Makarovia? Where The Hell Is That? Freshman Year - 1. Chapter 1

I drove up the East Coast, heading for my future. I was tired, I'd driven a long way and was nearing where I hoped my future would begin. My car was doing well cruising up Highway 95. Behind me was my home, Charleston, South Carolina and I had been through some big cities Washington, DC; New York, even Providence. Now I was reaching Boston! But more important…Northeastern University. It was just South of Boston, and the best school for what I wanted. I wanted to bring industry into the twenty-first century. I wanted to make them not only successful but green. Economically sound as well as ecologically sound.

I was 24 and yes, I was late getting my college education. But I had some setbacks after high school. My father had passed away some ten years ago. Mom had gotten sick with cancer in my senior year of high school. So, I stayed and helped her until she lost her battle with cancer. Add a year to sell the house and close things up. Once that was done, I was told by Mom before she died to spend the money and get the car and go start my life. I had been accepted in several Universities, but this one was the best for what I wanted to do. I was both anxious and nervous about it, but mostly excited I began my life.

People can say it’s what you know rather than who you know, but if I didn’t have Grandma, I would be in much sorrier shape than I was then. Let me explain. My Grandmother was Katrina Sams. She was a ballet dancer. Not just any ballet dancer, oh no…she was the Prima Ballerina for the Bolshoi Ballet in Russia in her twenties. She met my grandfather and he helped her defect. Then she was the Prima Ballerina for the New York Ballet Company. She was very, very good. When she was in the New York City Ballet she had a friend, Carla. Carla and Grandma have since put their ballet slippers up and retired, but Carla owned an apartment building in the Jamaica Plain area of Boston I needed to be. Carla told Grandma that normally, she didn’t rent to college students, but as they were friends, she’d bend the rules. See? In this situation, it was who Grandma knew. That was where I was heading. I loved the new car, it was cherry apple red Cobra! Mustang! It had everything, including GPS. I was directed to this old building. Old, but very nicely kept up. It was only two blocks from the Northeastern campus. Surrounded by nice shrubbery and flowers, I looked at it and loved its appeal. I had been told it had been a hotel at one time but converted in the 1950s into an apartment building. It was very nice.

I went in and looked at where I saw the manager’s office was. Correction, it wasn’t an office, but an apartment. Carla lived there. I rang the bell and in a few minutes, the door opened a crack. The chain clinked but remained hooked to keep anyone from storming in. I saw a part of a woman’s face and one blue eye clearly.

“Hello, Mrs. Bowers,” I said. “I’m Eric Richards. Katrina Sams’ grandson...she called…”

I jumped a bit when the door slammed shut and then thrown open wide. “My god! Eric! It’s nice to meet you!” The woman greeted as if I were an old friend. She wasn’t fat, but…pleasingly plump? Her hair was done upon her head and blonde. Like I wouldn’t doubt that was her real color? She was in her sixties. Grandma was 72, and I remember Grandma saying Carla was ten years younger. The floral dress wasn’t ugly, but…. “Welcome to Boston.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“I haven’t seen your grandmother in…” she thought. “Must be fifteen years now. Does she still run that school?”

I nodded. “Still runs the school.” Grandma opened a ballet school when she and grandpa moved to Asheville, North Carolina, teaching local mountain children ballet, but unlike Carla, Grandma was still trim and could still stand on pointe. I will tell you now, I am not…and never would be a ballet dancer. Not that I thought guys couldn’t dance ballet; that was fine. All of the guys that did dance ballet were in great shape and risk pissing them off? You might want to reconsider calling them names or anything. They would and probably could kick your ass. Pointe? That thing ballet dancers do, standing on the toes? I tried it at ten and gave it up a few minutes later declaring it was just unnatural. Nothing that odd and hurt so much could be a good thing.

“Okay.” Carla reached in a got some keys. “I’ll take you up. Now understand, I don’t rent to college students as a rule. Your grandmother said you were twenty-four, right?”

“I stayed home after high school with a sick mother. I’m starting late.” I explained.

Carla looked with a face of regret and sympathy. “I’m sorry. You’re grandmother said Betty got cancer.”

I nodded. “She did.”

