They met by the tomatoes. Nina’s hand reached for one of the dark red vegetables; Adam’s hip grazed her as he bent over for the basil. Their bodies connected, and the voice in Nina’s head said “dreaming among the vegetables?” Nina instantly found herself in a garden, and the morning was brisk, bathed in dew; the apple tree cast thick shadows onto the squash and the strawberry bushes; out of sight, the deep sea rumbled. She shook this vision off. It returned with new force. She heard a voice. It whispered “turn around, look at him.”
She kept holding her tomato, though. Vegetables had never betrayed her before, and her fiancé awaited her in Kharkiv. “I’m here on the island to be by myself, to help Anna and Hector,” she told herself. “So I can learn how to string words together into lines. So I can write Anna’s story, finally.”
“Step away from me please.” She implored, without giving herself away or moving an inch. It was him who had to take action, make a move, act on the urge to distance himself; he had to move away from her. He was the man in this situation, after all, and this was indecent, right here in the middle of the supermarket. Adam froze, clenching a bunch of parsley. That day, when he returned home, he’d stand there at the kitchen table, tear off some fragrant leaves, and toss them into a bowl full of tomatoes, and again and again that would rise to the surface of the translucent sea: that sudden touch, the warmth of her body, the body of a woman he did not know. The feeling was much more than the temperature of her body – he wasn’t a thermometer, after all; instead, it was an invitation into the past, into something inexpressibly familiar that stood at the edge between oblivion and reality.
But now he stops dead, frozen in amber, and shrieking infants, chocolates clenched in their little fists, and mothers, frozen peas in one hand and cheap German chardonnay in the other, walk by, pushing their shopping carts toward the check-out aisles. They stop dead like this, in the middle of our story, waiting to see who will smash the icy surface first. And Nina, finally – his legs have fallen asleep and his back has gone numb – then, Nina, finally looks at him out of the corner of her eye (they say women have better peripheral vision, and there clearly is something to that), then Nina looks at him and speaks. “Excuse me, passing through.” Slowly, like lettuce splitting in half, she peels away, separates herself, and at that very instant, everything inside of her tumbles down, down, into a dark rabbit hole, the one she read about in Nabokov’s translation countless times. As soon as you open any one of his novels, you fall down, down, but up above, up to her elbows in future bloody tomato juice, she realizes that she can lose herself just like that, without any warning.
“One, two, three,” she counts and steps away from Adam. She doesn’t know his name yet. He introduces himself.
“I’m Adam.”
“What difference does that make?” Nina thinks, but she’s like the new kid on the first day of school, looking at all the faces, the braids, the same blue woolen uniform that itches the same for everyone, and you want to shed this shell and discard it, but instead you just nod at everyone and you would be glad to figure out who the bullies and straight-A students are, pick a side on the very first day, but then there’s the ceremony to kick off the school year and the neatly combed hair that will undoubtedly be all frizzy by the evening. And she replies “Nina.” She immediately forgets his name. Thomas or Peter. He remembers, though, sinks his teeth into her name and holds on – won’t let go, not even at night.