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In a beautiful, faraway country lives a wonderful man. I’ve never seen him, but I know he exists. After all, he is my mental double. A fine fellow, no longer young, of course, but in good shape. A middling intellectual, knows a little about everything. Besides, he’s a real expert in some narrow field. An antiques appraiser, for instance; or a calligrapher; or a specialist in breeding snails. He doesn’t overexert himself with work, mostly lives off investment income. He has an old house, deep in an overgrown garden, inherited from his ancestors; and vineyards stretch away around it in every direction. In rope-soled shoes on bare feet, a plain linen shirt, he rides a scooter to the neighboring village to see a winemaker he knows. His girlfriend (from the vineyards) is with him, they have a wicker-covered bottle. They race along, the wind tossing the girl’s hair, the man’s shirt open, the setting sun playing in bronze glints on his muscular chest. So they get to the winemaker’s, sit and have a lovely time, talk of this and that, taste some wine, fill their bottle too—and head back.

This double of mine likes to hold forth on the various merits of wine. Ah, the af-tertaste! Ah, the velvetiness! Ah, the hint of rye-bread crust! He sits in the garden at a table darkened with age, petals falling from the flowering apple trees. Here too, beneath the trees, is an old bathtub filled with water. The girl reclines in it, among clouds of foam. Every so often she asks him to pour water over her from a jug, now this sort (hot), now that sort (a little cooler). Then to scrub her back, then to admire her little leg. Meanwhile, the man is absorbed. Studying the catalogue of an antiques exhibition; or tracing letters on a sheet of paper with pen and ink; or observing the life of a snail clinging to a blade of grass. He turns a glass of dry red in his hands, slowly sips. Sunbeams refract through its facets, spread like the spokes of a spinning wheel—in ruby, garnet, and warm amber hues. He takes a sip, tells the girl that the wine has nos-tal-gic notes. “Ah…” she nods (not even hearing). “Bring me some milk with ice.” He goes for the milk, brings a large mug. Back at the table, the glass warms in his hands, the bouquet ripens. Apple blossom, a little honey, roses. And—a barely perceptible scent of snow. Where has the snow come from? The ruby spokes spreading from the facets, weightless petals, the wood fibers of the tabletop… As though a black-and-white

newsreel

a distant snow-covered land, a park with crooked black trees, a man walking along an icebound path

this is some kind of black music

repeats to himself the lines of Grigory Ivanov

it is Blok’s black music falling on the radiant snow

hey, man! It’s me repeating those wind-chapped lines in the icy wind. It’s me trudging through the park. Thousands of kilometers away, in frozen Ulan-Ude. Fine for you to sit there enjoying yourself under the apple trees! I feel like shit.

Now leaning against trees, now pushing off, like a cosmonaut I float through a blue abyss scored with branches. No point describing one problem, or ten, or however many more… A wolf pack of hopelessness—at my heels.

The double in the garden grips his glass—as though holding a glass man filled with warm blood. Mustn’t let him fall, break, fly into shards! Moves the glass a little forward… One more step, one more.

Uphill, along the icebound path. A yellow halo over the shop sign. Vodka—250—will warm me as it always does. I came back to my hometown (six months ago now) to hold my father here, at least at the edge. But the edge turned out to be too close. And the gusts of wind—from over there—carry no nos-tal-gic notes at all, but freeze our hearts. We don’t understand each other. Medicines are impossibly expensive, there’s no work to be found in town. Loans, rent. Depression. Anguish

full stop

suddenly my mobile rings. A fragrance of apple blossom. A little honey, roses. This is Russia

beyond life and the world

in the abysses of the icy ether

still I will never part with you

2017

Source: Baikal, 2017, No. 4, pp. 104–105. Text prepared from a scan of the magazine publication.