Carla nodded. “Well, that says a lot about your character if you stayed home with a sick mother. I don’t rent to college students because I don’t allow those wild parties of any kind in the apartments. College kids can be so loud and reckless. All of my tenets are young working men and women. A lot of young lawyers and professional types starting out…most are graduates from the university right here.” She smiled. “Of course you’re free to have anyone over you want, just remember to keep the noise down.” She led me through a nice lobby. I noted her gait; you could recognize a ballerina by how she walked, just like Grandmother. The poise and gait were drilled so deeply you just did it naturally after so many years. The building’s interior had a lot of polished wood and brass. The carpet was a deep, dark red. There were stairs, also polished wood, but the deep red carpet in the center where there was traffic. She led me to a little elevator. “You’ll be in 3C.” She closed the wooden door and then the metal gate door and pressed the third floor. “The elevator is old, original to the building when was built in the twenties. I don’t have the heart to replace it. The whole building was done in the Art Deco style, so a lot of wood and brass. But there are times the elevator will stop working. Just be aware of that.” Once on the floor, it was a short walk and she opened the door. “Here we are.”

It was indeed tiny, but there was only me, so no problem. It was a long apartment, not that wide. There was only one window to the right in the kitchenette/dining area. It was a furnished apartment having the small table and two chairs were there to eat on, a little range/oven and a refrigerator was there and the whole kitchen area was in the right corner. There was an iron stove in the middle to the left of the entrance. I assumed it was for heat. There was a couch/day bed that at the moment was a couch. She explained it would expand to make a bed if I needed more room and there was a desk in the middle area but essentially, it was all just one room. A door that led to a long closet and another door at the end of the closet to a bathroom. The impression I got was, they had some room left, decided to add another apartment as an afterthought. Here it was the afterthought.

“This will do great, Mrs. Bowers,” I said smiling at the room. It was cozy!

“You have a neighbor above, a lawyer, very quiet. A neighbor below, a secretary. The divisions are sturdy, but noise can penetrate.”

I nodded knowing what she was saying over and over. “Got it. No noise.”

She smiled patiently. Then her hand stroked my face with loving familiarity. “You look a lot like your grandfather. He was a very handsome man. You’ve got his same black hair and brown eyes.”

People often told me that. “I take it as a compliment.” Then I smiled. “I’m here to get a degree. Not to party, so we should have no problem.”

Carla laughed as she knew better. “You come from Katrina, I can see that, too. She had a wild streak, but, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.” She handed me the key. “There’s a parking space labeled with your apartment number. Don’t park in any other space. If anyone is in your space, let me know. Laundry is on the ground floor and there is another elevator toward the back to bring your stuff in.”

“I have clothes and my computer. That’s it.”

She nodded. “There is a cable service. I’ll give you the number. They provide internet service and TV.”

Moving in was not hard. The elevator toward the back was a little bigger, but not much. It took five trips to bring everything up, call the Cable Company and get things in place. It was Friday, orientation was on Monday. The thing about the Cable was, everything was already there, all they did was activate it with my name. I had a credit card, so no problem there either. Other than my car, my computer was the most expensive thing I owned. It was a laptop with a docking station. I could take the laptop and go, or when I was home, plug it back in and it expanded the memory, charged the battery and had a separate twenty-one-inch monitor. The monitor was what I used to watch TV. The kitchen had some pots, pans, and limited plates and silverware. I needed groceries. I searched for the nearest grocery store and got some provisions. I was not wealthy by any means. The money from the insurance policy Mom left me with, and the sale of the house and property made most of my tuition and living expenses, but I would watch it carefully. Moving was not hard, but I was tired. So, I chilled out the weekend. Then Monday came and I went to Orientation. There were those tables set outside as it was still warm, Fall had not gotten here yet. I stood in line to get my class schedule and syllabus. As the many students did the new student thing, excited and making new friends. The campus was nice. There were different schools for Fine Arts, Engineering, Law, and others, spread across the few blocks. I did feel a little uneasy, I was a freshman, but older than some of the juniors and seniors. All it took was one friendly guy that handed me my schedule. The usual pleasantries and he sat back and smiled at me.

“You sound a little Southern.” He drawled his own unique accent heard clearly.

I shook my head. “No, that’s incorrect.” Then I smiled. “I’m not a little Southern, I’m very Southern. From what I’m hearing from you, you’re Southern, too.”

He grinned. “I’m guilty. Where are you from, Eric Richards?”

I nodded. “I’m from Charleston, South Carolina.”

