A friend insisted that I go on a blind date with
a guy visiting from Lithuania.
“He’s
tall, blue eyes, athletic. He’s a good guy,” she told me.
I
wasn’t interested.
“He
saw you at the Lithuanian Hall this past Sunday. He thinks your beautiful.”
Yeah,
that didn’t do much for me either because there were a lot of young men
arriving from the Soviet Union who were suddenly struck by love, would offer
several thousand dollars as a dowry payment to get married and help them get
their paperwork to stay in Canada – lawfully.
I
asked her how she met him. “He’s friends with my husband from the old country.
They met up at The Bear.” I didn’t need to hear anymore. The Bear was a
private, member’s only (meaning Lithuanian only) bar in the basement of our
community centre.
I
replied with a firm “no” and went off to visit my aunt, a woman who had been
married three times. She’d also buried three husbands. She adored men of all
ages, ethnic backgrounds and job descriptions. Her opening line with any man that
she met was “Do you have a driver’s license?”
To
her, a potential suitor’s age or race or religion didn’t matter. All that
mattered was that he had a car and driver’s license to drive her to places like
Goodwill – or God’s Will as she renamed it – and the cemetery where her second
and third husbands were buried. Her space had been reserved and paid for. She’d
be sleeping in eternity between No. 2 and No. 3 as she called them.
During
dinner, I told her about the offer of a blind date with someone from the old
county.
She
told me that I was an idiot. “Go out with him. You don’t have to sleep with him
but get him to buy you a glass of champagne and dinner. You don’t know how to
have fun.”
After
a couple of more shots of vodka, she told me that she had sex with No. 3 in the
garage and that’s when he proposed to her. After that, every time I went into
that garage to get the lawnmower, I felt like a voyeur. “That’s how to have
fun,” she told me.
That
hurt. A lot. But she was correct. I had lost my sense of fun and adventure. Any
ability to flirt, dance the night away, sit in a movie theatre and hold hands
and kiss – all of that had disappeared from my life as I started to climb the
corporate ladder and purchased my first home and car.
Additionally,
I was earning extra income as a translator for the federal government. After
hours, I often attended an immigration lawyer’s office to translate for someone
seeking refugee status in Canada. Occasionally, I’d be asked to translate for a
politician who was meeting with Very Important Persons from the old country
who were seeking support for an independent Lithuania.
In
hindsight, I was grateful that my parents insisted on raising me bilingual. At
home, we spoke only Lithuanian, although my parents spoke Russian or German to
one another when we weren’t supposed to understand the conversation. My father
also swore in Russian. I was my father’s shadow, and unwittingly acquired the
talent to swear in Russian as well.
My
aunt continued to berate me as we ate Chinese food and drank shot after shot of
vodka, straight out of the freezer.
I
relented and called my friend. Agreed, reluctantly, that I’d go on this blind
date on the condition that she and her husband join us for our coffee date. I
wanted a chaperone and an escape route in case my blind date turned out to be
the ultimate creep.
I
was nervous, my mind blank because my friend had failed to mention how handsome
my blind date was. Taller than me (a big plus for a tall woman), blond,
blue-eyed, a retired professional basketball player with big biceps, witty and
funny and charming. He’d served in the Russian Army, as a parachutist, and was
very meticulous.
Somehow,
we managed to sit in a coffee shop for five hours and talk about everything
from politics to family, to travel to sports. Neither of us noticed that my
friend and her husband said their good-byes.
We
were on our own. I was entirely myself, without pretense or worrying about what
will he will think of me. I think the knowledge that he was on a
visitor’s visa made it easier for me to just be myself. I wasn’t interested in
pleasing him. I was only interested in being who I was.
He
walked me home, and asked if he could call on me the following day.
I
agreed.
In
the morning, when I arrived at work, I went to my boss’ office to plan our
schedule for the day. He was a kind, older gentleman who knew that I had
reluctantly gone on a blind date the previous evening.
“How
was your big date?” he asked with a wink and grin.
“I’m
going to marry him,” I replied.
“Does
he know that he’s getting married?”
“Not
yet.”
Even
though my future husband wasn’t yet aware of my intentions, somewhere deep in
my bones, I knew that we fit together like two puzzle pieces with slightly worn
and torn edges. We had much in common: language, culture, food, a love of
history and animals, a desire to travel. We both looked after our mothers.
On
the other hand, he was funny, while I had a difficult time understanding
“Knock, Knock” jokes. He was optimistic while I was a pessimist. Ah, well, half
full, half empty, together we made a full glass.
For
the next three weeks, Vik and I were inseparable. He waited for me every day
outside my office to go home with me. We had dinner together, took long walks
with my dog, talked about everything and anything, neither of us hiding any
part of ourselves from the other. I put
aside my Catholic sensibilities and slept with him and felt free and
reckless.
His
visa to remain in Canada was set to expire in about a week’s time. A cousin in
Kitchener had sponsored him for his trip to Canada for a month-long visit, but
he’d spent very little time with her and her husband.
My
aunt wanted to meet the mysterious man from Lithuania. She thought it was in my
best interests to interrogate him over our favourite dinner of Chinese food.
The questions flowed quickly. She thought of asking questions that had never
occurred to me.
Did
he have any children? Did anyone in his family ever commit suicide? Was he
close to his siblings? What town was he from? Could she see his passport to
verify his name and date of birth? Did he have any debts? How much money did he
have? And the big question for people of my aunt’s generation: Was he a member
of the Communist Party?
