Alphabet of Masks

Enigma Books

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Alphabet of Masks Short Stories and Poetry Dmitri Birman Translated by Antonina W. Bouis and Bela Shayevich Enigma Books

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without written permission from Enigma Books. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors‘ rights. Purchase only authorized editions. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Published in the United States by Enigma Books New York www.enigmabooks.com

Copyright © 2011 by Dmitri Birman Translated by Antonina W. Bouis and Bela Shayevich

First U.S. Edition ISBN 978-1-936274-35-2 e-ISBN 978-1-936274-36-9

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication CIP available upon request.

Introduction

Alphabet of Masks, a collection of short stories and poems written on his mobile phone, paints a picture of the life of a busy and sensitive man, dealing with wives, girlfriends, travel, and colleagues and reminiscing about lost loves, lost illusions, and lost parents. It is an imaginative foray into the modern-day Russian experience. With Birman as guide, we see how today‘s Russians straddle their Soviet past and their capitalist future in order to survive—from A to Z. The stories are wry, humorous, and sexually frank, the poems lyrical and elegiac. While not necessarily autobiographical, Birman‘s book tells the life story of the narrator and his friends. The anti-Semitic reality of school bullies and army conscription, the adolescent yearning for classmates and teaching assistants,

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Introduction

the Soviet dream of world travel and luxury consumption are all deftly drawn in stories no more than a page or two in length; the poetry resonates with the texts, variations on a theme. Dmitri Birman‘s stories are not set in Moscow or St. Petersburg, the two capitals of Russia. His characters live in a smaller city, more typical of the rest of the country. One of the funniest stories, ―Fashion Plate,‖ is about a young narrator trying to organize his wedding reception at the city‘s most posh restaurant. His father thinks it a good idea to let the young man try his hand at making arrangements and networking—in Soviet times whom you knew was more important than money. The politics are local, as we see in the story, ―Actor,‖ when the narrator goes stumping for votes in the slums in new elections. The residents interact with the ―big city‖—for example, the narrator in ―Road‖ drives there frequently to deliver bribes from his boss. The business life is active, there are office parties (―Barbie‖) and deals to be made with European distributers (―Toilet‖).

Introduction

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Several stories depict the casual anti-Semitism of provincial Russian life, especially in Soviet times. ―Choice‖ reveals the dilemma faced by Russians of Jewish extraction who were able to leave the USSR but did not feel Jewish and wanted to live in Russia. ―Jews‖ is about a school friend who looks Jewish and comes to empathize with his Jewish friends when he is subjected to the same kind of hazing they face on a daily basis. In ―X-emption‖ the main character stubbornly demands that his draft deferment papers list his ethnicity as Jewish, not Russian, when most Jews tried to pass for Russian, in order to have preferential treatment in college admissions and so on. Animals play a large part in the stories. There are obnoxious cats (―Kitty‖), huge slobbering and defecating dogs (―Grin‖), and small annoying dogs (―Yorkshire Terrier‖). There‘s even a poodle running across a road and creating an opportunity for two drivers to meet and fall in love (―Unexpected‖). Sex plays an even greater part. There are jealous husbands

(―Manias‖),

unfaithful

lovers,

gentle

lotharios (―Questions‖), and a comparison of Russian

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and Swiss relationships (―Our Love‖ and ―Zurich: Their Love‖). Birman is a poet, so even some of his short stories are mood pieces (―Indolence‖ and ―Cemetery‖). But there are poems, too. He began writing poetry as an adolescent. All the poetry he sent to Soviet magazines was rejected—too personal, too intimate, not about tractors and politics. But now, in contemporary Russia, Birman is a recognized poet-the only member of the Russian branch of PEN from Nizhny Novgorod and winner of the Rubtsov International Poetry Competition. Dmitri Birman was born in 1961 in Gorky (now Nizhny Novgorod). His father was incarcerated in the Stalin camps from 1949 to 1959, as an enemy of the people. This naturally gave Dmitri a sober view of the Communist system and made him an eager proponent of democracy and market opportunities when they appeared. He graduated from the Gorky Construction Engineering Institute and worked as a construction foreman. During perestroika, he founded one of the

Introduction

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first commercial enterprises in the USSR. He went back to school and got a PhD in economics from Nizhny Novgorod University. For over a decade, he has been an elected councilman in the Nizhny Novgorod City Duma. He is a member of the Governor‘s Council on Business Development and the board of the Nizhny Novgorod synagogue and a founder of the Yevgeny Yevstigneev Theater Festival. His knowledge of so many facets of life in modern Russia, from the point of view of businessman, politician, and poet, offer the English-language reader a rich panorama of the land of the mysterious Russian soul.

Alphabet of Masks

Alphabet of Masks

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PM (Preface, Modified) The abbreviation PM has become super popular in our country. It stands for Price Mechanisms, important but not very clear to the statistically average Russian, which allows various wise men, with glasses and without, to mock ordinary people with their predictions of trends and prices for a barrel of oil. It also stands for Prime Minister, and Putin is of course charismatic and mysterious, switching masks on the advice of his image makers. Apropos of masks. We‘ve all had to try them on, some wear them daily, and for some, the mask has attached itself so tightly that they‘ve forgotten what they used to look like. A have a friend who told me that when she changes hair color, her whole personality changes. Another friend felt confident and calm as soon as he put on suit and tie.

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Masks, mastering our faces, change our souls. I‘m inviting you to a carnival. It‘s a carnival of faces and characters, feelings and emotions. All the people are fictional. All the circumstances are real. The people I‘m writing about have nothing in common with me, but they are all me. Perhaps, you will see people you know among the masks and costumes. Perhaps, you will recognize yourself or remember how it was with you. Perhaps, your life will suddenly seem a boring carnival and you will join the author in taking off your mask. Perhaps….

Alphabet of Masks

My interlocutor‘s so wise, I hold my breath When, while reciting poetry, He skirts the precipice, When he is striving to disrupt The current of experience, And with his voice, he longs to melt Uncharted ice. My interlocutor is dumb, Although well-read, His lips don‘t move, but I can tell I‘m being led To trust just him as he‘s Enlightening me, unerring His speech‘s stitch Embroidering the cloth, unwavering

Horribly sick of him, I‘m up to here One minute it is faith I love,

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The next, it‘s fear… He wakes me in the night, I just can‘t shake him, And now he‘ll tell you all about himself: I am him.

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Actor

Film frames from childhood. They‘re showing The Deputy from the Baltics, with Nikolai Cherkasov, on TV. The whole family is watching. Pop, who‘d spent ten years in Stalin‘s camps, takes a deep breath and says, ―Man, what people those were! What an ideal! They really screwed it up, the sons of bitches!‖ Mom, an intellectual who paid no attention to politics, frowns and pulls him up sharp: ―Petya, enough!‖ I watch and listen. When I tell my parents nearly thirty years later that I‘ve decided to run for the City Council, Pop takes a deep breath and says, ―Go get ‘em, son!‖ Mom, frowning, asks, ―What do you need with that filth?!‖

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In sum, having received their blessing, I embarked upon my campaign. For the uninitiated, I should explain there‘s a difference in how you can run: on a party ticket or as a single-mandate candidate. In the former, you find compelling arguments for the party bosses, you fight for a place on the ticket, and to all intents and purposes you bear no personal responsibility for what you say. I was running as a single-mandate candidate. Which means I went around to the district‘s homes, schools, health centers, and businesses and talked to people. Believe me, it‘s not simple. But the key thing is this: Every time you try to persuade someone of something, every time you promise something, you take personal responsibility for it. About a month before the end of the campaign, I got around to a street with the poetic name Eleventh Dead-End Drive. On the whole, the names of streets in Russian cities . . . well, that‘s the subject of a whole other story.

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Suffice it to say that the street really was a dead end, although in what way it might have been the eleventh of anything is beyond me, since there was no first, second, or, for that matter, tenth, in the entire district. The street was of no use to anyone, since the rotting shacks that dotted it were to be torn down to build an interchange for a Metro bridge whose construction was unfortunately way past schedule. The people who lived there weren‘t being shown the least bit of attention, and one of the neighborhood‘s nabobs suggested that I at least not go there with stories of a rosy future, lest I find myself beaten to a pulp. Naturally, I didn‘t take his advice. But I did prepare for the visiti.e., just to be on the safe side, I switched from my Toyota Camry to a more democratic-looking Volga. I drove down the street, which could have been the set for a remake of the movie of Gorky‘s The Mother, and found myself by garages (solid brick, as it happens), which were plastered with brightly colored

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posters announcing the visit of a candidate for deputy in the City Council. And as you might expect, posters with my picture were pasted over those of the other candidates. I got out of the car and caught sight of about fifteen prim little old ladies. With a sigh of relief I went over to them, smiling and duly shaking their hands. Suddenly, from out of a barracks (it would be pushing things to call this building a house) there comes tumbling out a bevy of boisterous, halfdrunken women, who were soon joined by another group from the next house over, which looked for all the world like the first one. Leading the charge was a wonder-woman. She was young and feeling no pain. Disheveled hair done up in purple and green and a housedress (on top of a nightgown, no less) whose hems were flapping as she scurried along added to the kind of picture of low standards and moral decay that you can see in the 1989 film ―Wreck,” the Cop’s Girl. The band of sisters was headed toward me so precipitately that I fell back against the wall of the

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garage that, as I said, was plastered with my pictures. Thinking of Evgeny Urbansky, in all his cynical simplicity, in the 1958 film The Communist, I sucked some air into my lungs, put on my most winning smile, and exuberantly greeted the newcomers. The young woman was clearly in charge, so she was the first to speak . . . On the whole, I love the Russian language, and not least its nonstandard component, at which, after five years in construction work, I‘ve become quite adept. But the things I heard . . . The lady was a pro. Once she had had her say, to the roaring approval of the crowd, I thought of Sean Connery as James Bond, looked her soulfully but sternly in the eye and asked, ―What‘s your name, you lovely creature, you?‖ Dumbfounded, the ―lovely creature‖ looked back at me glassily and answered, ―Sveta.‖ Whereupon I did my best Batalov, out of Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears. ―Sveta,‖ I said,

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―You‘re so sweet, so fine, you have such eloquent eyes, such a sexy mole above your upper lip! What seems to be the matter?‖ Rendered altogether speechless, Sveta and her entire troupe were silent. ―My little chickadee, the fact is, I‘ve come to see you,‖ I advanced my attack. ―So you can help me find my way around here. And you: Do you offer me a drink, the way a good Russian should?‖ The little chickadee hiccupped, and some big bruiser pushes his way out from behind her and says, ―No hard feelings, bub, OK? Sveta‘s the center on this here team. The top cop even comes to her for a swig and a piece of ass. Why don‘t you come on over to my place, if you want to see how we live!‖ I took a confident step forward and, like Shtraukh as Vladimir Ilyich in Lenin in 1918,” I said brazenly, ―Let‘s do it!‖ Did you ever see The Lower Depths at the Sovremennik Theater, where Evgeni Evstigneyev, my lantsman from Nizhny Novgorod, played the role of Satin?

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Do you remember the sets? No? Pity. Well, let me put it this way: The home of the lonely old lady in a god-forsaken village in the Russian hinterland looked like the Hilton compared to the place we went to. Trying not to inhale for fear of getting sick to my stomach, I thought of Pop‘s great words, and gasped, ―Look what the bastards did to us‖whereupon I turned and ran outside. There, they were already waiting for me. Sveta, now somewhat sobered up and smiling coquettishly (or so she thought), was carrying a tray with a cut-glass tumbler, which was filled to the brim with vodka, and two sandwiches on a chipped plate. One was cheese, the other was sausage. A few wellfed flied buzzing around them would come in periodically for a landing, while behind my princess her devoted legions looked at me expectantly. ―Have a drink with your public,‖ hiccupped Chickadee, now a little hung over, and she came up to me.

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Alphabet of Masks

Out beyond the heads of the throng, who stood like a solid wall in my way, I looked at the trees, which were already turning yellow, at the clear blue sky, at the distant wisps of clouds drifting to parts unknown. The moment of truth had arrived. Like Bondarchuk in Fate of a Man, I confidently raised my glass, exhaled loudly, and downed the vodka in a single gulp. The crowd exhaled with me. Then I inhaled, and they inhaled again. ―I never take any food with the first glass,‖ I declaimed proudly, using the character‘s famous line. The crowd burst into applause. I felt free as a cloud . . . ―Everyone vote for him on election day!‖ convulsed my new groupie. ―I‘m going to check on you! ―Time for a blanket toss!‖ bellowed the guy whose place I‘d gone to.

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―Freeze!‖ I shouted, like a policeman on Cops. ―I still have other blocks to go to!‖ Like Kirk Douglas in Spartacus, I made my way victoriously through the parting crowd. For a long time, they pumped my hand and promised to vote for me, while Sveta tried getting into my car, having the idea of driving off together into some happily-ever-after future Finally I made it home. Took a shower. Had a shot of vodka. When I took a bite of fresh bread and sausage, the sheer pleasure of it reminded me of my mother‘s words. And I smiled.

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The final hero Every era has its own The final shelter is like sin, The final answer For the tabloids— The last one has his joyous laugh. The final station Stuck in a dead end The final train car, on its final journey The final dock, everyone Rocking in the boat— The last one was able to get away. The final question Will destroy illusions, The final chance is like success, The final poet Burnt out and forgotten— The last one will endure it for us all.

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Barbie Tatyana Alexandrovna Lapina examined herself critically in the mirror. Things seemed all right. She had kept her marvelous figure—the seven years devoted to competitive ballroom dancing had paid off. The elegant black dress from Valentino revealed beautiful arms with tender skin. The Sergio Rossi shoes were sprinkled with Swarovski crystals. Her unruly blond curls were subdued in a clever hairdo. But her close scrutiny, like a top executive‘s, noted the crow‘s feet and the wrinkles on her brow, and the barely noticeable lines by her lips. ―I look like an aging Barbie,‖ Tatyana Alexandrovna thought, and quickly turning on her stiletto heels, easily did a split and turned instantly into Coco. That was Lapina‘s name in her dancing youth. No one knew why: maybe her love of black dresses,

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or her severe and aloof gaze, or because the first money she earned in a show, dedicated to City Day, she spent on Chanel No. 5. And here‘s the amazing thing: when she was appointed vice-president of the company, after three years in various positions, the employees started calling Tatyana Alexandrovna, their new boss, Coco. She quickly changed her pantyhose, fixed her hair, tossed her fashionable sheared mink coat over her shoulders, and ran out onto the street, where her personal Toyota Camry awaited her. Coco was off to the corporative, the company Christmas party. I must say that the word corporate and its derivatives were firmly entrenched over the last five or six years in the Russian business vocabulary. However, basically, corporative here meant a well-organized booze up. Owners, executives, mid-level managers, and top employees of capitalist labor gather in a restaurant and drink. Someone says a few words, always kind (which means: can I pour you another?), colleagues

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recite poetry (drink!), sing songs (pour!), work out their relations (let‘s have a drink!), and flirt (let‘s drink and kiss). Since this is repeated annually, the company party is something to anticipate and hope that it won‘t be less than last time. This year the party was at a new restaurant, The Odessa. Coco was a bit nervous. The boss… Of course, there had been lots of men in the life of this energetic, smart, and simply beautiful woman, one of them was the father of her daughter, but there was something about Vadim Nikolayevich that excited her especially. The company president was fifteen years her senior and they had good working relations, but… He was married and his two sons were at university. He valued his family, but … Recently she imaged that he looked at her in a special way. Coco knew that men were attracted to her. Even the young and good-looking Dima, who started

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Alphabet of Masks

working as their system administrator two months ago, couldn‘t take his eyes off her, which annoyed her. But Vadim Nikolayevich! He was the man of her dreams, and he had seemed impossible, like every dream… When Coco arrived, almost everyone was there, and Nadya, Vadim Nikolayevich‘s secretary, who knew everything about everyone, was seating people at numbered tables. ―You‘re next to Vadim Nikolayevich,‖ she told Coco with a significant air and led her to Table 1. Coco sat down and smiled at her colleagues, when she noticed Dima, staring adoringly at her. ―I‘ll have to have a talk with him,‖ Coco thought. ―That won‘t do!‖ The rest was like a dream. Elegant Vadim Nikolayevich. His words, loud for everyone and whispered for her. His hand

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on her trembling thigh. His scent, which made her head spin. Their dance—how she felt him! She frowned in dismay when Dima, blushing and stammering, gave her a present. It was wrapped in silver paper and tied with a gold ribbon. Coco stuffed it into her purse, turned away from Dima, and concentrated on the main thing. The main thing was her endless joy knowing that the new year would bring her happiness. Suddenly Coco‘s attention shifted to the performing dancers. A young girl floated, twirled, and was caught by her experienced partner. At the end, they bowed to enthusiastic applause and approached Table 1, and Coco recognized Kostya, her smile freezing on her face. Kostya had been her partner once. Also, he was her daughter‘s father. She had not heard a word about him in six years. Kostya recognized her, too, and smiled. It was that smile that made her fall in love him then.