He grinned. “Ted Dawe.” He stuck his hand out. “Tuscaloosa, Alabama is where I’m from.” His accent was clearly Southern and his size and build under his t-shirt told me he was a jock. Football would be my guess about the big blonde man.

“Pleased to meet you, Tuscaloosa.” I shook his hand.

“The school is having a welcoming party, but we’re having a Return Party of our own on Friday. You should come.”

I smiled. “But I’m not returning.”

“One party with those…” he did finger quotes, “just out of high school and on their own…group is more than enough.” Ted chuckled. “The students are older and you might feel more welcome there…come.”

I nodded. “Okay. I will.” I was thinking he was friendly enough and likable. There was no better way to get to know people than a party.

But like most Ivy League schools…there was a very little preamble, classes started immediately almost the moment you sat down the first minute. I got a glimpse of my classmates. The usual jean clad late teens and early adults of all kinds, all states, and cultures. My first class was my Economics class and I was one of eighty students in that morning class with one of those theater-like seating across the wall, the professor on a raised section in the front and center behind a desk.

The professor, a balding man in his forties stated with a bang. “Welcome to class. I’ve assigned partners for a project due at the end of the term. That project will be a third of your grade. Let me state, no one is going to hold your hand here. If the partnership isn’t working, let me know in the beginning and I will reassign you, but do it quickly. Be certain that’s what you want because you don’t want to get a bad grade, not because you don’t think they’re cute enough. No one will make you come to class or pay attention. I will present the information. What you do with it is up to you.” He looked at some papers on his desk and held it up putting his reading glasses on to read the print that was too small without them. “There is one exception. Mr. Richards.” He looked us over to see if I was there.

I looked up. Why was he calling my name? This was day one and only the first fifteen minutes into the class. “Yes?”

“It says here you speak Ukrainian?”

“I do.”

“Fluently?”

“I have most of my life,” I answered wondering why he was asking about that. “And Russian.” Thanks to grandma.

“We have a student, Peter Ivanov who may need help. He is fluent in English…conversationally, but some terms and translation may be required. He might do fine without you, you might not know some of the terms. That’s why I assigned you two as partners to help him find out. Do you object?”

My only problem was…who was he? “No.”

“Fine.” The professor said. “Peter is there in the back.” He pointed to the back of the class.

I looked back to find out who he was. One person stood out from the others. He was dressed in black with black hair that could use a comb, not to mention style. He was pale. The other thing was he was older than the others, like me. He looked about twenty-five. And my heart ached for him for I saw him…he had very bad acne. Not just a few zits, but his face was covered in them.

Then the professor went on.

It was after class when I approached Peter. He was talking with another man. The other man was in his thirties, close-cropped hair that was thinning at the crown. This man Peter was talking to had a look that said military kind of. I heard Peter say, “I can go and come on my own to class.” But it wasn’t Ukrainian…not exactly. It was a lot like it, but…for instance; the same sentence. If you heard, a lorry overturned on the m5 but I had to get petrol to get home versus a truck overturned on Highway 5 and I needed gas. It’s the same language, it was the words and accents were different. The message was the same. So, he spoke a similar language as Ukrainian, but different enough not to be, but I understood him. I approached Peter. He was nearly six feet to my five feet and ten inches. “Peter?”

Peter turned questioningly.

I greeted him in Ukrainian. “I’m Eric Richards. I was assigned as your project partner.”

Peter nodded. “I told them I can speak English.” He said in heavily accented English.

“I’m sure you can,” I said in English. “The professor just wanted to be sure there were no translation problems.” Then I switched back to Ukrainian. “Personally, I don’t get a lot of chances to use Ukrainian. Only my grandmother and mother spoke it.”

Peter smiled a little tightly. “I am not Ukrainian. I am Makarovian.”

He wasn’t rude, but…there was something else going on. “I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”

“Not surprising. Most people don’t.” Peter said. “It’s a small country. We are west of Ukraine, east of Hungary, Poland, and Serbia. North of Romania. Most of the world has forgotten us.” He said a little bitterly.

I nodded. “That explains the accent, sort of a mixture of all of those countries.” Then I sighed. “We were assigned a project. Do I go back to the professor and tell him we’re not doing it together?”

Peter closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have been rude. Demands are...” he was thinking and nodded. “Of course we’ll do it. No problem.”

I felt a little better. “Meet at the library? Say Wednesday? Eleven o’clock?”

