A Postcard

The phone was ringing off the hook. Zoe still used a rotary dial phone that rattled, jumped, and was always on the verge of falling. Her parents, friends, and children told her she should buy a new device, but Zoe only wearily shook her head. No, she will never replace it. She'll use it until it's broken. And when it's broken, she'll take it to the nearest 24/7 service and have it fixed. Because it reminds her of Stanislav. Because it was Stanislav who dig it up from the pile of rubbish on a flea market in New York – their favorite city outside of Russia –and convinced her to bring it back through the Atlantic.

"Can anyone answer the phone?!" she yelled, turning the hissing steak on the pan.

Silence.

What else can you expect from a couple of teenage kids? Fyodor is probably fighting computer monsters (she had been meaning to do something with his game addiction but didn't get round to it). On the balcony, Svetlana is chatting over the phone with her new (which one, again?) boyfriend without noticing anything.

Zoe reduced the heat and hurried to the hallway to answer the stubborn machine.

"Hello," she said before the black plastic of a handset reached her small white ear.

A hoarse woman's voice spoke on the other side of the phone.

"Zoe Pavlovna? Good evening."

"Good… Who am I speaking to?" Zoe felt the cold touching her stomach. After Stanislav's death, unknown voices on the telephone sent shivers down her spine, reminding her of what happened eleven months ago.

"Sokolova is speaking, Tatiana Borisovna. Remember when we bought your place?"

Zoe covered her eyes and slowly exhaled.

"Yeah… Hi."

"Zoe Pavlovna, I hate to disturb you at this hour, but when we saw each other last time, you asked me to let you know if there is any correspondence for you in your…in our mailbox?"

"Sure. I do remember. Is there anything?"

"A card. On your name. I didn't read what's written on the other side. I just saw your name, Zoe Anisimov, and stopped reading."

Bullshit, thought Zoe, of course, you read "what's written on the other side."

She placed the headset on the other ear.

"Tatiana Borisovna, who's the sender?"

"Just a second," Zoe heard rustling sounds of Sokolova's clothing. "Let's see. It says Stan. If my eyes are not letting me down, that is."

Zoe turned white, squeezed the headset, and leaned against the wall.

"Stan?" she asked. Her voice is weak and inaudible.

"Exactly –Stan. Will you pick it up, or should I forward it to you?"

Yes, she will pick it up. Now. No, it can't wait until morning. She knows it's getting late. She's on her way.

Zoe hung up, walked towards her bedroom, cursed, turned one hundred and eighty degrees, and rushed to the kitchen that was already filled with smoke. For dinner, she planned steak, but cooked coal. Children, eat your coal… Well, the guys will be glad to have pizza delivery tonight.

She ran back to her bedroom, hastily put on random clothes, rushed to the living room to leave some cash, told Svetlana she could order pizza and that she'd be back soon (the kiddo didn't even ask where she was going). Then she rushed out of the house and jumped behind the wheel of her car. Ford's engine awakened by the turn of a key in an odd hour produced a displeased sound. Zoe didn't give it a chance to wake up and started driving. To her apartment. Her previous apartment. When Stanislav died, she had to sell it –she couldn't afford to pay that many square meters alone.

There were not so many cars in the streets, so it would take her thirty to forty minutes to reach the place. Her fingers were anxiously tapping on the steering wheel, and her right leg longed to press the pedal to the metal. But Zoe resisted this urge. She never understood the drivers who raced through the city streets, changing lanes, just to win some seconds. She was in a hurry, but not to risk millions, if not billions, of seconds of her life that she still had.

Usually, when she got in a car – even for short rides – she turned on the music. Any music. It was the music that helped her to get back on track. The first months after Stanislav had been gone, she listened to sad tracks only. And, gosh, there are so many sad songs! The good thing about sad music is that it heals you when you're down. It's like in math: two negatives make a positive. As for the happy songs, she could barely stand them. It felt like a sort of blasphemy to her. Like dancing on someone's grave. Besides, it was annoying that somebody could "feel good" when you're drowning in despair.

But a few months ago, she was driving somewhere, thinking about nothing and quietly singing something from Adele. The city was melting from the strange African-like hot weather. Asphalt stuck to the shoe soles like chewing gum. The car was sweltering. Air conditioning was not functioning, and she was driving with her windows rolled down to get the smallest breeze. A jeep stopped next to her on one of the junctions. Loud music came out of its windows. She recognized the song. It was Train's Hey Soul Sister. The song they used to sing along with Stanislav making breakfast together. She didn't even notice how she started tapping rhythm to this simple but devilishly electric song. And when the light turned green, and the jeep revved and disappeared behind the horizon, she realized that sad music therapy was over. Everything was still like in math; only now, she was a "plus"…

But tonight she didn't care for music. She was driving in silence, accompanied only by a calming thrum of the engine. The thoughts about the postcard lingered in her mind. If this Tatiana Borisovna is not crazy, then there is a postcard from Stanislav. How's that possible? It's been almost a year since the day… How could it take so long for a postcard to find her? Can it be someone's stupid joke? Hard to imagine. Oh god, she must hurry up…

The city turned grayish brown. The damp road flickered in the light of the headlights and neon-lit signs hanging along the street. Soon, she discerned the familiar features of the houses of her old neighborhood. Ten minutes later, she parked the car (she barely managed to squeeze it between an old-timer and the newest Toyota) and briskly walked to the entrance of the house. A woman entered the building right in front of her, and Zoe followed, receiving her share of a suspicious gaze.

