Текст книги "The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)"

Автор книги: Сергей Огольцов

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

True enough, in the ever-present yellowish twilight beneath the surface, you can’t see very far, yet sounds there turn more crisp and clear if you are sitting and knock, say, two gravels against each other, possibly because the water cuts off all unrelated noises. However, you cannot sit underwater for a long time– the air in your lungs pulls you up to the surface and there’s no other way to resist the upping but use your hands for counter-rawing which makes you drop the gravels…

~ ~ ~

Our parents’ leaves did not coincide that summer so they went for their vacations in turn. First, Dad visited his native village of Kanino in the Ryazan Region. He took me with him there, but strictly warned beforehand that on the way I should not ever tell anyone that we lived at the Atomic Object.

At the station of Bologoye, we had a long wait for the train to Moscow. Leaving me seated on our suitcase in the station waiting room, Dad went to punch the tickets. On a nearby bench, a girl was sitting with an open book in her lap. I got up and neared the girl to look in the book over her shoulder. It was The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne.

I read a couple of paragraphs of the familiar lines I liked so much. She kept reading and didn’t pay any attention to me standing behind the bench back. I wanted to speak up to her, but I did not know what to say. That that was a good book? That I had also read it?

While I was looking for the right words to say, her adults came and announced that their train was arriving. They grabbed their trunks and went out to the platform to board the train. She never looked back…

Then my Dad returned with the punched tickets. At my request, he bought me a book from a bookstall about a Hungarian boy who later became a youth and fought against the Austrian invaders to his homeland. When the ping-ponging echo from the PA loudspeaker announced the arrival of our train, we went out to the platform. A ten-or-so-year-old boy passed by.

“See?” said Dad to me. “That’s what poverty is!”

I looked after the boy who walked away, and noticed the rough patches in the back of his pants…

In Moscow, we arrived the next morning. I wanted to see the Capital of our Homeland from its very beginning and kept asking when Moscow would, at last, start, until the conductor said that we were in the city already. But behind the pane in the car’s window, there were running the same shabby log huts as at the stations of Valdai, only much more of them and closer to each other, and they did not want to end in any way. And only when our train pulled in under the high arc of the station roof, I believed that it was Moscow.

We went on foot to the other station which was very close. There Dad again punched the tickets but that time we had to wait until evening for the train, so he handed the suitcase over to the storage room and we boarded an excursion bus going to the Kremlin.

Inside the Kremlin walls, they warned that we shouldn’t take any pictures whatsoever. Dad had to demonstrate there was no camera in the leather case hanging from his shoulder but his homemade radio which they allowed to keep, only now I had to carry it on.

There were white-walled houses in the Kremlin and dark Fir-trees, but too few, although thick-trunked and tall.

The excursion was brought to the Czar Bell with its chopped out wall. It happened when the Czar Bell fell from the belfry and couldn’t ring ever since, which is a pity. And when we came to the Czar Cannon, I instantly climbed the pile of the large polished cannonballs under her nose and shoot my head into the muzzle. It looked like insides of a huge pipe with lots of dust on the circular wall.

“Whose kid is that?! Take him away!!” cried some man outside the cannon, running up from the nearest Fir-tree.

Dad admitted that I was his and, until we left the Kremlin, he had to hold me by the hand, though the day was hot.

When the bus returned to the railway station, Dad said that he needed to buy a watch, although he did not have much money. So, we entered a store where there were lots of different watches under the glass in the counter top, and Dad asked me which one to buy. Remembering his complaint that he was short of money, I pointed at the cheapest– for 7 rubles, but Dad did not accept and bought an expensive wristwatch– for 25….

In the village of Kanino, we lived in the log hut of Grandma Martha, made up of one large room with 2 windows opposite the wide-and-tall Russian stove.

