Weekend in Kyiv

Chapter Three: Come into my parlour

The relaxed, almost Mediterranean atmosphere of Kyiv's main street always has a cheering effect on me, but tonight, with the lively companionship of my handsome new friend, I felt almost like I was walking on air. We grabbed a couple more beers from one of the roadside stalls and wandered carelessly among the Saturday night crowds. Courting couples, pausing to buy roses from the gypsy children, older couples with kids carrying ballons, groups of friends laughing as they listened to the street musicians or posed for photos by the fountains, middle aged folk just taking the night air - none of them, I thought, could have been happier than me at this moment.

After about an hour of cheerful banter, I felt Sascha's arm slip around my waist as he gently swung me around. "Andy, I think you must be tired. Let's go home."

I have to admit, sleep had been the last thing on my mind, but when he said this, a wave of tiredness came over me. I glanced up at the digital clock on the wall of one of the Soviet-style government buildings; almost 11 o'clock already, and I'd been up since 4am to start my journey. Even with a two hour time difference, it had been a long (and eventful) day!

"Yeah. I'm shattered." I replied, returning his gesture with a (not too friendly, I hoped) stroke of his back.

"Right then," he laughed, grabbing my hand as he darted through the crowd, away from the bright lights of Independence Square towards where our car was parked. "Paschli! Let's go!"

Neither of us said much as we drove out of the city, past the splendid new railway station then turning off into an area of the city I didn't know, where we turned off up an alleyway between two rather shabby blocks of flats and made our way along the narrow street to pull up on the scruffy patch of grass beside the small playground, where a small group of teenagers sat smoking and chatting.

"So, this is where I am living. Nothing special, you understand," Sascha shrugged his shoulders, as he turned to get out the door. "But I think you will like it."

He insisted on carrying my heavy case from the car, and lead the way through the dimly lit doorway on our left. As we went up the steps, I could smell the odour of old cabbage, garlic and just a hint of stale urine, which I remembered well from previous visits to similar buidings across the city. But this was considerably less shabby and run down than many - and the lift actually inspired some confidence that it wouldn't fall apart in mid-journey!
We stopped at the third floor, aand Sascha led the way down the dimly lit corridor to the right, stopping outside number 35. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door and flicked on the light. "Please," he gestured. "Welcome to my home!"

I stepped through the door and kicked off my shoes in the narrow hallway. Typical drab greyish-brown patterned wallpaper with a couple of coats hanging from the hooks on the left. To the right, a couple of brown-painted doors - the bathroom and store cupboard no doubt - the door straight ahead was slightly ajar, hinting at the usual small kitchen beyond, and to the left, another door, this time with a pane of frosted glass up the middle, which I knew would lead to the combined living-cum-bedroom.

"Please," Sascha put down the case and brushed past me, opening the living room door and switching on the light. "What do you think?"

I must admit, I was quite taken aback by what I saw as I entered the room. In sharp contrast with the hallway there was nothing typical here. None of the obligatory heavy flowered wallpaper, no Turkish-style rug on the wall: the whole room had been painted a tasteful shade of cream. Half of one wall was almost entirely taken up with books, the other half boasting a modern black ash desk complete with pc. In place of the usual net curtains, the French windows to my right, leading onto the small glazed balcony, were covered with a set of three bamboo blinds, which could have come straight out of Ikea. The wall beside the door was bare, except for three large framed balck and white prints of artistically posed shots of intertwined figures in varying stages of undress - very interesting choice! Finally, to my left, a rather splendid set of wooden beaded curtains (the kind people hang in their doorways to keep out flies, but more tasteful and expensive looking) half concealed the alcove where Sascha's 'only one bed' stood; the usual studio couch, already folded down, but draped not with the traditional dark rugs, but a series of woven throws in shades of burgundy and gold. Opposite the bed, a large wardrobe from the Soviet era - but painted white with a full length mirror fixed to the central door. The rest of the furniture in the room, however, owed little to communism. Apart from the computer area, a circular glass dining table on shiny metallic legs stood near the window, surrounded by a set of folding metal chairs. In the opposite corner of the room, two comfortable looking armchairs with solid wooden arms stood either side of a small wooden coffee table, facing a rather smart combi tv and video on one of the bookshelves. Above the arm chairs, fixed to the wall beside the opening to the bedroom ara, I saw a state of the art mino CD system. Clearly Sascha's taxi business was not unprofitable!

"Wow, Sascha, what a great room!"