She took an elevator to the twelfth floor, approached the door of apartment number 56, and mercilessly pressed the button of a doorbell. A few seconds later, the lock clicked, and the door invitingly opened. Zoe stepped in.

"Where's the card?" she asked straightaway, and realizing how rude it was, added, "Hello…"

Tatiana Borisovna waved her hand with a conjurer's knack and extracted the card from her hoody.

"Here it is. Must be a very close friend of yours, isn't he?"

Zoe didn't say a word.

She took the card, and when she saw what was on the front side of it, she felt her heart missed a beat. She felt as she was fainting. Oh no, she was going to have a bad fall…

Zoe couldn't remember what happened but found herself sitting on a stool. She was still in the hallway of Tatiana Borisovna's apartment, who was running around her like a headless chicken.

"Zoe Pavlovna, are you okay?! What's wrong, darling? Should I call an ambulance?"

Tatiana Borisovna was splashing water in her face, painfully pinched her little fingers, and - though Zoe wasn't entirely sure about it - slapped her in the face.

A minute later, Zoe politely pushed Tatiana Borisovna away, emptied the glass of water that magically appeared in front of her nose, and on rubbery legs left the apartment to the accompaniment of the woman's wail and persuasion to "wait while the attack goes away." It's okay, Tatiana Borisovna. I can go. Yes, I am driving. Thank you. Sure thing, I will pay attention to traffic. Thanks again. See you.

She entered the elevator again, pushed the ground floor button, and leaned against a smudgy wall. The attack had gone, but she was trembling. The card was in the right pocket of her wind jacket, burning her hand fiercely…

Wait, not now. You'll read it in the car…

Zoe reached her Ford, got behind the wheel, turned on the cabin light, and took out the card.

The front side featured palm trees and the vast ocean under the bright sun… Guyane Française read the funny fonts across the card - French Guiana. The last place he visited. Alive.

Carefully, as if she was holding an ancient manuscript, she turned the card. Zoe recognized the handwriting. Oh, how she loved this slope and the shape of the letters. She used to tell Stanislav that a man with such writing could not do an evil thing… She read the message Stan left for her. And then again, and again, and again. She thought she'd never get enough of it.

But then the tears chocked her. She dropped her head on the steering wheel, pressing the horn, which scared seven bells out of a random bypasser crossing the street in front of the car.

"Zoe! Babe! You won't believe it but I got sunburned for the first time in my life. The sunsets here are amazing and the nights are quiet. I wish Moscow was the same. I think I'll be home before this postcard, but anyways I'm keeping my promise - one country, one card! See you soon, hon.

Kisses, Stan."

She never saw him again. The bodies burned so badly that they had to run a DNA test to identify him. The first few weeks after the plane crash, Zoe was constantly on the phone with the airline, asking when the investigation would be over, brawling, crying, screaming… Finally, they called her and told her that the crash happened because of some broken part in the tail of the plane. A fribble she never heard of. She thanked the caller, send the children to their grandmother, and for the first time in her life, got really drunk. All by herself…

Zoe raised her head finally and wiped the tears from her face. She glimpsed in the rear mirror –her eyes were red from crying, mascara running down her cheeks. She should have worn a waterproof one. She reached for the glove compartment, took a wet tissue, and cleaned the face. Not very clean, but she didn't care much. She took the card again. Where have you been all that time? Why so long?

Zoe moved her face closer to the card (tears still swelling in her eyes) and studied it carefully. The address seemed just fine: Russia, Moscow, street, house number, zip code… Wait. Here. That's it: the zip code. The last two digits in the zip code were slurred and were barely legible. (She imagined Stanislav. How he meticulously writes down their home address. How he licks and presses the stamp. He is hot. Palms are sweating. He doesn't even notice the mess he makes).

Oh dear, she thinks, looking at the card. What a journey you must have had. I bet they wanted to get rid of you. Or send you back. But somebody had mercy on you. And on me.

She moved the card to her face and cautiously smelled it. No smell. What a pity. On the other hand, she could imagine that it had a smell. Of Stan, for example. Or his cologne. What about molecules? Molecules from his skin - they should still be on it, right? So strange. Stan is dead, but here it is - a postcard from him. A postcard from the other world. Zoe chuckled. It was somewhat romantic…

She looked at the dash panel. It was almost 10 o'clock, and her kids were all alone. She cleaned her face once again and drove home.

The apartment was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. She put off the shoes and a wind jacket and went to the living room. Svetlana was sitting on the sofa with a laptop. The girl turned her head at the sound of the steps.

"Hey, why so long, the pizza…" she didn't finish. "Mom, what's wrong?"

Zoe showed her the card. They cried together. Svetlana had always been more attached to Stan, and Zoe knew it. She used to be jealous. But not now. Not today.

"Where is Fyodor?" she asked, smearing tears and mascara on her face.

"A-a-ate three slices of pizza and went to bed," Svetlana was choking with tears.

Zoe nodded, patted Svetlana on the head, and went to the kitchen. She turned on the light: an empty pizza box, crumbs all over the table. No sings of the burned steak. Svetlana must have taken care of it.

Zoe approached the fridge, sniffed, and put the card under a beer-cap shaped magnet that Stanislav brought from Prague. There were dozens of colorful cards and magnets on the fridge door, and now there was one more.

One country, one card. Right?