Behind the hut, there was a lean-to of logs attached to it. The windowless lean-to was empty, strewn with stray wisps of old hay, and smelled of dust. There I found three books: a historical novel about the general Bagration in the war of 1812 against Napoleonic invasion, a long story of how they established the Soviet rule among the Indians in the Chukchi Peninsula chasing the Whites in dog sleds, and The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Once, my Dad’s brother and sister came to visit, they both lived in the same village but were too busy at the collective farm, kolkhoz. Grandma Martha cooked a round yellow omelet for the occasion; I don’t remember the meals on other days…

The village of Kanino was divided into two parts by the hollow holding a slowly rolling, broad and noiseless, creek. Its both banks were solid walls of an uninterrupted willow thicket at some places closing overhead. And the stream was pretty shallow—a little bit above the knees, with a pleasant sandy bottom. I liked to wander in its slow current.

One day Dad took me to the Mostya river. It was a very long walk but in the end, there turned up enough of a river to swim from one grassy bank to the other. There were many people on both banks too, probably, from other villages. On our way back we came across a combine harvesting wheat in the field. We stopped at the edge of the field to watch and when the harvester drove past to the other edge, Dad spat and angrily said, “Phui, hooey!”

As it turned out, the combine driver was mowing the shoots at their tops, so as to finish his job quicker, but when he saw a stranger in a white tank top together with a boy of urban appearance, he decided my Dad was some big wheel from the district administration on a recreation visit and, driving past us, he mowed the shoots close to the ground…

Near Grandma Martha’s lean-to, there appeared a large haystack and when Dad together with his brother began some repair work inside her log hut, for which period Grandma Martha moved to spend nights in the lean-to, and the bed for me and Dad was made atop the haystack. Sleeping up there was convenient and pleasant because of the smell of withering grass, but a bit unusual and even scary for all the stars above watching you all the time. Besides, the roosters started crying before each dawn and then you just had to lie in the twilight before dropping off again…

One day I went up the creek, as far as another village, there was an earthen dam built by that village boys to make a pond for swimming. But after that, I fell ill and was taken to the same upstream village because only there was infirmary of 3 beds.

On one of those 3 beds, I was ill almost a whole week reading The Standard Bearers by Gonchar and eating the strawberry jam brought by Dad’s sister, Aunt Sasha, or maybe it was his brother’s wife, Aunt Anna, because they came together to see me.

So we spent Dad’s vacations and returned to the Object…

~ ~ ~

Soon after our return, Mom took Sasha and Natasha with her and went on her vacations to Konotop. Again, Dad and I kept each other manly company of 2. He cooked tasty pasta soup the Navy way and explained me things about the seamen's life. For instance, on ships many commands are given by the bugle calls and those signals are not just “du-du-du-du du-du-du-du” as bleated by a pioneer bugler, when marching behind the drummer after the Pioneer Company Banner at some ceremonial line-up. The ship bugle plays a different melody for each occasion. At midday meal time the bugle sings, “Take your spoon, and your mess-tin, quickly run to the half-deck”.

The mess-tin is a pot with a lid which they fill for a sailor with his grub to eat, and the half-deck is that place on the ship where the cook ladles that grub out.

Dad taught me some sea words too. “Topmast” means the highest point on a boat. When they want to play a trick on a young sailor, they usually give him a teapot and send to fetch tea from the topmast. The greenhorn unaware, of course, where it was, walks about the boat asking how to get there. The seasoned sailors direct him from one place to another or to the engine room, just for fun…

And Dad also told that some zeks, who spent too many years in Zona, could no longer live in freedom. Because of that one recidivist, who served his term, was pleading his Zona Chief not to let him loose but go on keeping locked up. But his Zona Chief replied, “The law is the law! Get lost!”

In the evening, the kicked-out recidivist was brought back to Zona because he killed a man in a nearby village. And the murderer was yelling, “I told you, Chief! Because of you I had to take an innocent’s life!”

By those words, Dad’s eyes looked sideways and up, and even the sound of his voice changed strangely…

Some books I re-read more than once, not immediately, of course, but after some time. That day I was re-reading the book of stories about revolutionary Babushkin, which I was awarded at school for assiduous studying and active participation in the public life of school. He was a common laborer and worked for rich plant owners before becoming a revolutionary…

When Dad called me for midday meal, I went to the kitchen, got seated at the table and, eating the pasta soup, shared, “And did you know, that before the October Revolution the workers at the Putilov factory once were forced to work for 40 hours at a stretch?”

To which Dad replied, “Did you know that your Mom went to Konotop with another man?”

