Hobble Creek Review
| Arlene L. Mandell |
White Nights
I want him . . .I want him at once, this
minute, said Natasha with a gleam in her
eyes and no smile on her lips.
Count Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
St. Petersburg, July 7, 1993
At midnight on the Nevsky Prospekt, everything’s secondhand and
everything’s for sale--scratched Beatles' albums, Russian officers'
coats, samovars. Currency traders sidle up to offer me 130 rubles for
a dollar. But I imagine KGB agents lurking in doorways, waiting for
unwary Americans, though I know the KGB has officially been
disbanded.
Later, I shiver in the air-conditioned chill of St. Petersburg’s Grand
Hotel where only dollars and Swedish kroner, not rubles, are
accepted. When I open one eye, I sense rather than see the light
blocked by heavy draperies. I don't know whether I’ve slept seven
minutes or seven hours in this legendary city. Without the familiar
preparation of darkness, my brain stays awake even after my body,
exhausted from tramping through magnificent crumbling cathedrals
and acres of exquisite art, has collapsed under the down comforter.
Now it’s 3:30 a.m. and light once again. I close my eyes, see my
grandmother at thirteen with her long black braids selling bread
behind the wooden counter of her mother's bakery.
Now a horse-drawn carriage races along the snow-covered Nevsky
Prospekt, bringing me, an ecstatic Natasha Rostov, to my first ball.
I drift off again, waltzing in the arms of the handsome Prince
Andre while the assembled nobility watches.
Cloud View/Ground View
A helicopter swims past, rotors beating thick Manhattan haze.
From inside Room 2501, I can see Central Park’s treetops with solid
green vegetation like broccoli, the terra cotta roofs of penthouses
fringed with pampered plants, and the orange banners of new
construction. A crane lifts tons of cement to the eleventh story. An
American flag hangs limply from one corner of a condo-in progress.
Below, everyone walks fast, talking to unseen friends. Small shops
offer everything a person might need: Danskin tights, green papayas,
the Indian edition of Vogue. Also retro rhinestone jewelry, stiletto
heels, wigs.
On Broadway, there’s an entire store devoted to M & M
merchandise, another to Hershey chocolates. Aspiring actors hand
out free tissue packets promoting "A Catered Affair," a show that
allegedly brings tears to one’s eyes.
They’re charming, energetic, focusing on me for a second as if I
were a casting director. When they make their monthly call home to
Minot or Terre Haute for funds, do they say "I’ve got a job on
Broadway"? Or, "I’m auditioning for a role as a yellow M & M"?
For a former New Yorker, now just another tourist, it’s always a
wonderful town.
I want him . . .I want him at once, this
minute, said Natasha with a gleam in her
eyes and no smile on her lips.
Count Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
St. Petersburg, July 7, 1993
At midnight on the Nevsky Prospekt, everything’s secondhand and
everything’s for sale--scratched Beatles' albums, Russian officers'
coats, samovars. Currency traders sidle up to offer me 130 rubles for
a dollar. But I imagine KGB agents lurking in doorways, waiting for
unwary Americans, though I know the KGB has officially been
disbanded.
Later, I shiver in the air-conditioned chill of St. Petersburg’s Grand
Hotel where only dollars and Swedish kroner, not rubles, are
accepted. When I open one eye, I sense rather than see the light
blocked by heavy draperies. I don't know whether I’ve slept seven
minutes or seven hours in this legendary city. Without the familiar
preparation of darkness, my brain stays awake even after my body,
exhausted from tramping through magnificent crumbling cathedrals
and acres of exquisite art, has collapsed under the down comforter.
Now it’s 3:30 a.m. and light once again. I close my eyes, see my
grandmother at thirteen with her long black braids selling bread
behind the wooden counter of her mother's bakery.
Now a horse-drawn carriage races along the snow-covered Nevsky
Prospekt, bringing me, an ecstatic Natasha Rostov, to my first ball.
I drift off again, waltzing in the arms of the handsome Prince
Andre while the assembled nobility watches.
Cloud View/Ground View
A helicopter swims past, rotors beating thick Manhattan haze.
From inside Room 2501, I can see Central Park’s treetops with solid
green vegetation like broccoli, the terra cotta roofs of penthouses
fringed with pampered plants, and the orange banners of new
construction. A crane lifts tons of cement to the eleventh story. An
American flag hangs limply from one corner of a condo-in progress.
Below, everyone walks fast, talking to unseen friends. Small shops
offer everything a person might need: Danskin tights, green papayas,
the Indian edition of Vogue. Also retro rhinestone jewelry, stiletto
heels, wigs.
On Broadway, there’s an entire store devoted to M & M
merchandise, another to Hershey chocolates. Aspiring actors hand
out free tissue packets promoting "A Catered Affair," a show that
allegedly brings tears to one’s eyes.
They’re charming, energetic, focusing on me for a second as if I
were a casting director. When they make their monthly call home to
Minot or Terre Haute for funds, do they say "I’ve got a job on
Broadway"? Or, "I’m auditioning for a role as a yellow M & M"?
For a former New Yorker, now just another tourist, it’s always a
wonderful town.
Arlene L. Mandell is a retired English professor who returns to New York
City twice a year to visit family, friends and the Broadway theater. Her
poems, essays and short stories have appeared in more than 300 literary
magazines and 15 anthologies.
City twice a year to visit family, friends and the Broadway theater. Her
poems, essays and short stories have appeared in more than 300 literary
magazines and 15 anthologies.
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