In-between the 4th and 5th floor, there are piles of cigarette ashes. The mock remains of an imaginary Vesuvius are piled high on the ledge. Most people use old tin cans of beans or corn, but on this floor the city itself is the ashtray. I try to picture them, and cannot. An angry old man, or a sour widow, a teenager, an estranged husband, a lazy cleaning woman. No face comes to mind, just the ongoing despair of this pile of ashes, always fresh.
On Women's Day, schools and offices are closed. It is not International Women's Day here, maybe because "it was our idea first" or "this is our celebration and we do not share it with the world". It makes so very little sense, but don't ask.
It is the most important day to buy flowers in the entire year, even more than Valentine's Day. There is only one real flower shop in our sleepy little neighbourhood, but some of the supermarkets offer prepackaged bouquets today. It is hard for me to stomach such an easy option, grabbing flowers between the herring and the oatmeal does not seem right. I believe in going to the flower store, seeing what is fresh, and what speaks to me. Today takes strategy though, or I will be on line for over an hour. The scenarios are imagined - the morning rush, the afternoon desperation. I pick a middle point, at just about twelve.
There are only ten people ahead of me, and the tiny space is littered with broken stems and muddy papers. There are extra helpers today who spark a level of chaos that negates their being there. People are jabbing randomly at bunches of flowers, hoarding them in their arms, trying to thrust them onto a passing worker, circumventing the line, jumping ahead of each other. A boy picks trampled flowers from the floor and slips past everyone, asking if he can have them for a hundred rubles. His lopsided bouquet can barely be tied in ribbon, as it sags from his hand. He sneaks out, weaving against the growing crowd. A woman is jabbing the back of my head with her arm. I turn to her a few times, wishing I knew how to say something terse but effective like I would in New York. My stare is lost on her, as she tries to step around me. I shuffle to the side, standing my ground. A man arrives on the steep stairs that lead down to the cramped room. He takes a complete armful of white flowers and blurts out "How much for all of them?" No one answers. He goes into a foul-mouthed tirade, as eyes roll to the ground. A woman at the back of the line tells him to bite his tongue, that he is spoiling a lovely day with his actions. He says some ugly things to her, I know that much. Something about her ass, and more. One of the assistants mumbles to him, cash is shoved into hands and he storms out.
The line is growing, pressing to the front of the room like a subway car that cannot hold more people. The line disintegrates, as people pretend it does not exist as they step around each other. I spread my elbows, and try to hold my ground. I am only three or four away from the two women, the ones that run this place on quieter days. I am waiting for their low voices, maybe a little joke or two. That is how things normally go.
Eventually, I step towards the one on the right - in damp sweatpants, her eyes red and lost. They have run out of tulips in the last few minutes, so I improvise two requests. It will be irises for V and E this time around. Then, a mysterious bunch of lavender tulips oddly presents itself. This will be for N and for her mother. The woman behind me is somehow jabbing my kidneys with her giant purse and the back of my neck at the same time. My hand rises, as if it is in slow motion. I show her no anger, but gently push her back a foot. She stares at me, mouth twisting, eyes bulging from behind her crooked glasses. I nod once, forcing as much of a smile as I can. The bouquets are nestled in my arms now, paid for. I keep my hand up, pretending I am walking through the crowd with a newborn, pushing people to the side. I am getting out, make way, pushing me back will not get you those flowers any faster. I see the faces, as grim as grave diggers. I feel like shouting an ironic
Happy Women's Day as I trot up the stairs, but then think better of it. The line has grown all of the way up to the street.
At home, the lift is broken as it often is. I climb the stairs, wondering if I will pass the mystery smoker between four and five, but no one is there in the shadows, just empty cardboard boxes and fake flowers in a pot.
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