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Later… When she was pregnant and could not perform anymore, he fell in love with his new partner, decided to go pro, and left the city. Coco did not hold a grudge. She compared herself to the heroine of the movie Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears and built her life herself. A wild idea came to her. She approached Kostya, took his hot, sweaty hand in hers, looked into his eyes, and asked, ―One for old times‘ sake?‖ He nodded. They went to the middle of the dance floor. Kostya said something to the DJ but Coco could see only the delighted look on Vadim Nikolayevich‘s face. She would dance for him! Hearing the first chords of a Latin American song, Coco jerked. That‘s the dance that made them ballroom champions of Russia. She wanted to ask for something else, but Kostya‘s strong hands were leading her, and her trained body started moving in rhythm to the beat.

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It was amazing! She was young and flexible again, every cell pulsing, melting in the rhythms of the hot melody. At the climax, Kostya picked her up under her arms and started spinning. She straightened her legs and tensed. The audience held its breath. Dima turned white. Vadim Nikolayevich, overcome by emotion, jumped from his chair. Kostya turned his head for a fraction of a second in response to the abrupt motion, and stumbled… Coco did not notice the whirl of Christmas lights turning into sudden blackness. When Vadim Nikolayevich picked up Coco‘s things at the ICU, he dropped her purse. A silver package with an unraveling gold ribbon fell out. He opened it.

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He stared for a long time at the Barbie doll in an elegant black dress and sparkling shoes. We all believe that we‘re immortal and that‘s why We go along in life squandering time We get to be great singers or great poets Instead, aimlessly spinning on life‘s blades We laughed ourselves to hiccups, wept, and Argued, yelling until the glass started to rattle We passed around the vodka by the cupful So life seemed very bright instead of dull Sometimes we lost our heads over the women But still we never cheated on our wives… Well, except in dreaming of that singing teacher From schoolboy days of getting on her nerves We gave our children everything in hopes That they would avoid our plight We taught them that Love and Compassion Guide what divides the black from white.

Alphabet of Masks

We think that we‘re immortal, but we have been parting With friend after friend once by our side, We pass, which is to say we are returning, But this time with a much steadier stride!

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Cemetery

What‘s left to a person when there‘s nothing left? When his loved ones are gone? When his friends have betrayed him? When anguish turns into a drinking spree, or howling at the full moon, or mortal danger in a hot spot? Where do you go when there‘s nowhere to go? If distant vistas don‘t beckon and the sun doesn‘t warm you? If the weather is divided into ―rain‖ and ―not rain‖? I walk through the cemetery and think that there is always a place and people to go to. Or almost always. Our lost relatives and friends are always here and they always expect us and are happy to see us.

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The cemetery is full of life, the tears of adults and the laughter of children, who are shushed and have fingers wagged at them. With pious speeches at the burial and the cussing of the cemetery laborers. With expensive cars driving right up to the graves and grannies begging at the gate. Here, as in the life outside the cemetery fence, there is a hierarchy. Closer to the entrance and the church rest scientists, officials, and thieves-in-law. There are exceptions, of course. Just days after a general in wrinkled uniform, unshaven and not sober, came to the cemetery, ten new graves appeared along the main path for young men killed in Afghanistan. From time to time fresh graves for the fallen comrades were dug, and sometime later I began seeing photographs on monuments of fresh-faced and clear-seeing boys killed in Chechnya. Farther along, deeper inside, where the trees are thicker, lie the Tatars, and beyond them, the Jews. That‘s what people call these areas, ―the Jewish cemetery,‖ ―the Tatar cemetery.‖ Even

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though it‘s the same territory and the people who come here resemble one another. When they come to the cemetery, they become more radiant and their thoughts purer. I don‘t want to talk about the scum who sneak in at night and write vile words on monuments or destroy them. To tell the truth, I feel sorry for them (though if I could get my hands on them….), sorry because you can‘t insult or injure those who are gone. You can only set off the program for destroying your own soul. Many of the visitors are acquainted, meeting here over the years. Yevdokiya Sergeyevna tells her husband, whom she buried about a decade ago, about their granddaughter‘s schoolwork and how she doesn‘t like Bush. Alexander Leonidovich usually comes with his mother and brings only red roses for his father‘s grave. And always an uneven number….

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Volodya recently lost his wife, who died in childbirth. Beneath the photograph of the young woman with long, thick hair, it is written: ―Verochka, if you hear weeping, that‘s me. If you hear silence, that means I‘m on my way to you.‖ Some people visit their relatives as if they were alive, happy to be there and promising to come back soon. I see a good sorrow and forgiveness in their eyes. I believe that there is a place in our lives that levels, pacifies, unites, and forgives us all. I look up, the rain mixing with my tears, and it seems that I hear voices telling me that they are waiting for me, but that there is no need to hurry, because they are there forever.

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Hello! I‘ve come to visit, father, Don‘t grumble that it‘s been so long, The fir trees lower their paws in welcome So bright and quiet here, so calm. I contradict myself and probably Let you down, mar our good name, Forgetting all in strange embraces, While scolding friends who do the same. I know you also had your fun And didn‘t let trouble break you You were a witty man, light-hearted, joyful, When you got tired out, you went away. I miss you, dearest friend, I miss Your wise, soft-spoken words, Shared over strong black tea, Interpreting strange dreams How are you sleeping, friend? Who‘s laughing at your jokes? All of the winter‘s snows Muffle the voices from below.

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Choice Choosing… Only people who‘ve never done it think that having a choice is good. I‘m not talking about choosing a sausage or underwear. I‘m talking a CHOICE! Once, long ago, in a country that had food rations, people would say to me, ―You‘re lucky! What do you care! You can always move to Israel!‖ But I didn‘t want to. I was tormented by the possibility of choice. The thoughts kept coming. And my friend kept leaving. In that now distant country that is always home (where you needed coupons to buy sausage and vodka), they would not let me not think about the Choice. They reminded me, prompted me … and reminded me again. But my genetic memory did not beckon me to the Near East, did not lead me through the desert, did

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not call me to the synagogue. The language I had never known did not awaken memories in me. People told me to think about my children and their future. During the election campaign, my mother said, ―Son! They‘ll never elect a Jew in our town!‖ That‘s how I was first elected a deputy to the City Council. How can you choose between synagogue and diocese, if you live in a Russian Orthodox country? I help the church and the synagogue. Choice… The great Metropolitan of Nizhny Novgorod and Arzamas, Father Nikolai, told me, hiding his saintly smile in his beard, ―A good Jew is better than a bad Christian!‖ I am friends with the rabbi and the priest, I attend synagogue and church, and do you know what I‘ve come to understand? Sometimes, there‘s no need to think about choosing. You should just be yourself and shamelessly fill in all the blanks in questionnaires.

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My friends have started coming back to my city from Israel and America. Some have returned for good, having made their final choice. Some come to Russia to make money, leaving their families in those other countries. When I see them, focused and fit, concentrated and selfsufficient, I know how difficult it is for them. They have a choice.

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Blessed believer who merely hears Holy is he who sees and speaks… Great is the runner on the roof‘s edge, Who‘s taken flight, forgetting the ledge! The holy man cries, ―give me my due!‖ Inside the church it‘s clean and warm, But evil demands, with avarice, That it is permitted and owns all. It‘s pouring rain, although it‘s summer The synagogue stands with God‘s grace But Satan is nearby handing out Tickets to his fiery place And here am I, in wretched turmoil Wandering to the Earth‘s ends, How will I finally find God, So that my soul may not be damned?

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Date

She was twenty-three years my junior. Every time I touched her smooth, perfect skin, every time I inhaled the milky fragrance of her soft, young flesh, my heart skipped a beat . . . Buoyant, bright, with a come-hither air, she walked up to my car, opened the door, and flopped her breathtaking body nonchalantly inside. ―Been drinking?‖ I asked, when I picked up a faint scent of alcohol mixed with lipstick, perfume . . . and milk. ―Eddie‘s birthday,‖ she answered, fixing her hair. ―There was a party at work.‖ ―Now, what I am going to do with an inebriated young woman?‖ I askedin jest, of course, and of course with a serious expression on my face. ―Well, an inebriated young woman can always leave,‖ she said, without looking at me, and started to open the door.

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Twenty years ago, I took her by the hand, whispered sweet-nothings in her ear, told her I could never survive it if she left . . . I sat and watched her silently as she left the car . . . . Buoyant and bright, she walked away, swinging her hips provocatively, not looking back . . . Fifteen years ago, I ran after her. I caught up. I screamed she couldn’t do it! I tried to put my arms around her. I wouldn’t let her go, not caring how it looked to the people passing by . . . Slowly, taking my time, I started the ignition. Then I swung around and drove away . . . A minute later the phone rang. ―Don‘t you ever call me again!‖ The phone spat her voice into my ear. ―I‘ve had enough of your torment!‖ ―But, honey, I was only kidding, what‘s the matter with you?‖ I said softly and soulfully.

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―Kidding, yeah! You know perfectly well I can‘t take these ‗jokes‘ of yours!‖ She wasn‘t calming down. ―Please, babycakes, give me a break! Where are you?‖ I was the essence of tenderness. ―Over there. I‘m . . .‖ She‘d capitulated. ―I‘ll be there in three minutes, darling.‖ How I sped after her, ten years ago! A veritable Formula One driver, a real Schumacher! I floored the gas, took my life in my hands. But three minutes and twelve seconds later, I was alongside her again. . . . As I drove, it occurred to me that a bowl of cabbage soup might really hit the spot right now. Maybe brown the potatoes I made yesterday, fry up a nice piece of meat to go with them, maybe some pickles. . . . Three minutes later, I dialed her number. ―You still waiting there for me, love?‖ I asked. ―Yes, sweetie,‖ she said. ―Where are you?‖

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―Quit waiting, my love, I‘m not coming,‖ I sang into her peaches-and-creamy little ear.

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Today, you gave back the keys To your heart? To your soul? The apartment? In the empty and infinite night, The cold sapphire stars have gone out. The dog howls at the moon once again Surely, the dog has it better I would howl myself if I could But I can‘t wake my angry neighbors The soothsayer lied about our Fate, For us, there was no Tomorrow It‘s as though for me, Fate plays trombone And for you, it likes to sing? Let me gaze at you before we part It is probably best to say nothing Did you remember to give back the keys To your heart? To your soul? The apartment?

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Europe If you travel north from Venice, you will find Sacile among the cultivated plots of land, the even strips of neat vines, and clean little towns. Sacile has approximately 12,000 residents. They have a railroad station, a bridge over the river that flows through the very center of the town, and even a mayor. And a city hall that has seven employees. The central street, paved in stones, as it should be, is crowded at night. Young people gather to chat about nothing in particular and pet under the judgmental gaze of the sweet and well-tended old men and woman. The latter stroll, window shopping, with a dignified air or sit over their espressos. It seems as if it‘s been this way forever. The streets bear the memory of the past.

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The translucent air shimmers with the silhouettes of people who lived and loved in this small, cozy town. It has a church with a clock that works (imagine that!), a theater with sold-out performances and a long list of productions, book stores that always have customers, perfectly clean streets, store windows without a particle of dust, and polished tables and chairs in the cafes and restaurants. Most importantly, the faces of passersby who smile at you (yes, you!). In a city like that, you can walk around all day in a white shirt and when you take it off in the evening, you will find to your surprise that the collar is still clean…. By the way, about restaurants. When I first went to Italy, I ended up in the heart of the north. I enjoyed Sacile and the cozy hominess of the little restaurant called Saliza, being the only foreigner in the place and maybe even in the whole town.

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Prosciutto with melon, minestrone, tagliatelli… The music of names and tastes. A waltz of pleasure and a tango of peace. The quiet sweet life of one of the world‘s cultural capitals … annoyed me. Why can they live like this, while we can‘t? By the way, about secular things. The glass of beer (grande!) made itself known with growing discomfort, and I went (scuzi!) to the toilet. Granite steps, a dark, polished door, a floral scent inside. A snow white toilet, and I reached for the lid…. You know, of course, that boys piss standing up usually. Cultured boys raise the seat as well, where people sit for other needs. To keep it clean. You know, sometimes, the stream splashes….

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So, guess what? The seat was covered with PISS! A LOT! ALL OVER!... God, how I laughed! Lordy, how good I suddenly felt!

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Parisian air exhales the lust Of palace passages and private chambers Bridges embrace the Seine, the tower, parched Languidly soars over the pavement Unripened chestnuts suffer on their branches Europe and Africa stroll hand in hand And the musicians, just like ours, busk in the metro, Playing their songs now close, now far away The hotel walls are chipped, the elevators Are no roomier than chiffoniers, You sit crammed at a café table like a prisoner And the garcons all have the strangest manners. The French all have some prideful urgency Their women are, of course, much worse than ours And for some reason, lunar ebbs and flows Can overwhelm you here more frequently!

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Fashion Plate Have you ever tried planning a wedding? Reserving the restaurant, coordinating the menu, inviting the master of ceremonies and band? Did you have to do it around 1985, when the restaurants were always booked solid, the menus were meager, and the affair had to be dry? You did? Then you‘ll appreciate what I‘m about to say. You didn‘t? Then listen up. Self-supporting and sexually of age, I told my ―lucky‖ parents of my intention to enter into lawful wedlock. I asked my dad to make arrangements with a restaurant (at the time, our city of a million had a grand total of six) on holding the festivities. Pop, in his underwear and smoking a cigarette, smiled wryly and said nothing. Once he had smoked the cigarette down to the filter, he looked me in the eyes and said, ―Son,

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you‘re a grown man. First try it yourself, it‘ll do you some good.‖ I walked proudly out of the kitchen, went back to my roomall of 86 square feetand started mulling it over. After some hard thinking, I settled on the Restaurant Moscow. First, I liked the sound of it. Second, it was in the middle of town. It was there, moreover, at the Moscowa restaurant with a name that was typical not just in farflung provincial cities throughout the vast expanses of the USSR but in the capital of our Great Motherland itselfthat they served up a dish with the bewitching name of stroganina, what the Italians call carpaccio: delicate slivers of meat. Bear meat! At a whopping price of 104 rubles a plate! I was a foreman at a construction site and making 115 rubles a month, and I could as well have flown to Mars as treat myself to stroganina.

