One Is Not Enough − 24 July, 2006
The guests were due to arrive any minute, while the boys were still being walked by the nanny. Today they turned one. For any parent, especially a parent of twins (simply because everything doubles), the first birthday is an important occasion. That's really an understament -- it's been called a "milestone" (at least according to the mandatory child-rearing literature). Infants become toddlers.
Olga and I sat at the dinner table, both in front of our laptops, lazily discussing something utterly unimportant. No kids crying, no phone calls, no urgent emails to write. In short, we were in bliss. Two flanks steaks were marinating on the kitchen counter -- one in Asian spices, another -- in cumin and coriander. And then there was a knock on the door.
I opened and recognized a vaguely familiar face. The man was holding a pot of purple and yellow flowers in one hand and a toy in another.
"Do you recognize me?" he said with an Italian accent. And at that moment it hit me -- it was A, the husband of N, a Russian writer, with whom we were quite friendly several years back, but have lost touch since. N is an exceptional writer with a keen sense of the surreal that manifests itself in her prose in a very subtle manner, almost like a thin cloud of perfume that travels from the bedroom into the living room with you catching just a slight trace of it, as an unnoticable breeze moves the air around the house. We lost touch somewhat suddenly, just as we had somewhat suddenly met before, but N had responded to my note about Dandelife earlier today. It must have been at least two or three years since we had seen each other and having received that email was a surprise in itself. If it hadn't come just hours before, I doubt I would have placed A so quickly.
"Yes, I recognize you," I uttered still in disbelief. "How did you get our address?" I was absolutely certain that I did not give it to N in my response email. Glancing at the flower pot, A, continued with his song-like Italian accent: "Well, it's because of your sister. These are from your sister-in-law or maybe sister. And this..." he glanced at the toy, "This is from me and N." The "sister-in-law" was, of course, my sister Masha, who is, in fact, Olga's sister-in-law. It turned out that on the same day N responded to my email about Dandelife, my sister Masha called a local flower shop to order a bouquet for Olga (among other things, the card said "you are a real trooper"). "Your sister was really mad this morning," A continued. "She called and said: "I will report you to the Better Business Bureau! Why have you not made the delivery you promised!!!" But I did not take an order from her, so I said: "Who is this?" And then she quieted down." Apparently, Masha ordered flowers from a different shop a day before, but the shop screwed up the order. She called the store again, but mixed up the number. A recognized her last name (as it's the same as mine), called N, and found out that we had corresponded that morning. So he picked up a toy on his way over, and ended up at our doorsteps.
Through this chain of coincidences, Olga received a bouquet, the boys ended up with a toy, and N and A discovered that we have a whole new family. As now do they (a daughter called Irene)...
Olga and I sat at the dinner table, both in front of our laptops, lazily discussing something utterly unimportant. No kids crying, no phone calls, no urgent emails to write. In short, we were in bliss. Two flanks steaks were marinating on the kitchen counter -- one in Asian spices, another -- in cumin and coriander. And then there was a knock on the door.
I opened and recognized a vaguely familiar face. The man was holding a pot of purple and yellow flowers in one hand and a toy in another.
"Do you recognize me?" he said with an Italian accent. And at that moment it hit me -- it was A, the husband of N, a Russian writer, with whom we were quite friendly several years back, but have lost touch since. N is an exceptional writer with a keen sense of the surreal that manifests itself in her prose in a very subtle manner, almost like a thin cloud of perfume that travels from the bedroom into the living room with you catching just a slight trace of it, as an unnoticable breeze moves the air around the house. We lost touch somewhat suddenly, just as we had somewhat suddenly met before, but N had responded to my note about Dandelife earlier today. It must have been at least two or three years since we had seen each other and having received that email was a surprise in itself. If it hadn't come just hours before, I doubt I would have placed A so quickly.
"Yes, I recognize you," I uttered still in disbelief. "How did you get our address?" I was absolutely certain that I did not give it to N in my response email. Glancing at the flower pot, A, continued with his song-like Italian accent: "Well, it's because of your sister. These are from your sister-in-law or maybe sister. And this..." he glanced at the toy, "This is from me and N." The "sister-in-law" was, of course, my sister Masha, who is, in fact, Olga's sister-in-law. It turned out that on the same day N responded to my email about Dandelife, my sister Masha called a local flower shop to order a bouquet for Olga (among other things, the card said "you are a real trooper"). "Your sister was really mad this morning," A continued. "She called and said: "I will report you to the Better Business Bureau! Why have you not made the delivery you promised!!!" But I did not take an order from her, so I said: "Who is this?" And then she quieted down." Apparently, Masha ordered flowers from a different shop a day before, but the shop screwed up the order. She called the store again, but mixed up the number. A recognized her last name (as it's the same as mine), called N, and found out that we had corresponded that morning. So he picked up a toy on his way over, and ended up at our doorsteps.
Through this chain of coincidences, Olga received a bouquet, the boys ended up with a toy, and N and A discovered that we have a whole new family. As now do they (a daughter called Irene)...