Peter nodded. “I’ll be there.”

He was interesting. The truth was he was a paradox. What he wore showed no real style, he wore loose, baggy clothing, mostly black. His eyes were a grayish green. If it weren’t for that acne, he would be very good looking. There was something about him that told me he was trying to make himself invisible. We met that Wednesday decided on what we were going to do. Then Friday came and the party for the returning students.

The party was in a frat house. There were students all over this house…and of course, flowed with beer. I didn’t really drink, I just didn’t care for beer, but I took one and that would be the only one I would sip on.

“You came!” I heard Ted’s Alabama accent behind me, his arm around a pretty young brunette, a good foot and a half shorter than Ted. Ted pointed at me. “Amanda, this is Eric Richards. Eric, my fiancé, Amanda.”

“Hi, Eric.” She greeted.

“Gotta be sure all Southerners are welcome,” Ted explained.

We exchanged some other topics, where we were from, what we were majoring in. The party was not much more than a high school party. Only the students were old enough to legally drink here. They were rowdy and made messes. That was universal. I met some of the others that were in Ted’s fraternity. All jocks. They were on the football team. Nice guys…with the exception of one. He might be a nice guy, but tonight, he was drunk. Some people that drink…they get a little nasty or pushy. A space opened beside me on the couch and suddenly a guy leaped from behind it and landed next to me.

“I don’t remember you.” The guy said.

I sipped on the beer. “That’s because this is my first year.”

The guy was nice looking enough. Dark brown hair and well built. His accent, even drunk said he was not too far from home here in Boston. “Oh. Where’d you transfer from?”

“I’m not a transfer.” I shook my head. “I’m a freshman.”

“Really?” He asked. “I thought you’d be a junior or senior.”

“I started late.”

He finished the beer he had. “Better late than never.” Then he caught me completely by surprise. “Ya wanna have some fun?”

I didn’t understand, but he was leaning in on me, toward my face. “What?” I asked backing up a little.

“Are you into girls or boys?” He asked. “Maybe both? I like guys.”

I knew I was in a state that was the first to legalize gay marriage. I appreciated that he felt free to say he liked men. “I don’t even know you.” I objected.

He shrugged. “We can solve that problem.” He pointed up. “My room’s upstairs.”

I nodded. “I appreciate the invitation, but no…”

“No!?” The guy looked incensed! “No?” I swear he looked like he would hit me. Clearly, he was drunk, but we weren’t alone, so I wasn’t scared of him. Everything about him said, how dare I say no!? He was starting to get up. A large hand came on his shoulder pushing him back down.

“He said no, Brad,” Ted said firmly. “Male or female; no means no.”

“Get off me!” Brad jerked his shoulder away and got up quickly.

“You’re drunk, Brad,” Ted said. “Just stop it.”

“I am not drunk!” He got up and swung at Ted, who merely dodged the swing and blocked the other punch.

“You are if you think you have a chance in hell of fighting me and winning.” Ted chuckled; then looked at his friend seriously. “Now, knock it off.”

Brad walked away in a huff.

“I’m sorry, Eric.” Ted began embarrassed.

“Don’t tell me.” I chuckled. “He’s a nice guy when he’s not drinking. I wasn’t too worried.”

Ted chuckled. “No. He’s just more tolerable when sober. He’s always an ass.”

Ted was bigger than most everyone; including Brad. I liked Ted. He was a good guy.

The week began again. That Wednesday I met again with Peter. That man was with him again, but I didn’t want to pry. Well, I did want to pry, but I didn’t want to offend him. Peter was always….so formal. He didn’t seem to have a lot of confidence or just had low self-esteem. It was as if he couldn’t allow himself to relax. It seemed a struggle at times to get him to smile, but he would if I kept trying. Then that afternoon he asked the first question not related to our project, but personal.

“How is it that you can speak Ukrainian and Russian?”

He was reaching out, I thought. “My grandmother was born and raised in Kiev.” I answered. “She taught my mother and they taught me, thinking it would pay off one day.”

“But your mother was born in America.”

I nodded. “Grandmother defected from the USSR fifty years ago.”

“So, she was a citizen of the Soviet Union. What was it she did?”

“She was Prima Ballerina with the Bolshoi.” I explained. “She, with the help of my grandfather, defected while they were on tour in New York City.” I watched him nod as he listened. “Tell me. Why are you here?”

