Grey's Journal:
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Unlike last year, when Zornitsa and I took a walking tour of haunted London, we didn't have a plan for this evening. So when she met me in central London, dressed in a smart white outfit complimenting her dark completion, we simply strolled through the crisp night air, down through St. James's Park, across the Thames past the London Eye and back over the Golden Jubilee Bridge and into Covent Garden. We walked in the European style, where friends may link arms without it signifying anything romantic. This is a nice difference in culture across the Atlantic and I particularly enjoy it with Zornitsa as other people are forced to assume good things about me. One glance at us and it's clear that a man like me should not have a woman like Zornitsa on my arm. The natural conclusion is I must be rich and powerful. We drank and talked and reminisced about when we first met -- at a party London Metropolitan University held for its new graduate students. Zornitsa didn't like me at first, thinking I was a typical, chatty American, but fortunately for me, I somehow won her over that night. We are such good friends now that it's hard for me to remember a time when I lived in London and didn't know her. London Metropolitan was a waste of both time and money, however, I would pay it again to meet Zornitsa. But, our time together was coming to an end. Despite it's geographical location in Eastern Europe, Bulgaria is not yet a member of the European Union. Unlike Marine or myself, Zornitsa cannot live in London without her visa -- a visa expiring this Halloween night. A month earlier she sent her passport into the Home Office with an application to stay in England longer, but we weren't hopeful. Even if granted an extension, she could be forced to leave as early as December. Our most hopeful expectation was February. Every day we checked the mail to see when she would have to go, but still there was no response. Zornitsa's leaving was a thought I did my best to put out of my mind since I returned to London in August, but this night it was impossible to avoid. Zornitsa could sense that I was sad, but I didn't want to talk about it. I remembered in one of the rare times when we talked about what would happen when Zornitsa went back to Bulgaria, she told me this: ``I'm gunna have to leave, and then when I talk to you, you will use your conference voice and I will be sad.'' Zornitsa often complained about what she called my `conference voice', a way that I sometimes speak (that I'm unaware of) that is more formal than my normal tone. She hates it because she thinks it sounds artificial and cold. ``Don't worry,'' I said. ``You'll call and I'll tell you funny stories and it will be just the same.'' This was a lie so weak it make both of us sadder. We didn't broach the topic again. This Halloween felt like my real one-year anniversary in London. It was the first holiday that repeated since I came to London, making the passage of a year impossible to ignore. But, more importantly from a personal perspective, the walking tour Zornitsa and I took last year was the first thing we did together outside the classes and events of London Metropolitan; it marked the beginning of our friendship. My time in our flat in East Dulwich has been the best for me in London. As an only child, I've found it difficult to live with others, but with Zornitsa I was always happier when she was home. Even with the extension, she would have to leave soon and I would either have to find a new flat mate or a new place to live -- both unappealing options. While walking, we turned a corner in Covent Garden and it was deja vu. Across the street in front of the same theater was the same guide giving the same tour we took last year -- except the deja vu was so strong I felt I was looking back in time across the street. I expected to see the back of my own head in the crowd or if one year ago I had turned around during the guide's explanation of the ghosts haunting the theater I would have seen myself standing here now in my long black coat with Zornitsa next to me in white. Next year if I were to come here again and look back in time over two years, I would see myself and Zornitsa standing in the crowd, I would see us watching the crowd from across the street, but I would be standing on my own. ``C'mon Zornitsa,'' I said, ``Let's go.'' And off we walked into the night. Fireworks
of Guy Fawkes
``There is a package waiting for me at the post office.'' ``Oh?'' ``I think it is my passport and visa.'' ``Oh.'' ``I'll go and get it.'' ``OK.'' What are you supposed to do while you wait to see how much time you have left with your closest friend? She left and I pointlessly puttered around our flat until when, an undetermined time later, I heard her key in the lock of our door. Zornitsa entered, a large, opened brown envelope in her hand. She had been crying. How soon had the Home Office told her to leave the country? January? December? ``Well?'' She hugged me. ``I can stay until June. I was so happy I cried in the street and the people stared at me but I didn't care.'' We held each other for a long moment, then she excused herself to the bathroom. I walked to our kitchen window in our flat on the top of the hill where I have spent my happiest time in London with my closest friend and looked over the city that is my home. Unexpectedly, suddenly I cried with relief. Zornitsa would still have to leave in seven months, but for now she could stay home. She could stay. The fireworks that night were for Zornitsa. |
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Leave a comment, send an email or join my mailing list. Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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