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At a time when the Country of Developed Socialism, as Brezhnev used to call it, was singing songs about ―making apple trees blossom on Mars,‖ I allowed myself to indulge in a reverie of ―paper-thin, marinated slices of the frozen miracle-meat, brought raw to the table,‖ melting in my mouth. I also picked the Moscow because it had a cozy banquet room that could seat up to 40 guests. Since neither my wife-to-be nor I had any desire to gaze upon a larger number of relatives stuffing their faces and guzzling drinks, and since some of these people we‘d be seeing for the first time at the wedding, the banquet room suited us perfectly. There was only one little hitch: the negotiation. But who with? Naturally, I decided to go to the manager, andin a simple, matter-of-fact discussion, either charming (if it was a woman) or imploring (if it was a man)ask them to address themselves to the simple task at hand.

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Then I started thinking about which of my two suits I should wear for such a momentous conversation. I put on the dark-brown microvelvet threepiece (oh what unimaginable beauty!) that I‘d brought back from a tour of Bulgaria three years before (eat your heart out!), and under it a gorgeous creamcolored shirt (also from Bulgaria). On my feet were a pair of knock-‘em-dead, black Salamander shoes from Germany (Germany! Only by pulling strings!) I looked at myself in the mirror. I was beyond irresistible! However, in order to completely bowl over the manager, I still needed something extra, some additional little thing, some accessory…. Allow me to point out that, at the time, the job of restaurant manager was not beneath that of a generalnay, particularly with the approach of some holiday, it was even a bit higher.

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In short, I needed to add a certain something to my irresistible air, so that I‘d be admitted to his or her esteemed office and not turned down. It came to me in flash. I opened a pigeonhole in the desk, took out a small cardboard box, andhesitating for just a momentslipped my father‘s signet ring onto the fourth finger of my left hand. For those of you who don‘t know, a signet is a kind of ring that was in fashion at the time. Worn by bosses and their underlings, parolees and the unindicted, mechanics and cabdrivers. (If anything, cabdrivers were particularly partial to them; the signet ring was their trademark.) The bigger the ring, the more important you were. Bushy-haired, big-nosed artisans worked wonders with scrap gold, creating works of art with lions‘ heads, bulls‘ heads, serpents, or the initials of the future owner. My own mother, notwithstanding the fact that she believed wearing a signet ring was a lowbrow thing, bought Pop one for his birthday.

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Thus my image was complete. Five stops later on the streetcar, I showed up at the service entrance of the Restaurant Moscow and walked confidently inside. A veritable Alain Delon who just happened to find himself in provincial Russia, I walked up to a door marked ―Manager,‖ let out a breath, and drew the handle to me. In a small anteroom, a lilac receptionist sat at a typewriter. Her dress was lilac, her necklace was lilac, the lipstick on her sensuous lips was lilac, her eye shadow was lilac. Needless to say, her nails and hair were lilac as well. She looked up at me appraisingly. I shot her a dazzling smile. Her eyes alighted on my ring. I opened my mouth to say something . . . ―Wait outside the door!‖ she snapped before I could get a word out. ―I believe I . . .‖ I managed to bleat, but she cut me off:

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―Alexander Alexandrovich will be right out!‖ I closed the door loosely behind me so I could hear, see, and understand what was about to transpire. ―Well, let‘s say Alexander Alexandrovich is the manager. All right, then: Why should he come out to see me? What should I wait for? Should I stay out here?‖ was roughly what went through my mind, completely confounded. I didn‘t have much time to eavesdrop. Within a minute a pink-cheeked gentlemen of indeterminate age, with narrow slits in place of eyes, hauled his estimable bulk into the reception room. The lilac receptionist jumped up and chirped, ―The car‘s here, and the driver just came in. I told him to wait outside.‖ In the end, we managed to hold the wedding at the restaurant. Pop took care of it.

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I crossed over the boundary of misfortune And I can verify the sun shines differently When everyone around is simply healthy When dogs of petty arguments stop barking When there‘s no weeping echoing through the air. Without the protests of your friends and loved ones Without their outstretched arms, so quickly Do thoughts turn into sticky, tangled webs, Woven by spiders in the dark of night, That dam and redirect all rivers‘ flows. Is Judgment Day upon us? Is this it? Time to descend through nine layers into nothing? With feet bare and you coat in tatters To nowhere now and then you are no more? Has God forever repossessed your soul? I‘ll tell the jurors one last joke, I‘ll bring The judges neither tea nor cognac They‘ll laugh at me and think that I‘m a fool Covered in wounds from long forgotten brawls Having created utter chaos in my soul Walking around in that same tattered coat…

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Grin Have you ever seen Turner and Hooch? Go check it out. My neighbor used to have the exact same kind of shorthaired, red, eternally slobbering animal with fiendish, limpid blue eyes. But why did this gargantuan Dogue de Bordeaux have to crap all over my lawn all the time? To wit, for number one he stayed where he belonged, but no sooner did he and my neighbor cross our property line than he began sniffing at the ground. In an instant he‘d be grunting loudly and narrowing his eyes with pleasure. Boris Manukianwho wasn‘t a bad guy, mind youwas completely nuts over the dog. Borya fed him like clockwork, took him for walks, and, most importantly, took the initiative of moving his family to the country just so as not to confine poor Solik (short for Solomon) to a city apartment. But the worst of it was when they‘d come back to visit at our placewhich my wife, Marina,

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who was something of a neat-freak, had turned into a sterile, if cozy, little pad. All hell would break loose. Solomon would run around, lay siege to the sofa, and drool on the drapes. We‘d find our dinnerware littered with the little red hairs that he generously shed while periodically shaking out his whole body. Imagine how I felt when he‘d lean his 180 pounds against my leg and unabashedly gaze into my eyes. One time, when Borya was heading over to our place, whistling blithely, and Solomon, who had scratched up the ground with his hind paws and looked to be on the verge of burying a huge load, I said, ―Borya, how about Solik stays outside, and you and I have a cup of tea and chat?‖ Borya looked pensively at me, and then at Sol, then back at me again, and said, ―Man, you come over to my place with Petya‖that‘s my five-yearold‖and I don‘t ask you to let him go for a walk while you and I shoot the breeze in the kitchen!‖

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That did it. ―Borya! Petya is human; he‘s my son!‖ ―Solik has no one besides me, either,‖ bridled my not entirely mature neighbor. ―He‘s like a son to me!‖ ―Come to your senses, man! By all means, come over with your wife, your daughterI promise you, I won‘t say a word! We‘ll be only too happy! The kids‘ll play people-games! Come live with us, even!‖ I had undertaken to make a point with a man who was listening to me with the quiet pensiveness of a cretin. ―I‘ll think about it,‖ he murmured, and was gone. For two weeks, I didn‘t see him. When we arrived at the dacha for the weekend, Borya would give me a welcoming wave from his place. And that, thank God, would be it. Another month passed. Night was falling. The cool air brought relief, and mosquitoes.

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―Anyone home?‖ I heard the cheery voice and jumped. ―We‘re here!‖ ―Well, praise be!‖ I thought, and looked out the window. Outside, as ever, stood Solik, straining, and Borya . . . well, Borya had a fidgeting dachshund on a leash. My neighbor was beaming. . . You may not believe it, but I could swear that little bitch had a grin on its fuzzy face, too.

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I rescued a puppy from the dirty puddle Shivering, he looked up at me warily Confused, unwanted, and unloved he Whimpered to himself, just like an orphan How many of you—homeless and forgotten! How many of us—strewn about by life! Some excellent, exceptional, outstanding Others, exhausted by their destiny‘s capriciousness ―Go save yourself, if you can, and forget me! I have no interest in messing up your car! What use to me are Tolstoy, Kant, and Heine— I‘m better off left crying on my own!‖ ******************************** It‘s warm and cozy sitting on the couch The world‘s troubles and cares seem far away A full glass of tomato juice and vodka And underfoot, a puppy laps up milk

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Humor Not long ago, I caught myself thinking I have trouble watching comedy on TV. Funhouse Mirror gets on my nerves with its cheap antics; Comedy Club, with its over-the-top inanity; Mikhail Zadornov, with his snide sarcasm; etc., etc. At the same time, I roar with childish laughter when I watch the tempest-in-a-teapot called To the Barricades! or when the Minister of Finance talks about the efforts that are underway to balance the national budget. And, while humor is international, I must say that every country also has its own peculiar brand of jokes. Americans laugh at the sad-sack Jim Carrey, the English at Mister Bean, and the Italians at Berlusconi, while Germans for the most part endeavor to maintain their Nordic sobriety. In Russia, jokes and laughter have helped people survive hard times and preserve our chief asset: our gene pool.

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Generally speaking, I believe that the mark of mental health is whether you can laugh at yourself and take jokes at your expense in stride, even when the joke isn‘t all that funny. I think that the best motto for the 21st century could go something like, ―Laugh, and the world laughs with you.‖ I have a lot of friends who know how to crack a ―tasteful‖ joke, but the most brilliant of them just might be Gosha Sashin. It happened in New York. Gosha and his wife, brother, and sister-in-law had gone there to check out life on the other side of the ocean, which Gosha knew only from the movies you see all over TV (and which were, for us, the object of constant contention). He adored the films of Guy Ritchie and the Coen brothers, while I said that they were humor for oafish hamburger eaters. I talked about Nicholson and Hoffman as professionals with a capital P, while he considered them second-rate; etc., etc.

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So Gosha wanted to see for himself how Americans manage without us, and whether they might profit from a little help. The Plaza Hotel, where my friend booked his room, is located in the heart of Manhattan, opposite Central Park. Gosha was bowled over by the scale of things in America. He drank in the view from the window of the restaurant on the hotel‘s16th floor. He was amazed at the low prices of things, especially booze (―Imagine, Petrovich, you can get a liter of Hennessy for 800 rubles [$27]! At home it goes for five grand [$170]! Fucking incredible!‖), and by the permanent smile on people‘s faces. On about his fifth day there, Gosha and his relatives came back to the hotel after some light shopping. Their arms were weighed down with bags filled with things they‘d found on ―sale,‖ so everyone was in a good mood. Now, one of the special pleasures of the Plaza is its glass elevator, which affords a panoramic view. It‘s rated to hold a maximum of about 30 people in a way that they all can feast their eyes on either the

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hotel‘s interior or the magnificent view of Central Park. When the foursome walked up to the elevator and Gosha proudly pressed the button, a motley bunch of tourists who had apparently just returned from a daylong tour came up behind them, Gosha looked at the variety of the faces (white, yellow, brown, purple)united, for the moment, in shared fatigueand took pity on them. When the elevator arrived, Gosha‘s wife, brother, and sister-in-law got in, released a collective sigh, and put their bags down, while Gosha stood politely allowing the tired tourists into the glassenclosed cabin. He smiled at the women, nodded politely to the men, even offered (this with bags in both hands!) to help on some of the genteel old-timers. Gosha got in last, but the door wouldn‘t close, and the elevator sounded a musical tone. Which meant its weight limit had been exceeded, and somebody would have to get off.

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The faces of many colors turned to Gosha and looked at him meaningfullythe women, sympathetically; the men, sternly; and the kindly senior citizens, even censoriously. Solemnly and sorrowfully, like the captain of a sinking ship, my buddy stepped out of the elevator. A sudden transformation came over the rainbow of faces. One began looking away, another gazed at the ceiling, another smiled and started chatting with someone, another nodded approvingly at Gosha. The door quietly closed. And yet . . . Precisely three seconds before the door closed completely, they heard a high-voltage angry ―Hey!‖ In a flash, some 30 heads turned toward the door. A second before the door closed, the passengers beheld Gosha. His bags were lying at his feet, his right arm was outstretched, his fist was clenched, and his middle finger raised (apparently in an effort to indicate the direction of motion). He was smiling serenely . . .

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Like Esenin, I read poems to prostitutes Becoming the pimp of their wounded souls I smile at my inexplicable decisions And take on the emotions of my saviors Middle age has concocted a dazzling crisis And I blame it for all my foolishness My self-loathing and self-indulgent complaining And the glass where the storm is brewing I seek out the exit in this transition Spend sleepless nights in its dead ends All I have found is sickly sweet habit And my searches have rubbed my feet raw I‘m lying when I say that I‘m lucky Imitating an uneven fight‘s difficulty If I could, I‘d have long ago joined the dark side And jerked fate on its haunches—and onto the rack!

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Indolence Indolence. Is it a weakness or a strength? Dissolving in the train of thought of frightening scale, the physical component lies still, not bothering us, reacting only to a change of position or point of support (couch, chair, stool). The eyes slide over the surface of objects, over the contours, without taking them in. External sounds blend into a single background that envelops but does not attract. And only breath and heartbeat continue the connection with our sinful world. … I am far away, dissolving in the contemplation of my inner state and living my real life. It has passion and cruelty, irony and tenderness, fear and love. I am the Universe, long live Saint-Exupery!

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The bright television screen brings me back to reality with a story on Galkin. The little bastard is not only a factory director, but he‘s also acted in a play at our local drama theater. He just can‘t keep still! It‘s always politics, or babes, or something, the creep! And what about me? A new Oblomov? A couch philosopher? Life is passing by and I‘m dreaming instead of living! Where are the people who used to be next to me, where are my friends, my loved ones? Where am I? All right, it doesn‘t matter, I‘ll show them tomorrow! Tomorrow they‘ll see what I can do, they‘ll understand and appreciate me! With that sweet thought I fall asleep. … Indolence is happiness!

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Tomorrow, I turn over a new leaf! I‘ll rend the sorrow from my soul, Aren‘t I the author after all Of books dictated to me by the trees Songs sung by wild winds, The music of the rain and snow The tales from undeparted carriages, And from parades that never came? I‘ll change my habits and desires I‘ll run in circles in the mornings, I‘ll start believing in confessions, Engaging in heart-to-heart conversations. I‘ll spend the month of March cruising Around with some young thing. I‘ll miss A week of work, stop taking sleeping pills at night So I won‘t strangle somebody during the day Fortune will smile on me with gentleness The map will right itself again You will break into tears, after a pause… Tomorrow, I turn over a new leaf!

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Jews My classmate Zhenya Turkin looked like Grigory Melekhov from Quiet Flows the Don. Rather, he resembled Petr Glebov, who played the leading role in the film version. He had the same aquiline nose and he was sinewy and dark-haired. We were in the same study group. By the way, Zhenya, whom we started calling John (his idol was the Beatle John Lennon) was very popular with the girls. Back then, in the late 1970s, he lived in midtown, his father was director of the City Food Department, and so the kid had the perfect life. Except for one thing. He‘d had the problem a long time. Ever since his childhood in the village. His almost movie star looks made people call him a Jew. At first, he didn‘t know who Jews were, so he would just smile and blink his long, dark lashes.

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Then he grew up and it was explained to him. I don‘t know if they told him that Jews drank the blood of Christian infants, but John came to hate them with all his heart. Now, when someone called him a Jew, he fell into a frenzy and attacked (no matter how many there were) and fought ruthlessly. Do I need to tell you that they stopped calling him that pretty soon? But, as in the old joke, the resentment remained. When we were in college and came back from the mandatory potato harvest, he came over to me and said, with a squint, ―You‘re a good guy, Dima.‖ After a short pause, he added, ―For a Jew.‖ In my maximalist and anti-Semitic youth, that was high praise. So, around our junior year, John went through something that completely flipped his ideas about life values.