That question surprised him. “I wanted to be educated in the West.”

Now, most Eastern Europeans lumped all of the Western Countries in one whole. That includes Great Britain, Germany, France, and the United States in that same whole. “So why America? There are other good schools in England, Germany, and other countries. Why here? Why this university?”

Peter almost looked embarrassed. “I see programs from American TV. I see how they walk, talk….so proud. I think if I can bring just a little of that back with me.” He sighed. “My country has been ignored since the beginning. Makarovia was independent once; then part of the Soviet Union; then part of Ukraine. We aren’t a very wealthy country. We have iron and mines. All of which is about to change. My government wants to be sure we can handle it.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “That sounds good, but why here? Why this university in Boston, Massachusetts, in the United States?”

“I research, it’s the best school for what we need.” He shrugged. “To interact with others from the West, I need to know how to be from the West.”

I nodded again. “You want to become like an American.”

Peter nodded. “Yes.”

“Don’t you think you need some help doing that? Like from an American?”

Peter bowed a little ashamed but then nodded. “I suppose I do.”

“Could you relax a bit?” I asked smiling at him. “You’re a nice guy. Peter. I like you. Let’s start being…I don’t know…friends maybe?”

Peter’s eyes grew. “You like me?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve seen nothing I don’t like. You’re a bit reserved, but you’re nice.”

He looked very uncomfortable now. “I’ve not really here to make friends.”

“Then you could study online.” I didn’t understand that. “Okay. Being here tells me you want to make friends. Would you like to have one?”

Peter chuckled. “Sure.”

I threw my hands out. “Then, I’m your man!”

Now Peter laughed. “I don’t know….”

“Oh,” I grinned. “You don’t like me, is that it?”

Now he was really laughing. “I like you just fine…but…”

“Your boyfriend won’t approve?” I dared to traverse the tricky subject.

“My boyfriend?” Peter asked surprised.

“That guy who always escorts you to school and takes you home. I’ve seen him every day.” I explained. “He drops you off and picks you up…”

“Yuri!?” Peter asked. “He’s not my boyfriend….” He seemed to be thinking what to answer about that, almost guarded. “He was sent by my country…to protect me.”

I nodded. “So, can we go out and do something? As friends?”

“What do you want to do?” Peter asked hesitantly.

“Well, for starters. I’ll help with the American part. You gotta ditch the wardrobe. It’s too…Goth. Not that Goth is bad, but…”

Peter looked down at his clothes. “Too Goth? What is that?”

“You look like a vampire, Peter,” I said. “But since the sun is out and you’re here out in it, you can’t be.”

“I’m not.” Peter chuckled. “What should I wear?”

“Jeans and a regular shirt?” I stood up. “Tell Yuri we’re going shopping. Can you do that? Then we’ll get something to eat.”

Peter rose, thinking about something he was working up to say to Yuri. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”

I didn’t mean to, but I overheard him talking to Yuri. In Russian, don’t forget I understand that, too.

“Это вся причина я здесь.” Telling Yuri that was the whole reason he was here. Peter stressed in Russian. “Now stop it. You are my guard, yes, but I’m going out with a friend I made here. I will be fine. You’re my guard, not my jailer.”

“So where do I pick you up?” Yuri asked.

That’s when I turned the corner. “Моя квартира.” I said in Russian for my apartment. I gave him the address. “Don’t tell me…he has a curfew.”

Yuri didn’t know I could speak Russian. He was startled. “No, he doesn’t, but I am here to keep him safe.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’m taking him to Walmart and the Mall. How is that dangerous?”

Yuri looked flustered. “I don’t know where those are.”

“He’s free to come and go, right?” I asked.

“Of course, but…”

“You watch him all the time,” I said. “Be with him everywhere?”

“No.” Yuri sputtered. “He is unfamiliar with this part of the world.”

“Well, this is how to be becomes familiar. You’ve heard of GPS?” I asked. “I didn’t know where they are either, but I found them. He’ll be fine. You’ve got a cell phone?” I asked Yuri.

“Yes,” Yuri answered.

“He’ll call when he’s ready,” I said.

Peter smiled as I pulled on his arm and headed out. As always, I walked to school. That’s why I chose the apartment I had. I didn’t have to drive. Peter was a guy and liked the car I had. They just appeal to our testosterone. It did mine. So, we drove to Walmart and there I pointed at many pairs of jeans and shirts.

