The Last Paradise

“Ha! I didn’t want to say anything, but me neither!”


Jack didn’t let her finish. He gave her a kiss that came from his soul. As their lips touched, he started to slowly undress her. One button followed another, and another. And with each button he kissed her, and with each kiss, the caresses were more eager. When he opened her white coat and brushed against her chest, he stopped, as if suddenly sensing he was about to commit a forbidden act. Yet Natasha’s eyes remained closed, and her mouth waited for him, half open. Jack kissed her again and closed his eyes. His heart fluttered. That kiss was followed by hundreds more, on her neck, on her chest. He savored her nipples, which responded by straightening and offering themselves to a tongue that grew ever more hungry, more daring. Jack explored her body, sampling it as if it were the first and the last he would ever taste, and embraced her with abandon. Their bodies melted together as they held each other, their moans growing bolder, and when he sensed her breathing, hoarse and frantic, when her soft body arched against his, Jack let himself go, forgetting everything he knew and losing himself in the depths of her emerald eyes, in the redness of the cheeks that, for an instant, he thought belonged to him.

Jack was still sleeping when Natasha woke at dawn. She looked at him affectionately, noticing the medallion that hung over his powerful chest, and she took it between her fingers, smiling as she remembered how, while they made love, it had hit her several times on the chin. As she rested it back on his chest, Jack woke up.

“Do you never take it off?” she asked.

“I’d sooner die.”

“It has a curious engraving. What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. My mother gave it to me when I was a boy. At night, when she tucked me in, I remember her stroking the medal on my neck and saying . . .” He fell silent.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. Forget it. It’s stupid.”

“Come on, Jack! I’m sure it isn’t. What did she say to you?”

Jack was silent as he fixed his eyes on Natasha’s. “Well, she would say . . . She’d say that, without love, life wasn’t worth living. There you go. Maybe that’s why she died. Because I wasn’t there by her side to love her.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Without love, life isn’t worth living . . . I told you it was stupid.”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.” He abruptly got up.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s a sad story. Do you know what? I’ve often thought that if I lost this medallion, I’d lose the only thing of value in my life.”

“Really, I’m sorry. I—”

“No. Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Apart from asking me to take it off, you can do whatever you want with me.”



Jack was overjoyed to find that there were other ways to have fun in the Soviet Union in addition to drinking vodka, and he loved that Natasha was the hostess revealing those ways to him. Every evening, when she’d finished seeing her patients, the young woman would take the tram to the store in the American village, and though by that time night had fallen, to Jack it was as if the sun had just come up. Every minute with her was the equivalent of months of happiness stored up. They chatted, laughed, cooked, or kissed. And then they played, and were dragged along by a torrent of caresses filled with feelings as intense as they were new to them. For as long as their bodies were intertwined with each other, they were oblivious to the cold and the solitude that enveloped the Avtozavod. They existed only for each other, and they wanted to remain like that, skin against skin, their breathing labored from tiredness, as the hours passed deep into the night. Only laughter interrupted their kisses, and only kisses interrupted their laughter, until the moment their serenity ended because Jack had to take Natasha home. Then, when he returned to his own house, he wondered why she never agreed to stay with him, and at those moments, the injustice of it tormented him.

Jack often ordered a special dinner from Miquel to surprise her with, and in the warmth of the embers, they spent the hours in the store, sampling the tasty food while she remembered her young days as a member of Komsomol, the Communist youth organization, where she discovered her calling for medicine, or told him about the efforts of her father, who after being widowed, had striven to make her a good Soviet.

On one of those nights, Jack asked about her interest in shooting. “Do all you Russians shoot in your spare time?”

“As much as you Americans eat hamburgers,” she countered mischievously. “No. But it was a popular activity among the Komsomol kids. In fact, I’m a crack shot!” she boasted.

Jack thought he would dazzle her with tales of New York. He described the massive structures of steel and concrete that at that time of year would be glittering like giant Christmas trees, shedding their light on the busy crowds crawling down Broadway’s boulevards looking for premieres, stopping at the hot dog or donut stands, enjoying the Christmas carols and the lights, or the endless shop windows displaying festive garlands and gifts.

Natasha sensed that Jack’s words came from an immigrant’s homesickness, not from boastful vanity. “So if you miss it so much, why don’t you go back?”

At that moment, Jack remembered his parents, and his face darkened. He pursed his lips before sighing. “For the same reason I came here, I guess. No one leaves their home because they want to.” He avoided telling her the real reason for his flight. “But do you know what? I’d love to show you America. In the end, we have more in common than you think. Have you not heard of the Marx Brothers? You have Karl, and we have Groucho.” He looked her in the eye, as if searching for something more than an answer in them.

“I . . . well . . . I have to go home.” She laughed without understanding the play on words, and got up to say good-bye.

“Wait!” He took her hand. “What about my hip? You promised you’d take a look.”

“Does it hurt now?” She kissed him lightly on the lips.

Jack looked at Natasha’s bright face again. “Your kisses are the best medicine,” he said, before turning off the light to lose himself in her burning lips.

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