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It was a summer evening. On evenings like that, when the daily bustle has dimmed and the dust has settled, the benches are occupied by young lovers pressed close together. John was walking home, wondering whether he would get lucky after the discotheque with Yulia Perova, our class beauty. He had a bit of experience with girls, so he wouldn‘t embarrass himself and he would show her other suitors! At home he changed into a tight white shirt made by Fekon in Hungary and Wild Cat jeans from Scotland. His Salamander shoes, by the famous German firm, were the finishing touch of the stylish get up of the seducer of young and foolish girls. On that wonderful summer evening, John headed for the bar of the Polytechnic Institute for disco, and the girls he met along the way smiled beckoningly and the boys watched him go by with respect, because in those days only athletes or actors could afford clothes like that. The way to the Polytechnic went through a small park that most people avoided at night. John

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had the springy, confident walk of a strong man who had handled his share of street fights. Suddenly he heard a scuffle. He turned and saw a red-haired young man under the only working streetlamp, shouting, ―I‘ll kill you, I don‘t care!‖ and trying to fend off four fellows attacking him. ―It‘s Josif, from next door,‖ John realized. At the same moment, one of the attackers yelled, ―Kill the kikes!‖ Something shifted in John. He forgot the disco and Yulia Perova. He forgot his white shirt and new jeans. Like a bull raging at a red flag, he jumped into the fray, silently landing perfectly placed punches. It was over quickly. When John caught his breath, he saw Josif muttering sadly over the burst seam of the shirt and the torn jeans. ―Let my mother sew it up, it will be invisible,‖ he told John. They sat on the remains of the bench and drank Agdam fortified wine. Straight from the bottle. And they talked.

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The next day, during a consultation on the strength of materials in class, John sat down next to me and said, ―Dima, if any louse ever dares call you a kike, punch him in the face, and I‘ll be next to you!‖

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My friend has seven arms He waves them all around And I can picture clearly How he‘s flying. He‘s watching from above, for laughs, (For laughing does not trouble him), He stares into the empty eyes Of death, which isn‘t all that bad, He often sees (we‘re very glad) Parades and masquerades He sees the smiles and tears, He dreams, not believing in dreams, He listens as something breathes, He could write, but he doesn‘t He could, just for fun, Sit down at the drums, He could strain his heart, He could send everyone to the devil, And then, when he came to his senses, Find himself in, say, San Diego

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Arms grow weak and it‘s getting dark, Someone is whispering, ―I‘ll burn up,‖ But for him, in the space of an hour, Lies the immediate‘s joy.

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Kitty You know the old joke, ―Oh, you don‘t like cats?! You just don‘t know how to cook them!‖ Well, I don‘t like cats in any shape or form. When Palych turned up at my doorstep one summer Saturday morning, holding his beloved Kuzya tenderly in his arms, I instantly sensed that something was amiss. We‘d been buddies since first grade (to this day, the teachers shudder when they think of us); on top of everything else, I‘m his daughter Liza‘s godfather. Kuzya‘s a fat, spoiled, bumptious tomwhite all over, with blue eyes. The darling of the whole family. The cat‘s meow, to Palych‘s way of thinking. They‘re both looking at my drowsy self, and Palych says, in his most endearing tone, ―Misha, let Kuzya stay with you until Tuesday, huh? We‘ve got to pay a visit to the mother-in-law. I‘ve even brought

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his food and litter box, just so‘s you wouldn‘t cuss, OK?‖ No sooner had I taken a little extra air into my lungs to give him a good talking-to and send him packing than he goes, ―Liza only trusts you, you know,‖ lets Kuzya out, shoves the food and litter box in my hands, and darts down the stairs, taking two at a time. There was nothing for it but to throw off Kuzya, who had gotten somehow heavier, put the litter box in the foyer, stick the cat food in the kitchen, and curse out Palych. Well, Kuzya, the fat bastard, moseys around the apartment, sniffing everything, makes himself comfortable in my armchair, and starts eying me deviously. I admit I‘d always thought that cats sleep (or lie, anyway) curled up in a ball, which makes them appealing and vulnerable. Kuzya, on the other hand, lolled like the king of beasts, soigné, paws splayed and belly out. I was

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thinking about tossing him into the hallway (he could stay on the doormat, as far as I was concerned) when he nodded offliterally, he closed his eyes and began to snore. I went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, got out the bread, and cut myself a slice of sausage. . . . Silence. I had just begun munching when I heard my cell phone ring. Palych cheerfully told me that Kuzya was easygoing and usually liked napping on an armchair; so, if I wouldn‘t disturb him, and if I‘d just feed him at 8 in the morning and 8 at night, everything would be hunky-dory. Having said his piece, my friend wisely hung up. Saturday was unusually hectic. After breakfast, I ran around to my retail outlets, then over to the warehouse, then dropped something off at my mother‘s. By the time I got home, it was about 7. Everything was great: Kuzya was asleep, and he‘d already done his duty. He was curled up in a ball. ―Attaboy!‖ I thought, and heated up some meat and potatoes. While I fiddled with the salad, the cat woke

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up, stretched, and looked at me beseechingly. I put a dish on the floor, poured out some ―Kitty-Cat,‖ (I have to admit, I couldn‘t resist and tried some myself: not half bad), watched as Kuzya devoured his, and thought seriously about changing my mind about cats. Then I had my tea, while Kuzya rubbed against my leg. . . At 2 in the morning, sound asleep, I was awakened by a thud on my bedroom door. Without a clue what it was, I opened the door to find Kuzya running around, making ready for another lunge. Giving him a swift kick, I shut the door and fell instantly back asleep, but five minutes later I was awakened by a clatter in the kitchen. The cat was playing with his dish. By 6, something incredible happened. Having had all the sleep he‘d needed, Kuzya was now darting around the apartment and tearing up the curtains. He had shattered a flower-filled vase, and piddled in my shoes.

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―I‘ll wring your neck, you piece of shit!‖ I screamed, and actually squeezed him so hard that he quieted down. Exhausted, and with a splitting headache, I fell asleep again. At 8, Kuzya howled as if a magician like Igor Kio were sawing his assistant in half for real. The cat, it appeared was demanding his breakfast. Once the scumbag had finished his meal, he settled into the armchair and fell immediately asleep, snoring. I looked at myself in the mirror. I‘d have been better off not looking. I was still facing a sleepless Sunday and Monday. ―No way!‖ I resolved, and, like a good Pavlovian, began thinking what else I could do. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I saw my childhood, how we used to chase the cats away. Eureka! Like a scalded cat myself, I rushed into the kitchen, took an empty Kitty-Cat tin, bolted into the bathroom, and grabbed an awl and a piece of twine

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out of the cabinet (after seriously considering whether to lynch the animal). I punched a small hole in the can, threaded the twine through it, and tied a square knot. I put some ball bearings inside the can. I closed the lid and taped it shut so the ball bearings wouldn‘t fall out. Softly, so as not to alarm the sleeping cat, I tied the other end of the twine to his tail. With enormous pleasure, I gave the cat a good whack, and he bolted from the armchair. Not knowing what had happened, he tore into the kitchen with the can clattering behind him. As for me, I had a good nap in the car, had a brew at the local bar, and with particular pleasure enjoyed a piece of well-done meat precisely at 8 that evening, when I was supposed to be feeding the cat. When I drove up to my building, Old Glasha, the ever-present busybody in the lobby, pursed her lips and said, ―Sounds like they‘re working late in your place, Mikhail Efimych!‖

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I could hear a steady din coming from my apartment. Kuzya, still not knowing what the problem was, was careering about the place, confounded by the racket the tin can was making. That night, both the cat and I slept like a top. In the morning, after Kuzya had eaten, I picked him up, tied the magical can to his tail again, and left for work. I need hardly mention that that night the little guy not only fell asleep easily, but even slept through breakfast. Finally, Palych returned to pick up Kuzya and ceremoniously presented me with a bottle of Hennessy. He thanked me, avoiding eye contact, and vanished. A week later he shook my hand and looked at me with moist eyes. ―He‘s sleeping at night,‖ he said. ―What did you do?‖

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Are you familiar with the madness And dreams of early springtime? When women literally make your eyes water And you stumble, forgetting who you are? When things become suddenly tragic, Then suddenly, laughter erupts, You want to send all of your friends to hell In writing, or, more often, in person? When you start taking your vitamins, When it becomes too hard to leave bed, When you become envious of the livestock Peacefully slumbering in their warm barns? Does this madness seem familiar? It is penance for your immorality. There is only one way to fight it: You have to read my poetry!

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Lips Do you like the smell of the stage? Have you ever had the fortune to look out onto a full theater and feel the vibrations of your voice and nerves resonate with the creature called the Audience? When they announced a declamation contest at school, I realized it was my great moment! I was in tenth grade and out of unrequited love started writing. Poetry. Good poems. Because I borrowed the ideas and rhymes from a very popular poet. Well, what do you care who it was? Smart and pretty girls and boys came out on stage and, with hardly a mistake, drummed out their memorized texts. Inessa Nikolayevna, the assistant principal in charge, nodded at them with a condescending half-smile. The audience members

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yawned, picked their noses, whispered, passed notes, and basically were bored. And then came the moment of my flight to glory! I stood onstage like Prometheus. My heart, under a new shirt and a jacket just back from the dry cleaners, soared in delight and plunged and froze. I took it out of my chest, raised it overhead, and began. … How I read! My voice took on strength and resilience. I hammered words, I paused. I led the audience out of darkness into radiance and greatness! I swear, the audience was hushed. With open mouths, fingers in nostrils, unfinished words, and unread notes. When I finished, there was that stunned silence that is the reason actors go onstage every day. And then—the explosion! Applause! ―Dima, you didn‘t give the author‘s name,‖ Inessa Nikolayevna said when things quieted down a bit.

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―I‘m the author!‖ I replied, bathed in the rays of glory, head held high. ―Very immodest, Dima,‖ Inessa Nikolayevna said with a frown. ―And it‘s very similar to …(and she named that very fashionable poet).‖ I wanted to argue, but I heard laughter. Actually, first it was the nasty giggles of Tolik Onupko, my sworn ―friend,‖ then came the first rustle of laughter, and then the wave of young guffaws. I rushed out of there! I was in hell! My soul was breaking apart and my heart was leaping out of my chest! I was choking on my tears… I don‘t remember how I ended up in the storeroom where the janitors kept pails and mops and took the occasional break, resting on a torn old chair. I swore I would never leave the place! I hated the world! The door creaked open and I saw a female silhouette in the doorway. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and it took a while before I

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recognized our student teacher, Natalya Vitalyevna, in the shining light that burst into the dark room. I have to tell you that this young woman, with expressive blue eyes, developed hips, long shapely legs, and a firm, small (though we argued about the size, of course) bust under her sweater, was our dream, delight, and madness. But the most important part was her lips! O, what wonderful lips she had! Puffy, sensuous, beckoning… Natalya Vitalyevna came over to me, silently took my face in her hands, and kissed me. On the lips. Sweet. Long. Until I saw stars…. There was no continuation. Ever. We never kissed again. Ever. But recently I ran into her at the department store. She had put on a lot of weight. Her features were blurred. She wore glasses. She stood in her worn shoes and shapeless coat, looking at the price tags, and shaking her head. I turned away in fright, so that she would not see me. Do you know why? Her lips! Her lips were still the same!

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The book on Romeo and Juliet, inscribed in passion, Is finished. Now trouble looms and blooming slander slams The door to summer. A razor starts to seek out ready wrists. Smiles turn to masks, The rabble‘s grimaces, The riff-raff roam among the citizens, Long fast asleep Long since unable to distinguish blood from paint. Uncannily, strange winds are blowing backwards Unbraiding all the maiden‘s braids Necessity exposes all and once more, truth is bare No one knows where this leads except Perhaps some haggish prophet brewing potions in her lair. A kiss has made this fairytale unholy The frothing madwomen gave up their writhing, And, silly me, I have decided to stand up to evil

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Although I know I cannot win this duel It is, of course, something I‘d really like to do. The day comes to my aid, parting the clouds The foreign sun is once again our own Forget the ban! We‘ll drink and dance again Finally saving our frost-bitten souls.

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Manias Manias, manias, manias…. Reason, inflamed by television and newspaper news, sleeps. Its dream, as the philosopher said, gives rise to monsters. A conceited and self-sufficient husband becomes madly jealous of his wife, who had recently become a cutie once again, after her forty-fifth birthday. He riffles her purse feverishly, checks her discarded panty liners in the garbage and her panties in the laundry hamper looking for signs of sex. He awakens at night and creeps into the bathroom, her cell phone in his sweaty palm, shuts the doors and reads her text messages. His inflamed reason paints new pictures of her numerous affairs, for his own experience in the field is basically unlimited. Offices, hotel rooms, river and sea, beach and forest, and of course, saunas. Now he wants nothing but revenge!

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There‘s just one short text. … But! It‘s the middle of the night! But! From an unknown number! And the contents! ―How are you, dear?‖ Only a total louse, bastard, and seducer of young married women could write that (the husband has forgotten that she‘s fortyfive, he no longer remembers how he used to compare his twenty-year-old partners to his wife and grimace), a creep who wants to destroy a family‘s peace and happiness! Manias, manias, manias…. Exhausted and drunk again, he returns to his empty, cold, and now strange apartment. He keeps calling that damned number, but it never answers…. And suddenly, a miracle! A gentle female voice replies. He‘s destroyed! He‘s overjoyed! ―Who‘s this?‖ ―Who‘s this?‖ ―You.. called, I mean, texted… my wife‘s phone….‖

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―Oh, so you‘re Olya‘s husband! How nice! We went to school together. Has something happened?‖ ―No, no! Everything is fine! Thank you! Sorry! Thanks! Come visit!‖ Unbelievable joy, unearthly bliss come to the reanimated and newly self-sufficient husband. I take my cell phone back from my secretary, thank her for her cooperation, and I can see her thoughts in her eyes: ―You are such a scoundrel! I want you!‖

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I love the way I cause you suffering And add on to your torments bit by bit More sleepless nights, doubts, and anxiety, And mistrust in trustworthy providence. To put it simply, I play off of you, To get back at my not quite happy life, To get back at the fact that you might love me, That you will probably always remember me, And that too often you tell me, ―Hold on!‖ When what you should be saying is ―Bug off!‖ It‘s time again for the full moon‘s deception, But still you wait for me, believe in me, You even may forget about yourself, Obediently lowering into the couch That‘s all covered in bruises from your traumas. The hangman and the victim are connected For eternity. I cannot live without you, As I write these words in melting snow, And then I cry and scream into the falling snow, And any passersby who may happen upon me Can rightfully consider me an idiot.

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I‘ve gotten lost in my imaginary game! Do you enjoy the way you cause me suffering? The circle‘s closed. We have returned. But each to his own place.

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Nurse Seryoga was dying. At least he thought he was dying. And what would you have thought if you‘d found yourself in intensive care with tubes coming out of your nose and an IV drip hooked up to your numb arm? The first time was after he was wounded. His ears were ringing, his head was splitting, his temples were pounding, his brains were coming out of his ears, his heart was coming through his chest. That‘s when Masha basically saved him the clutches of the grim reaper. Mashenka. The little angel. He‘d taken a job in Chechnya in hopes of making a better life for himself and his daughter. In a financial sense, anyway.

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Then came the hospital. Then a medal. Finally, after six long months, he finally managed to collect the money he was oweda good chunk of which had gone up in inflationary smoke. Seryoga tried hard to work, but the headaches he kept having since his concussion were bad enough sometimes that he thought he‘d lose his mind. At one point the headaches laid him low for a week, and he was fired from his job. On bad days, when Masha got home from work, she would stroke his head and whisper to him tenderly, and the pain would briefly subside. Then things got a little better. Seryoga got a job as a security guard in a bank. They could finally fill the fridge with all sorts of good things. And after Masha began working as a teller at the same bank, they were almost happy. Almost. Seryoga was mad about his little angel. He ironed her blouses, made her breakfast, took better care of her daughter than he did his own son, from his first marriage. He lived and breathed Masha.