“You can afford this?” I asked. “Do you want to do this?”

“Sure.” Peter nodded.

“How tall are you?” I asked.

“One hundred and eighty-five centimeters,” Peter answered.

I looked at him in disbelief. “I forgot. The metric system. Okay.” I got a pair of jeans and held them up to him. “Try these on.”

“Where?”

I pointed to the booth.

It took a few tries, but we got the right size. Once that was done and we knew what size, we got several pairs of jeans and trousers and some shirts.

“What is your budget?” I asked. “Can you afford this?”

“I have the money, I just haven’t gone out and bought.”

I nodded. “Good. We’ll stop at a couple places at the mall, get you some good clothes. In case you date.” Yes, I was testing him.

“Date?”

Now I was really not understanding. “Is there another language I should use? Date. You know, you see someone you like, ask them on a date to get to know them better that could lead to more?” I looked at him. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand me. It was as if the concept of dating never occurred to him. “Oh, Peter, haven’t you ever been on a date?”

“I haven’t been able to,” Peter explained. “My life has…other things.”

“I’m sorry.” I realized I had no business judging him. “I didn’t know. Well, now…if you want to…you can.” Then I looked at him again. I wondered if perhaps he couldn’t. “Can’t you?”

He shrugged. “Who would date me?” He asked sadly.

I was saddened by this admission. He wasn’t a bad looking man. He did have very bad acne, but he wasn’t an ugly man at all. I had begun to like him very much. “Now, why do you say that?”

“Look at me!” Peter growled pointing to his face.

I sighed sensing it may have played a lot on his self-esteem. “Okay. Let’s talk about that. I am your friend. We agreed. Have you seen a doctor?”

He nodded. “I’ve done everything. Those creams and watching what I eat.”

“Peter, there are many kinds of acne. Yours could be treated.”

“I’ve had them for years. I was about twelve when they first came.” Peter admitted. “I’ve used many creams and other products.”

“It’s a medical condition,” I said. “I don’t know how you’re covered, medically, but can you afford to see a doctor?” Maybe they didn’t have access to good medical care in Makarovia. They send him overseas for a good education, but no medical? Something wasn’t adding up.

Peter shrugged and then nodded.

“Okay, there are a lot of different kinds of acne, the creams may not be the right medicine,” I said slowly. “We’ll make an appointment for you.”

Peter looked at me doubtfully. “Where?”

“This is Boston. There are medical schools all over. I’m sure someone has an answer.” I assured.

As I said, he was a paradox. He was shy to the point he was nearly invisible. Yet, when confronted he was well mannered, almost regal. I was puzzled about his government sending a guard with him. Why? And I didn’t want to admit it yet, but I was beginning to be attracted to him.

At the mall, it was almost like he had never been to one. He was astounded by the food selection. We ended going to three places! One Cajun, one Asian and one for dessert, but the longer I spent with him, the more I liked him. We ended going to a couple of clothiers, Hot Topic, Abercrombie and Fitch. It was while he was trying on the pants and shirts, I noticed he wore things loose, giving no clue he was in good shape. Athletic even. Then we went back to my apartment where he called Yuri. Now, I was curious about his country. I didn’t know it. So, I internet searched it.

Makarovia was a country that was in the Carpathian Mountains. It was a lot of mineral resources, mostly iron. As he said, it was independent, then taken by the Ukrainians; then when the Soviet Union liberated Ukraine from Hitler after World War II, it was used for the iron. When the Soviet Union dissolved, it was left floundering for a place in the world. It was a country about the size of New Hampshire. Hitler had promised to free it from Ukraine, but ended up using the Makarovian people as laborers to get to the iron. Makarovia was a place that harbored the unwanted in a series of caves that came about because of the mining. Jews, Gypsies, and Homosexuals were hidden in these caves. It was a Monarchy. There was a picture of the royal family, but it was ten years old. The king was Olek Ivanov and about thirty in the picture. I sat back seeing the name. But Ivanov was a popular name. Then I looked at the Queen, how she was very beautiful and about ten years older than the reigning king. She was the dowager queen. She was the king’s widow. Olek was her stepson. She was Russian. Alla Ivanov. They sat on thrones, beside her was a young man who was fourteen, maybe, at the time. Now I was a little uneasy. The picture wasn’t the greatest quality, but the teenager had the same black hair as Peter. And they did look a little alike. Blowing up the image on file didn’t help clear it up. Was the Peter I knew, this Peter in the photo? He was from Makarovian! It couldn’t be.

