I’d never found what people like my brother had, what my sister thought she had until she didn’t, what you and me are signing up for now: the contract, the settlement, the same body only and always—and, in return for all that, the backup, the pet names and the head stroking in the night when you feel like crying. I’d always thought I didn’t want it, not ever, to tell you the truth, that I could be one of the people who are happier without. I think maybe my parents had put me off the whole thing—starting out too young, banging out the kids without really thinking about it, forgetting whatever it was they liked about each other in the first place. By then it seemed to me my mum and dad were just sitting it out, two old dogs tied to the same kennel but too tired to fight anymore. At home they watched television all the time so they didn’t have to talk to each other. I’m sure that, on the rare occasions they went out for a meal, they were one of those painful couples you sometimes see, chewing together in silence.
From Russia with love all over again. He’s an alien, a legal alien. He’s an englishman in Moscow.
Is living in former Soviet really that bad? Or should we rephrase: that good for a foreigner? Are Russian girls really that easy? What are they truly looking for? The heart, or the wallet? And what about the British gentleman himself? Just sex, or is it a true love?