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She treated him well, but she didn‘t so much love him as think of him as a second child. Her favorite child, perhapsbut her child, nonetheless. She spoke unendingly about not having enough money, about the awfulness of the apartment, about the gloomy prospects for the future. One time, when Seryoga finally had had it and got drunk, she kicked him out. For three days, he lived in the hallway, literally on the doormat, and kept on drinking. When Masha finally dragged him in, completely wasted, he told her over and over again, like a mantra, ―You‘re my love! You‘re my life!‖ Then, somehow, everything got better. Seryoga quit his job at the bank, leased a van, and started hauling stuff. Within a year, he had built up a small business: four vans, a truck, and a bunch of drivers and loaders. He bought Masha a mink coat and a diamond ring, and he‘d almost put together enough money for a new apartment. Masha flowered, and her girlfriends

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at the bank became openly envious, all the more so because . . . The second time Seryoga nearly died was a sultry night in June. Masha, his true love, the light of his life, was sleeping soundly alongside him. He looked over at her. His heart seized with tendernessand the thought that she was no longer his. She had cheated on him. With the head of security at the bank. She hadn‘t deleted his text messages. And Seryoga, who had always been jealous, read them that evening while she was showering. That morning, hoping for a miracle, he asked her. She answered. It was true. That she loved that man. That hethat manwas the man she had always dreamed of. That in any case she was going to leave. That evening, Seryoga got drunk. Alone. In his office.

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He called in his dispatcher, Rita, who had a thing for her tall, broad-shouldered, bright-eyed boss. He kissed her lingeringly, fondled her firm, expectant breasts . . . But nothing happened. The whole next weekdaily, for hours at a timeSeryoga kept asking Masha: Why? What for? But she said nothing, only followed him with those eyes that burned with love for another. At night, Seryoga would lock himself in the bathroom and sob. A week later, he swallowed every pill in the house and passed out. He didn‘t hear it when Masha come home and, sensing something was wrong, tried to wake him. He didn‘t hear her called him and asked him to help her get them to the hospital, how their friends carried his dying, two-hundred-pound body down the stairs and put him into the car and raced him through the streets to the hospital, flouting every rule of the road. He opened his eyes in intensive care and thought he was dying. As though he were watching

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the finale of a favorite soap, he bid farewell to life, which had become empty and worthless without Masha. . . . The shot is of a window framing a scene at the height of summer. It pulls back, and we see a guy on the left, hooked up to a respirator . . . slowly, a white ceiling, the white tile of the walls and floor. Finally, a close-up of . . . someone‘s ass. An awesome, luscious, sexy ass, in a pink thong. A nurse, a young and voluptuous nurse, is bending all the way over, not squatting, as she puts a bedpan under the bed. Her skimpy white summer uniform is made for porn. Seryoga is blown away. She was gone, the I.V. drip had been changedandstill he could see this toothsome ass in a pink thong. Seryoga remembered that when he and Masha did it for the first time, she had on the same kind of little pink thing, which drove him wild and turned

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him into a ―sweet, gentle animal,‖ as she whispered while giving his battered head a kiss. How wonderful things were with her! How could he go on living without her? And what would be the point? But the thoughts of Masha and his shattered life refused to yield to his sinfully sweet fantasy. Suddenly he broke into a cold sweat. He realized he had a huge erection. But when he thrust his hand beneath the blanket to keep down the inglorious ―tent,‖ which seemed so out of place in intensive care, he exploded with a violent shudder. Later, he remembered how it was at that same moment that he understood that you can‘t let life bend you out of shape. Or you could, of course, but it was stupid and ridiculous. Life goes on, with or without you. The sun will shine, the snow glisten, people will love and cheat, be born and die, and none of it depends on you.

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You‘re nothing but a participant in the process. Life offers you the opportunity to experience joy and heartache, each time losing yourself and finding yourself anew. When a blissful Rita the dispatcher was picking out a wedding dress with him, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, ―Be sure to put on a pink thong underneath, my love.‖

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A quill is scraping waxy paper as The quivering candle‘s flame swiftly goes out Suddenly, darkness serves as a reminder To be brave, and fear evaporates into the night How terrifying to miss out, forget, fail to reach, To hear the scrape of molars in a duel‘s silence Inhale deep, to stop yourself from falling And not to flee like an unshackled captive The air is thick with languorous desire Somewhere cadets are sending their girls flowers While many sleep, the powers have tired of their power, And the desire to flee dreams and illusions grows But we‘re not meant to flee, we remain bridled By our inevitable end gripping the reins…. How sweet it is to float away in dreamy silence Forgetting fear and lowering the gun The tiny drops of Fate dry on the waxy paper

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The fire is relit, bright as a thousand candles And life, our Tragic Sergeant has resumed his orders To keep on spinning with increasing violence

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Our Love They had been in love for eight years now. They were practically inseparable. She drowned in his eyes, which were always changing. Sometimes clear blue, when he was happy, sometimes green, when he was thinking, and dark and deep when he wanted her. He melted in her gentle and tender kisses and the velvety pure skin of her back, buttocks, and legs. When they were traveling, they always walked hand in hand. She caressed his wrist and listened for hours, not even to what he was saying but how. The timbre of his voice brought goose bumps to her back, tightening the skin around her waist and moving in two thin streams below her belly, causing a light vibration. On those days, usually in the summer, they liked to watch the sea quietly.

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She sat on a bench and he lay on his back, his head on her lap. Her hands and the light breeze ruffled his hair. Sometimes he fell into a sweet, childlike doze, and then she sat unmoving, so as not to disturb him. So he could rest. She knew how tired he got at work. She tried to help, understand, support. He was very grateful to her when she took on some of his cares. Once, in Geneva at the Metropole Hotel, he loved the chocolates from the minibar. He got all messy eating it, like a child, and praising Switzerland. His heart filled with tenderness when, back home, she brought him tea with that very same chocolate! She tried to anticipate his wishes. He tried not to upset her and almost never cheated on her. They both loved noisy groups and fancy parties.

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She would lay a yellow tablecloth and set the table with blue goblets and a golden vase with fruit, he would open a bottle of Beaujolais, and they would chat about trifles, bringing their desire to a boiling point until they drank each other in, unable to satisfy their thirst. They did not have children, but wanted a girl very much. With her eyes and skin, with his hair and sharp mind. They were practically inseparable. Only overnight and on weekends. She was his secretary.

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I hold on to the warmth of your hand And I don‘t let go out of habit I refuse to close the parentheses And keep hearing light steps coming towards I would caress you until we were shaking Feeling our souls unite At the instant your ears pop. Like a blessing from the heavens. We are sinful but the wind And the beating waves accept Our holy sin. I hold on to the warmth of your hand, As I lead your silhouette Into the empty train car Rain, sleet, puddles, bubbles…

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Pill The first time I heard about this miracle, I knew right away that I had to check it out. My friends‘ reviews were mind-boggling. ―Casanova‖ was nervously smoking in the playground and looking at the uncurtained windows with youthful curiosity and envy. At first you couldn‘t buy them in the drugstores, but even before people started writing about them in all the foreign magazines (even in some of our own), they were already here. They went for $20 apiece. Glossy, baby-blue tablets. With the lilting name Viagra. Needless to say, I went right out and bought one for myself. I‘d been warned that since it works by increasing the blood flow to the erectile tissue, it might feel a little warm. And you‘re not supposed to

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mix it with alcohol. You take it 20 or 30 minutes before sexual relations. My new girlfriend was so young, spontaneous, and infatuated with me that I decided to enlist her in my experiment. What‘s more, I really wanted not just to be irresistible but also to leave a lasting impression. We took a room in a hotel, set the table, and lit some candles. While my date looked around at the pictures on the walls, I slipped into the bedroom and put some condoms and the magical pill into the nightstand to the left of the bed. (What‘re you gonna do? That was the side I was used to sleeping on.) I didn‘t know when, or even whether, the sex would happen. The foreplay was clichéd and common. First, the rhapsodic words about her, how utterly unique and amazing she was (10 minutes), then a lot of name-dropping, as though all these people were your dearest friends (20 minutes). All this time, I‘m using the polite form of ―you‖ and topping off the wine (vodka, brandyfill in the blank) in her

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glass. Then the toast to Bruderschaft, which segues seamlessly to the silky cool of the sheets . . . Everything was going smoothly, but the feeling that at just the right moment (during the pause between what‘s happened so far and what‘s about to come) I would nimbly and unobtrusively wash down the twenty transformed dollars and become Super, Mega, etc., added an effortlessness and endurance to the first rush of passion. She talked about her good-for-nothing husband, while I nodded my head and played along. When I decided to go to the bathroom and swallow my ticket to the sweet life, she threw her arms around me, said she wouldn‘t let me go, and . . . It was wonderful, fantastic, tender and passionate, loving and intense, as if we had known everything about each other for years and wanted to pleasure each other for eternity . . . Viagra: a recipe for happiness! What would I be without that little blue pill?! How could I go on? Who would I be? I don‘t know: I can‘t imagine it . . .

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The next day she moved in with me. Four years have gone by since thenand every night the miracle recurs, and every day I await the night. I‘d like to wrap up my work and race home now, so that after dinner, some chitchat, and the usual installment of the usual endless TV series, I can slip into the cool caress of the sheets. But. Always, in the nightstand to the left, my precious pill awaitsjust in case.

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I‘ve always been a magnet for the crazy ones Their wild laughter, weeping, biting, though None of them ever ended up prostrated on the rails All were convinced for them I would surrender all. I gave them tenderness, I gave them warmth, I generously considered silliness a form of brilliance I played the hussar, rattling my sword But it turned out that nothing was enough. At times I even was in love with them But never did I have the necessary patience To be convinced finales were beginnings Instead, I‘d simply take myself and exit But then another pair of eyelashes starts fluttering And in my chest, a frenzy starts to rise Though I know very well what lies ahead of me I have already drowned in those wild eyes…

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Questions

For nearly forty years I‘ve been going to the same barbershop. In the beginning, my dad used to take me there. When I‘d cry and didn‘t want to tilt my head down so the dull clippers could clean up the back of my neck, he‘d point under the little table and say, ―Look down there, son, there‘s a lion tussling with a tiger.‖ Of course, I didn‘t believe a lion and a tiger could get under a barber‘s little table, but the question of which of them was stronger, the lion or the tiger, so consumed my attention that I began staring under the table, forgetting my discomfort for the moment, and stopped my crying. Speaking of which, to this day I still don‘t know the answer.

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Later on, when I was a teenager, I would go to the barber‘s on my own, proudly clutching forty whole kopecks in my fist. Mom absolutely insisted that I get the ―Youth Cut,‖ and had only disdain for the ―Canadian‖ to say nothing of the ―Boxer‖ and the ―Half-Boxer.‖ The hair salon was located (in fact, is located to this day) on the ground floor of a five-story building in one of those housing projects that were put up in Russian cities in the early sixties. It was in just one such five-story skyscraper that our own family became the proud occupants of 258 square feet of living space, plus a 54-square-foot kitchen. Then again, it was just a five-minute walk to school, and in ten minutes you could get bread and milk, see the empty shelves of the meat department, and enjoy the timeless beauty of painted Khokhloma tableware and Palekh boxes in a store that bore the imposing name of The Haberdashery. The Party and Government wanted their poor, tired citizens be able to buy everything they needed within easy reach of home not that there

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was much really to be had; there was no meat or sausage, but there were plenty of soup bones. They (the Party and the Government) also took an interest in the health of their citizens, and how they looked. Therefore, every housing project included an out-patient clinic and a hair salon. The salon was a world unto itself. As a teenager, worn out from wet dreams, I would bask in the company of beautiful, sweet-smelling women. Once in a while, one of the hairdressers would brush the top of my head with her bouncing breasts, arousing in me the very youthful fantasies that grownups and men of the world worry about us having.

I know almost all the hairdressers in my local salon. The blazing blonde Marina has been cutting my hair for thirty years now. We‘ve grown up in parallel, getting married, having children, always having something to say to one another.

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Ordinarily introverted, with me she‘s always voluble and open. One time, her husband, a respectable, teetotaling man, took an interest in one of Marina‘s girlfriends. In the evening he stopped playing with the kids (Marina has two wonderful twin boys, who have already become fathers themselves), and started spending time ―moonlighting.‖ We had talks about such things as, ―What is it you men need?‖ ―What does she have that I don‘t?‖ and ―What should I do?‖ We even touched on the phenomenally awkward ―Could it be that I‘m not doing something right in bed?‖ Then everything went back to normal. Either Marina‘s husband came to his senses, or our talks had proved to be of use . . . Red-headed Natashka has been working at the salon for about 15 years. I liked her from the start. On one occasion, I‘m getting my hair cut, with Marina bustling around me. I‘m looking in the mirror, as though I‘m looking at myself, but I‘m

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actually watching what‘s going on behind me. Suddenly I see a new girl. A redhead, gray eyes. She checks me out, gives me a look that‘s like a bullet. She turns and walks away . . . Mouthwatering. I should mention that during perestroika the salon was privatized, although perhaps in name only. In short order the new owner, who was visibly smitten with Marina‘s curls, changed the signboard to ―Golden Locks.‖ It was then that Marina first, and then the other workers and clients alike, started calling the place the Barbershop. Natasha worked the same shift as Marina, the next chair over. Sometimes I could see the traces on her face of a wild night; sometimes, her eyes would be deep and mournful. Before long, she married a guy who worked in a foundry. Everyone was astonished. Within a year, he started drinking. Everyone felt sorry for her.

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Then he went on the wagon, and they had a son. Everyone was happy for her. Then he hit the bottle again. Everyone shed tears. About ten years ago, she came to me for advice. I said I didn‘t give advice, but that I would listen and share my thoughts. If you want, take my advice. If you don‘t, don‘t. We talked about such things as ―What‘s the thrill of drinking that shit?‖ ―What is it you men need?‖ and ―What should I do?‖ We even touched on the phenomenally awkward ―Could it be that I‘m not doing something right in bed?‖ Then everything went back to normal. Either Natasha‘s husband came to his senses or our talks together had proved to be of use . . . Veronica is sweet and always has a smile. Somehow she became part of the team so quickly and quietly that it seemed like she‘d been there forever. In fact, about ten years ago, pale and

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thin as a reed, but with a chest that spoke volumes, she was standing one day on the stoop and smoking. I was in a hurry (I had a presentation or birthday to go to that evening), but I stopped at the door, said, ―Smoking, huh? You‘re thin and pale as it is, and there are babies to have,‖ then dashed inside. Settled in my chair, I told Marina with a grin about my harmless little crack. Well, it turns out Veronica had been married for three years and still didn‘t have any children. She went to doctors, and they all told her she was OK. She persuaded her husband to get himself checked out. The doctors said that this young, strong, athletic guy had the problem. Marina whispered this hotly into my ear while fastening my cape to keep the hair out of my shirt. That‘s when my special relationship with Veronica began. I gave her compliments, and I always brought her little gifts from my frequent trips abroad.

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I felt sorry for the girl, and from time to time Marina and I would talk about things like sperm donors and in vitro fertilization. Once time, when I presented Veronica with a miniature Eiffel Tower while making small talk about something or other, she furtively slipped a note into the breast pocket of my jacket. It had her cell number on it. I called. She asked if we could meet and have a talk. We talked about the following subjects: ―All men are egotists!‖ and ―What should I do?‖ We even touched on the phenomenally awkward subject of ―Where can I find a smart and healthy donor?‖ On one of my visits to the Barbershop, I noticed that Veronica had put on a little weight and color, and her eyes were radiating happiness. She gave birth to a bouncing baby girl, healthy and smart. Either the doctors had found a way to help her husband, or our talks together had proved to be of use . . .

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I always have a warm and fuzzy feeling at the Barbershop. It‘s like home. We shoot the breeze, laugh, care about each other‘s children and our country. I look at these good women, so different and yet so alike: Marina, Natasha, Veronika, Lida, Yana. I look at them and think, ―How nice they don‘t realize that, inside them all, there‘s a little grain of me!‖

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A cup of tea, a cup of tea I‘m the sugar, you‘re the water Here I sit with my legs bobbing Twirling round my little spoon I will purse my lips with greed Trying to suck out the sweet nectar I am cozy, I feel free Steam is whistling out the kettle It would seem that things were simple A full table and no guests I am sweating, I am desperate Hurry up, why don‘t you—melt! In the fondness of epistles In the soft whispers of love Shuck off all your heavy torments Hurry up and come to me Cup of tea, a cup of tea You‘re the sugar, I‘m the water Once again I will forgive you Like you‘ll always do for me.