When Peter and I met again. I didn’t say anything then, but looking at this man, I was more suspicious. He needed to trust me and he would have to tell me. We went to the doctor, who told him…

“This is one of the worse cases I’ve seen.” The doctor said. “If not treated, it will scar.” The woman smiled. “But we have a treatment. It will take a few weeks to clear, but it should do the job.” The acne spread down his neck to his chest and back.

I watched as the blemishes began to fade over the next two weeks, but Peter started to…relax. He liked spending time with me.

“Okay.” I grinned. “You’re looking so much better. Now, let’s get a haircut.”

Peter touched his hair. It was short, but again, no style. “It’s not long.”

I nodded. “And has no shape. Let’s go.”

When the girl cutting his hair turned him around, I knew I was in trouble. He was gorgeous.

“Wow.” I managed after seeing the results. Who was that sculptor that fell in love with his statue? I didn’t create Peter, but I got him help. Was I doing that? Pigmalion?

He looked at his reflection. “Does it look okay?”

“Yes,” I answered. “You are a real lady killer,” I said in English.

He blushed, and with his pale complexion, it was too easy to see. “I am not killer of ladies.” He said in English with that Russian…Ukrainian….Makarovian…whatever! He had an accent!

I gave him a friendly shove. “You know what I’m saying.”

Peter liked coming to my apartment. I would often fix dinner and we’d have a good time. I was wondering if he was Peter from Makarovia…the prince. He liked what I cooked. Hamburgers! I was liking him more and more. He liked spending time with me. What’s more important, he was relaxing more and more with me, letting me see the real Peter. Then one evening, after we were clearing up what we’d eaten. We were relaxing on the sofa.

“Peter, we could do something at your place,” I suggested, and yes, I was fishing. Was he that Makavovian prince? He had the opportunity to tell me, but...

He got a little stiff, going back to the Peter I’d first met. “That wouldn’t be….convenient.”

“Why?” I looked at him and decided to risk it. He wasn’t telling me on his own. So, I asked. “Because you’re royalty?”

Now he sat up straighter. “What?”

“Are you Prince Petro Ivanov?” I asked.

He bowed his head. He didn’t want to reply and got up, but didn’t leave.

“If you’re not, fine,” I said. “If you are, how is that a problem?”

“Please don’t tell anyone.” Peter urged.

I shook my head. “Why? You’re a prince!”

Peter shook his head. “I wanted to just be a guy here.”

“Why?”

“Everyone expects things from me after they find out. I was raised in a secured home, taught by tutors. I would like to be just Peter.”

I nodded. “I can’t understand why, but I didn’t live your life. Anyone with a computer could work it out. I did! It will be found out and broadcast on the news.”

Peter walked over. “But until that happens…when I first met you, you didn’t know who I was, did you?”

“Other than Peter Ivanov, no.”

“And you liked me then, right?”

I frowned. “I did. I still do.”

“We not like the royal family in England. I’m no Prince William of England.” Peter said. “I’m more like a poor Prince Harry. My brother is King. We are a poor country, but now, we have something a lot of countries will want. The repercussions are hitting us now. The money will be no problem soon if we can keep our independence. That’s the problem.”

My eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“That’s one of the major reasons my brother wanted me to get an education in the West. That’s why he’s negotiating with your President and the Prime Minister of England now.” Peter explained. “If word gets out, Ukraine will want us back, and we don’t want to go back under them again. They didn’t want us before, now that we have something they may want part of…they will take us back.” He shook his head and laughed, but with no humor. “I mean, take us back or just take what we have and not even ask for it.”

I was unsure what to say, but… “So, hiding the fact that you are Petro Ivanov was for security reasons?”

I saw him look very unsure of what to say. “We have to be careful.” He said. “My brother Olek is king and he couldn’t come for the education. So, he sent me here to be educated here.” He sat heavily. “I made friends with you…you didn’t know who I was, I wanted to keep that friendship as friends between Peter and Eric.” He looked at me. “Do you understand?”

“I see.” I thought a moment and then shrugged. “Well, nothing’s changed. I’ll keep it a secret. You’re still Peter, to me.”

Peter visibly relaxed and grinned. “Thank you.”

I grinned at him. “So, do you want another hamburger?”