I
was embarrassed by the questioning. Vik was not. He’d bought a bottle of
Canadian whiskey to the dinner with my aunt, and steadily the two of them drank
shot after shot. He politely answered her questions, thanked her for dinner,
cleared the table, and continued to answer questions.
Unbeknownst
to me, my aunt had a plan. She telephoned a relative in Lithuania and asked if
they knew someone from Ukmerge, the town where my future husband lived. After
several phone calls, she was able to verify that there was no sign of mental
instability in his family tree, that he was good to his mother, that he was an
important basketball player, disciplined and a hard worker.
My
aunt’s advice, “Marry him. You can get to know him later.”
Perhaps
I should mention that while I wanted to get married, Vik had made no mention of
what would happen when his visa expired.
We’d both had a brief, first marriage that ended quickly and not
amicably. Each of us had been single for almost a decade and had carved out our
lives successfully as being “not part of a couple.”
I’d
traveled to Europe, alone, and he’d traveled to Canada and other places, alone.
We were both very independent, a character trait that was later to cause some
strain in the marriage until we learned how to compromise.
One
day, he casually mentioned that his visa was going to expire. He offered to ask
for an extension if I was interested in seeing him for another month or two,
and to see what the future could hold for us.
I
made it clear that I was very interested in him staying for as long as
possible, but secretly wondered why the word “marriage” wasn’t part of his
vocabulary.
Vik
suggested that he move in with me until we figured out the future. He had a
business in Lithuania, but his brother could take care of things for another
month or two. He couldn’t work in Canada legally, so he’d get a cash job as a
pizza driver, like some of his friends.
His
grand scheme was that we’d live together and find out whether we liked each
other enough to get married.
My
response to his offer to live with me was this: I told him that in Canada we
have a saying – “Once you own the cow, you don’t have to buy the milk.” He was
confused and asked for an explanation.
I
replied, as politely as I could, my heart cracking a bit, that I was not
prepared to live with a man. I wasn’t
prepared to cook and clean, warm his bed, bring in a pay cheque, help with his
immigration papers, all in the hope that somehow, I would be good enough for
him.
I
wanted a ring and a priest and the words that mean something when said in front
of an altar. I wanted vows that we would both honour, and a commitment.
His
response was not positive. “It’s crazy. We’ve only known each other for three
weeks. I don’t know this country. I don’t speak the language. I have no job.”
All of which was true.
“Do
you want to live in Soviet Lithuania?” he asked.
I
shook my head, no.
Although
I had visited many times, I didn’t want to live in a small, concrete apartment
and wait in line to buy anything. I couldn’t move and be bound by rules and a
societal structure that was completely foreign to me. So, reluctantly, I agreed
with him, “Yes, it’s too soon to marry.”
He
thanked me for dinner and told me that he would remember the past three weeks
with a great deal of fond memories. I
tried to remain stoic and dignified as possible, wished him well, and walked
him to the door. He drove off in his
cousin’s car.
I
went to bed to cry my eyes out.
Some
four hours later, past midnight, the doorbell was ringing. I was frightened because bad news usually
comes in the darkest of hours. I looked
through the front window and realized that Vik was standing outside my door.
My
heart soared. I told my heart not to be silly. Perhaps he had forgotten
something and returned to pick it up.
It
turned out that it was me that he had forgotten.
He
had made it to Kitchener where his cousin lived, realized that he was willing
to take a risk if I was, turned the car around and drove back to Toronto.
There
was no proposal. My husband is no Mr. Romance – not even a bit. He said, “Ok.
Let’s do it.” That was the extent of the marriage proposal. Not a Hallmark
moment in sight. Some fifteen years into the marriage, and at the urging of my
mother-in-law, I received an engagement ring.
We
married a couple of weeks later, with the wedding reception in my aunt’s home,
my brother as my man-of-honour, and my boss standing as witness for my husband.
The
wedding was hurriedly put together. The priest asked me if I was getting
married for money or because I was pregnant. I responded “no” to both
questions. On a Friday evening, we showed up at the Church, with a handful of
friends in attendance who I had telephoned the day before to surprise them with
the announcement of my wedding.
There
was only one vow that we made that was important to both of us and it was
simply this: neither one of us would ever use the words “I want a separation”
or “I want a divorce.” Never.
We
both understood that if you say it once, it becomes easier to say it again and
again until it becomes true. That no matter what we fought about, the idea of a
divorce was not part of our future. We were in it for the long haul, for better
or worse.
My
aunt’s advice to marry first, get to know him later worked out.
We’ve
had decades to get to know each other.
Some
things I like. Some I don’t. He feels the same.
But
I’m grateful that most of our life’s journey together has been for the better.
.jpg) |
| Gigi |
Aldona Barysas resides
in Ontario by a lake surrounded by woods and wild animals, with her husband and
her dog, Gigi. Her favourite things include books and writing (obviously),
Agatha Christie novels and movies, any foreign accent, hamburgers and tequila,
beach life and cold-water swimming. Life is an adventure.
Here’s
something new: If you’d like to get the latest
postings from Quick Brown Fox delivered to your In Box as they go up, go to my
Substack and subscribe: https://brian999.substack.com/
See my upcoming weekly
writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.
.jpg)
.jpg)