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Road Our city is connected to the capital, strangely enough, by the Moscow Road. It is a federal highway. In some backwater in Europe, it would be at least a four-lane divided road, with a strong metal barrier to prevent weaving into oncoming traffic, and probably ornamented with planted flowers. Every twenty or thirty kilometers there would be rest stops where you could shower, nap, and have a pretty good snack. In our case, there is no divider, and the two lanes on each side often turns into a single lane jammed with trucks, along which you drag at 60 kph and wonder who (and how!) allocates taxes to transportation. At least there plenty of cafes and snack bars! Some are just metal shacks, some wooden houses, and the very successful ones have motels, where, after

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eating and drinking on the first floor, you can go up to the second to sleep or spend time with a girl. Speaking of girls. The market in which our country has been living the last fifteen years actively meets the demand for many services, including intimate ones. Along the highway, they are special. Of course, even in Soviet times girls on the roadside (the long-haul truckers called them ―shoulders‖) were not a rarity. As a rule in those days, hard-drinking women who had given up on themselves and wanted ―freedom‖ got it in that strange way. The main desire drivers had back then, where there was no place to eat well or sleep, was for company on the Road. The shoulder girls chatted, keeping drivers awake, made soup over a campfire, and did their laundry in summer and kept them warm in winter. It cost only a few kopecks. The truckers who traveled the same routes knew where you could pick up shoulder girls and often dropped them off in the same place for a colleague just starting the trip.

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But the new times changed the girls. Now there were quite a few young and sober ones, who don‘t have registration permits in big cities but do have the desire to earn money (the service has gotten much more expensive) and then settle down with a good husband and bring up kids, crossing out the diesel-fumed period of their lives. Sometimes they were students spending the summer to pay the rent and buy fashionable clothes. So, I didn‘t know anything about shoulder girls…. I was dragging behind a Volvo semi on the Moscow road, listening to music and thinking about the weekend. Sales managers are often sent to Moscow on business trips. All the open and secret lines along which money moves in Russia intersect in Moscow. Moscow has the major wholesalers representing world brands, Moscow has customs and

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certification, Moscow has permissions and licenses, and so on and so on. The sales director called me to his office and said, ―Denis, go to Moscow tomorrow, I have something to be given to someone, and I don‘t trust anyone but you to do it,‖ explained everything in detail and added that it would be better to go by car. This made me sad. No, not scared. I‘ve delivered those packages before. It‘s just that the next day was Friday, and Saturday was Lena‘s birthday. I couldn‘t refuse to go to Moscow, and I couldn‘t miss Lena‘s birthday. A dilemma. All right, I figured, I‘ll leave around four a.m., be in Moscow by ten, take care of business, grab a nap, and head back. I‘d fit everything in. And there I was, stuck behind the truck, and I was sick…. It was dawn already, summer, sunshine, fresh air blowing in the window and then under my shirt. It felt good!

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But there was nothing good about being in Moscow after ten, who knew how long I‘d have to wait. They don‘t accept packages there just anytime. That Volvo truck was really bugging me! Couldn‘t pass, oncoming traffic was steady, as if the cars were being poured from a sack. All right, I thought, I‘ll enjoy the morning and think about Lena. About Tuesday. Man, that had been great! The road became two lane, but the truck stayed in the left. I honked, but that didn‘t help. I went to the right lane, gave it gas, and just then the huge truck also moved to the right lane, finally deciding to let me pass, the dope. I moved onto the side of the road, hit the brakes, my wheel went on dirt, and I was spun around. Lucky this side of the road was flat so I ended up on grass, just missing hitting a tree. I wasn‘t wearing a seat belt, stupid. I banged my head on the windshield—saw stars.

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I caught my breath and jumped out of the car, ran all around it—it was fine! I lay down on the grass to see if I had damaged the engine case or muffler. Everything looked OK when I noticed bare feet. Not under the car, of course, but next to it. Delicate, female feet. And higher (lots of space under the car) exquisite ankles. I felt my head ache (I had forgotten about hitting the windshield) and thought that I was hallucinating. I leaped up, but there were stars swimming around me, everything was fuzzy, and suddenly it got dark. I had a wonderful dream, my mother was holding me and whispering gentle words. I felt so peaceful and happy. She bathed my head with cold water and said, ―Silly boy, you should be more careful!‖ I opened my eyes, realized I was lying on the grass, my head was in somebody‘s lap, and the female

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voice, not my mother‘s, was not a dream but burbling in real life. I looked up, my gaze caught on a nice C cup, and then I saw a fiery-red miracle. This miracle‘s name was Yulia, she was a student heading for Myachkovo to spend her vacation with her aunt. The bus broke down, and she was hitch-hiking when she saw the Volvo drive my Zhiguli 10 off the road. We chatted and ate the sandwiches I had packed for the trip. We had tea from my Thermos. The fresh air, pleasant company, and my youth overcame the headache; I got behind the wheel confidently and offered her a ride to Myachkovo. She accepted (I noticed the attentive evaluating look she gave me), tossed her small bag in the back seat (I thought she was traveling very light), and got in front, adjusting the seat to her parameters, and we were off. Speaking of parameters. I‘ve already mentioned the C cup, add long legs with those lovely feet and slender ankles, stormy fiery-red hair, blue eyes, plump lips (I even wondered if she‘d had

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silicone injections), and a bare, pierced belly button. I‘ve had my share of sex, and my Lena made me the envy of my friends. But this was such powerful sexual energy, it was heart-stopping. So we‘re driving along, chatting about this and that, and she keeps smiling with her white teeth and giving me sly looks. When we reached Myachkovo, she said, ―Den (the short form of Denis all my friends use), may I ride on to Moscow with you? I‘ll be spending enough time with my aunt.‖ ―No problem,‖ I said, and a shiver ran through me, even as I felt feverish. Need I tell you that I raced to the capital, telling her all kinds of stories and jokes to impress her with my ease and suaveness. In Moscow I handed over the package (smiled and said thank you, as I was taught) and hurried to get out of the city, which could stifle any provincial in its embrace. Everything would have been fine, except I suddenly realized that I didn‘t want to go home at all.

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Not even to Lena. And then Yulia touched my ear with her hot lips and whispered, ―Den, let‘s stop at a motel and get some rest.‖ And I had a dream, how I parked at the motel that looked like an ancient castle, how we went upstairs, how I lay on cool sheets after my shower and couldn‘t believe that the water would stop running and my gorgeous passenger would join me. I forgot about Lena‘s birthday, about recharging my cell phone, and that my mother would suffer if I vanished for two days, which, like the nights, no longer existed. They brought us food and champagne, the shower kept running, the bliss was infinite. … Monday morning was strange. I woke up and saw Yulia sitting opposite and looking at me like a wounded doe (I‘ve never been hunting or seen a doe, but I think that‘s how it would look at you). She was dressed, hair combed, make up on.

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―Den,‖ she said with a smile (I even thought then that the smile seemed phony), ―You get packed while I go down and pay for the room and food.‖ I realized it was Monday, that there was a completely different life out there and I had to go to work and Yulia to her aunt‘s. I gave her my wallet and went to shower. You‘ve probably guessed that when I went downstairs, there was no Yulia to be found. My empty wallet lay on the bar, still with my driver‘s license, thank God, and the motel owner saw the look on my face and poured me a shot of vodka and told me about shoulder girls. I don‘t remember how long it took me to shape up and realize that I had to go home. When I got to the car I saw a piece of paper under the wiper; in a tiny and pretty hand, it said: ―You won‘t believe it, but this is the first time I‘ve ever done anything like this! I‘m running away from myself, I‘m not worthy of you. Forgive me if you can.‖

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That‘s when I started to laugh. At myself and my feelings. At shoulder girls and suckers. At Lena and the sales director. At our country and life, which are impossible to understand. I laughed, had some more vodka, and went home. Back home I calmed down my mother (she always accepts and forgives), sent Lena and the sales director to hell, and drank for a week. Lena was insulted to death, but my boss understood and forgave me (he‘s a terrific guy). In yet another week I had to go to Moscow again. With a package. It was raining, I was in no hurry. As I approached Myachkovo, I couldn‘t believe my eyes. On the shoulder of the road, in the rain, Yulia was hitching a ride. I stopped. I got out calmly and quietly said … She stood in silence, weeping and cowering under my words.

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God, how great I felt! I got in the car with a smile, turned the ignition key, smoothly engaged the clutch, slowly got into first, neatly gave it some gas, and gently drove off. I looked in the rearview mirror with pleasure at the receding little hunched figure and the sign ―Myachkovo‖ with its red stripe through it to show you had left it. In another minute I stopped and went into reverse…. And in another two minutes I watched her in the rearview mirror sitting in the back seat, looking like a wounded doe, with rain drops dripping from her (apparently naturally red) hair and mixing with her tears. I looked and thought that the Road that chooses us knows more than we do, it is wiser, and it will always take us to our dream.

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The footprints in the sand are the remains of the reflection Of your soul The waves are whispering, reiterating ebb and flow And sand is whispering, Still wearing down its ancient grains, I‘m running on the water‘s edge with My eyes closed. The ocean‘s eyelashes are painted green And, in the storm, Souls rush towards one another With a dolphin‘s cry. The footprints in the sand have vanished, but Once more, The sea‘s green gaze has chained me to Its shore… Beyond the waves, I know there is Another coast Where you await me, always dreaming, and Always alone.

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Solitude How I love that sweetly aching pain in the morning. When you don‘t want to open the curtains and let the sun into the room, tired by the sleepless night. When morning tiredness is like evening tiredness. When you wallow in thoughts of what has passed, what will never be, what could have been… On a morning like that it‘s particularly pleasant to send a text ―Don‘t ever write to me again‖ or ―I‘m glad you‘ve forgotten about me‖ or ―Someone will treat you like this some day‖ and then enjoy the responses ―What‘s wrong?‖ or ―I don‘t understand!‖ or ―I can‘t live without you!‖ It‘s such a pleasure to envy those who started out with you but achieved more and live better (although, what does it mean to live better?). To look out the window and send air kisses to bygone years.

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To hurry time, demonstrating absolute indifference, even disdain, for the fact that it will sooner or later come to an end. To turn on the TV and enjoy stories of crashed airplanes, failed lives, humiliated senior citizens, young people turned into invalids by medical treatment, alcoholic talents, and forgotten heroes….. To persuade yourself that you are much happier than people who are overwhelmed by work, whom you see on the TV, who litter every page of the glossies, who trade in eighteen-year-old girls for fiftyyear-old women, and then vice versa, and then vice versa, and once again…enjoying the range and comparisons, who want EVERYTHING but will end up with a modest epitaph. I brew some coffee, add frothed milk, lazily sink into an armchair and melt in the cool quiet of the room, apartment, building, city, country, world, universe, galaxy.

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I dissolve into the stars, I am the highest, wisest, best… GOD! HOW I HATE SOLITUDE!!!!!

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One day of loneliness The snow falls endlessly A flurry swirls around my head And everything goes on as usual How strange… A week of loneliness passed like a dream Where I am out at sea, alone The dolphins cry, I have disrupted them The phone, forgotten, never rings… What is a month of loneliness? It only means the heart stops beating fast And now there is sufficient silence To drink and wash your face as well… A year of loneliness like the first year of love No end to tenderness or worry The threat of overdoing it doesn‘t Even put fear into your heart A life of loneliness is probably akin to death Beautiful, cold, and unresponsive The snow has stopped! It‘s a good omen: Open the windows and unlock the doors.

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Test A watch. I‘ve always wanted one. Not the gold Pobeda that my grandfather had bought for himself, given to my father, and my father had given to me . . . What I wanted was bliss-on-a-wrist from faraway Switzerland! There, in the foothills of the Alps, where the air is clean as a baby‘s kiss; where well-kept cows with bells clanging on their necks graze on grass that‘s as green as in a ―Save the Forest‖ poster; there, in the homeland of the marvelously melodious word fondue (which for the longest time I thought was a karate cry); there, and only there, could my wonder-watch be crafted. A budding entrepreneur, I stood spellbound over the glass display case in the Frankfurt airport. Unable to tear myself away, felt a kind of mad delight as I read the cherished names: Vacheron Constantin, Patek Philippe, Audemars Piguet, Breguet, Rolex . . .

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Not long thereafter, as the Russian rep for a number of Italian furniture makers, I saw the Rolex on a small shelf beneath a mirror. The mirror hung above a sink. In a restroom. At a furniture factory. In Italy. For a moment, I broke into a sweat and looked around. No one. I was by myself . . . . The lordly housing of the timepiece gleamed like cold steel; the black face beckoned me to splendors as yet unfathomed, like the myriad stars of the cosmos . . . No one . . . Oh, how I yearned to take it, to place it in my pocket and leave. Stride away. The contract be damned. To hell with my genial, hospitable host. A pox on Italy and its pizzas, its spaghetti and Mussolini! But I had already started feeling proud of myself. I no longer took pens and notepads from hotel rooms (even though they would reappear dailyindeed, with idiotic regularityon my night table) to give to my freeloading friends back home

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And I had already started wearing suits by Canali. But a watch! With numbing fingers I picked up the coveted chronometer. I tried it on. I carefully took it off and tremblingly put it in my pocket. I exited the restroom. Smiling, I walked down the hall and gently opened the factory owner‘s door. Oh, how I hated myself when I took my dream casually out of my pocket and placed it on his desk. ―Hey, someone left this in the bathroom,‖ I said, and the smile froze on my face. ―OK!‖ said the nice Italian and tossed the Rolex into a drawer . . . These days I‘m delighted to say I wear a fine Audemars Peguet, but when I travel on business or go on vacation, I switch to a Santos de Cartier . . . But sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I wonder whether he ever returned the Rolex.

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Life, turning a zig-zagged Corner Recalls a mechanical Melody, And I, shuffling my feet back, Shrink, Having forgotten established Clichés. To tell the truly awful Truth, I find it very gratifying Indeed To throughout and accurately Rediscover One of life‘s long ago played-out Motifs. Silence can tempt with its imaginary Music, Prayer is powerful, but can be Dry The words cancel the meaning, muddling The message,

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Taking the pride out of the joyous Verse. He who say, fearing the Lord‘s conversation With the demon, Was wealthy, and impoverish, And ill, He‘ll be reminded as he sings The mass Of a contemporary painting‘s Nuances. The ear that did away with lowly Grins, Will pick up on the false pitch of The mandate, As enchanted, wild Violins Call to a darkening, palatial Distance.

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Toilet

You know what Prada is? Some of you know-it-alls will say it‘s a palace. In Spain. Where there‘s a museum. Uh-uh; nope. It‘s a fashion label, my dears: The Devil Wears Prada, Meryl Streep, etc. And do you know how a Prada rep looks when he walks into a fancy boutique, nostrils aquiver, to evaluate the possibility of bestowing on the lucky owner the right to . . . no, not to sell, but to revel in the Luxury Brand he represents? The quintessence of glamour and the height of good taste. Everything calculated, everything calibrated. Every step, every gesture, every breath. Every detail. At the same time he is cold and unapproachable. That was Mario.

