Marina Tsvetaeva
Girlfriend. 10. Could I ever fail to remember...

Could I ever fail to remember
that winter night in Moscow,
that literary salon,
the scent of tea and perfume,
the Sèvres figurines on the shelf
over the great room-warming stove?

I wore a silk dress, nearly gold in color,
you—a black wool jacket
over a white shirt
with a man’s high wing-tip collar.

I remember the way you entered the room,
your tentative expression, your face without makeup,
how you tilted your head and softly,
winningly nervous, bit your finger.

You, with the brow of a conqueror,
the red weight of your dense and helmet-like mane!
Not a woman, nor a boy—
whatever you were, it made me go weak.

Without knowing quite why,
I found myself standing beside you,
people were all around us,
someone said to us, in jest,
“Gentlemen, it’s time you met!”

Slowly, as in a trance, you placed your hand
in mine—we shook hands—
the masculine manner of greeting—
but you left yours in mine long enough
for a shard of ice to have melted in my palm.

Then somehow I was already sitting back
in a chair, looking at you sidelong,
already expecting a skirmish;
I leaned back, to seem more casual,
turning the ring on my finger.

You took out a cigarette.
I gallantly held up a match.
You leaned in.
I don’t know what I would have done
if you, so close, had looked me in the eye.

I remember the blue vase on the table,
how we clinked our shot glasses of vodka;
our toast was, “Best friends forever,
ready to die for one another,
like Orestes and Pylades!”
I plundered a flower from the vase,
presented it to you,
I was a perfect gentleman.

Something flared up—perhaps your gray eyes
met mine—or it might have been
that you took from your black suede purse
a handkerchief dazzling white
as a thunderless lightning flash
from a night sky, from a storm too far off
for anyone to hear—

you let it fall for me to retrieve,
(a wonderfully funny ladylike way
of indicating my further attentions
were welcome).

“Madame, you dropped
your handkerchief,” said I.

“Why, thank you, sir!”
you replied.

Translated by Seraphina Powell