I raised my head up from the plate. Dad was sitting in front of untouched soup and looking at the kitchen window blinds.

I got scared, cried, and shouted, “I’ll kill him!”

But Dad, still looking at the blinds, answered, “No, Sehryozha, we don’t need no killing.”

His voice sounded a little nasal as that of the recidivist murderer who wanted to stay in Zona.

Then Dad got to the Detachment’s Hospital and for two days the neighbor woman, who had moved in the rooms of the redundant Zimins, was coming to our kitchen to cook meals for me. On the third day, Mom came back together with my sister-’n’-brother…

Mom went to see Dad at the Detachment’s Hospital and took me with her. Dad came out to the yard in the pajamas to which they change all the patients there. The parents sat on a bench and told me to go and play somewhere. I walked away but not too far, and I heard as Mom was quickly telling something to Dad in a low voice.

He looked straight in front of himself and repeated the same words, “The kids will understand when they grow up.”

(…when I grew up, I understood that some informer had sent a letter from Konotop, only that time directly to my Dad instead of the Special Department.

What for? By telling on my Mom, the rat was gaining no improvement in the housing conditions nor other amelioration in their day-to-day life. Or maybe, just out of habit? Or maybe, that was not a neighbor at all?

Some people, when not happy with their lives, think it will help if someone else does badly. I do not think it works, but I know that there are such thinkers.

And I never asked my brother or sister about the man who went with them to Konotop that summer. Nonetheless, now I know that so it was.

Mom built her defense on Dad’s frivolous behavior during his vacation the previous year, when he went alone to a Crimean sanatorium on the admission card from the trade-union. He got so light-minded there that never thought to get rid of his light-mindedness evidence, and Mom had to wash that evidence out from his underpants in the washing machine “Oka”…)

Then Dad left the Hospital and we started to live on further…

~ ~ ~

At school, our sixth grade was moved back onto the second floor in the main building. Because of uninterrupted book-reading and watching the television I had no time for home assignments but still remained a “good learner” just out of teachers’ inertia.

In the school public life, I played the role of a horse in the performance staged by the pioneers of our school. The role was assigned to me because Dad made a big horse head from cardboard and on stage I represented the horse’s head and forelegs. My arms and shoulders were hidden under a large colorful shawl, which also covered one more boy who crouched behind me gripping my belt because he played the role of hinder-parts.

The horse did not say anything on stage and appeared there only as the nightmare to scare an idler in his sleep and make him reform and study well. We performed in the school gym, and in the Regiment Club, and even went on a tour out of Zona—to the club of Pistovo village. Everywhere, the appearance of the horse sparked vivacity among the audience…

Besides the movies at the Regiment Club, I sometimes went to the House of Officers, asking the ticket money from my parents. It was there that I watched the French adaptation of The Three Musketeers for the first time.

Before the show, ominous rumors circulated in the thick confluence filling the foyer hall, people murmured that they failed to bring the film and would show some other flicks instead, so as to keep money for the sold tickets. I draw aside from the crowd ruminating the ugly hearsay and, to kick devastatingly grim contemplation, I…

(…being that I, the one from that period, I knew no Eddy Murphy yet and believed, in earnest, that we single-handedly defeated Germany in WWII because our Soviet people are always ready to die for out Soviet Motherland at a moment’s notice and without any second thought whatsoever…)

… sought shelter in the concentrated consideration of the huge portrait of Marshal Malinovsky screening half the foyer side wall by all the screwed, and pinned, and dangling items in the exhibition of his orders and medals. The collection was really enormous leaving no vacant spot on his ceremonial tunic where the medals of lesser denomination were hanging below the waist, from the groins, a kinda over-all coat of mail.

And I swore to the chain-mailed marshal, I wouldn’t watch anything else even if they did not give the money back. But it turned a false alarm and the happiness, lavishly spiced by the sound of ringing swords, lasted the whole 2 sequels, and in color too!.

The exploration of the Detachment’s Library was regularly bringing new achievements. Not only that I had long ceased to be frightened by the pictures in the wide anteroom, but I also became a seasoned shelf-hanger.