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Once upon a time, Mario materialized in our fair city. It was on the third-floor gallery of the Euromode boutique. With a fussy eye, he checked it out, sniffed it out, sounded it outwhile all the while you could see on his face the desire to show his Luxury Label there. The owner of Euromode, who‘s a friend of mine, a man with the simple name of Aron Mikhailovich, chatted idly with him. Through an interpreter, of course. Of course, he regaled this Mario with the requisite cock-and-bull about how other Luxury Brands did business with his establishment (the only game in town at such a rarefied level). About his good credit. (Ha!) About how he wasn‘t sure whether the town was ready for a label like Prada, whether anyone would buy it . . .In short, he slowly tortured Mario, until the poor man decided in his favor. Now, the ardent Italian, having invested not a little effort in hearing him out, began a critique of the

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shop. The lighting isn‘t right, he said, and the collections were incomplete in fact, he said, the whole place is nothing to write home about. In sum, he did everything he could to wring a sniveling consent to his every condition out of Aaron Mikhailovich, whom he‘d already forced to his knees. My friend listened to it all . . . and sent the Great Man packing. Him, and his glamour, and his chic, and his charm, and all the rest. Red as a lobster, Mario fled the shop, jumped into the car that Aron Mikhailovich had provided with the best of intentions not long before, and said to the driver, ―Aeroporto!‖ slamming the door behind him. And there it all might have ended, but for the most banal of reasons. Mario was in need of a men‘s room. Badly. But his car had already crossed the bridge and was on a road where there were no cafes, no

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restaurants, no hotels. The poor devil was in a bad way. He cursed the abominable coffee, and the vile brandy, and the stinking town, and . . . Our visitor found himself at the end of his rope. ―Signore, toilette!‖ he intoned to the driver, in a plaintive recitative. Ahh, smiled the driver. That‘s something we‘ve got plenty of! He pulled the car up to a wooden structure that looked like a birdhouse with a slanted roof. Looking timorously around, our hero slinked down, made his way to the sacred door, opened it, and went inside . . . When he came out again, he could have been another man! He asked the driver to take him back to the boutique. Striding in mud-caked shoes, wiping his chalky head with his freezing hands, he walked up to Aron Mikhailovich and started to say something. Something rapid-fire and heated.

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While someone went for the interpreter, the driver, laughing, shared the details of their adventure with my friend. ―We won‘t be needing her to interpret,‖ my friend said firmly. ―I‘m signing the contract.‖ Mario‘s bright, open smile said it all: He‘d been understood just fine.

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Snow is winter‘s invitation To take part in flurries‘ exultation When the fir trees, cloaked in snow Become the cruxes of this evocation Of songs we know from childhood. It‘s hard for me to wake up singing When my heart is once again encumbered With troubles, with the weight of years And no bright invitation To decorate the tree can cheer me Though I am always ready for the presents… The morning snow lays fresh And after breakfast, warmth Inspires my father‘s ancient coat To pair up with my suit Smiling at wintry trees, I melt into the snowfall…

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Unexpected Does your town have a Yuri Gagarin Street? I‘ll bet it does. Yuri Gagarin, first man in space, and all that, was simply a very kind and open man—just look at his smile. You know the old joke that Gagarin liked everything—his spacesuit (not very comfortable and very heavy), his seat in the spaceship (very tight), and just everything, except one thing. He didn‘t like the dog smell! (The dogs Belka and Strelka flew into outer space before him). Get it? So, anyway, I was driving along Gagarin Prospect, no traffic, the sun was shining, no crazy divers. Cool. Suddenly, a silver Lexus swerved from the right lane, ending up right in front of me, I barely had time to brake.

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The idiot in the Lexus got back into his lane and drove on, as if nothing had happened. I saw a dog running across the road. So, rather than hit the dog he swerved (that‘s what brought the Gagarin joke to mind) and didn‘t even think about what could happen to a human being (also in a pretty fancy car, mind you). I hit the gas on my Camry (don‘t worry, it‘s got good pick up) and I dashed after that misanthropic so-and-so. You know how it is, whether you speed or not, you‘ll meet up at a red light. I caught up with the Lexus at the second light, and I saw that the driver is a woman. A woman in a car is like a monkey with a grenade, you just don‘t know what to expect! I lowered my passenger window, beeped, and yelled: ―Hey, lady, don‘t worry about the doggie, it‘s fine, but me, I‘ve got wet pants now!‖ She lowered her driver‘s side window and said, ―Sorry, what?‖ I saw her eyes and my breathing stopped.

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Dark blue, so deep you could drown in them, but most importantly, there was such sadness and longing in them. A world of it! I shivered. The light turned green and we drove on, but at the next light I persisted. ―Young lady! You helped the dog, but you cut me off so close that now my pants need a wash! Could you help me out?‖ And, just imagine, she tossed her card into my window and drove off, while I had to make a left turn. I did and then pulled over. My curiosity was killing me, and I read: ―Stella Drozdova, Designer‖ along with her phone numbers, including her cell. That was clear, a designer, and with a name like Stella! Of course she wouldn‘t notice anything around her, a creative person like that. I took the trouble to call her cell phone and waited patiently. Here‘s how it is. Usually, a cell phone for a woman is primarily an accessory. She doesn‘t realize right away what‘s ringing, where it is, and then she has to find the poor thing in her purse…

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Stella answered quickly, in her pleasant, velvety voice. ―It‘s the monk in wet pants!‖ I told her. ―A monk because I‘m tolerant‖ (I showed off a recently learned word) ―and in wet pants because of you, Stella!‖ ―I‘m going out of town, to the countryside,‖ Stella said. ―You can keep me company in the forest and dry and air out your pants.‖ She hung up. What made me drop my business and follow her then? Maybe her voice, deep somehow, or her eyes that had peered into my very soul, or the pool of sadness in those eyes…. Anyway, I got back on Gagarin Prospect and headed out of town. We have only one road here, you just keep going and you won‘t go wrong. As I drove, I thought, ―Am I making a mistake? She‘s just pulling my leg, and I‘m falling it for it.‖ And then I saw the silvery Lexus pulled over at the highway patrol station just before the turn.

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As soon as I got close, Stella turned on the left signal and drove on briskly. Following, I wondered, ―What if she‘s the wife of some local oligarch? Maybe she‘s bored in her golden cage and wants an adventure? Maybe she‘ll bring me to her country house, and we‘ll go up the carved staircase to the bedroom, and romp on the lavender sheets….‖ Sure enough, she turned toward one gated community but went past it toward the lake. She stopped. I stopped the car and quickly leaped out of my Camry, ran over to her car, opened the door with a gallant bow and said, ―My lady, please!‖ She just sat there, looking me over and smiling. But here eyes were still sad. I looked inside the car and saw that it was a complicated one. All kinds of chrome levers, I‘d never seen anything like it. ―Come on, then, Stella, jump out!‖ And I offered her my hand.

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She put her hand in mine, but stayed in the car. I realized that I was missing something, and she said, ―If you don‘t mind, look in the trunk,‖ and pushed a button. You can open the trunk from inside a Lexus. I went to the back, looked in, like a fool, and saw…. A wheelchair. I took it out, opened it, pushed it to the driver‘s door, but I didn‘t know what to do next. Stella looked at me, still smiling, but with fear in her eyes—what if I run away. It felt as if something gave me a push, and I picked her up carefully. If you have children, you know that when you pick them up and they put their arms around you and hold tight with such trust in a big strong adult, it gives you shivers up and down your spine. If you don‘t have children, you have that wonderful moment ahead of you.

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So there I was, holding Stella in my arms, and I felt such tenderness it practically brought tears to my eyes. I held her and whispered in her ear, ―How do you go driving alone? Do you want me to hold you forever this way?‖ I whispered without knowing what had come over me! She pressed closer to me, just like a little girl, and whispered back, ―I do!‖ A year later, for her birthday, I had her Lexus detailed with a cute white poodle. A year after that, we came back from Moscow, where Stella had three operations. And a year after that, she could walk on her own. When we drive out into the countryside, I get out first and pick up my joy in my arms. She presses close to me, and I look up and see in the sky above both Belka and Strelka and Yuri Gagarin, who smiles down at me with his happy, sunny smile.

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Along that funny bend, your line of destiny Where circumstance may blend with tragedy, From friends, acquaintances, love, parting, and betrayal Is where you‘re borne from and what you are made of. The fire burns. Again, the flowers flare Their flaming petals like beacons of happiness Stupidity and gumption, laughter, tears Are where you‘re borne from and what you are made of We build the bridges to our dreams and wishes Beneath them flow long rivers of our joy From sun and storm, harsh winds and pleasant breezes Is where you‘re borne from, and what makes you YOU!

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View Remember the Jack London story about the kid who gets sick one autumn and keeps looking out the window at a lone tree that‘s growing across the street. He watches the leaves falling and thinks he‘s going to die when the last one drops off. He tells his mother, who tells a neighbor; and every evening when it gets dark, and the rain and the wind are going crazy, the neighbor climbs the tree and ties down the last leaf, so the kid can see it the next morning. The kid gets better, but the neighbor catches cold, gets pneumonia, and . . . dies. Well, I‘m laid up in a hospital with double pneumonia and thinking about that story. I‘d felt a little indisposed, the kind of thing you think nothing of, and then I had a slight temperature, but a week later at work it hit me so hard that they hauled me off to the emergency room. They took an X-ray and,

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what do you know!walking pneumonia. Twentyone days in a hospital bed! Needless to say, I was in the fee-for-services section (thank goodness we now have such a thing), where medical care is as good as anywhere in the world. In terms of cost. And, of course, of comfort: a single room, a TV, a fridge, nice nurses. Plus, outside the window I could see a treethe bottom of one, anywaysince the wonderful fee-for-services section was in the lowest part of the building. So, I‘m looking at this tree. I see the homeless people collecting bottles and scraps of food. In hospitals, in case you didn‘t know, people who ordinarily might have a healthy appetite but are tired of life throw their leftovers, cigarette butts, and, God knows, wine bottles out the window (it wouldn‘t do to visit a patient empty-handed). That‘s par for the coursenot to shamble down the long hall to the toilets. Anyway, I‘m looking at this tree. I think of Jack London, and his harsh fate: the Klondike, the

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prospectors, the limelight. I‘d just gotten to the most riveting part, about how many women he‘d had, when some weird thing comes flying out of the sky and lands on a branch of my tree. At first, I thought it was a piece of a surgical glove from one of the operating rooms, but then I realized: it was a condom! ―Holy shit!‖ I think. ―Somebody‘s certainly having a good time! – either the doctors or the patients!‖ Now I was overcome with an ineffable melancholy. Here I was, ailing, it was summer out, and I was no good to anyone, hurtling through life like an unused condom, not having the slightest inkling of where I‘d land. I thought of how self-conscious I‘d always been about buying them at the drugstore, how I‘d try and wait until no one else was in line (or at least until there weren‘t any women around), how I would blushingly refer to them as ―things‖ or just point to them in the glass case and mumble, ―I‘d like some of those.‖ I thought about how a mere scrap of latex

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could be filled with life, yet how many lives it could nip in the bud. Who was this anonymous executioner who could answer poor Hamlet‘s ―To be or not to be?‖ with just the wave of a hand? So great was my stress, in fact, so powerfully did it mobilize my inner resources, that to my doctors‘ astonishmentand regret, since I‘d been paying my bills quite reliablyI was discharged. The next day, I struck a bargain with the medical director to install screens on the all the hospital‘s windows.

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Who scattered cigarette butts over the pavement? Who is dead sober, sleeping fitfully? Who‘s doing somersaults? Who‘s sleeping sweetly in the gutter? Who did the calculations for the Mars shuttle? Who finally paid off their debts just yesterday? Who doesn‘t read the paper? Who‘s read too much? Who paints their nails to look like watermelons? Who shaves their armpits every day? Who makes well-timed and clever jokes? Who stirs more quietly than a mouse? Who kills flies with a single blow? Who mans the gun? Who wasted their whole life? Who hasn‘t? Who will judge?

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Wave Do you know what an Ocean Wave is like? Just five minutes after I had joined other joyful and excited people of various races and creeds in laughing at the threatening ocean wave that turned into white, harmless foam at the shore, the struggle began. Biarritz is a place in France, coddled by God. Doll-sized houses, cloudless blue sky, and a languorous view of the Atlantic. It was September. The gentle sun filled me with the powerful energy of the universe. Life seemed sweet and infinite. I drank it up, unhurried, savoring every drop. I did not notice how I ended up on the crest of the Wave. And then below. And then on the crest again. I helped myself along a bit with arms and legs, enjoying this ―lullaby.‖

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When I turned to shore, a bit tired, I realized that the ocean wasn‘t letting me go. People swam nearby, calm and confident. I tried to swim toward the beach, but the ocean toyed with me. Sometimes it helped me move forward, when the Wave rushed to shore, then took me with it as it rolled back. I got scared. I was a small, silly boy again, needing help but Mama was away somewhere. Finally, I got tired. I could see the beach, I tried to touch the longed-for sand, but in vain. … I wanted to call for help. Just as ―Help!‖ was on my lips, a new wave engulfed me. I promised God I would become a new person. I would give up worldly things, be a model family man, and never think about other women. When I came up for air, spitting, there were still people swimming along, paying no attention to me. They were calm and confident.

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Instinct told me to relax and rest when the Wave was rising, and swim as hard as I could when it receded. Scraps of thoughts and images flashed through my mind. I hated the ocean, the sun, myself, and the damned place I picked for a vacation. The wave swallowed me up again, and when I came up, I gathered my strength and shouted, ―Help me!‖—and felt sand, drowned by the centuries, beneath me. I crawled on shore and staggered toward the hotel. A woman gave me a concerned look and asked, I think, ―Are you all right?‖ Like a zombie, I made it to my chaise longue and collapsed on it. Even a half hour later, when I was gradually feeling better, my pulse was still 120…. But an hour later, I was in the restaurant, enjoying juicy lamb chops and gazing at the ocean. I drank this life, savoring every drop.

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I sailed over the mirrored parquet With a shade We sailed through the air, unreal, Because we could. The portraits in the echoing hall lit up With laughter in their eyes I‘d cleared the barriers once more— You couldn‘t wait?! The silky touch of skin that‘s barely touching, Like a secret, They watch the dance that‘s full of falsehood, Yet so real… Embracing, spinning, reveling, In waltz time, And thinking only, ―Stay behind, My shade!‖ Hot sweat. The first light‘s speechlessness Clenching my jaw, I am not far from madness. I reach for it, but the shade slips Out of my grasps, I‘m dazed, The audience starts laughing,

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Now they‘re weeping, Cacophony… I sailed along the edge of consciousness, Unconscious, I tricked my will and wishes, A success!

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X-emption Iosif Sherman, a.k.a. Yoska, was a carrottopped, freckle-faced, blue-eyed guy. Truth to tell, it was only the shape of his ears and the fact that he‘d been circumcisedwhich you could see, of course, when he went to the baths (and which the Nazis infamously used in the camps as a sign of ―racial impurity‖) gave him away as not totally Russian. Or totally not Russian, actually. Well, one day, Yoska, who was seventeen at the time, was strolling happily down the street. In fact, he was flying high. In his pocket he was carrying a much-coveted certification that exempted him, on medical grounds, from the military draft. Now, this was during Afghanistan, the time of the horrible ―cargo 200‖ [the army bill of lading for caskets] (although in the past twenty-five years it‘s become almost commonplace). And, let‘s face it: There

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weren‘t exactly a lot of young men at the time who were yearning to go into the army. Yoska halted, reached deliberately for the little billfold that contained his prized exemption, opened it tremulously, and looked at the all-important entry: ―Diagnosis: periodic amnesia with pronounced underlying neuropathology.‖ He scrunched his eyes with pleasure, then read on: ―Unfit for military service. By finding of the medical review board.‖ ―Today we party,‖ he thought, and then suddenly he went cold. He peered at the paper that was going to spare him from scorching APCs, smothering heat, grit in his mouth, constant, animal fear, and the hashish to keep it at bay. The paper looked unexceptional. It was fresh; it still had the smell of printer‘s ink. Under ―Last name, First name, Middle,‖ he read: Sherman, Iosif Davidovich. Check; check; check. But under ―Ethnicity‖ was the word . . . Russian.

