in the weather’s din, I paint your lovely face.
—Lermontov.
This weekend is Canadian Thanksgiving
and provides the inspiration for this story
I was on a journey home aboard a tram.
It was a nostalgic Thanksgiving search for family, roots and recovering a sense of my past.
I hadn't planned a story book ride to meet a girl in red boots by the end of the line, but stormy weather often blurs the lines.
And this adventure was just beginning.
We were together on the tram, in the rain, my dream girl and I, and as we rumbled along past the quaint century-old shops, the storm grew more intense.
Huge drops of rain splattered the widows like black cherries and broken tree branches began littering the streets.
They call Toronto the city of trees, and unlike New York, the downtown core still has a leafy canopy made up mostly of Maples.
My girl stayed on, all the way.
As the Carlton streetcar approached to within blocks of the end of the line, a great crash of thunder caused the lights on the car to go out.
“Oh!” cried the girl. She was obviously terrified of the storm and huddled near the window.
Before I could think about it, I slid across to sit beside her.
“It’s all right,” I told her, “We’re safer in here than outside—any current from lightning that strikes is grounded—it goes through the wheels to the track and into to earth—there’s no danger,”
“That’s good to know,” she said, shivering.
I took off my coat and wrapped it around her.
The tram was dark and silent.
Outside, rain was sheeting down the widows; inside, we huddled together while thunder roared ominously above us.
I noticed a book bag. “Are you a student?”
She nodded, “Just finishing my Masters in English Lit at U of T.”
Lightning flared outside the windows. She cringed.
“Don’t worry—I spent a summer working with these trams—you’re quite safe.”
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“What college do you attend?” I asked.
“Victoria College,” she whispered.
“That’s a beautiful campus,” I said.
“Do you go to U of T too?” she asked.
I nodded. “University College.”
“My girlfriends often go there to audit lectures—they tell me there’s a cool young Prof who teaches Victorian novels.”
My heart stopped. “What’s his name?”
“Richard Larson. Do you know him?”
I smiled. “That’s me.”
Her eyes grew huge and her cheeks colored. “This is embarrassing,” she laughed nervously.
“Actually, I’m enjoying it,” I teased. “What’s your name?”
“Lara Maslak.”
“You’re Russian?”
I am,” she smiled.
“I love Russian literature—actually, here—” I reached across the aisle and retrieved my book from my former seat, “This is what I’m reading.”
She picked it up and looked at it. “Oh, Sestra Moia Zhizn’—I love these poems!”
“You read them in the original?”
“Oh yes! They’re so beautiful—you can almost see golden wheat fields and long grass.
She gave me an idea. “Can I hear you read it in the original?”
She began reading, and the regular rhythm and fixed rhyme scheme became apparent.
The sound of the poem matched the cadence of the rain.
“That’s beautiful, “ I said.
“But you don’t understand a word,” she protested.
“Maybe I meant to say, you’re beautiful.”
I stared into her eyes and swore I saw the grain fields and rolling grasslands she spoke of.
At that moment, the power came back on. The fans started up and the lights flickered, but gradually grew stronger.
The tram jerked ahead, clattering through the intersection and continuing on its way.
In moments we reached the end of the line and looped into a huge park, surrounded by trees.
She looked at me and smiled:
Here tracks of the city trolleys stop, and further the pines alone must satisfy. Trams cannot pass.
I looked at her in surprise. “That’s Pasternak, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “It’s from Sparrow Hills—quite appropriate, I think.”
We got out and stood watching while the streetcar lumbered off down the tracks back toward the city core.
The rain had stopped.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she began to leave.
“Wait,” I said impulsively, “Can we meet this weekend for coffee? —I’d love to continue our talk about Pasternak.”
She looked up at me, eyes shining. “I’d love that, Richard.”
We spent the weekend walking the paths above the pond—feeding ducks—drinking coffee in the restaurant.
We visited the zoo and gathered leaves.
She lives with her parents, one street over from us. My father knows the family from St. Casmir’s Church.
It’s strange how life is.
I have a lease on a downtown apartment, but now I really long to be home.
I want to want to walk with her in the snow, toboggan down steep hills and skate with her on the pond.
I want to watch storms with her, sipping tea, sitting on the wooden verandah of my parent’s creaking house.