"You think so?" Entering the room behind me, Sascha's face beamed with proprietorial pride. "My friend Ira, she help me renovate it. But I think it's quite English style - don't you think?"

"You're right," I smiled, "Very English!"

I moved over to the book shelves and scrutinised the contents. A mixture of classic Russian and English novels (no doubt remnants of his student days), some glossy travel books, and a whole row dedicated to british and American crime novels - with a smile, I noticed a complete set of Le Carre's cold war spy stories. Propped against the books were a number of photos, most of them showing Sascha with a variety of friends posing at all the archetypal Kyiv monuments. In almost all of them, he was being embraced by some beautiful girl or other; clearly his well-toned body, perfect looks and big blue eyes did not go unappreciated! Which one was Ira? I wondered. Probably that petite little blonde who appeared in almost every picture - the boy obviously had good taste!

"Okay Andy; you want coffee or tea - or maybe you need go sleep already?"

"Coffee would be great, thanks, Sascha"

"No problem. Please," he handed me the suitcase, "You put this in bedroom then sit here," pointing to the armchairs "and I bring coffee"

As my host disappeared into the kitchen, I brushed through the beaded screen into his inner sanctum. Over the bed, I noticed a set of framed photos. Most were obviously of his family: the two younger guys, captured in light-hearted brotherly tussle, obviously shared the same big eyes and golden-brown hair, as did his sister and mother. The tall, rather stern looking black-haired chap in one photo must be his dad - and the rather skinny dark-haired guy pictured arm-in-arm with Sascha on the beach, must be a cousin, I decided. Central place, however, was given to a large print of Sascha, wrapped in a thick overcoat, standing outside Big Ben in London, that big grin of his lighting up the whole picture.

"Coffee's ready!" Sascha called from beyond the screen. Hurriedly I turned from the photos and went back through. Sascha had taken off his t-shirt, and as he bent down to place the cups on the table, I noted with approval that the healthy golden glow continued all the way down the perfect, smooth skin of his back to the high-waisted belt of his black jeans. As he stood up, my eyes were instinctively drawn to the well-toned lines of his magnificent bronzed chest. A faint haze of fine blond hair highlighted the darker circles around his nipples, giving way to a fine line of rather darker hair running down the centre of his firm stomach (just the slightest trace of a six pack) and leading the eye intriguingly towards the delights below.

"Andy, please sit."

With a start, I wondered how long I had been staring. I felt myself start to colour as I took my seat and reached for my cup. "So, how long did you say you'd lived here?" I blurted out to cover my embarrassment.

"I guess about three years now." Sascha gracefully lowered himself to the floor and stretched out full length on the tasteful beige carpet, one knee slightly raised and his head propped on one arm as he looked up at me, the muscled perfection of sun-tanned body clearly outlined in the soft light from the table lamp above him. "When I camr back from England, I rent with a friend" (Still 'only one bed'? I wondered.) "Then when taxi business start to take off, I buy flat and start to decorate."

"Very nice." To distract myself from the wonders of his chest, I got up and walked to the window. "D'you mind if I get some air? It's a bit warm in here."

"Of course. Please, let me!" In a flash he had risen form the floor and was at my side, unlocking the balcony door, the bare flesh of his broad shoulders barely inches from my face - the urge to bend down and kiss that silky golden skin was almost too much. The door opened and I quickly went out onto the balcony, opened a window and leaned out, breathing in the cool night air. Oh boy, maybe this wasn't such a good idea! Next moment, Sascha was right behind me, his youthful body resting gently against mine, one hand leaning on the rail beside my own as he too took a deep breath.

"Nice night, no?" he said, his warm breath against the side of my face. The hairs on my neck bristled pleasantly, and, a couple of feet below, something else begin to stir.

I swallowed hard. "Perfect, " I breathed and started to turn away. My arm brushed against the Sascha's chest as he took a step backwards. "Would it be okay if I took a shower?" I needed something to cool me down.

"Of course. I'm sorry, I should have thought. You'll be dirty from your journey. Please - you need a towel?"

"No, it's fine, I've got one in my bag."

I quickly made my way to the bed alcove and grabbed my toewel and wash kit, anxious to get away before the tingling in my groin took on a visible presence.

"Please; bathroom through here." Sascha opened the door for me, forcing me to brush past him again to get into the small batheroom. No modernisation here, though it was scrupulously clean and smelled faintly of lemons. "You enjoy shower, and I make bed ready for us."