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Yoska broke into a sweat, considered for a momentand turned around. Back to the draft board. An overfed warrant officer sat dozing at the ―Documents‖ window. A haggard housefly loitered over the man‘s greasy postprandial face. Yoska took a deep breath, blew loudly, and thrust the paper before the man‘s now open, but still uncomprehending, eyes. ―Whaddaya want?‖ said the man, as if by rote. ―Look at this,‖ said Yoska as civilly as he could manage. ―Do you take me for a Russian?!‖ He trilled his R emphatically. The officer stirred, perused the red curls, freckles, and blue eyes that he saw in front of him, and repeated, ―Whaddaya want?‖ ―Do it over,‖ Yoska demanded. At this point, there‘s something that needs mentioning: Yoska had something of a short fuse, and a tendency to throw his weight around. This wasn‘t someone who was going to suffer an indignity without a fightespecially when it came to ethnicity.

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He would take on anyone who crossed him, no matter how many. On top of which, he was an Ariesand in Aries, hardheadedness sometimes trumps the instinct for self-preservation. The officer lost whatever composure he‘d had. Yoska pressed on. The man spat. ―Take it to Enlistment, dipshit!‖ he said. ―Obviously, they at least gave you the right diagnosis!‖ The enlistment officera surly, sallow lieutenant with a little brush of a black mustache, a scar on his forehead, and a prosthesis in place of his left armheard out the troublemaker in silence. The officer was tired as a dog. He should have been out of there by now . . . He looked the red-headed freak in the eyes, picked up an interoffice phone, dialed a three-digit number, and barked something short and clipped into it. A minute later, a buxom female of indeterminate

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age came in. Another fifteen minutes, and Yoska was on his way home, head held high and papers in order. Back home, he hungrily slurped down some cold cucumber soup and sliced off a piece of watermelon. Taking a bite of the melon‘s sweet, juicy flesh, he opened his billfold again, chuckled contentedly, and started flipping the pages. Inside, someone had inserted a loose sheet. Under ―Last name, First name, Middle,‖ it said Sherman, Iosif Davidovich; and under ―Ethnicity,‖ it said . . . Russian. He cast aside the unfinished slice of melon, threw on a shirt, and headed straight for the draft board. What happened next, you can already guess. The Documents window, the warrant officer, the fly, the unintelligible dialog, the surly commissioner . . . The lieutenant‘s eyes turned leaden. He jumped up, flung his artificial arm at the floor, and roared: ―I‘ll fix you, you dirtbag! I‘ll stick you in the

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bomb squad, you red-headed son-of-a-bitch! You‘re going to Kandahar! Yoska couldn‘t remember how he got outside again. On the way home, he clutched the ―exemption‖ in his trembling hands and thought about how much he hated the army.

Then and there, he decided he would go to med school. Become a surgeon, like his dad. Then, in his six year there, he fell in love. Even the fact that she was a big deal in the Komsomol didn‘t deter him. Then, with school behind her, she left for Afghanistan. Yoska followed her and spent three years operating under arduous field conditions. Then the shrapnel got her. Yoska flew with herfirst in the chopper, then alongside the zinc casket in the belly of a cargo plane. Then, he worked and he drank. Drank like a fish. For a year.

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Then a young nurse gave him a son. Then, in order to get married, he looked in the box where he kept his passport, and he came across his draft exemption. And then he looked at the insert, and he cried, and his tears took back to that summer, to the joy that he didn‘t have to go to the army, or to the commissioner who‘d faded by now into civilian life.

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I rode along my childhood road and smiled My worries went away, my heart sung—I was caught On smiles and tears, on wakeful mornings, jam And stars, sighs, and poems about her These buildings seemed much bigger, In that entryway, we‘d kiss, and sing, and Keep each other warm What sunshine here! The air is clear, the sky Breathes and I recognize the passersby, It smells like bread. Alive again, and all together Once again, thank God That dreams lead back to childhood, That perfect road.

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Yorkshire Terrier I can‘t stand little dogs! Just picture this curly face peeking out of its mistress‘s handbag and looking amazed. Like, why aren‘t you admiring my unearthly gorgeousness? Or some gussied-up woman comes into a store, and she‘s got a bow in her arms. Of course, it‘s a little god, which you can‘t see under the bow, and the lady is talking to it as if it‘s a baby, googooing at it, and inviting everyone to join in her delight. Or some big jerk strolls down the street, holding a leash to which is attacked a shaggy rat or a curly cat. He‘s so proud that he has the money to show off with an elite dog! Apparently, it‘s very cool to have a dog at home that you have to keep looking for and your house is littered with tiny turds, in the most inappropriate places.

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When my daughter asked for a Yorkie for her birthday, I realized I was in a pickle. On the one hand, I can‘t refuse my beloved child, but on the other… Anyway, on her birthday she got a threemonth old little bastard. ―Papa!‖ exclaimed my deliriously happy girl. ―Look, he is just an Oscar!‖ I never did find out which Oscar he resembled. He certainly didn‘t look like the statuette they give winners of the film competition. So Oscar appeared in our home. Osya. Os. Yosele. After a month, I realized how much I envied him. Why not? You are served, people clean up after you, take you for walks, and then… my daughter and wife went to a special (!) store that sells clothing (!) for dogs, and they bought him a suit, a jacket, a coat…

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Yes, my friends, the dog lucked out, ending up in a decent and prosperous family! The schedule is very nice, too. Sleep, eat, walk, sleep, eat, walk, sleep, and in between you can flip out and crap wherever you want! And even worse, my wife plays with him, kisses him, and then expects me to kiss her! Horrors! You can imagine how hard it was for me to pretend to love that twerp. One time I came home from work, my daughter was at school, my wife at the hairdresser‘s, sorry, the beauty salon, and Osya was desperately waiting to be fed. I got some farmer cheese out of the fridge, warmed it up (―Papa, you have to taste it yourself, make sure it‘s not cold!‖), added milk, and gave it to him. So, he ate and then approached me uncertainly. He raised his face, all curly and anxious, and looked into my eyes. Oh, listen! There was sadness in his eyes! Suddenly I understood.

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His life was replete, but it was like prison. He was taken for walks, but on a leash. Played with, but when they wanted to play. Caressed, but only when they needed it. And as for love, that is, sex, what a nightmare! Maybe, one day, if he‘s very lucky, they will bring over another terrier. For one time. Never get to see the babies, no family idyll. And so the poor thing has to wait for guests to come over, to sneak up quietly, hug a leg and tremble all over. I realized that I didn‘t envy him in the least. Because my life is wonderful and amazing, and the difficulties that occur are still at least new impressions and new knowledge. Because happiness is loving and being loved, despite betrayals and divorces. Because sex … well, you understand, right? Since then, every day, rain or snow, hot or cold, I take Osik out for a walk and lead him proudly on a long leash.

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I changed the problem‘s terms and freed myself Suddenly, everything was sounding different I became useful once again to those around me, Those who couldn‘t hear the rain, or snow, Beating against the roof, To those dissolving in domestic idleness, Their feline warmth, their woolen socks, Their fireplaces with imaginary fires. I changed the problem‘s terms—it‘s new to me But quit it! Stop your crying! I have left my home.

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Zurich, or, Their Love The typically German Swiss city of Zurich was home for Klaus. One of the world‘s greatest specialists in knee injuries, he operated in a small clinic that was a five-minute unhurried (and Klaus never hurried anywhere) walk from the house where he had spent his entire conscious life. Stars of soccer and hockey, ballet and popular dance, jumpers, runner, and Davis Cup winners had passed through his magical hands. Klaus rose at 7 every morning. He left his second-floor bedroom and came down to the dining room, where his pastry (apple filling always) and coffee, not too hot and not too cold, made for him by Anna-Louise for many years now. Anna-Louise, his wife, had her own bedroom. She used to go sleep in another room so that their daughters, Marie and Louise, born exactly three

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years apart (ideal from a medical point of view), did not keep Klaus from sleeping. The girls grew, were sick, like all children, and sleeping in separate bedrooms became a tradition. After breakfast, at 7.30, Anna-Louise helped him put on his shirt and suit, handed him a raincoat or overcoat and hat or umbrella depending on the season. She was very punctilious about selecting shoes for him. At 7.40 Klaus left the house. As soon as the door closed behind him, Anna-Louise called Jeannette, his secretary, and said the same thing: ―He‘s coming!‖ Jeannette started making coffee and at the moment that Klaus entered his office, two things happened. First, the freshly brewed coffee (not too hot and not too cold) was waiting for him, and second, Jeannette called Anna-Louise and said the same thing: ―He‘s here!‖ Then Klaus performed his operations with genius. Until lunch.

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When he left the clinic for lunch at home, Jeannette called Anna-Louise: ―He‘s coming!‖ Depending on the season, the table was set for Klaus either in the dining room or the garden. After lunch, Klaus would sit in his rocker, take a cigar that Anna-Louise had taken out of the humidor exactly five minutes after Jeannette‘s call, and read the newspapers. Then he went back to the clinic, prompting another telephone exchange, and the day ended (depending on the season) by the fireplace in the living room or in a chair on the veranda. On weekends, Anna-Louise would show Klaus the daughters, and he would (depending on their ages) either go ―Goo-goo!‖ or ask about their grades in high school and then college. At every age, the procedure took no more than fifteen minutes, after which Anna-Louise sent the girls to their rooms so they didn‘t disturb their father‘s rest.

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The explosion came suddenly, turning their lives into chaos. During one fifteen-minute Saturday session, Marie, the older daughter, told Klaus that she was pregnant. By Oleg. Her internship in London. Love at first sight. Mutual. He worked in a bank. He was ten years older. But he left Russia ten years ago and was a real Englishman. He was the best. She wouldn‘t have an abortion. For the first time in twenty-five years, Klaus didn‘t have his after dinner cigar. On the sunny Sunday morning, he announced: ―Marie will leave home and never see Oleg again. Anna-Louise and Louise may not see Marie.‖ Marie left home and stopped seeing Oleg. Whenever Marie called her sister, Louise wept and said she couldn‘t see her because Papa did not allow it.

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Whenever Marie called her mother, AnnaLouise said that she and Papa were ashamed of such a daughter and ended the conversation. The pregnancy was difficult. Oleg, who broke his contract in London, moved to Zurich to help Marie, and she accepted his care, despite her filial feelings. She had a wonderful and perfect baby boy, except for a birth trauma, a twisted knee. When the boy was a month old, Oleg brought him to Klaus. To the clinic. Klaus could not refuse to look at his grandson, after all, he was a doctor first. The case was so interesting and captivating that Klaus could not give up seeing the patient and moved him into a room in his own house, allowing Marie (only Marie!) to be with him. When Egor (the boy was named after Oleg‘s grandfather, who died in the war) turned one, Klaus performed an operation of genius (as usual) on him. Five years went by.

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Klaus and Anna-Louise adore their grandson. Louise, with the permission and blessing of her father, married his assistant and move into the house next door. Marie lives with her parents and son. Klaus never did allow her to be with Oleg. Oleg did not return to London, he settled in Geneva, where he‘s been living for the last two years with marvelous Marina from St. Petersburg, he loves her daughter very much, but every Sunday he travels to Zurich, to kiss Egor and speak with him in Russian.

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God grant me patience and the strength To resist the devil‘s charms So that when I have pierced my adversary‘s heart, I can enjoy his blood while it‘s still warm God grant me wisdom to know truth From falsehood and resist temptation To know that I‘m the pinnacle of all creation And can enjoy parades and fireworks displays God grant me knowledge of what‘s cheap and of what‘s dear So that love, walking the thin line, Can ring true, deep, divine, Instead of handing me the rope I hope that God will grant my loved ones health So that cold silence may not be The sole and interest-free asset Of my appearance on this Earth.

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Me I have memories that go back to the age of two. I remember the two rooms of the communal apartment where I lived with my mom, dad, grandpa, and aunt, my mother‘s sister. I remember our neighbors: ―Flaky‖ Tamarochka, who was always running around slamming doors. Old Man Vanya and his mutt Sharik, who used to lick me on the nose; Auntie Pasha, who‘d make pancakes for me; Auntie Idadear Idochkawho‘d keep herself entertained in old age by raising a ruckus; and quiet old Solomon, who‘d sweetly smoke his pipe and tell me it was made of chocolate. I remember the window that looked out onto a little yard, beyond which lay a mysterious, magnetic life.

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I remember the times Papa would come up behind me, tickle me on the neck, and say, exhaling cigarette smoke with his words, ―Look, Shusha, how much there is out there! Over there, see?‖ And then I would listen to some interesting tale about what was going on outside the window that of course I didn‘t see. I remember how I used to wait for him by the window, my heart fluttering, and how I would scream with delight when he tickled my neck and painted those magical pictures with his words.

God only knows how many years have gone by since then . . . My dad is long goneas is the communal apartment, and the country we live in . . . But every morning, just before I‘m fully awake and reality has set in, I become that little boy again, that Shusha, standing by the window and waiting to hear his papa‘s tales.

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This morning I looked out the window Spring‘s heart had opened up to Summer April was laughing at the adage About its changeability The blades of grass were murmuring Under the weight of your soft footfalls The sun‘s warmth, kindling for the soul Exhausted by the months of cold The breeze of tender, loving words Is gently rustling the curtain And carries all the arabesques Of my desires, wishes, dreams. … This morning I looked out the window But I could see nothing! No cities, streets No forks, no spooks, no cups, no plates Just Nothing filling up with nothing! I rubbed my eyes until they were just sockets

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So quiet! All the birds had flown No voices, no more trolley rattling Dogs, cats, or alcoholics Only the creaking of the Divine Chariot… ―Oh wow,‖ I thought Now we have really gone over the edge Now everything will really start The last one will finally get his laugh! And then my screams began to choke me I woke up to a gentle breeze The rain was drumming on the eaves Everything was in place—the city, Trolley, birds, dogs, alcoholics! I fell asleep in front of the TV. … This morning I looked out the window In a strange land, under a strange sun The flowers on the balcony

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Had no smell, though they had long ago bloomed A foreign language seems beautiful, Strangers‘ beds are all clean, Meanwhile, at home the cold and snow Would force us to fire up the stove Where we would fill our glasses Giving each other grave looks, We would say, ―To hell with winter! Let‘s polish off this vodka!‖ … This morning I looked out the window Banal… The emptiness of life‘s canvas now seems Trivial… The bleakness of the city And its snow Barely covering up a botched attempt To go Away from friends and enemies

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Oh god, From sages and from idiots Alike. I want to leave more than Anything, But my veins bleed with the Suffering Of memories, clear, not long Ago When it was warm and I would Wake up Early to watch the rays of the Sun That had snuck in like spies, Your silhouette, And the destroyer of everything, Doubt… … This morning I looked out the window And the sun was shining—damned

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Trapped by winter‘s illegal maneuver, An offering of falling snow March should be drizzling, thawing, Tumult, the strays‘ caterwauling, Instead, a rerun of flurries Along with the cursed flu. Spring has abandoned her firstborn, March stands empty and grey We had been getting ready For our love lives to get exciting again Intentionally, the winter Stole a month away from spring But then again, the cold month‘s dreams… Which themselves should be illegal … This morning I didn‘t look out the window Instead, I remained in my room

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Where it was cozy, quiet, and peaceful, Where it was almost like being with you The bridges have not yet been burnt The pillow still smells like tenderness The flowers have wilted, but barely They remind me of our souls Only the clock‘s ticking Is pushing me, unwillingly The wheel of time keeps spinning You and I keep changing… I‘m hearing voices...In the madhouse, They have the ward tidy and ready Someone is diluting a medicine Against heartache with my blood. Strapped in a straitjacket, they will drag Me off somewhere. To the scaffold? Along thought‘s echoing walls Where we chase after vague success Somebody may start weeping

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Having got lost in the meaning Of something uncanny, mysterious. I‘m hearing voices and I can‘t tell How I, without reaching the edge, Can get back to sanity by dawn.