CHAPTER 1
STEP ONE. STRANGERS
From all life roads the most predictable is
Sinusoid curve:
In the beginning I am like May beetle,
I, blindly following instinct' decrees,
Fly up; fall down; fly up ...
1995-1996
"... However, even a fairly long period of time, that is, of life, my life - I could with fear kill the snake, thus preventing its possible attack. Now, hardly could and would be ..."
All this I think, watching a merry rhythm performed by red little snake on the tilled floor of lounge, snake-pet of large Hispanic household family. From time to time a boy about ten pulls out the snake-tomboy from under the bench or out of the corner, where a lively creature crawls, and presses it gently to his chest ...
An invisible siren roared, declaring readiness to take passengers to the ferry. When the gates open ... Here the gates opened, went to different directions, moved apart, and the crowd rushed forward and inward. Like cockroaches, run to the black-with blue square of Malevich, that is, the sky in the hole, formed in the wall of the ferry station. The family with the red little snake disappeared in the crowd ...
Yesterday Vitianis called to say that he is lonely and does not know why he lives.
I said nothing in respond to it.
It would be possible to comfort him by saying: YOU ARE NOT ALONE, YOU GOT ME.
But he got me (as I got him) only on rare Thursdays, when his wife has some kind of special employment.
I might say: YOU ARE NOT ALONE, YOU HAVE A WIFE.
But he knows it without me.
I tactfully said nothing in response.
I could say: I am alone too and nearly three years, as no news from my daughter.
But why should he know? He does not notice her absence, as before did not notice her presence.
It's better: to keep silent.
When that was said to me the first time, the very first time, the very first Thursday – bleeding with eyes bluishness: "I'm lonely and do not know why I live," – that made an impression strong, led response, empathy. (Like two orphans, met and went hand in hand, in the same direction ...)
Now I'm used to, and politely, that is tactfully, silent in respond; it seems, that his complaint – also from the area of tactics ... or - strategy.
He does not know why he lives. But – he lives.
I expect the exposure of no-love like a death sentence.
* * *
Seats on the ferry, yellow and blue, in two rows, you can sit there to look forward, and so you can take the look backwards, upstream, that is, against the vessel, there is no any stream: so-so, game of waves. Somewhere, at the heart of the ferry - a buffet, where temptingly smells of burnt milk and cereal, i.e. "popcorn" ... I'm going in the direction of some walls – the walls with posters; however, a closer look it turned out, this is not the posters, but with pictures of Staten-Island buses and subway map.
Yellow and blue sits. I choose the bluest, face to the wall. Sit down. That's it. "Beautiful" view. I would watch and think about my own. Her ... My daughter ... Today ... Today all would be cleared up. That psychic, Angelica, figure-portrait in Russian newspaper. The eyes ... Power ... Lives in Staten-Island ... But no, no such luck to think about my own. Why is this, bald people advise me (and others, presumably) to change hair style, and fat people – to gain weight? Here and now – compassionate fatty, i.e. tolstunchik* (Russ.) spotted me, fell in love, moved closer, through the seat the right; now – the seat to the right, and advises me to eat more. Okay. Good thing not to drink urine. There was also one such meeting – a long time ago in Russia. I won't be surprised, however, to see that complacent lady-counselor here, going-waddling on the ferry past the deliciously smelling buffet, as she walked along the path connecting the Klinskaya Street and Khovrinskiy Passage in the pleasant gentle summer morning. (Dandelions disclosed their golden little heads, enjoying the rising sun ...) ... stopped, struck (I was moving towards) with my unenlightened appearance; did not yield the road, but just took my hand and spoke: "Listen, my dear! Do as I do in the morning ..." That narrator did not look much pretty, although she was fatty (well, it was still in her something), but if she did not drink, did not consume her own urine, she could look worse ... I still then did not take her advice seriously – was not ready ... And now, looking at the Staten-Island bus map (could be better, maybe, to look at the subway map, but then I had to turn to right, while he, fatty, already tries to look into my eyes. Actually, into eye, right one ... But from right side I am much less attractive ... So I'll stay as I am – with useless bus map nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye), listen absently the lecture about increase meat. There is a list of products containing particularly important for growing stout the calories. "... Meat ..." For some reasons I feebly protested against meat:
"I love animals."
"Oh, I love animals too! Especially I love fried cats!"
"Fried ... cats?"
"Well, yes, fried cats! Aren't cats animals?"
"Well-well, the Lord is with you, I'm not going to discriminate against ... Continue."
Continues:
"Fried cats are even more delicious that fried cockroaches."
Do not continue.
Continues: bio- of lover of fried cats: originally from Peru, where so little food, so little, though there was a beans farm and where he was skinny-skinny, almost like me. But now, since he arrived to New York where he found job, good one, in shoe store, and where a lot of food, he became prettier and fatter. Pulled up his pants to show the tick hairy legs, and admires himself: Oh, how nice! Second in line for a demonstration, perhaps, hairy short arms? ... Magnificently hairy chest? Or ... (?) Or? If a striptease will not fast path (express), but with all the stops ... After all, this has already happened to me once ... Long time ago ... Pre-Vitianis era ...
