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FROM THE DIARY OF A UKRAINIAN HOUSEWIFE THE MAN WITH THE RAINBOW by DMZ It was one of those special summer evenings, when you could shut off the air-conditioning and open the window to let the fresh air in. No one knew that I was home; my husband was out at a meeting. It was my time. I fixed myself a tall glass of iced tea and curled up in my reading chair with the day's mail and a treasure of a book I had bought for a quarter at a flea market. It was one of the moments that Irena Vilde writes about in "Happiness". I began reading my new found treasure of a book from the title page -- when published, where, the introduction, the forward, the first delicious chapter. The open window let in the aroma of the summer garden, the large empty house was still, not one appliance running. My book was taking me into a realm of people and places somewhere back in time. The phone rang. "Mrs. ," came from the receiver in the tell tale softness of a new Ukrainian immigrant. I did not recognize the caller and he did not introduce himself, but he had announced himself by referring to me in the informal Mrs. followed by my first name, the style of address indicating that I should at least be familiar with my caller, if only in the slightest way. I wasn't. "You know Volodymyr," he continued. "He told me to contact you." My mind went on fast forward -- pressing V for Volodymyr. The Great Volodymyr has been dead for a thousand years, but due to his greatness, there were hundreds of thousands named after him. Which one of them was so and so whom I was supposed to know, who had my unlisted phone number to give away and who knew my first name. It occurred to me that it could be a distant relative in Ukraine who might have given me as the U.S. contact to his "kUm" or "Svat" and I threw out the name to stall for time more than to be difficult. "It's not important," my caller continued, "if you do not recall Volodymyr. It is I who wish to ask you something." Feeling a little guilty for my initial stalling, I gave myself a chance to redeem myself. After all, here was a man from Ukraine, in a strange new country, maybe needing my help. And so I asked, "How can I help you?" "As you have time on Saturdays and Sundays, I would like to meet with you and make you a proposition." TIME. I could see its definition on the wall projected by my mind. TIME is something no mortal in America has except for Ukrainians in heaven. However, I rationalized, some of us who are gifted with a strong sense of organization, efficiency and the ability to focus can sometimes make TIME depending on the urgency of the matter. In this case it was the PROPOSITION that would determine the urgency of the matter. So, in an attempt to discover the nature of the PROPOSITION and thus determine the nature of its urgency, I had to begin somewhere. I asked in accordance with proper procedure, "Pardon me, but what did you say your name was?" "Oleh," came the reply. I pressed on, a bit annoyed at the deficiency in protocol. "And your last name, Mr. Oleh? I am just curious, considering you are about to make me a PROPOSITION." The informal style of address, which HE started, was giving ME a bit of leeway for personal questions. "Oh, I am Oleh So and So and pardon me, I meant to say PRESENTATION." Now I was definitely confused. It was time to dispense with all formality and get to the point. My personal moment of peace and quiet had already run off at a galloping pace and so I asked, "What kind of presentation?" "Ah," he replied. "I would like to keep you a bit in suspense until I see you. Well, it wasn't suspense Oleh was generating in me; it was plain unadulterated impatience. "I really don't have much time and I'll be away this weekend and so if you could tell me what kind of presentation you are talking about, I would be most obliged." Oleh responded with a few more niceties and then dropped the facade by becoming evasively forthcoming. "As you are the governing head of the family and the keeper of the purse," he said,"I would like to show you something." Now we were getting somewhere. Take the last statement he made, translate it into English and then back into Ukrainian -- PRESTO -- a salesman. I envisioned him, late at night perhaps, sitting with an English-Ukrainian dictionary, translating the English sales pitch from a corporate script into Ukrainian, a new hero of the market economy, dreaming of conquering the diaspora market and then the world's, making lots of money. I had always thought myself immune to salesmen suggesting I need to buy something when I was not sure I really needed or wanted it. However, in real life, I have never slammed the door in a salesman's face. I just held on to my conviction not to buy. . A set of Encyclopedia Britannica, a set of Fuller brushes, a Kirby vacuum cleaner and a set of stainless steel pots later, I still hold fast to my conviction. But with this Ukrainian fellow, it was a whole new ball game. The man, after all, was trying to make a living in a new country and the art of selling is the banner of capitalism. How could I burst his bubble? But at this point, I wanted to know what I was going to be buying now and so I allowed myself the fun of dropping
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