home, lack of funds… Topics I knew well though said nothing.

“Get some coffee and we’ll get your recommendation printed out in a few moments.” I nodded at the coffee pot. “Cookies in the drawer below.”

He helped himself as I cleared my screen and brought up a blank page of stationary, “Who should I address this to?”

“There’s a lady in the registrar’s office.” Dug around in his backpack pulled a file folder out, looked at me as he opened it, “Thank you, I wasn’t sure….” Hair on his arms was bleached by the sun, like strands of golden silk.

“Glad to help.” His eyes caught mine. Blue, pale blue like summery skies over the pampas. “Let me know if anything on your application stumps you—we’ll work it out.”

He nodded.

As his head nodded, he appeared as though he were in saddle, riding across the steppes. Overwhelmed with the sudden rush of memories. Feeling incredibly loved my entire childhood—so deeply loved. It slammed my heart with a sudden insight into myself, my life. I’d survived, succeeded, loved through the hardest parts, wanted and needed by loving men for years, and even now.

Fell silent and stared, eyes burning.

“Sir?” He asked hesitantly.

Shook the ghosts from my head. “Your full name, Nick?”

“Nicholas Kozak.”

“Nicholas,” My fingers touched keys, “beautiful name, Kozak. Comes from the name Cossack. Means ‘free man.’”

“I know. Best thing my father left to me.” He replied in perfect Russian.