American Coffee In a train going to Queens – I went to "PSI", i.e. a public school building, used for exhibitions and performances - spoke to me (at first, for some reason, in French, barely able to switch into English) a neighbor in the seat, an artist, outstanding artist, as revealed in a conversation: Gustav Falk.
Together we went to PSI, where was a concert of light-and-music. We watched, listened. Back on the train I was carefully holding a bouquet presented to me by Gustav: white Chrysanthemums. We turned out to be on the same way home. He asked for a cup coffee, come to me. Daughter was not home, did not returned from the school ... While I was busy with a coffee maker, my guest went to the bathroom to put himself in order. Well, coffee is ready and poured into cups. I turned to call: "Gustav" and he is already there, in the kitchen, comes to me ... Rather, up to me, comes with a smile, but without pants: from the checkered shirt, or, rather, from the swollen belly, barely covered with the checkered shirt, look at the light – though not at the light but somewhere in the floor – yes, look at the floor some fungal growths, curtained front - a damaged, wrinkled sausage. I politely asked him to wear pants, so as not to catch cold. He obeyed, put on pants, silently drunk coffee, left. Then he called by phone, was angry at my busyness, and even demanded to give him back the six dollars he spent on a bouquet of white Chrysanthemums. Oh, I offered him to take back the flowers while they were fresh, but he wanted money. Somehow I'm still the debtor ... Since then, visiting exhibitions, museums, whether in the galleries – unsuccessfully (so far) I look around in search of a treasured signature under any masterpiece: "Gustav Falk".
In general, I must say, being in America, in New York in particular, need to be careful with the term "coffee". On another occasion, a gentleman offered me a drink, or, as there accepted to express, "to have coffee" together, yes, to have coffee together. Glancing at my wrist watch – nine forty p.m. – I innocently remarked:
"Well. Who at this time of day (night!) drinks, i.e. "has" coffee?!! At this time of day (night) better to drink ("to have") tea, and herbal, for the smallest dose of caffeine can upset ..."
But he did not listen, moved out ... I could hear how he offered another lady to have it (coffee) together. About me he immediately forgot. However, it's OK.
Turning to the left – right side is just kind of despotism of material over form – as if I am interested in design of ragged gray sky outside of the ferry window, I listen with half an ear instructions of a neighbor. In addition to the calories from meat, and else, milk ("Milk! It makes body good!*), I, it turns out to be, have to use a bright color, "scarlet", no, even brighter, "menstruation" color lipstick, animating, changing appearance for the better. And else – blush for cheeks, after lips ... I listen and appreciate by refrain (to go on plaza, that is, on the desk? Oh, no-o ... There's cold, windy ...), but still, in fact, not much to thank, too early to appreciate, for my man on the left, that is on the right, using a word "menstruation", and "menstruasion" again - with French articulation, by my reaction, absent-minded and embarrassed, realized: there needed urgent liqbez* (* - education program -Russ.), an additional seminar. Well, I then go back by thoughts to that coffee story ... After all, could it be that the artist (outstanding) Gustav Falk was afraid to spill coffee on his probably the only pants. I somehow do not remember these pants, remember only their contents extracted, but for him, perhaps, they cost a lot more secular conventions ... Even I myself once, very long ago, became a victim to my own neatness ...
The first man ... Here I came to classmate to return his book I read (textbook on dialectic materialism, it seems) ... Classmate was not at home, and I was met by his roommate (the action took place in the student dormitory, and that roommate was a student of scriptwriting Faculty). He invited me to sit with him at the table to share with him his simple dinner: bread; tomatoes; cheap wine - namely, port.
I thought to myself that today is my birthday, and sat down at the table. At that time I was dressed in a satin suit – skirt and jacket, adored by me for design of tissue: on a black field – flowers and fruits, many flowers and many fruits, different: the grapes, plums, and apples, pears. Skirt – six-panel, ironed on all sides. I sat on the chair, he – in front of a table on his bed.
When Alexey – his name was Alexey – after emptying a bottle offered me to stay the night with him, the bed on which he was sitting, or rather, lying, was situated on the way to the exit. His gray eyes, especially highly visible, i.e. served by his neck diagonally rising above the table, burned with determination and the will; imagining how disastrous could be his reaction to my "no": chase, wringing my hands-legs behind my back; the most awful thing – the possible grasping the skirt of my jacket and skirt; stains (wine, tomatoes); cut of the sleeves ... Oh, no! Anyway, I carefully took off my favorite dress, hung on the chair and, remembering once again that I celebrated today as much as twenty-two, with a friendly smile moved in the direction of – already disassembled – bed.