As the shelving of books crowded quite close to each other, I got the hang of climbing right up to the ceiling for which purpose the shelves both sides of the narrow passages became, like, convenient ladder-rungs. I wouldn’t say that on the previously unreachable shelves there were some special books, not at all, however, the acquired skills at mountaineering increased my self-esteem like after that occasion when Natasha called me from my sofa-readings because there was an owl in the basement of the corner building.

Of course, I immediately ran after her. The basement corridor was illuminated by a single bulb that somehow managed to survive the harsh times of the crook wars. At the end of the corridor under the opening to the outside pit, there sat a large bird on the floor, much bigger than an owl. Some real eagle owl it was who angrily shook his eared head with the crooked nose, no wonder that the kids did not dare approach.

My reaction was surprisingly deft, without a moment’s hesitation, as if handling maverick eagle owls was my daily routine, I took my shirt off and threw it over the bird’s head. Then, grabbing at the clawed legs, I lifted the bird from the floor. The owl didn’t resist under the cover of my tartan shirt. Where to now? Of course, I took it home, especially since I was not fully clad.

Mom didn’t agree to keep such a big monster at home although our neighbors, the Savkins, had a hefty crow in their apartment. Mom answered that Grandmother Savkin’s main job was wiping up the crow guano all over their apartment all day long, and who would do it in ours with all of us at work and school?

Reluctantly, I promised to take the eagle owl to Living Nature Room at school next morning because there already lived a squirrel and a hedgehog in their cages. Till then, he was allowed to sit in the bathroom. For the eagle owl’s refreshment, I took a slice of bread to the bathroom and a saucer full of milk. He gravely sat in the corner and did not even look at the food on the floor tiles. Going out, I turned the light off, in the hope that, being a night predator, he’d find it even in the dark.

First thing in the morning, I checked and saw that the eagle owl hadn’t pecked a crumble of his supper. He also partook none of it while I had breakfast though the light in the bathroom was left on for the purpose. So, I clutched his bare legs and carried him to school.

Probably, owls do not like hanging upside down because that eagle owl constantly tried to bend his head up as far as his neck let it go. At times, I gave my schoolbag to my brother and carried the bird with both hands in the normal position. When from the hillock top opened the distant view of school, the owl’s head dropped and I realized that he was dead. I felt even relieved that he wouldn’t have to live in the captivity of the smelly Living Nature Room.

I veered from the path and hid him in a shrub because once I saw a hawk hanged from a thick bough in the old tree atop the Bugorok-Knoll. I didn’t want them to feather or somehow mutilate my owl, even though dead as he was…

Later, Mom said that the bird died, probably, of old age that’s why he sought refuge in the basement.

(…but I think all that happened so that we would meet each other. He was a messenger to me, it's only that I haven’t understood the message yet… Birds are not just birds and ancient augurs knew that well…

My house in Stepanakert is located on the slope of a deep ravine behind the Maternity Hospital. It’s the last house in a dead-end, a very quiet place indeed.

Once, coming home, I saw a small bird, the size of a sparrow, in the withered late-autumn grass by the footpath. In fumbling unsteady steps, it trailed thru the brittle grass as if severely wounded, dragging the wings in its wake.

I gave it a passing look and went on, burdened by too many problems of my own… The next day I learned that right about that moment a young man was butchered a little deeper in the ravine in a brawl of junkie bros.

That small bird was the soul of the murdered and there’s no chance to make me step back from this belief…)

~ ~ ~

In the autumn following the separately spent summer vacations, the senior part of our family became fans of mushroom harvesting.

Of course, the mushrooms at the Object were always there, just take a couple of steps to any side away from the trodden school path and there’s russula growth for you, or solid portabella, long-legged enoki, or oily agarics, it’s only that too busy passers-by had no time for mushrooms… But when they give you the permit paper to get out the Zona for a whole Sunday and also provide a truck to take the mushroom-pickers to the out-of-Zona woodland, the “noiseless hunting” takes on much more attractive looks. Probably, all those conveniences were always there for the Object dwellers, only my parents did not use them until they needed a firmer reconciliation after the split-up summer.

