VANGUARD(9)

“I wouldn’t react that way.” Sophie felt oddly put out that he hadn’t told her.

Michael smiled. “I know. But I was shy.” Sophie nodded. “We no longer have a reason to be shy. So now, we will speak in Orlisian.” He switched languages. “Tell me how you learned to speak the language of my country.”

“Not easily,” she replied. “So few people outside Orlisia speak it since it is a relatively new dialect. I taught myself the written language from books. Then I located a professor of Eastern European languages at the university in my city who could speak not just Latvian, but the Orlisian dialect of Latvian. I’ve studied for three years with him.”

“This professor must be from the south of the unified lands,” Michael said, “since your accent is provincial.” Sophie’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “Do not be ashamed. Many claim to speak Orlisian, but few do it properly. I will teach you.” Her heart soared at the prospect of private language lessons from a native speaker.

Who also happens to be gorgeous.

“That would be wonderful,” she managed.

“Why did you learn Orlisian? It is not a practical language.”

Sophie paused. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked, but getting the answer right had never seemed more important. “I remember your liberation day, when the Soviets withdrew,” she said. “I was eleven. I saw such joy on the people’s faces on television. Insurmountable odds, yet you won.

“When I grew older, I became more interested in world affairs, and later, international development. I learned more about Orlisia, its struggle to maintain its independence. I lost my heart to your country and never regained it.” She looked at Michael. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel.”





-





They sat together at dinner, earning Sophie a jealous glance from Mirielle Desmarais, easily the most beautiful girl in the class. Half French, half Ethiopian, Mirielle was a stunning mix of creamy brown skin, hazel eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. She was also whip smart, spoke several languages, and was said to have turned down a modeling contract and deferred acceptance to the University of Paris in favor of GYL.

“You lived in Orlisia under the Soviet occupation, didn’t you?” Sophie asked. “When you were a child?”

“Yes, I was four when they invaded. I will be twenty in December. The four years the Soviets occupied my country were difficult. We did not cooperate.” Sophie rolled her eyes at the understatement.

“My mother stayed in Orlisia through the occupation, even though Father begged her to come to America when the diplomatic corps was evacuated. He was attached to the American embassy in the capital city of Vollka at the time, you see, and they were unmarried. I was born out of wedlock, as you Americans call it.

“My mother was a dancer with the Orlisian National Ballet, and felt a duty to help keep the spirit of Orlisia alive during its darkest years. Once we were free of Soviet rule, she danced her final performances. We came to New York within a year.” He smiled. “They married the day after we arrived. I was my father’s best man.”

Sophie imagined Michael as an innocent child in a suit, seeing his parents together at last. She felt Michael wipe away a tear that had escaped down her cheek.

“What have I said to make you cry?” he asked softly, reverting to Orlisian. It made the question feel very intimate.

“It’s a happy ending,” she said. “It moved me.”

“Very much like a woman.” She smacked the back of his hand, and he grinned. “I hold traditional values about many things,” he warned, “especially women.”

“Spare me.” They spent the meal discussing Orlisian history, and their free time until curfew sprawled on the floor of the hallway outside Sophie’s dorm room, talking.

“If you grew up in Orlisia, why do you have a Western name?” she asked.

“My mother knew one day we would come to America, so she chose Mikael for me, a name suitable for both cultures. She still calls me that.”

“Mikael,” Sophie repeated with a smile. “It suits you.”





-





Sophie tossed her head and looked at Michael curled up asleep at the back of the bus with Mirielle Desmarais running her fingers through his black hair. Jealousy settled into her stomach like a hard lump.