Mikhail Orlov

Upon 21st avenue, along the many houses, right at the end, situated a bustling tiny café. Regardless of it being in a forgettable corner in town, it sits beaming with people from opening time till the sunset over 21st avenue. It was deemed a local attraction with everyone passing the information of this hidden, miniature café onto newcomers and visitors of the area. Of course the staff had their regular customers; Mrs. Thompson, the soccer club boys, a businessman with a top hat. The most memorable customer was Mikhail Orlov. He was a man in his mid-80s who brought a beam of light with him wherever he went. He entered every morning at 8am on the dot, welcoming everyone inside. Walking over to his table wobbling and shakily, the staff were on standby; he had tripped once in the past scaring the life out of everyone. He would order a brewed pot of streaming hot black tea with the sugar and milk on the side; sometimes a chocolate biscuit if he was feeling cheeky. It became a habit for the daily newspaper to be placed on the table whilst he was ordering by the staff. Everyone knew him and his routine, merrily adding it into there. With the appearance of new employees, there was always an informal briefing about Mr. Orlov. Sitting in a cozy comfort corner until 11am sat Mr. Orlov. Drinking his velvet tea, reading about the latest scandal, people watching. 

No one knew much about Mr. Orlov. To begin with, he didn't speak English well enough for you to communicate with. He immigrated from an Ex-Soviet country however, no one really knew which one. His son helped him retire along with his wife of 40 years in this small town. His son believed “it was between then the busy, booming city” for his old, weak and failing parents. The town was frequent with friendly faces and help readily available. It had a small nursing unit that wasn't the most equipped, however, there was a bigger hospital with further resources 45 mins away if needed in an emergency. Mr. and Mrs. Orlov were safe within the town; that's all that mattered to their eldest son. Mrs. Orlov passed away almost 2 years ago now and that's when he began coming. Many were sympathetic to the grieving man. He knew nothing  about living without his wife. 

Many did not know the life he had. Not the experiences he had or the impacts that came about with his actions. Not due to his secrecy but from the lack of resources to communicate. He had lived under the control of Stalin and the USSR in Moscow in the late 1940s. Moscow wasn't a pretty place following the Second World War which he was born into. His father suffered severe trauma from fighting within the wars and as a consequence home life wasn't pretty. At 16 Mikhail decided to run away further  East to try to escape the form of negatives of the internal and external world. He had only made it into Hungary before he was in turmoil again. Ironically he hadn't maneuvered his way out of communist regime and became the victim of the Iron Curtain. He knew nothing of the other countries under the iron block, he was told they all thrived, which wasn't the case. He would further protest in acts such as the Prague Spring with the local Hungarians. He always had a knack for evading the police, he was like a slimy frog, always jumping from their hands. He made a difference in protesting against the USSRs control of Eastern Europe, conveying popular opinion of the civilians. He knew he could not stay within the east as Khrushchev's anger fueled from his failures of not being able to preserve the empire. 

London. He had finally found it. The place of opportunities and an overall available better life. He struggled to adapt to this new Western world. He found work within a factory. The classic story of any immigrant that tried seeking asylum and ending up in a “better” country. Minimum wage for his maximum effort; he never felt it was right but accepted these hands of fate. He would meet his future wife on the assembly line at the age of 25. He was amazed by the beauty she possessed. Her golden hair flowed like a river, her eyes as pretty as sapphires, her smile that lit up the room. She was the owner's daughter, the owner of all shoe factories for miles. Their love story was also a highlight they would incorporate in conversation. Mikhail spent days, months, years trying to pursue Marija into being with him. His soul was attached to being within her presence but her father was not one to be pursued. There were many obstacles Mikhail had to give all of himself in order to overcome. It was worth it in everyone's eyes. Marija would say " our souls were meant to be together, through seas and terrain"; it ,of course, sounded better in their native dialect. Marija dreamed of the bouncing of children in her house and Mikhail was prepared to give her the world, the universe, regardless of his disagreeing perspectives. Then began the entrance of a beautiful baby after another. Sometimes Marija would have troubles during and after her pregnancies. This put loopholes within their marriage, gaps they would never show their children. They tried to be the best parents, nurturing, caring, loving, nourishing. They tried. As a father, Mikhail battled with the idea he couldn't give his children the highest quality of opportunities there was to offer in the world. He would never tell Marija but he felt like less of a man because of it. Sometimes he'd work past the legal limit, falsifying documents to have multiple jobs. Sometimes he felt like a zombie or as if he's in an outer body experience. He'd do anything for his 5 children, anything.

Mikhail was a very wise and intelligent man, however his academics didn't replicate that. He struggled to get through high-school, regardless of the number of hours he put in. That's why learning English was a sore point for him. He was ashamed that he couldn't get a high level of education; the world needs your effort and achievements to be written on paper to be accepted in this new world. In any spare time he had, which was barely any, he’d try to read books he found in his native language in the local library. Immigrating to another country under the dome regime as his motherland was hard enough for him let alone England: a language being thrown around he could not unscramble, ways of societal differences and the racism he would face daily. He could never understand how someone could discriminate based on something that wasn't in anyone's control. 

For a while after his wife's death he believed he had not made a name for himself or that his life had any actual significance, that he was just like every other average man that lived. No purpose; what was the purpose of him beginning on  this earth to begin with? With consumable hours now facing him with the loss of the other part of his soul he was able to reflect on his life. This is an activity he would regularly part in while in the tiny café, with the world around him not knowing his stories. He had undoubtably racked up some unique experiences throughout his life. Maybe he didn't have the same impact as someone like Martin Luther King Jr. had, but he had made an impact on the life his children had. Have given them the world, good manners and all the love one could ask for. He didn't give them the life he had and that was enough to be proud of.