The most beautiful Golf
It was December, the usual dark Russian December, the wind blew, the snow danced and sparkled in the lights of the streetlamps, we were going to the airport – the long ride I’ve always enjoyed, the car flew through the snowy mist with that special, unlike any other sound a snow tyre makes on the wet asphalt covered in slush. I was twelve.
The taxi driver was a woman. She smoked, and she wore a leather jacket. The heavy odour of cigarettes, leather, gas, whatever else comes with an old, battered Volga they used for taxies, and the slight hint of perfume, - the odour many people would define as “stink”, has captured my imagination forever.
“Some day I will learn, I will drive along the snow-covered streets, and I will wear a leather jacket”, I told myself when I was twelve.
Years have passed and here I stand in the corner of the parking, helplessly holding the keys. My girl, my love, my precious – now belongs to me.. With pounding heart and shaking knees, I turn on the ignition, let go the handbrake, and listen to the sound of the engine. I will learn, I will fly through the sparkling blizzard.
“I have a problem parking”, I say to my neighbour, a perfect stranger in a way, though I must have seen him walking the dog thousand times. And here he stands, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket, watching me park in an imaginary garage he outlined with pebbles on the ground.
“I can’t do that!” I yell, hopelessly sliding down an icy hillock in the suburbs he chose to practice. “Feel it. Close your eyes if you need to”. I obey. With my eyes shut, I put my foot on the clutch. First gear, gas, feel when she “catches” … Here we go, honey, up the hill. I can do that. I never bought a leather jacket, but I can drive up an icy slope.
“Do you mind?” he asks, lighting a cigarette. No. The Golf and me, we don’t mind in the slightest. Cigarettes and leather. Gas and a hint of perfume.
“Follow me”, he says on the phone and I drive through the sparkling blizzard following the red rear lights of his car. I’ve never been at these streets before, but I trust him to show the way.
It’s Christmas soon. The wind blows and whistles, the snow sparkles; the roads are flooded with unavoidable slush.
I come up to the window to have a look at my precious. The most beautiful Golf in the world stands close to the large, grey car, which seems to protect the little one from blistering wind.
- I like your perfume, - he says. I smile and turn away from the window to pour coffee – he likes it exactly the way I do – white, with two spoons of sugar. The coffee is hot and sweet, and dark December–since this year – doesn’t seem that cold.