(…though I did not think about such things at that time and was just all too happy to go with my parents to the forest for mushroom harvesting which term is more correct than “looking for”. However hard you look for, there’s no way you’ll find it, even before your very nose, until it calls you. Without the call you pass not seeing – it waits for someone else. It took me a life to understand it’s not about mushrooms only but any not-living (Ha!) inorganic thing…)

Especially for those Sundays, Dad made three pails of sturdy cardboard, lightweight and capacious. In the forest, the mushroom-pickers from the Zona parted and wandered everyone by themselves at times exchanging distant echoes of “ahoy!” by which you couldn’t guess who it was.

I liked alerted roaming in the silent autumn forest wet from the drizzle and fog. Of course, we didn’t pick too brittle russulas, but portabella or agarics were a good find. Dad made a small knife for each of us, so as not to spoil the mycelium, besides, on the cut, it’s seen at once whether the mushroom had worms.

The best sort of the mushrooms were “the whites”, or porcini, but I never came across any of them. The unfamiliar ones I took to Dad, and he explained that those were shiitake, or morels or simply poisonous throwaways.

At home, the mushrooms were poured from the pails into a big washing basin and kept overnight in the water, then Mom cooked or marinated them. All that was delicious, no doubt, but hunting them in the woods gave more delights…

One Sunday when the parents went on a visit somewhere, the three of us started chasing each other all over the apartment, just for fun. The merrymaking was cut short by a sharp knock at the door. On the landing, there stood the new neighbor from the first floor who said that our parents’ absence was not a reason to kick up such a bedlam and, when back, they’d be informed we couldn’t behave if left alone.

Later in the evening, Natasha ran in from the landing with the alert alarm: the parents were coming home already but stopped on the first floor by the neighbors from the apartment under ours. Oh-oh, we’re going to get hell!

How come she was at the right time in the right place? Quite easy. The landing was, like, the apartment’s extension wide for us to play balloon-volleyball, and Mom even started to use it as a gym, going out there in the evenings, when she was not at work, to jump a skipping rope. We followed her example, but I wasn’t as good at it as Natasha who practiced much oftener, and so she did at the moment of our parents’ intercepted return.

When they entered the hallway, Dad’s face was very angry. Without taking off his coat, he headed to the kitchen and brought a stool to the parents’ room, where he moved the rug aside and smashed the stool against the floor. “Keep quiet, eh?!” shouted he to the floorboards and squarely banged them once again with the stool’s seat, “Is it okay now?”

I realized that we would not be punished, but something still was somehow not right….

When leaving for school, we took along the sandwiches wrapped by Mom in newspaper sheets so that during a break we would take them out of our schoolbags and eat. For Sasha and Natasha, she put two sandwiches in one package because they studied in the same class. And before leaving for school, we also had breakfast in the kitchen.

However, on that particular Saturday, I left without my schoolbag and alone because that day the senior students were having a military game for which reason the classes for junior schoolchildren were canceled.

The game participants belonged to the competing groups of “the Blues” and “the Greens”, and for the start, they were to march into the forest in different directions. Their goal was to track down the opponent forces, surprise them, and capture their banner. Each trooper had to wear paper shoulder straps whose color indicated the group they were from. A gamester with one shoulder strap torn off became a prisoner of war while missing both meant they were "killed"…

That morning, I came to the kitchen late for breakfast because normally I got up wakened by the rise of the younger ones, but they enjoyed their day-off at the moment. Secondly, the previous night till late I kept sewing the shoulder straps onto my jacket with tiny, frequent, diligent stitches so that they would sit close to hinder tearing them off because of which military preparations I went to bed about midnight…

Now Mom was already leaving for her work and said there remained some pasta cooked for the previous day dinner or, if so be my wish, I could boil an egg for my breakfast.

I reminded her that I knew nothing about cooking eggs, but she answered it was as easy as pie: to have a soft-boiled egg you boil it for a minute and a half while three-minute boiling makes it hard-boiled. She even brought the alarm-clock from their room and put it on the windowsill next to the mushroom jar before taking a hurried leave…

Such three-liter jars were kept in almost every kitchen at the Object and they were filled with a mushroom that had nothing to do with the forest. It looked like some greenish slime upon the water in the jar and, in spite of the ugly looks, it turned the water into a tasty drink reminiscent of effervescent kvass, even though they called its producer ‘tea’-mushroom. When the jar contents neared their end with the mushroom wisps scratching the bottom, the jar was simply refilled with water and put aside for a couple of days to prepare the drink again. Women were gladly sharing pieces of the mushroom among themselves because when grown too thick it left no room for refilling the jar.