... Meanwhile, my neighbor on the ferry displayed out all his knowledge in the field of "menstruasion" and asked, by the way, where I came from. - From Russia? O, from Russia! Ah, from Russia! He knows two girls from Russia, they are sisters and live in his neighborhood, Upper Manhattan; here, to Staten-Island, he goes on business ("Must be the same! And me too!"); girls-sisters he mentioned have this thing, well, "menstruasion", once a month ("Thank you"); they are fourteen-fifteen ("Do I look like ..."); they eat well and, therefore, look good. And they also very good make love.
Well, I am pleased for girls, popular in upper area of Upper Manhattan ... Proud of my countrywomen. – mumbling with a barely concealed envy. So, meat, milk, menstrual colored lipstick, – all those things, one way or another, connected with the important for ... calories ... not yet arrived? ... Listen, have to listen, or pretend to listen – have to, if want to be, or rather, to seem smart. Indeed, by definition of psychiatrist N. Lucca, and maybe, N. Luca – I forgot the exact number of "c" – the difference between clever ones and fools is that clever ones always learning, while latter more inclined to teach others than to learn ... I'm listening.
... Besides, all this – for free, and this is in the USA, especially nice ... But in fact, it would be ridiculous to expect to meet on Staten-Island boat Buddha. And even more ridiculous would be to meet here Sunny Spirit of Wisdom. After all, the Egyptians – the ancient, bygone civilization, I have heard, or rather read – concluded: this desired by minds Spirit is so far from the Earth, that man, thinking and searching man, would meet it (the Spirit) only after his own death. That's it.
... The leaving. A year later, I woke up, put on a pretty faded suit, with flowers-and-fruits, and quietly left the room on tiptoe, gently clutching a bouquet of pink roses. The fact that he had that day, i.e. the evening of that day, a date – at that time with a flight attendant of far Aeronautics, for whom he was building long-term plans: it's time to get married (successfully), and this girl (her phone was bestowed to him by his friend, already betrothed to another Muscovite -translator), earned good money, and money for beginners in screenwriting is so needed! And then he called me to him and asked to mow him, I mean to cut his hair. He sat at the table in the same bed, in the same position: bread, tomatoes, blackstrap (cheap port), like on the first day of our proximity. And his roommate was absent. I, sharing and worrying about his appearance, and wanting, of course, to make the best impression on the stewardess of far Aeronautics, took the given scissors and tonsured him.
Haircut, however – as luck would have! – was not very successful: was uneven, a ladder, you know, like spring field in the painting by Van Gogh. It is fortunate that he was not sober enough to see his reflection in the mirror as he tried ...
In the morning, while I woke up already on the next bed, he was still sleeping on his, alcoholically relaxed on the eve of a global meeting, and on the table rested, stood a bouquet of pink roses for the rich bride ... Remembering for myself, that today just my birthday, I took out from a temporary vase – three-liter jar from something, inhaled the sweet roses scent, and then realized: I never, ever here, to this point, come back. Not worth to return there, where I could be stormed by the fury of that tonsured novice, loser: I somehow knew him a little; he would have said or thought: "Stewardess did not like haircut "ladder"." - Something like that.
Over my right shoulder was thrown my travel bag - for departure from the dorm – away, away from this blighted place, this haunt of vice, with its lustful groans under the stairs, marking my evening returns from public washroom; and, besides, away from the Institute - Home of Fashion and Backbiting – in which I am tired walking /wrapping my shoulders with a worn shawl, and accompanied by ridicules of elegant manageresses and Female students. ... Forward, into direction of oblivion in communalka*(*apartment, occupied by several families) on Yuzhinsky Lane.
Ladder ... "By ladder ..." Now he's probably bald. Unless, of course, alive ...
The neighbor on the ferry has not yet completed his naturalistic lecture ...
... I deserved those roses. I was his devoted friend. Besides the fact, it was my birthday.
... Next morning – I mean our very first morning with him – he supposed to go to trip to Odessa, for shooting a film, course's or diploma's film, by his script. He said, he'll write. He said: come there. And he wrote. And I came there. I came in the winter vacation. I rode a day and a night. My neighbors by coupe*(*train car' section), merry Odessa natives proposed me to play cards with them, play "the fool". I was losing, causing witty comments of my partners. It was my second game in my life – I mean game of cards. First (game) – then I won – it's a long ago, in the same winter vacation, when my mother and stepfather suddenly sold the Far-Eastern house with a porch, which steps I washed (swings in the yard, a garden with raspberries – they sold too); put belongings into huge orange suitcase, loaded it (suitcase) and us, i.e. my little sis Dasha*(*Dariya) and me, into a truck going in the direction of railroad station, and we all went to my mom's biographical homeland. Was the last lesson on the eve of winter Holidays. Lesson was over — my mother came for me. Pushed from behind, from below, onto sits of the truck, I was crying silently, comforting myself with the only thought: "I'll be back here."