So, marking the time by the alarm clock next to the mushroom jar, I poured water into the small pan indicated by Mom before leaving, loaded it with an egg, lit the bluish springy fire in the gas stove and put the pan on it…

After exactly a minute and a half of waiting, the water around the egg did not look like being hot, so I decided, okay, let it be a hard-boiled egg. Additional one-and-a-half minutes past, some scanty vapors did start to rise from the pan, besides, the pan’s walls underwater developed lots of small bubbles, and I turned the gas off because I had exact instructions on how to cook boiled eggs…

(…the byword about the first pancake in the batch turning out a sorry lump can be safely expanded with “the first boiled egg is a slushy mess”…)

The military game participants were mostly in sportswear and noticeably reluctant to enter the school building. So all of us crowded together in the yard idling the time in small separate groups. In the one I was with, everybody appreciated the minuscule stitches that kept my shoulder straps in place. I proudly patted the one on my left shoulder—no way to grab at it, eh? Nothing like by those boys who fixed theirs by just a couple of stitches and now their shoulder straps stuck out like a cat's arced back asking to be torn off with just your pinky finger.

At that moment some unfamiliar boy, maybe from the parallel class, started a scrap. He spread me on the ground and tore my shoulder straps in tatters.

(…I never knew how to fight, neither do I now.

Most likely, I just called him “fool!” and ran away into the forest—back home…)

In the forest, I took my jacket off… Instead of the shoulder straps, there only remained a dashed, serrated, frame-like paper-strip under the tight close stitches by a doubled black thread.

I plucked the paper scraps out and scattered over the fallen foliage. Maybe, I even cried full of resentment at being killed so unruly, prematurely, before the start of combat actions, shattering my eager dreams to capture the adversary headquarters…

For some period, my favorite pastime at classes became producing blueprint drawings of my secret shelter located in a cave inside a mighty impenetrable cliff like that one lived by people in The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne. Yet, unlike their case, you could get to my cave only by the underground passage which began far from the cliff, in the depths of the surrounding forest. Well, and the cave itself had an additional passage upward, into a smaller cavity equipped with narrow crevices in the wall to peek out and see what’s going on around…

A grim mask alike to those stone idols in the Easter Island decorated the butt-end of the pencil which I drew my designs with… The skill of pencil carving was also obtained at school, it’s as easy as pie and all you needed was a razor blade.

At the pencil’s butt-end, scrape 2 lengthwise parallel grooves, about 1 centimeter long, 3 mm wide and 2 mm apart to produce the ridge of the would-be nose. Connect the grooves with a deep cross cut to mark off the nose tip.

Now, from about a centimeter down the nose start a wider scrape towards the cross-cut, it makes the nose stick out and also becomes the lower part of the face. The notch across that wider scrape passes for a thin-lipped mouth, and two short slits, one in each of the long grooves on both sides of the nose, are the idol’s eyes.

Just be careful about the razor blade, it’s horribly sharp and would cut your finger pads at once if wielded inattentively… The instrument for carving was picked up, as needed, from the tiny blue-paper pack of razors kept by Dad in the bathroom. The blue top bore the brand-name “Neva” and the neat drawing of a black sailboat above it. Each razor in the pack was wrapped in a separate blue envelope embellished with the same sailboat and inscription…

When the winter sat in, the skin on my hands began to peel off. At first, there formed some small spots of dry skin and, when rubbed and pulled at, it would go off in patches. I didn’t tell anyone about it and in a week took off all of the skin there, like a pair of tattered gloves, up to the wrists. Only the palms’ skin remained in place. And beneath the peeled off patches, there was new skin already…

(…I have no idea if there is some scientific explanation for such a case, yet, in my humble opinion, the phenomenon was caused by the book which I met on the shelves of the Detachment’s Library titled The Man Is Changing His Skin. I never borrowed nor skimmed it but the title was remembered and, being an impressionable child, I checked the possibility of the announced change…)